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TO THE SUBSCRIBERS
TO
"A Library of American Literature."
nurillg' I he bSlu' of I ht' pl'e" ious Yohuues I-\'III} 01' this \\-ork, tlu.'
Puhlish"I'''; and the Edilol's han' heen in tht" J"t't'qupnt receil)t or letters
fl'om its Suhscrihel's, eoniil'luillg' I he rCluarkahl
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upon it h)" t IIp C'l'it ic'al pl'ess, l'hc
" ha ,.t" hc{'n gratified, also, b
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le snbsC'I'ihel' has clesirccl to ahritJgc
hi.. eontraet f"or 1 ht" Seric!05.
Bul thprt" has ht>en ont" l)oillt to" hieh our t'orrespon(lc'nlS haYt> so
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" three eenturics, an(1
SCHlle of ,,'horn douhtlc'ss arc hCl'p t'CH" the first tinH' intl'oduccd 10 nHtll
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or on I' l'pa(le'I''', \V C' lun"t' been so g't'nC'I'a lIy u rgetl to gh"p IHorp l)prsollal
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SupplpmPlltal'
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w02.th
"1lIOG IL\PHICAIJ
OTICES of all thp aut hOI'" quoted in I hc ""01'1...
This impol'talll Ji.'atul'e, in its('lf a BIOGIL\PHIC.\IJ HAXH-HOOli
OF'
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Inclc,- 01' tllC' ('ntit'c' .. Lihrar
";' hut oup-third 01' the Supplenlputar)
\'olunH'. Th,' laUcl', hOWC""{'I', will bc halldsolnel
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..ize with t hp 1.1I'
c'sl 0.' t hp Scrw!>>-i. ('., full HOO ]1ages. Its r('mailliug
t ,\o-thiI,tJs al't' lIl'pde(1 1'01' allothpl' purposp:
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." 1'01' issue has heen
lU'olong'c'cl hc') ond t hc' original ('
pPL'tatioll. Its ])Ian was rOl'med in 1882,
alld the Editol's ht'g-an t ht'il' 'nH'k in tht' f"ollowing Janual'J. \\ïthin th('
"c""t'n
par!>> 1I0W plapst'cl, a, notahle' i IU'I'c'a!oò" or Iitc'l'al'J af't h'it) has been
ohsc'l'n.tJ,-IUall)" IIP\\ alltl !oõllf'ecs!>>1'ul 110' c'lists, PIC., 01' orig'illal nu,..it,
appearillg' in the "'c'st
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as .111 illtlispt'nsah)t' aClclition to thc' \\'tU'k. E
tI'a ('
IIl'nst' is iJl('ul'I't'd in
I hf' pr,'paration of I ht' fiiogl'a))hy, hul t hc' '"olulllt' will hp d(')jU'I'f'fl at
t hp "'allu' lU'i('t' wit h the 01 hC'l's of 1 h,' S"I'ips.
CHARLES L. WEBSTER &. CO.,
Publishers" Library of American Literature."
EDMUND C. STEDMAN,
ELLEN M. HUTCHINSON,
Editors" Library of American Literature."
.
A LIBR.A,RY
OF
-4.
lERIC
LIrrERATTJRE
\
01. IX.
y
A LIBRARY OF
\MERICAN LITERATU R
FROlvl THE EARLl EST SETTLEMENT
TO THE PRESENT TIME
CO
1PILED AND EDITED BY
EDMUND CLARENCE STED1\1AN AND
ELLEN MACKA Y HUTCH INSON
IN ELEVEN VOLU;\lES
V OL. I X
NEW-YORK
HARLES L. WEBSTER & CO.\tP A
Y
188 9
COPYRIGHT, t8'!9,
13Y CHARLES 1.. WEBSTER & CO
{PA
Y.
(,4!! ri!lhu re8erve t J,)
JUN 7 1956
OO
TENTS OF ,rOLU
lE IX.
iLtteratutc of t
e iiepublic.
THEODORE 1Y IXTHROP.
Don Fulano to the Rescue
Kidnapped.
But Once
A Pull for Life and Loye .
HE
RY MARTYX BAIRD.
The Death of Coligny
MARY ASHLEY TOWX8EXD.
Down the Ba)'ou
HUBERT HOWE B-\
(,UOFT.
How They Found the Pacific Gold .
Argonaut Life and Character
M01\Tt:UE DA
IEL Coxw_-\Y.
Death as Foe, and as Friend
African Se..pent-Drama in America
Portia .
JOliN ALllEE.
A Soldier's Grave
Dandelions
Bos'n Hill
Goethe
WILLTA)[ DOUGLAS O'('oxxon.
The Pretty Pass Thin
s Came to
The Carpenter .
What a Witch and a Thief ::\lade
Vatt iF.
PAGE
3
7
13
13
19
24
27
32
40
41
43
45
4;)
4f-j
4fj
48
52
59
HORACE How AnD F('HXE
S.
A Kindred Dramatic :\Iethod, in their 17se of Double Timc, Pur;:ucù by Æschylus
and Shake!'peare 61
"It Hath the Excuse of Youth" 70
GE01WE E. 1V.\RIx(;. .TH.
V
n
VI
CONTENTS OF VOL UJ.1IE lX.
ALBERT DE \NE RICIIARDSOS.
John.
PAGE
81
l\I-\.RY AGNES 'I'IXCKER.
In the Hall of Cypresses
85
WILLIA
I LEIGHTON.
Odin Dethroned
94
ISAAC HILL nR())ILEV.
The Xohle Teton Sioux
The Sea;:on of Rampage
fl9
101
DA YID ROSR LOCKE.
)Ir, Nashy Finds a New Business which Promises Ample Profits
1\Ir. Nasùy Losps his Post-Oftice
103
105
ROBERT GUEES IXGEHSOLL.
Selections from his Oratory and 'Vritings
108
TUACY ROBlN
O!'i.
The :i\Iajority
113
JUNIUS HENRI BROWNE.
Marriage i
Companionship
Genius and Laòor
114
116
ELI
HA 1\[ n,FOIW.
The Ri
lIt of Revolution
The Natiou the Antagonist of the Confederacy
118
120
GEORGE 'Y A811BURX S)[ALLF.Y.
Louis Blanc, t.he :Man and the Political Leader
Bismarck in the Reichstag
Conversation in London Drawmg-Rooms
123
126
130
'VILLJAl\I CLEAVER 'VILKIXSON.
In Vindication of 'Vebster
At Marshfield
13i
140
JAMES l\Tonms WrrIToN.
The Assurance of Immortality
141
WILLIAM SWIXTON.
The Little Monitor
144
GEORGE ARNOLD.
Sweet Impatience
Beer
A Sunset Fantasie
152
153
154
l\IARVIN RICHARDSON VINCEXT.
The Pride of Care
155
CH -\RLTON 'I'rrO:\IAS LEWIS.
Infiuence of Civilization on Duration of Life
158
CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE.
One of Mr. 'Yard's Business Letters
A Visit to Brigham Young
llì1
16:3
CO.NTEN18 OF VOLU.][E IX.
Yll
FRAXCIS RWIIARD STOCKTOX.
Pomona's Novel
The Lady, or the Tiger?
AXXIE AD.UIS FIELDS.
Theocritns .
PAGE
16.5
Ii5
181
CHARLES 'YILLLUI ELIOT.
Our American Gentry
RICHARD REAT
F.
An Old Man's lùyl
Interpretation
::\IIRIA:\I COLES HARRIS.
A Sentimentalist's Second )Iarriagc
H -\mUET :\IcEwEX KIMBALL.
The Guest _
White Aza]eas .
KATHARINE PnESCOTT WOIDIELEY.
A Night-Watch, after Fair Oaks
FRAXCES LOLls A BI;snXELL.
In the Dark
FRAKK LEE BEKEDICT.
A Little Cat
JAMES
\llllOTT 3IcXEILL 'VHISTLEH.
That Art is not Over-Indebted to the Multituùe
CHAI;XCEV ::\IITCIIELL DEPEW.
A Symbol ,
The American Idea .
STARR HOYT NICHOLS.
St. Theoùu)e
HORACE "\V 1I1TE.
The Great Chicago Fire
CHARLES HEXRV 'YEllll.
Alec. Dunham's Boat
,nth a Nantucket Shell
The Lay of Dan'] Drew
ADA:\IS SHEIDIAX HILL.
English in Newspapers and Novels
CHARLES AUGUSTUS YOCSG.
Source and Duration of the Solar Heat
CHARLES FRANCIS AD.UIS. JR.
The Road to a Liberal Eùucation
JOliN JA:\[ES PIATT.
The Mower in Ohio
The )loruing Street
A Lost Graveyard
Apart .
Leaves at my Window
The Gra\'e of Rose
The Child in the Street
182
186
188
198
193
HH
195
198
199
206
208
211
212
214
2
.5
').)-
..-.
2:!t!
229
233
236
229
2-1-1
U
2-1-
2-1-3
2+1
245
.
viii
CONTENTS OF VOLUJIE IX.
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
The
1inh;tr.y for Our Age
..,
PAGE
245
248
248
249
250
250
254
25-1
255
271
2ì2
2ï2
2ì;
2:-54
2t;5
2&5
21:)6
290
290
2H,j :/
29!:J
307
311
312
313
314
316
317
32D
3ó)C)
326
.327
LOUISE CIIA
DLER :MOULTON.
A Painted Fan .
The IIou..e of Death
". e Lay us Down to Sleep
To Night
The London Cabby
Afar
In Time to Come
l\IosEs Corr TYLER.
The Colonial American Literature
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFOHD.
o Soft Spring Airs!
)I31!ùalen .
A Sigh
Circumstance
)Iusic in the Night
Ballad
Fantasia
THO)IAS 'V ALLAC'E IÜmx.
A Russian Wolf-Hunt
HENRY LY
DE
FLASH_
Stonewall Jackson
S.UWEI, LA1\GJlORXE CLE}IE
S.
The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
How they Burned -Women at the Stake in Merrie Englanù
The Feud
AUG1:'STA EVA
S WILSON.
The Masterful Style of Propo
al
THEODonE TILTON.
God Save the Nation
The Flight from the Convent
Sir )Iarmaduke's )lusings
WILLLHI HAYES 'VAIm.
Elements of True Poetry .
The New Castalia
LY)IAN .\BBOTT.
The Book of Promise
A'I \XD.\ THEODOSIA JONES.
Prah-ie Summer
EDWARD GREEY. .
Legend of the Golden Lotus
MARY E)nLY BRADLEY.
The Old Story
The Key-Note .
CONTENTS OF VOLUME IX.
'VILLLHI 'VnçTER.
In "The World of Dreams"
My Queen .
Constance .
An Empty Heart
Shakespeare's Grave
Poc
Relations uf the PI'CSS aml the Stage
CELIA TUAXTEH.
The Sandpiper
The Watch of Boon Island
Song .
A )Ius
el Shell "
Schumann's 80uata in A
Iinor
IX
PAGE
32';
331
3"")
.)
334
3::1ü
3H'3
Ð
"
330
345
348
354
355
336
357
3m
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3fiS
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18
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403
.
A:8DREW CARNElHE.
The Great Republic
XA'fHA1-iIEI. GRAH.HI SHEPHERD.
Roll-Can
1YILLIA
[ TORREY HARRIS.
The Personality of God
Shakespeare's Historical Plays
The Eternity of Rome
1VILLIAM OsnOR
STODDARD.
The Prairie Plover
The Sentinel Yeal"
AUGUSTA LAn NED.
A Domestic Tyrant
CLARA FLORW.\ GUERNSEY.
The Silver Bullet
JOlIN ROSE GREENE HASSARD.
"Siegfried" at Bayreuth .
TUO:UAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
Flower and Thorn
Palabras CariJïosas
An Untimely Thought
An Old Castle
Our New Neighbors at Ponkapog
Prescience .
Identity
Ou an Intaglio Head of )Iinerva
Enamoured Architect of Airy Rhyme
A Village Sunrbc
I.ending a II.lIId
Odd Stick
, and Certain Reflections Couceruing Them,
The I"<lst Cæsar
Iasks
lemories
Sleep.
HENRY )hLLS ALDEN.
The Childhood of Dc Quince)'
A Child shall Leaù them .
x
CONTENTS OF VOLUME IX,
SARAH :\IORGAN BRYAN PIATT.
'Yhy Should we Care?
His Shal"e anù )Iine .
T."aùition of Conquest
Aftt'r Wings
Tran:-figured
The Witch in the Glass
PAGE
4U4
405
406
400
407
407
FITZ H{j(aI Lrm,ow.
The HoUl' and the Powel' of Darkness
408
,VILJ.I,U[ HENRY VENABLE.
The Tunes Dan Harrison U seù to Play
Summer Love
413
414
ROBERT BENUY XEWELL.
" Picciola "
The Calmest of Her Sex .
415
4Iö
BEXJA)IIN EDWARD ,VOOLF.
Dialogue from" The )Iigbty Dollar"
418
Ernv ARD How AUD IIou
E.
A Child of Japan
421
JOliN AYL)IER DOIWA
.
The Dead Solomon
Boat Song
431
433
ReSSELL :::;TUHGI8.
John Leech
433
D
YID GHAY.
The Cross of Gold
Com lUuion
439
440
ADOXIRA)[ J UU::;oN SAGE.
The Violin
441
JOHN Br;RROU'GIIS.
In the Hemlocks
Obiter Dic:.a
Waiting
" Hail to Thee, Blithe Spirit! "
Springs
FORCEYTHE \VrLLsoN.
In State
443
4-17
451
432
453
458
SAMUEL GREEXE 'VIIEELER ßENJA:\IIN.
The Source fiUÙ the Aim of Art
461
JEANNETTE RITCHIE IL-\DER:\IANN 1\T ALWORTH.
Lncle Lige
4()8
ARTHUR GIL)[AN.
" The Good Haroun Alraschid "
4fJ8
'VHlTELAW REID.
Sherman, the Soldier
The Pursuit of Politics
471
474
CONTENTS OF VOL UJIE IX.
XI
KATE XEELY FESTETITS.
Chi"istmas- Time
PAGE
4.7
WILLIAU DEAK HOWELLS.
Venetian Vagabonds
Clement
The Priest's Question
Before the Gate
The Pat"lor ('m' .
The First Cricket
4i9
48,,)
488
492
493
505
HORACE PORTER.
Five Forks, and the Capture of PeterSbUl"g
505
EDWAIW EGGLESTOK,
Abraham Lincoln's Defence of Tom Grayson
Courtship HUll :Man"iage in the Colonies
314
523
BURKE AARON HIX!'<D,\LE.
The Counecticut "'estern Reserve
528
EDWARD P A YSOK ROE.
A Day in Spriu
531
CIIAHLOTTE FISKE BATES.
The Problem
Spring in Wi ute I'
'V oodbines in October
540
540
540
L\RGARET ELrZARETII SAXG!'<TEU.
Our Own
Apple Blossoms
541
541
HORACE EI,ISIL\ SCUDDER.
Landor as a Classic .
A Yisioll of Peace
" As Gooù as a Play"
:-,-12
5-11)
5,)1
HENRY A:\IES BLOOD.
Shakespeare
The War of the Dl'yads
533
533
ALBION 'YIKEGAH TOURGÉE.
A Race against Time
55.
.ToIIX Hl(,II-\IW DEXXETT.
Rossetti and PI"e-RaphaeIitism
.>fj4
.TOIIN DAVIS Loxo.
At the Fh'eside .
568
EDXA DEAN PUOCTOR.
Heaven, 0 Lord, I Cannot Lose
}Ioscow
5tì!}
5.0
CHARLES B-\RNARD.
Scene fmm " The County Fair"
371
ll
CONTENTS OF VOL r:..1IE IX.
)!.\UY :M.\PES DODGE.
The Two .Mysteries .
The Stars .
)lis;. )lalollY on the Chinese Questiun
Ellfolùiugs
hadow-Eviùence
PAGE
57-1
515
575
577
578
TIIo:\L\S R.-\Y
ESFORD LOUNSBURY.
Literal'Y and Personal Characteristics of Cooper
The Future of Our Tougue
JOHX HAY.
Liberty
Red-Letter Days in Spain
A 'V oman's Love
A Triumph of VI"der
The Stirrup-Cup
JAMES RYDER R.\XDALL.
)Iy ::\I:lryland
John Pelham
"-hy the Robin's Brcast was Red
ABRA'I J OSEPII HL-\K
The Conquered Banner
)Iy Beads .
'VILLIA)I 'V ALTER PIIEJ,PS.
The Theory of Commercial Panics
A Baù Amcri<>an T,ype
Ireland's Want
578
587
5UO
591
59-1
593
596
5
J6
598
599
599
601
601
Ij03
604
HEZEKI.-\JI BUTTERWOIt'rH.
The First Christmas in New England
605
SARAJI CJIAUNCEY 'VOOLSEY.
Gulf-Stream
Lohellgrill .
607
608
:MARY CLE)[1\IER HUDSON.
Good-Night
609
(
PORTRAITS IN VOL UME IX.
l10tttaitfj in tf)ifJ 'Volume.
THEODORE \VINTHROP
'Y ILLIA:\! DEAN HOWELLS
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT
HORACE How AUD Fun
Ess
FnA
CIs RICIIAUD STOCKTON
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD
SA:\HjEL LA
GIIORNE ULE:\[E
S
\V ILLU:\! ,V I
TEU .
CEUA THAXTEH.
Tno:\L\s RAILEY ALDRICH
JOHN BCRIWCGIIS .
'YUITELAW R"
ID
EDW ARD EGGLESTON
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDI::U
MARY 3IAPES DODGE
JOHN HAY
ON STEEL.
MISCELLANEOUS.
ÀIll
FRONTISPIECE.
. Page 486
28
62
lGG
272
2ÐO
348
3GG
3i8
444
472
,114
542
5i4
390
LITERATURE
OF THE REPUBLIC
P ART IV
1861-1888
To get rid of provinciality is a certain stage of culture,-a stage the positive result of
which we must not make of too much importance, but which is, nevertheless, indispensable;
for it brings us on to the platform where alone tbe best and highest intellectual worh can be
said fairly to begin.
:MATTHEW ARNOI,D. A. D. 186-.
American literature should stand firmly on its own ground, making no claims on the score
of patriotism, or youth, or disadvantageous circumstances, or biza/"re achievements, but gravely
pointing to what has been done.
CHARLES FRANCI::; RICHARD::.ON. A. D. 1887.
'Ye strip Illusion of her veil;
We vivisect the nighting-ale
To prove the secret of his note.
THo:\IAS BAILEY ALDRICH. A. D. 188-.
Art, indeed, i!:. beginning to find out that if it does not make friends with Need it must
perish. It percei'\"es that to take itself from the maB and leave them no joy in their work,
and to give itself to the few whom it can bring no joy in their idlene8s, is an error that kills.
. In all ages poetry has affirmed something of this sort, but it remained for ours to
perceive it and express it somehow in every form of literature. But this is only one phase
of the devotion of the best literature of our time to the service of humanity. . The
romantic spirit \VOI"shipped genius, worshipped heroism, but at its best, in such a man as Victor
Hugo, this spirit recognized the supreme claim of tbe lowest humanity.
""ILLIA:\I DEAN HOWELLS. A. D. 18ðS,
'While ourscl'\"es . who working ne'er shaH know if work hear fruit
Others reap and garner, heedless how produced by stalk and root,-
'Ve who, darkling, timed the day's birth,-struggling, testified to peace,-
Earned, by dint of failure, triumph,-we, creative thoug-ht, must cease
In created word, thought's echo, due to impulse long since sped!
'Vhy repine? There's ever some one lives although ourlie]ves he dead!
RODERT BROWNI:SG. A. D. 1878.
LITERATURE
OF THE REPUBLIO.
PART I\
.
1861-1888.
,\[IJconore [[UntI.JfOp.
BORN in
e\V Haven, Conn., 1828. FELL at Great Bethel, Va.. 1861.
DON FULANO TO THE RESCUE,
[Jolm Brent. 1862.]
Y ES. .John Brent, you were right when you called Luggernel Alley
a wonder of our continent.
I remember it now,-I only saw it then i-for those strong scenes of
nature as
ault the soul whether it will or no. fight in against affirmative
or negative resistance, and bide their time to be admitted as dominant
over tbe imagination. It seemed to me then that I was not noticing
how grand the precipices, how stupendous the cleavages, how rich and
gleaming the rock faces in Luggernel .L
l1ey. 1\ly busineRs was not to
stare about, but to look sharp and rille hard; and I did it.
Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld it, every stride of that
pass; alld everywhere, as I recall foot after fout of that fierce chasm, I
see three men with set faces,-one deathly pale and wearing a bloody
turban,-all galloping steadily on, on an errand to save and to slay.
Terrible riding it was! A pa vemellt of slippery, sbeeny rock; great
beds of loose stones: bnrricaùes of mighty boulders, where a cJi:ff had
falIen an reon ago, before tbe days of the road-maker race; crevices
4
THEODORE WINTHROP.
[1861-88
where an unwary foot might catch; wide rifts where a shaky horse
might fall, or a timid horseman drag him down. rrerrible riding! A
pass where a calm traveller would go quietly picking his steps, thankful
if each hour counted him a safe mile.
rrerrible riding! .Madness to go as we went! nor
p and man, any
moment either might shatter every limb. But man and horse neither
can know wbat he can do, until ue bas dared and done. On we went,
with the old frenzy growing tenser. Heart almost ùroken with eager-
ness.
No whipping or spurring. Our horses were a part of our
elves.
,Vhile we could go, they would go. Since the water, they were full of
leap again, Down in the shady Alley, too, evening had come before its
time. Noon's packing of hot air had been dislodged by a mountain
breeze drawing through. Horses and men were braeed and cheered to
their work; and in such riding as that, the man and the horse must
think together aud move together,-eye and hand of the rider must
choose and command. as bravely as the horse executes. The blue sky
was overhead, tbe red sun upon the castellated walls a thousand feet
above us, the purpling chasm opened before. It was late; these were tbe
last moments. But we should save the lady yet.
., Yes," our hearts shouted to us, "W(} shan sa ve her yet. ,.
An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, followeù the pas
. It had
made its way as water does, not straightway, but by that potent femi-
nine method of passing under the frowning front of an obstacle, and leav-
ing the dull rock staring there, while the wild creature it would have
held is gliding away down the vaHey. This zigzag channel baffled us:
we must leap it without check wherever it crossed onr path. Every
second now was worth a century. Here was the sign of horses, passed
but now. 'Ve could not choose ground. "N e must take our leaps on
that cruel rock wherever tbey offered.
Poor Pum ps !
He had carried his master so nobl v! There were so few miles to do!
He bad clJ3sed so well; he merited to be in at the death.
Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo.
Poor Pumps!
His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed rock He fell short. He
plunged down a dozen feet among the rough houlders of the torrent-bed.
Brent was out of the saddle almost before he struck, raising him.
No, he would never rise again. Both his fore legs were broken at the
knee. He rested there, kneeling on the rocks where he fell.
Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, horribly -there is no
more agonized sound,-and the scream went echoing high up the cliffs
where the red sunlight r
sted.
1861-88]
THEODORE 1VINTIIROP.
5
It costs a loving master much to butcher his brave and trusty horse,
the half of his knightly self; but it costs him more to hear him shriek
in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put poor Pumps out of
pam.
.Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.
., Stop! " he said in his hoarse whisper.
He had hardly spoken since we started. :My nerves were so strained,
that this mere ghost of a !'ound rang through me Eke a death-}yeH, a
grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance. I seemed to hear its
echoes, rising up and swelling in a flood of thick uproar, until they
burst over the summit of the pass and were wasted in the crannies of the
towering mountain-flanks above.
., Stop!" whispered Armstrong. "
o shooting! They'll hear. The
knife! "
He held out his knife to my friend.
Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain his hand with his
faithful servant's blood?
Pumps screamed again.
Armstrong snatcbed the knife ane} drew it across the throat of the
crippled horse.
Poor Pumps! lIe sank and died without a moan. Noble martyr in
tbe old, heroic cause.
I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my girth.
The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll of blankets, fell
to the ground. I cut off my spurs. They had never yet touched Fula-
no's flanks. He stood beside me quiet, but trembling to be off.
"X ow Brent! up behind me!" I whispereù,-for the awe of death
wa:;: upon us.
I mounted. Brent f'prang up behind. I ride light for a tall man.
Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw.
Fulano stood
teady till we were firm in our seats.
Then be tore down tlle defile.
Here was that vast reserye of power; here the tireless spirit; here the
hoof striking true as a thunderbolt, where the brave eye saw footing;
here that writhing agony of speed: here the great promise fulfilled, the
great heart thrilling to mine, tbe gran<l body living to the beating heart.
Koùle Fulano!
I rode ,,,ith a snaffle. I left it hanging loose. I did not check or
guide him. Hf' sawall. He knew all.
\.ll was his doing.
'Ye sat firm, clinging as we could, a
we must. Fulano dashed along
the resounding pass.
Arm:,trong presserl after,-the gaunt white horse struggled to emulate
his leader. Presently we
ost them behind the curves of the Alley. No
6
THEODORE WLVTHROP.
[1861-88
other horse that ever lived could have held with the black in th'lt head-
long gallop to save.
Over the slipper.v rocks, over the sheeny pavement, plunging through
the loose stones, staggering over the barricades, leaping the arroyo.
down, up, on, always on,-on went the hor
e, we clinging as we might
It seemed one beat of time, it seemed an eternity, when between the
ring of the hoofs I heard Brent whisper in my ear.
" \Ve are there."
The crags flung apart, right and left. J saw a sylvan glade. I
aw
the gleam of gushing water.
Fulano dashed on, uncontrol1 able I
There they were,-tbe :Murderers.
Arrived but one moment!
The lady still bound to that pack-mule branded A. & A.
Murker just beginning to unsaddle.
Larrap not dismounted, in cbase of the other animals as they strayed
to graze.
The men heard the tramp and saw us, as we sprang into the glade.
Both my hands were at the bridle.
Brent, grasping my waist with one arm, was aw kward with his pistol.
lurker saw us first. He snatched hiß six-shooter and fired.
Brent shook with a spasm. His pistol-arm dropped.
Before the murderer could cock again, Fulano was upon him!
He was ridden down. He was beaten, trampled down upon the grass,
-crushed, abolished.
vVe disentangled ourselves from the mNée.
,Vhere was the other?
The coward, without firing a shot, was spurring Armstrong's Flathead
horse blindly np the cañon, whence we had issued.
,Ye turned to
Iurker.
Fulano was up again. and stood there shuddering. But the man?
A hoof ha(1 hattered in the top of his skull; blood was gushing from
his mouth; his ribs were broken; all his body was a trodden, massacred
carcass.
He breathed once, as we lifted him.
Then a tranquil, childlike look stole over his face,-tbat wen-known
look of tbe weary body, thankful that the turbuleut soul ha
gone.
f urker was dead.
IFulano, and not we, had been executioner. His was the stain of blood.
1861-88]
THEODORE WINTHROP.
7
KIDNAPPED.
[Cecil Dreeme. 1861.]
-YTE drove on, mile after mile, in the chilly )Iarch afternoon, and at
\t" last pulled up at a door, in a white stuccoed wall,-a whited "taH,
edging tbe road like a bank of stale snow. \\'ithin we could see an ugly,
dismal house, equally stuccoed white, peering suspiciously at us over
the top of the enclosure. from its ò5inister grated windows of the upper
story.
A boy was walking up and down the road at a little distance a fine
black horse, all in a lather with hard riding, and cut with the spurs.
The animal plunged about furiously, almost dragging the lad off his feet.
" You will see Huffmire, Towner," said Churm, "and ten him that I
want to talk with him."
" Yes," cried Towner, eagerly. "let me manage it! "
He shook off his cloak, sprang down with energetic step, and rang the
bell. A man looked through a small shutter in tbe door. and asked his
business. gruffly enough.
"Tell Dr. Huffmire that :Mr. Towner wishes to see him."
The porter presently returned, and said that Dr. Huffmire would see
tbe gentleman, alone.
" Huffmire will know my name. Send him out here to me, Towner, if
he will come; if not, do you make the nece
sar.v inquirie
," f'aid Churm.
r.!'owner passeò. in. The porter closed the outer door upon him, and
then looked through the shutter at us, with a truculent stare, as if he
were accustomed to inquisi tive visitors, and liked to baffle them. He
had but one eye, and his effect, as he grinned through the square port-
hole in the gate, was singularly Cyclopean and ogreish. He properly
regarded men merely as food, sooner or later, for insane asylums,-as
morsels to be quietly swallowed or forcibly choked down by the jaws
of Retreats.
"What!" whispered Raleigh to me, as the boy led the snorting and
curvetting black horse by us. "That fellow at the eye-hole magnetized
me at first. I did not notice that horse. Do you know it?"
"No;' said I. ,. I have never seen him. A splendid feHow! His
rider must have been in bot haste to get here. Perhaps some errand
like our own! "
"Densdeth," again whispered Raleigh, ,. Densùeth tolà me he had
been looking at a new black horse."
\\' e glanced at each other. All felt that Densdeth's appearance here,
at t.his moment, might be harmful. Churm's name brought Huffmire
speedily to the door. Chunn, the philanthropist, was too powerful a
.
8
THEODORE WINTHROP.
[18ül-88
man to offend. Huffmire opened the door, and stood just within, defend-
ing the entrance. He was a large man, with a large face,-large in ever.v
feature, and exaggerated ""here for proportion it should have been smal1.
He suffered under a general rl1sh of coarseness to the face. He had a
rush of lymphatic puffiness to the cheeks. a rush of blubber to the lips,
a rush of gristle to his clumsy nose, a rush of lappel to the ears, a rush
of dewlap to the throat. A disgusting person,-the very type of man
for a vulgar tyrant. His straight black hair was brushed back and
combed behind the ears. He was in the sheep's clothing of a deacon.
" You have a young lady here, lately arrived?" said Chunn, bowing
slightly, in return to the other's cringing reverence.
" I have several.
il'. Neither youth nor beauty is exempt, alas! from
the dreadful curse of insanity, which I devote myself, in my humble way,
to eradicate. To e-rac1-i-cate," he repeated, dwelling on the sy 11 abIes of
his ''lTord, as if he were tugging, with brute force, at something that carne
up hard,-as if madne
s were a stump. and þe were a cogwheel machine
extracting it.
"I wish to know,"
aiù Churm, in his briefest and sternest manner,
"if a young lady named Denman was brought here .vesterday."
"Denman, sir! No, sir. I am happy to be able to state to you, sir.
that there is no unfortunate of that nam
among my patients,-no one
of that name,-I rejoice to satisfy you."
"I suppose you know who I am," said Churm. I saw his fingers
clutch his whip-handle.
A rush of oiliness seemed to suffuse the man's coarse face. .. It is the
well.known
Ir. Churm,"
aid he. "The fame of his benevolence is co-
extensive with our country. sir. 'Vho does not love him ?-the friend of
the widO\y and the orphan! I am proud, sir, to make your acquaintance.
This is a privilege, indeed,-indeed, a most in-es-ti-ma-ble pri-vile-age."
"Do you think me a safe man to lie to?" said Chunn, abruptly.
"I confess that I do not take your meaning, sir," said Huffrnire, in
the same soft manner, but stepping back a little.
,I Do vou think it safe to lie to me? ,.
.. I, sir! lie, sir!" stammerecl H uffmire. The oiliness seemed to coag-
ulate in his muddy skin, and with his alarm his complexion took the
texture and color of sOf!gy leather.
.. y cs: the lady is here. I wish to see her."
.1:\..s Churm was silent, looking sternly at the pretended doctor, there
rose suddenly within the building a Btrange and horrible cry.
A strange and horrible cry! rrwo 'Toices mingled in its discord.
One was a well-known mocking tone, now smitten with despair; and
:vet the change that gave it its horror was so slight. tbat I doubted if
the old mockery had not all the while 1een despair, suppres
èd and c1is-
1861-88]
THEODORE TrI.iYTHROP,
9
guised. The other voice, mingling with this, rising with it up into
silence that grew stiller as they climbed, and then disentangling itself.
overtopping its companion. and beating it slowly down until it had
ceased to be,-this otber voice was like the exulting cry of one defeated
and trampled under foot. who yet has saved a sta1 for his victor.
They had met-Towner and Densdeth !
We three sprang from the carriage; thrust aside the doctor, and, fol-
lowing our memorie;:; of the dead sound for a c1ew, ran acro::;s the court
and through a half-open door into the hall of the asylum.
All was stilI within. The air was thick with the curdling horror that
had poured into it. "
e paused an instant to listen.
A little muffled moan crept feebly forth from a room on the left. It
hardly reached us, so faint it was. It crept forth, and seemeù to perish
at our feet. like a hopeless suppliant. 'Ye entered the room. It was a
shabby parlor, meanly furnished. The stained old paper on the walls
was covel'ed with Arcadian gronp
of youths and maidens, dancing to
the sound of a pipe playecl by a shepherd, who sat upon a broken column
under a palm. On the floor was a tawrlry carpet. all het10wered and
befruited.-such a meretricious blur of colors as a botel offers for vulgar
feet to tread upon. So much I now perceive tbat I markecl in that mean
reception-room. But I did not note it then.
For there, among the tawdry flowers of the carpet, lay Deusdeth,-
dead, or dying of a deadly wound. The long, keen, antique dagger I
had noticed lying peacefully on my table was upon the floor. Its office
Lad found it at last. and the signet of a new blooù-stain wa
stamped
upon its bhule, among tokens of an old habit of munIer, latent for ages.
Beside tbe wounded man sat Towner. IIis spasm was over. The
freed
erf had slain his tyrant. All his life had been crowde(l into that
one moment of frenzy. He :-;at paJe and clrooping, and there was a deso-
late sorrow in his face. aç; if his hate for his master had been as needful
to him as a love.
., I could not help it," said Towner. in a drear.,? whisper. " He came
to me while I was waitin
here. He told lIuffmire to send you off, and
leave me to him. And tLen he stood over me and told me, with hi
01(1
sneer. that I belonged to him, borly am! ðouL He said I must obey him.
IIe said he had work for me now,-just such mean villainy a
I wa
made
for. [felt that in another instant I should be his a
ain. I only made
one sprin
at him. How came I by that dagger? I nevel' saw it until
J found it in my hanel, at his heart. If' he elead? No. I am d.ving.
Shall I be safe from him hereafter? I haven't had a fair chance in this
world. ',hat coulcl a man ell) better- horn in a jail? "
Towner drooped slowly down as be spoke. He ended, and his defeated
life passed away from that worn-out body, the comrade of its ignominy.
10
THEODORE WLVTHRUP.
p861-88
I rai
ed Densdeth's head. The strange fascination of his face became
doubly subtle, as he seemed still to gaze at me with c10sed e.yelids, like
a statue's. I felt that if those cold feline eyes should open and again
turn their inquisition inward upon my soul, devili:-:h passions would
quicken there anew. I shuddered to perceive the lurking devil in me,
slumùering lightly, and ready to stir whenever he knew a comrade was
near.
,. Spare me, Densdeth! ,. I rather thought than spoke; but with the
thought an effluence must have passed from me to bim.
His eyes opened. The look of treacher.y and triumph was gone. He
murmuæd something. vVhat we could 'I1ot hear. But all the mockery
of his voice had departed when in that dying scream it avowed itself
despair. The tones we caught were sweet and childlike.
,Yith this effort blood gushed again from bis murderous wound. He,
too, drooped away and died. The soul that had had no other view of
brother men than throu
h tbe eyes of a beast of prey fled away to find
its ne". tenement. His face settled into marble calm and beauty. I
parted the black hair from his forehead.
There was the man whom I should have loved if I had not hated, dead
at last, with this vulgar death. Only a single stab from another, and
my warfare with him was done. I felt a strange sense of indolence over-
come me. ,Vas my busi neBS in life over. now that I had no longer to
struggle ,,,itb him daily'? Had he strengthened me? Uad he weakened
me'? Should I have prevailed against him, or would he have :finally
mastered me, if this chance, tbis PI' yidence, of death had not come
Letween us?
I looked up, and found Chunn studying the dead man.
,. Can it be?" said I, "that a soul perilous to all truth and purity, a
merciless tempter, a being who to every other man was the personifica-
tion of that man's own worst ideal of himself,-can it be that such an
unrestful spirit has dwelt within this quiet form? ,Vhat was he? For
w hat purpose enters such a disturbing force into the orderly world of
God ? "
" That is the ancient mystery," said Chunn, solemnly.
"Can it never be solved in this world? "
"It i
not yet soh.ed to you? Then you must wait for years of deeper
thought. or some moment of more :fiery trial."
,Ve left the dead, dead.
., "
here is H uffmire ?" Churm asked.
A sound of galloping hoofs answered. 'Ve saw him from the window,
flying on Densdeth's horse. Death in hi:, house bv violence meant inves-
tigation, and that he did not dare encounter. He was off, and so escaped
ju
tice for a time.
1861-88]
THEODORE WL3TI-IROP.
11
The villainous-looking porter came cringing up to Churm.
., You was asking about a lady," said be.
" Yes. 'Vbat of her? "
., ',ith a pale face, large eyf'
, and short, crisp black bail', what that
dead man brought here at daybreak yesterday? "
"The same."
":Murdoch's got her locked up and tied."
"
rurdoch!" cried Raleigh. "That's the hell-cat I saw In the car-
riage. "
"Quick," said Churm, "take us there! "
I picked up my dagger, and wiped off the blood; but the new stain
bad thickened the ancient rust.
The porter led the way up-stairs, and knocked at a closed door.
"'\Vho is there? " said a voice.
"
fe, Patrick, the porter. Open! "
"'\Vhat do you want? "
"To come in."
" Go about your business! "
"I will," said the man, turning to us, with a grin. He felt that we
were the persons to be propitiated. IIe put his knee against the door,
and, after a struggle and a thrust, the bolt gave way.
,A, large gipsy-like woman stooJ holding back the door. 'Ve pushed
her aside, and sprang in.
,. Cecil Dreeme!" I cried. ,. God be thanked!"
And tlJere, indeed, was my friend. He was sitting bound in a great
chair,-honnd and helpless, but
till steady and self-possessed. He was
covered with
ome confining drapery.
He gave an eager cry as he saw me.
I leaped forward and cut him free with my dagger. Better business
for the blade than murder!
He rose and clung to me, with a womanish gesture, weeping on my
shoulder.
"
f'y child!" cried Churm, shaking off the )lunloch creature, and
leaving her to claw the porter.
I felt a strange thriB and a new
uspicion go tingling through me as
I heard these words. How blind I had been!
Cecil Dreeme still clung to me, and mnrmured, "Save me from them,
Robert! Save me from them all!"
"Clara, my daughter," saicl Churm, ., 'yon neell not turn fl:om me: I
have been belief] to you. Could I change '? They forged the letters
that made you di
trust me."
" Is it so, Robert?" saiJ the :figure by my heart.
" Yes, CeciJ, Chunn is true as faith."
l
THEODORB WINTHROP.
[1861-88
There needed no further interpretation. Clara Denman and Cecil
Dreeme were one. This strange mystery was clear as day.
She withdrew from me, and as her eyes met mine, a woman's blush
signalled the cbange in our relatiuns. Yes; this friend closer than a
brotber was a woman.
,.
I'y daughtel' !" f'aid Cburm, emhracing her tenderly, like a fatLer.
I perceived that this womanish drapery had been flung upon her by
bel' captors, to restore her to her sex and its responsibilities.
H Densdetb ?" she asked, with a shudder.
"Dead! God forgive him!" answereù Churm.
"Let us go," she said. "Another hour in this place with that foul
woman would bave maddened me."
She passed from the room with Churm.
Raleigh stepped forward. "Y ou have found a friend," said he to me;
" you will both go with her. Leave me to see to this business of the
dead men and this prison-house."
"Thank you, Raleigh," said I; "we will go with her, and relieve you
as soon as she is safe, after all these terrors."
".A. brave woman!" he said. "I am happy that I have bad some
slight share in her rescue."
" The whole, Raleigh."
"There he lies!" whispered Churm, as we passe(l the door where the
dead men were.
Cecil Dreeme glanced uneasily at me and at the dagger I still carried.
"No," said I, interpreting the look; not by me! not by any of us!
An old vengeance has overtaken him. Towner killed him, and also lies
there dead..'
" Towner! ., said Dreeme; "he was anotber ba,l spirit of the baser sort
to my father. Both dead! Densdeth dead! 1\lay he be forgiven for
all the cruel harm he bas done to me and mine! "
Cecil and I took the back seat of the carriage. I wrapped her up in
Towner's great cloak, and drew the hood O\yer her head.
She smiled as I did these little offices, and shrank away a little.
Covered with tbe hood and draped with the great cloak. she seemed a
yen. woman. Each of us felt tlJe awkwarrlness of our position.
,: We shall not be friends the less, Mr. Byng," said she.
"Friends, Cecil!"
I took the band sI)e offered, and kept it.
1861-88J
THEODORE WLNIHROP.
13
BlTl' ONCE.
T ELL me, wide wandering soul, in all thy quest
Sipping or draining deep from crystal rim
Where pleasure sparkle(l, when did overbrim
That draught its goblet with the fullest zest?
Of all thy better bliss what deent"st thou best?
Then thus my soul made answer. Ecstasy
Comes once, like Lirth. like death, and once have I
Been, oh! so madly happy. that the rest
Is tame as surgeless seas. It was a night
Sweet, beautiful as she, my love, my light;
Fair as the memory of that keen delight.
Through trees the moon rose steady, and it blessed
Her forehead chastely. Her uplifted look,
Calm with deep pa
sion, I for answer took,
Then sudden heart to heart was wildly-pressed.
\. peLL FOR LIFE AXD LOVE.
.
[Love and Skates.-The Atlantic Monthly. 18G2.J
P ERRY looked in at tbe cap'n's office. He behe1cl a three-legged
stool, a hacked desk, an inky steel-pen, an inkless inkstand; but
no Cap'n Ambuster.
Perry inspected the cap'n's state-room. There was a cracked look-
ing-glass, into which he looked j a hair-brush suspended by the gla:5s,
which he used; a lair of blankets in a berth, which he had no present
use for; and a smell of mu
ty bootg, which nobody with a nose could
help smelling. Still no Captain Ambuster, nor any of his crew.
Search in the unsa,yory kitchen re\'eale(l no cook, coiled up in a
corner, suffering nightmares for the last greasy dinner he had brewed
in his frying-pan. There were no deck-han<ls bundled into their
bunks. Perry rapped on the chain-box and inquired if anybody
was within, and nobody answering, he had to ventriloquize a nega-
ti ve.
The engine-room, too, was vacant, and quite a
unsa,.ory as the other
dens on board. Perry patronized the engine by a pull or two at tbe
valves. and continued Lis tour of inspection.
The Ambllster's skiff, lying on her forward deck, seemed to entertain
him vastly.
"Jolly!" say
Perry. ...\nd so it was a jolly boat in the literal, not
the technical se[}
e.
14
THEODORE WLYTHROP.
[1861-88
"The tbree wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl; and here's the
identical craft," says Perr,"-
He gave the chubby littìe machine a push with his foot. It rolled
and wallowed about grotesquely. When it was still again, it looked so
comic, lying contentedly 011 its fat side like a pudgy baby, that Perry
had a roar of laughter, which, like other laughter to one's self, did not
sound very merry, particularly as the north-wind was howling omi-
nously, and the broken ice on its downwanl way was whispering and
moaning and talking on in a most mysterious and inarticulate manner.
"Those sheets of ice would crunch up this skiff, as pigs do a }Junkin,"
thinks Perry.
And with this thought in hi
head be looked out on the river, and
fancied the foolish little vessel cast loose anù buffeting helplessly about
in the ice.
He had been
o busy nntil now, in prying about the steamboat and
making up his mind that captain and men bad all gone off for a com-
fortable supper on shore, that his eye had not wandered toward the
stream.
Now his glance began to follow the course of the icy current. He
wondered where all this supply of cakes came from, and how many of
them would escape the stems of ferry-boats below and get safe to sea.
.AJI at once, as be looked lazily along tbe lazy files of ice, his eyes
caught a black object drifting on a fragment in a wide way of open
water opposite Skerrett's Point, a mile cli
tant.
Perry's heart stopp{'c1 beating. He nttered a little gasping cr,'
' He
sprang ashore, not at all like a Doge quitting a Bucentaur. lie tore
back to the foundry, dashing through the puddles, and, never stopping
to pick up his cap, burst in upon 'Vade and Bill Tarbox in tbe office.
The boy was splashed from head to foot with red mud. His light
hair, blown wildly about, made his ashy face seem paler. He stood
panting.
His dl1mb terror brought back to Wac1e's mind all the bad omens of
the rnornillg.
" Speak!" said he, seizing PelT,' fiercely by the shoulder.
The uproar of the works seemed to hll
h for an instant, while the lad
stammered faintly:
,. There's somebody carried off in the ice by Skerrett's Point. It looks
like a woman. And there's nobody to help."
,. Help! help!" shouted the four trip-hammers, bursting in like a
magnified echo of the boy's last word.
,. Help! he]p!" all the humming wheels and drums repeated more
plaintively.
'Vade made for the ri vel'.
1861-88]
THEODORE WLVTHROP.
15
This was the moment an his manhood had been training and saving
for. For this he had kept sound and brave from his youth up.
As he ran. be felt that the only chance of instant help was in that
queer little bowl-shaped skiff of the Ambuster.
TIe had never been conscious that he had observed it; but the image
had lain latent in his mind, biding its time. It might be ten, twenty
precious moments before another boat coulJ be found. This one was on
the spot to do its duty at once.
"Somebody carried off,-perhaps a woman," 'Vade thought. ., Not
-
o, she would not neglect my warning! '\Vhoever it is, we must save
her from this dreadfull1eath ! "
He sprang on board the little steamboat. She was swaying uneasily
at her moorings, as the ice crowded along and hammered against her
stem. 'Vade stared from her deck down the river, with all his life at
his eyes.
:More than a mile away, below the hemlock-crested point, was the dark
object Perry had seen, still stirring along the edges of the floating ice.
A broad avenue of leaden-green water wrinkled hy the cold wind sepa-
rated the field where this figure was moving from the shore. Dark
object and its footing of gray ice were drifting deliberately farther and
farther away.
For one instant Wade thought tbat the terrible dread in his heart
would paralyze him. But in that one moment, while his blood stopped
flowing and his nerves failed, BiIl rrarbox overtook him and was there
by his side.
,. I brought your cap," says Bill, "and our two coats."
'Vade put on his cap mechanically. This little action calmed him.
., BilL" said he, "I'm afraid it is a woman,-a dear friend of mine,-a
ver.v dear friend."
Bill, a lover, understood the tone.
" 'Ve'll take care of her between us," he said.
The two turned at once to the little tub of a boat.
Oars? Yes,-slung under the thwarts,-a pair of short sculls, worn
and split, but with work in them still. There they hung ready, and a
rusty boat-book, besides.
"Find the thole-pins, Bill, while I cut a plug for her bottom out of
this broom-stick," 'Vade said.
This was done in a moment. Bill threw in the coats.
"Now, together! 7J
They lifted the skiff to the gangway. \Yade jumped down on the
ice and received her carefully. They ran her along, as far as they could
go, and launched her in the sludge.
"Take the scuIIs, Bill. I'll work tbe boat-hook in the bow."
16
THEODORE WINTHROP.
[1861-88
N otbing more wa
said. They thrust out with their crazy little craft
into the thick of the ice-flooel. Bill, amidships, dug with his sculls in
among the huddled cakes. It was clumsy pulling. Now this oar and
now tbat would be thrown out. He cOllld never get a fun stroke.
'Vade in the bow could do better. He jammed the blocks aside with
his boat-hook. lie dragged the skiff forward. He steered through tbe
little open ways of water.
Sometimes they came to a broad sheet of solid ice. Tben it was
'" Out with her, Bill!" and they were both out and sliding their bowl so
quick O\Ter, that they bad not time to go through the rotten surface.
This was drowning business: but neither could he spared to drown yet.
III the leads of clear water, the oarsman got brave pulls and sent the
boat on mightily. Then again in tùe thick porridge of brash ice tbey
lost headwa,v, or were baffled and stopped among tbe cakes. Slow work.
slow and painful; and for many minutes they seemed to gain nothing
upon the steady flow of the merciless current.
A frail craft for such a voyage, this queer little half-pumpkin! A
frail anù leaky shell. She bent and cracked from stem to stern among
the nipping masses. Water oozed in through her dry seams. Any
moment a rougber touch or a
harper edge might cut her through. But
that was a risk they had accepted. The.Y did not take time to think of
it, nor to listen to the crunching and crackling of the hungry ice around.
The,Y urged straight on, steaùily, eagerly, coolly, spending and saving
strength.
:K ot one moment to lose! The sþattering of hroad sheets of ice
around them was a warning of what might happen to the frail support
of their chase. One thrust of the boat-hook sometimes cleft a cake tbat
to the eye seemed
tout enough to bear a heavier weight tban a ,,-oman's.
Not one moment to spare! The dark figure, now drifted far below tbe
llemlocks of the Point, no longer stirreù. It seemeJ to have sunk upon
the ice and to be resting there weary and helpless, on one side a wide
way of I uricl water, on the other balf a mile of moving desolation.
Far to go, and no time to waste!
,. Gi ve way, Bill! Give way! "
" Ay, ay ! "
Both spoke in low tones, hardly louder than the whisper of the ice
around them.
Bv this time hundreds from the foundrv anel the village were swarm-
.... .. '-'
ing upon the wharf and tbe steamboat.
" A hunch-ed tar-barrels wouldn't 'git np my steam in time to do any
good," says Cap'n Am buster. "If them two in my skiff don't overhaul
the man, be's gone."
" You're sure it's a man?" says Smith 'Vheelwright.
1861-88]
THEODORE TrLYTHROP.
17
"Take a F-quint through my glass. I'm tlreffuIly afeard it's a gal;
but sllthin's got into my eye. so I can't see:'
Suthin' had got into the old feHow's eye,-suthin' saline and acrid,-
namely, a tear.
., It's a woman," says 'Vheelwright,-and suthin' of the same kind
blinded him also.
.L
lmost sunset now. But the air was suddenly filled with perplexing
snow-dust from a heavy squalL A white curtain dropped between the
anxious watchers on the wharf and the boatmen.
The same white curtain hid the dark floating object from its pursuers.
There was nothi ng in sight to steer by now.
'Vade steereà by his last glimpse,-by the current.-by the rush of
the roaring wind,- by instinct.
How merciful that in such a moment a man i
spared the agony of
thought! His agony goes into action, intense as life.
It was bitterly cold. A swash of icewater filled the hottom of the
skiff. She was low enough down without that, rIbey could not stop to
bail, and the miniature iceber
they passed bep:an to look significantly
over the gunwale. 'Yhich would come to the poi nt of founderi ng first,
the boat or the little floe it aimed for?
Bitterly cold! The snow hardly melted upon Tarbox's bare hands.
His fingers stiffened to the oarF.; but there was life in them still, and still
be did bis work, and never turned to see how the
teersmall wa
doing his.
A flight of ('row
calJ1e Railing with the snow-squalL They alighted
all about on tbe hummocks, and curiously watched the two men battling
to save life. One black impish bird, more malignant or more sym-
pathetic than his fellows, ventured to poise on the skiff's stern!
Bill hissed off this third pas
enger. The crow rose on it::3 toes, let the
boat slide away from under him, and followed croaking dismal good
wishes.
The last
unbeams were now cutting in everywhere. The thick snow-
flurry was like a luminous cloud. Suddenly it drew a
ide.
The industrious skiff had steered so weIl and made such headway,
that there. a hundred yards away, safe still, not gone, thank God! was
the woman they sought.
A dusky mass flung together on a waning rood of icp.- 'Y ade could
see nothing more.
Weary or benumbed, or sick with pure forlornness and despair, she
had drooped down and showed no sign of life.
The great wind shook the river. Her waning rood of ice narrowed,
foot by foot, like an unthrifty man's heritage. Inch by inch its edges
wore away, until the little space that half-sustained the dark heap was
no bi
ger than a coffin-lid.
VOL. lX,-2
18
THEODORE WINTHROP.
[1861-1:)8
Help, now I-now, men: if you are to save I Thrust, Richard Wade,
with your boat-hook I pun, Bill, till your oars snap lOut with your
last frenzie:5 of vigor I For the little raft of ice, even that has crumbled
beneath its burden, and she sinks,-sinks, with succor close at hand I
Sinks I N o,-she rises and floats again.
She clasps something that holds her bead just above water. But the
unmannerly ice has buffeted her hat off. The fragments toss it about,-
that pretty Amazonian hat, with its alert feather, all drooping and drag-
gled. Her fair hair and pure forehead are uncovered for an astonished
sunbeam to alight upon.
"It is my love, my life, Bill I Give way, once more!"
""... ay enough! Steady! Sit where you are, Bill, and trim boat,
while I lift/her out. 'Ye cannot risk capsizing."
He raised her c3.refully, tenderly, with his strong arms.
A bit of wood had buoyed her up for that last moment. It was a
broken oar with a deep fresh gash in it.
Wade knew his mark,-the cut of his own skate-iron. This busy oar
was still resolved to play its part in tbe drama.
The round little skiff just bore the third person without sinking.
'Vade laid Mary Darner against the thwart. She would not let go her
buoy. He unclasped her stiffened hands. This friendly touch found
its way to her heart. She opened her eyes and knew him.
"The ice shaU not carry off her hat to frighten some mother, down
stream," says Bill Tarbox, catching it.
All these proceedings Cap'll Ambuf:ter's spy-glass announced to Dun-
derbunk.
"They're h'istin' her up. They've slumped her into the skiff.
They're puttin' for Bhore. Hooray! .,
Pity a spy-glass cannot shoot cheers a mile and a half I
Perry Purtett instantly led a stampede of half Dunderbunk along the
railroad track to learn who it was and aU about it.
All about it was, that )!Ü:s Darner was safe and not dangerously
frozen,-and tbat 'Vade and Tarbox had carried her up the hill to her
mother at Peter Skerrett's.
:Missing the heroes in chief, Dunderbunk made a hero of Cap'n
Am buster's skiff. It was transported back on the
houlders of the
crowd in triumphal procession. Perry Purtett carrieù round the hat for
a contribution to new paint it, new rib it, new gunwale it, give it new
sculls and a new boat-hook,-indeed, to make a new \Tessel of the bra\Te
little bowl.
,I I'm afeard," says Cap'n Ambuster, "that, when I git a harnsome
new skiff, I shall want a harnsome new steamboat, and then the boat
will go cruisill' round for a harnsome new cap'n."
1861-88]
HENRY JfARTYN BAIRD.
19
l
Cttrr jRartrn 15aírtJ.
BOH
in Philadelphia, Penn., 1832.
THE DEATH OF COLIG:YY.
[History of the RÙ;e of the Huguenots of France. 1879.]
I T was a Sunday morning, the twenty-fourth of Augm:t-a ùay sacred
in the Roman calender to the memory of
aint Bartholomew.
Torches and blazing lights bad been burning all night in the streets, to
render toe task easy. 'l'he bouses in which Protestants lodged had been
distinctly marked with a white cross. The assassins themselves had
agreed upon badges for mutual recognition-a white cross on the hat,
and a handkerchief tied about the right arm. 'l'be signal for beginning
.was to be given by the great bell of the" Palais de J llstice "on the
island of the old "cité."
The preparations bad not been so cautiously maùe but that they
attracted the notice of some of tlH' Huguenots living near Coligny. Going
out to inquire the meaning of the clash of arms. and the unusual light
in the streets, they received the answer that there was to be a mock com-
bat in the Louvre-a pleasure-castle was to be assaulted for the king's
diversion. But, as they went farther and approached the Louvre, their
eyes were greeted by the sight of more torches and a great number of
armed men. The guards, fun of the contemplated plot, could not refrain
from insults. It soon came to blow
, and a Gascon soldier wounded a
Prote
t:mt gentleman with his halhertl. It may have been at this time
that the f:hot was fired which Catherine and her snns heard frolll the
open window of the Lou\'re. Declaring that the fury of the troops
could no longer be restraineù, the queen now gave orders to ring the
ben of the neighboring church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois.
:Meantime Henry of Guise, IIenry of V aloi
, the Bastarù of Angoulême,
and their attendants, bad reached the admiral's house. The wounded
man was almost alone. Could there be any clearer proof of the rectitude
of his purpose, of the utter falsity of the charges of conspiracy with
which his enemies afterward attempted to blacken his memory?
Guerchy and other Protestant gentlemen hall expres
ec1 the desire to
spend tbe night with him; but bis son-in-law. Téligu.\'. full of confidence
in Charles's good intentions, had declined their offers, anù had, indeed,
himse1í gone to his own lodging
, not far off, in the Hue St. Honoré.
With Coligny were :Merlin, his chaplain, Paré, the king'::; sllrgeon, his
ensign Cornaton, La Bonne, Yolet, and four or five servants. In tbe
court below there were five of Kavarre's Swiss guarùs on duty. Coligny,
20
HENE Y .JfARTYN BAIRD.
[1861-88
awakened by the growing noise in the streets, had at first felt no alarm.
80 implicitly did he rely upon the protestations of Charles, so confident
was he tbat Cosseins and his guarùs would readily quell any rising of
the Parisians. But now some one knocks at the outer door, and
demands an entrance in the king's name. 'V ord is given to La Bonne,
who at once descends and unlocks. It is Cosseins, fonowed by the
soldiers whom he commands. No sooner does he pass the threbhold
than he stabs La Bonne with his dagger. Next he seeks tbe admiral's
room, but it is not easy to reach it, for the brave Swiss, even at the risk
of their own lives, defenù first tbe door leading to the stairs, and then
tbe stairs themselves. .A..nd now Coligny could no longer doubt the
meaning of the uproar. lIe rose from his bed, and. wrapping his dress-
ing-gown about him, asked his chaplain to pray; and wbile :Merlin
endeavored to fulfil his request, he himself in audible petitions invoked
Jesus Christ as his God and Saviour, and committed to His bands again
the soul be had received from Him. It was then that the person to
whom we are indebted for this account-and he can scarcely have been
anotber than Cornaton-rushed into tbe room. When Paré asked him
what tbe disturbance imported, be turned to the admiral and said:
" My lord, it is God that is calling us to himself! The house bas been
forced, and we bave no means of resistance!" To whom the admiral.
unmoved by fear, and even, as all who saw him testified, without the
least change of countenance, replied: "For a long time have I kept
myself in readiness for death. As for you, save ,Yourselves, if .vou can.
It were in vain for you to attempt to
tye ill.V life. I commend m,\
soul
to tbe mercy of God." Obedient to his directions, all that were with
him, save Nicholas 1J uss, or de la
Iouche, his faithful German interpre-
ter, fled to tbe roof, and escaped under cover of the darkness.
One of Coligny's Swiss guards had been shot at the foot of the stairs.
"\Vhen Cosseins had removed the barricade of boxes that hatl been
erected farther np, the Swiss in his own company, whose uniform of
green, white, and black showed them to belong to the Duke of Anjou,
found their countrymen on the otber side, Lut did them no harm.
Cosseins following them, bowever, no sooner saw tbese armed men than
he ordered his arquebusiers to shoot, and one of them fell dead. It was
a German follower of Guise, named Besme, who first reached and entered
Coligny's chamber, and who for the exploit was sub
equently rewarded
witb the ]}and of a natural daugbter of the Cardinal of Lorraine.
Cosseins, Attin, Sarlaboux, and others, were behind him. "I::; not tbis
the admiral?:' said Besme of tbe wounrled man, wbom he found quiet1y
seated and awaiting his coming. "I am he," Colig-ny calmly replied.
., Young man, tbou oughtest to have respect for myoId age and my
feebleness j but thou shalt not, nevertheless, sborten my life." There
1861-88]
HENR Y JIARTY.N B.1IRD.
21
were those who asserted that he added: ., ..A..t least, would that some
man, and not this blackguard, put me to death." But most of the mur-
derers-and among them Attin, who confessed that never had he seen
anyone more assured ill the presence of death--affirmed that Coligny
said nothing beyond the words first mentioned. No sooner had Besme
heard the admiral's reply, than, with a curse, be struck him with his
sword, first in the breast, and then on the head. Tbe rest took part,
and quickly despatched bim.
In the court below, Guise was impatiently waiting to bear tbat bis
mortal enemy was dead. "Besme," he cried out at last, "have you fin-
ished?" .. It is done," the assassin replied. ":l\1onsieur Ie Chevalier
(the Bastard of Angoulême) will not believe it," again said Guise,
,: unless he sees him with his own eyes. Throw him out of tbe win-
dow ! ., Besn:ie anel Sarlaboux promptly obeyed the command. When
the lifeless remains lay upon the pavement of the court, Henry of Guise
stooped down and with his handkerchief wiped away the blood from tbe
admiral's face. "I recognize him," he said; ., it is he himself!" Then,
after ignobly kicking the face of his fan en antagonist, he went out gayly
encouraging his followers: "Come, soldiers, take courage; we bave
begun well. Let us go on to the others, for so the king commands!"
And often through the day Guise repeated the words, "The king com-
mands; it is the king's pleasure; it is his express command!" Just
then a bell was heard, and the cry was raised that the Huguenots were
in arms to kill the king.
As for Admiral Coligny's body, after the head had bcen cut off by an
Italian of the guard of the Duke de Nevers, the trunk was treated with
every indignity. The bands were cut off, and it was otherwise muti-
lated in a shameless manner. rrhree days was it dragged about the
streets ùy a band of inhuman boys. .:\leantime the bead had been car-
ried to the Louvre, where, after Catherine and Charles lJad sufficiently
feasted tbeir eyes on the
pectacle, it was embalmed and sent to Rome, a
grateful present to the Cardinal of Lorraine and Pope Gregory the Thir-
teenth. It has ùeen questioned whether the gh
st1y trophy ever reached
its de
tination. Indeed, the French court seems to bave become ashamed
of its inhumanity, and to have regretted that so startling a token of its
barbarous hatred had been allowed to go aùroad. Accordingly, soon
after the Lleparture of the courier. a second courier was despatched in
great haste to Mandelot, governor of Lyons, bidding him stop the first
and take away from 11Ïm the admiral's Lead. IIe arrived too late, how-
ever; four hours before .:\fandelot receive(l the king-'f} letter, "a squire of
the Duke of Guise, named Pauli," had pa
sed through the city, doubt-
less carrying the precious relic. That it was actual1,v placed in the
hands of the Cardinal of Lorraine at Rome need not be doubted
22
HENRY ..1lARTYN BAIRD.
[1861-88
Gaspard de Coligny was in his fifty-sixth year at the time of his death.
For twelve years he had been the most prominent man in the Huguenot
party, occupying a position secured to him not more by his resplendent
abilities as a general than by the respect exacted by high moral princi-
ples. 'Vith the light and frivolous side of French cbaracter he had little
in common. It was to a sterner and more severe class that he belonged
-a class of which :Michel de 1'Hospital might be regarded as the type.
:1Ien who bad little affinity with them. and bore them still less resem-
blance
but who coulù not fail to admire their excellence, were wont to
liken both the great Huguenot warrior and the chancel10r to that Cato
whose grave demeanor and imposing dignity were a perpetual censure
upon the flippanc)' and lax morality of bis countrymen. Although not
above the ordinary beight of men, his appearance was dignified and
commanding. In speech he was slow and deliberate. His prudence,
never carried to the extreme of over-caution, was signalized on many
occasions. Success did not elate him; reverses did not dishearten him.
The siege of the city of St. Quentin, into which he threw himself with a
handful of troops, and which he long defended against the best soldiers
of Spain, displayed on a conspicuous stage his military sagacity, his
indomitable determination, and the marvellous control he maintained
over his followers. It did much to prevent Philip from reaping more
substantial fruits from the brilliant victory gained by Count Egmont on
the feast-day of St. Lawrence. It was, however, above all in the civil
wars that bis abilities shone forth resplendent. Equally averse to begin-
ning war without absolute necessity, and to ending it without securing
the objects for which it had been undertaken, he was the good genius
whose wholesome acl\Tice was frequently disregarded, but never without
subsequent regret on the part of those who had slighted it. 'Ve have
seen, in a former chapter, the touching account given by Agrippa d'
Aubigné of the appeal of the admirar
wife, which alone was successful
in moving him to overcome his almost invincible repugnance to taking
up arms, even in behalf of a cause whiclJ he knew to be most holy. I
find a striking confirmation of the accuracy of the report in a passage of
his will, wherein he defends himself from the calumnies of his enemies.
"And forasmuch as I have learned that the attempt has been made to
impute to me a purpo
e to attack the persons of the king, the queen.
and the king's brothers. I protest before God that T ne\Ter had any such
will or desire, and that I never wag pre
pnt at an.v place where such
plans were ever proposed or discussed. And as I hm-e also been accused
of ambition in taking up arms 'with those of the reformed religion, I
make the f:ame protestation, that only zeal for religion, together with
fear for my own life, comIJelled me to assume them. And, indeeù, I
must confess my weakness, anLI that the greatest fault which I haye
1861-88]
HENR Y ]:lARTY.LV BAIRD.
23
always committed in this respect has been tbat I have not been suffi-
ciently alive to the acts of injustice and the slaughter to which l11!T breth-
ren were subjected, and that the dangers and the traps that were laid for
myself were necessary to move me to do what I have done. But I also
declare before God, that I tried every means in my power, in order so
long as possible to maintain peace, fearing nothing so much as civil dis-
turbances and wars, and clearly foreseeing that these would bring after
them the ruin of this kingdom, whose preservation I have always desired
and labored for to the utmost of my ability."
To Coligny's strategy too much praise could scarcely be accorded.
The Venetiall ambassador, Contarini, in the report of his mission to the
senate, in the early part of the year 1572, expressed his amazement that
the admiral, a simple gentleman with f11ender resources, had waged war
against his own powerful sovereign, who was assisted by the King of
Spain anù by a few German and several Italian princes; and that, in
spite of many battles lost, he preserved so great a reputation tbat the
reiters and lansquenets never rebelled, although their wages were much
in arrears, an(l their booty was often lost in adverse combat
. He was,
in fact, said the enthusiastic Italian, entitled to be held in higher e:,teem
than Hannibal, inasmuch as the Carthaginian general retained tbe
respect of foreign nations b.v being uniformly victorious; but the
admiral retained it, although his canse was almost always unsuccessful.
But all Coligny's military achievements pale in tbe light of his manly
and unaffected piety. It is as a type of the best class among HIe Hugue-
not nobility that he deserves everlasting remembrance. :b-'rom his youth
be had been plungeù in the engrossing pursuits of a soldier's life; but.
he was not ashamed, so soon as he embraced the views of the reformers,
to acknowled
e the superior claims of religion upon bis time and his
allegiance. He gloried in heing a Christian. The influence of his faith
was felt in every action of his life. In the busiest part of an actiye life,
be yet found time for the recognition of God; and, whether in the camp
or in his castle of Châtillon,sllf Loing, he consecrated no in
ignificant
portion of the day to devotion.
24
MARY ASHLEY TO'JVNSEND.
jRarp g
lJlcp
o\t11t
ClttJ.
Bou
ill Lyons, "'ayne Co.,
. Y., 1832.
nows THE BAYOU.
[DOll'n the Bayou, and Other Poems. 1882.]
,-YTE drifted down the long lagoon,
,\
Iy Love, my Summer Love and I,
Far out of sight of all the town,
The olrl Cathedral sinking down,
'Vith spire and cross, from view below
The borders of St. John's bayou,
As toward the ancient Spanish Fort,
'Vith steady prow and helm a-port,
'Ve drifteù down, my Love and I,
Beneath an azure April sky,-
My Love and I, )Iy Love and I,
Just at the hour of noon.
'Ve drifted down, and drifted down,
)Iy Love, my Summer Love and I.
The wild bee sought the shadowed flower,
Yet wet with morning's dewy dower,
'Vhile here and there across the stream
\ daring vine its frail hridge bJ-1Îlded,
.As fair, as fragile as !tOme dream
Wllich Hope with hollow hand hath gilded.
Now here, now there. some fisher's boat,
By t.rudging fisher towed, would float
Toward the town beyond our eyes;
The drowsy steersman in the SUII,
Chanting meanwhile, in drowsy tone,-
Under the smiling April skies,
To which the ea.rth smiled back replies,-
Beside his helm some harcarole,
Or, in the common patois known
To such as he before his day,
Sang out some gay clUlJ/.
on c1'éole,
And held his bark upon its way.
Slowly along the old shel1-road
Some aged negro, 'neath his load
Of gatlH'red moss and l,,((win
'V cnt shuffling on 11is homewarò \\ ay;
'Vhile purple, cool, beneath the blue
Of that hot noontiòe, bravely si:uÏled,
'Vith bright and irj(Iescent hue,
Whole acres of the blue-flag flower,
[1861-88
1861-88J
JIARY ASHLEY TOWNSE:
-rD.
25
The breathy Iris, sweet and. wild,
That flural savage "nsubdued,
The gypsy
\.prirs gypsy child.
Xow from some point of wc('dy shure
An Indian woman darts before
The light how of our idle hoat,
In which, like figures in a dream,
Iy Love, my Summer Love and I,
Adown the sluggish bayou float;
Wllile she, in whose still face we Sf'e
Traits of a chieftain ancestry,
Palldles her pirogue down the stream
Swiftly, and with the flexile grace
Of some dusk Dian in the chase.
As nears our boat the tangled shore,
'Yhere the wild mango weaves its bough
.
And early willows stoop their hair
To meet the sullen bayou's kiss;
''"'"here the luxuriant" creeper ., throws
Its eager clasp round rough mIll fair
To climu toward the coming June;
'Where the r-;ly serpent's sU\lden hiss
Startles sometime::. the drowsy noon,-
There the rude hut, uanana-thatched,
Stands with its ever open door;
Its yellow gourd hung up beside
The crippled crone who, half asleep,
In garments lllost grote-.;'luely patchell,
Grim watch and ward pretends to keep
".here there is naught to ue l1enieù.
Still (larkly winding on hefore,
For half a dozen miles or more,
Past leagues and leagues of lilied marsh,
The murky bayou swerved and slid,
'Yas lost, and found itself again.
And yet again was quickly hiel
Among the grasses of the plain.
As gazed we o'er the sedgy swerves,
The wild :md weedy wfiter cun"es,
Toward sheets of shining caJl\"as spread
High o'er the lilies blue and reù,
So low the :-;hOI'es Oil either hand.
The sloops seemeù sailing on the land.
'We drifteù on, anll drifteò on,
)Iy Love, my Summer Love and I.
All youth seemed like an _\prilland,
All life
eemed like a morning sky.
26
MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.
Like the white fervor of a star
That burns in twilight skies afar,
Between the azure of the day
And gates that shut the night away;
Bright as an Ophir jewel's gleam
On some Egyptian's swarthy hand,
About my heart one radiant dream
Shone with a glow intense, supreme,
Yet vague, withal, like some sweet sky
'Ve trust for sunshine, nor know why.
The recd-hinls chippered in the reeds,
As drifted on my Love and I;
The sleepy saurian by the bank
Slid from his sunny log, and sank
Beneath the dank, luxuriant weeds
That lay npon the huyou's breast,
Like vernal aJogosies at rest.
Like some blind Homer of the wood,-
A king in beggared solitude,-
Upon the wide, palmettoed plain,
A giant cypress here and there
Stood in impoverished despair;
'Vith leafless crown, with outstretched limbs,
With mien of woe, with voiceless hymns,
With mossy raiment, tattered, gray,
Waiting in dumb and sightless pain,
A model posing for Dorê.
Aloft, on horizontal wing,
'Ve saw the buzzard rock and swing;
That sturòy sailor of the air,
,VllOse agile pinions have a grace
That prouder plumes might proudly wear,
And claim it for a kinglier race.
From distant oak-groves, s" eet and strong,
The voicy mocking-bird gave song,-
That plagiarist whose note is known
As every Lird's, yet all his own.
As shuttles of the Persian looms
Catch all of Xature's suhtlest blooms,
Alilw her bounty and her dole
To weave in one bewildering whole,
tlo has this suhtile singer caught
All sweetest songs, and deftly wrought
Them into one entrancing score
From his rejoicing heart to pour.
Remembering that song, that sky,
":Uy Love, " I say, "my Love and I "-
":\Iy Summer Love "-yet know not why.
[1861-88
1861-88]
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
27
We had been friends, we still were friends;
'Vhere love begins and friendship ends,
To both was like some new strange shore
'Vhich hesitating feet explore.
There had we lllet, surprised to meet
And glad to find surprise so sweet;
But not a word, nor sigh, nOI' token,
Nor tender word unconscious spoken,
Nor lingering clasp, nor sudden kiss,
Had shown Love horn of Friendship's brcken,
Golden, glorious chrysalis.
Each well content with each to dream,
We drifted down that silent stream,
Searching the book of Nature fair,
To find each other's picture there,
Lifting our eyes
To name the skies
Prophets of cloudless destinies,
As down and down the long lagoon
We swept that semi-tropic noon,
Each one as sure love lay ltelow
The careless thoughts our lips might breathe,
Or lighter laughter lllight unfold,
As doth the earnest alchemist know
Beneath his trusted crucibles glow
Fires to transmute his dross to gold.
ubCtt
O\tJC 13anctoft.
BOR
ill Granville, Ohio, 1
)2.
HOW THEY FO
D THE PACIFIC GOLD.
[History of the Pacific State8 of .North America. Volume XXIIL 1888. ]
T\\OSCORE miles above Sutter's Fort, a short distance up the south
branch of American River, the rocky gateway opens, and the moun-
tains recede to the south, leaving in their wake softly rounded hins cov-
ered with pine, balsam, and oak, while on tbe north are somewhat abrupt
and rocky slopes, patchell with grease-wood amI chernisa1. and streaked
with tbe deepening shades of narrow gulches. Between these bounds is
a vaHey four miles in circumference, with red soil now covered by a thin
verdure, shaJed here and there by low bushes and statel.v groves. Cu-
luma, t. beautiful vale," the place was caned. At times sunk in isolation,
28
HUBERT HOJVE BANCROFT.
[1861-88
at times it was stirred by the presence of a tribe of savages bearing its
name, w hose several generations here cradled, after weary roaming,
sought repose upon the banks of a useful, happy, and sometimes frolic-
some stream. 'Yithin the half-year civilization had penetrated these
precincts, to break the periodic solitude with the sound of axe and rifle;
for here the saw-mill men bad come, marking their course hy a tree-
blazed route, pre
ently to
how the way to tbe place wuere was now to
be played the first scene of a drama which had for its audience the world.
Among the retaineJ's of the Swiss bacendado at tbis time was a native
of New Jersey, James Wilson 1Iarshall, a man of thirty-three years, who
after drifting in tbe western states as carpenter and farmer, came hither
by way of Oregon to California. In July 1845 he entereJ the service of
Sutter, and was duly valued as a good mechanic. B.v and by be secured
a grant of land on Butte Creek, on which he placed some live-stock, and
went to work. During hi
ahsence in the war southward, this was lost
or
tolen; and somewhat discouraged, he turned again to Sutter, and
readily entered into his views for building a saw-mill.
The old difficulty of finding a site still remained, and several explor-
ing excursions were now made by
Iar
hall, sometimes accompanied by
Suttei', and by others in Sutter's :5ervice. On the 16th of :\fa.v, 1847,
:Marshall set out on one of tbese journeys, accompanied by an Indian
guide and two white men, Treador and Graves. On the 20th they were
joined by one Gingery, who had been exploring with the same object on
the Cosumnes. rrhey travel1eù up the stream now called \Yeber Creek
to its head, pushed on to the A.mencan River, discovered Culuma, and
settled upon this place as the best they had founJ, uniting as it did the
requisite water-power and timber, with a possible roadway to the fort.
Sutter resoh-eù to Im;e no time in erecting the mill, and invited Marshall
to join him as partner. Tbe a
Teernent was signed in the latter part of
August. and shortl,v afterward :\farshaH ::;et out with his party, carrying
tools and supplies on .Mexican ox-cartR, and ùriving a flock of sheep for
food. A week wa
occupied by the journey. Shelter being the first
thing required on arrival, a double log-house was erected, with a pas-
sa
e-way between the 1 \vo parts, distant a quarter of a mile or more from
the mill-site. Sub::;equently two other cabins were constructed uearer
the site. By N ew-Y ear's day the mil1-franw ha(1 risen, and a fortnight
later the brush-dam was finished, although 110t till the fortitude of 11ar-
shaH and his men had been tried by a flood which threatened to sweep
away the whole structure.
They were a cheerful set, working with a will, JTet with a touch of
insouciance, imparted to some extent by the picturesque 'Mexican som-
brero and sashes, and sustained bv an interchanO'e of banter at the sim-
0
plicityor awkwarJness of the santges. In
far8ban they had a passable
I
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;:.... ..,.".
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p -
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IS61-88]
HUBERT HOWE BA
-"'TROFT.
29
master, though sometimes called queer. He was a man fitted by phy-
sique and temperament for the backwoods life, which had lured and held
him. Of medium size. strong rather than well developed, his features
were coarse, witb a thin beard round the chin and mouth. cut short like
the brown bail'; broad forehead and penetrating eyeö. by no means unin-
telligent. yet lacking intellectuality, at times gloomily bent on vacancy,
at times flashing with impatience. He was es
ential1y a man of moods;
his mind was of dual complexion. In the plain and proximate, he was
sensible and skilful; in the obscure and remote, be was utterly lost. In
temper it was so; with bis companions and subordinates be was free
anà friendly; witb his superiors and the world at large he was morbidly
in-tempered and surly. IIe was taciturn, with visionary ideas, linked
to spiritualism, that repel1e(l confidence, and made him appear eccentric
and morbid; he was restless, yet capable of self-denying perseverance
that was frequently stamped as oh
tinacy.
Early in tbe afternoon of
londay, the 24th of .Januar.v. 1848. wbile
sauntering along the tail-race inspecting the work,
Iarsball noticed yel-
low particles mingled with tbe excavated earth which had been wasbed
by the late rains. He gave it little heed at first; but presently seeing
more, and some in scales, the tlJought occurred to him that possibly it
might be gold. Sending an Indian to his cabin for a tin plate, be
washed out some of the dirt, separating thereby as much of the dust as
a ten-cent piece would hold; then he went aLout hi
business, stopping
a while to pon(Ier on the matter. During the evening he remarked once
or twice quietly, somewhat doubtingly. "Boys, I believe I have found a
gold mine." "I reckon not," was the response; "no such luck."
Up betimes next morning, according to his custom, he walked down
by the race to see the effect of the night's sluicing, the head-gate being
closed at daybreak as usual. Other motives prompted his investigation,
as may be supposed, and led to a closer examination of the débris. On
reaching the end of the race a glitter from beneath the water caught his
eye. and bending down he picked from its lodf!"ment ap:ain
t a projection
of soft granite, some'six inches below the surface, a larger piece of the
yellow substance than any he bad seen. If gold. it was in value equal
to about half a dollar. A
he examined it his heart began to throb.
Could it indeed be gold! Or was it only mica, or s l 11phuret of copper,
or other ignis fatuus !
Iarsball waR no metallurgi:-:t. yet he had prac-
tical sense enough to l...now that gold is beay'y anù malleable; so be
turned it over. and weighed it in hi
hand; then he bit it; and then he
hammered it between two stone:,. It mu
t be gold! .A,nd the mighty
secret of the Sierra stood revealed!
Marshall took the matter coolly; he was a cool enough man e),.cept
where his pet lunacy was touched. On further examination he found
30
HUBERT HOWE BA
YCROFl'.
[1861-88
more of the metal. He went to his companions and showed it to them,
and they collected some three ounces of it, flaky and in grains, the
largest piece not quite so large as a pea, and from that down to less than
a pin-head in size. Half of tbis be put in his pouch. and two days later
mounted his horse and rode over to the fort.
It was late in the afternoon of the 28th of January when :Marsha11
dismounted at New llelvetia, entered the office where Sutter was busy
writing, and abruptly requested a printte interview. The horseman was
dripping wet, for it was raining. Wondering what could have happened,
as but the day before he had sent to the mill aU that was required, Sut-
ter led the way into a private room. ,.
t\re you alone?" demanded tbe
visitor. "Yes," was the reply. "Dill JOU lock the door?" "No, but
I will if you wish it." "I want two howls of water," said :Marshall.
Sutter rang the beU and the bowls were brought. " Now I want a stick
of redwood, and some twine. and some sheet copper." "'Vhat do you
want of all these things, :;\1arsha11?" ., To make scales." "But I have
scales enough in the apothecary's shop," said Sutter; and he brought a
pair. Drawing forth his pouch, :Marshall emptied the contents into his
hand, and held it before Sutter'
eyes, remarking, "I believe this is
gold; but the people at the mill laughed at me and caned me crazy."
Sutter examined the stuff attentively, and finaUy said: "It certainly
looks like it; we will try it." First aqua-fortis was applied; and the
substance stool1 the test. N ext three doUars in silver coin were put
into one of the scales, and balanced by gold-dust in the other. Both
were then immersed in water, when down went the dust and up the
silver coin. Finally a volume of the "American Encyclopædia," of
which tlJe fort contained a copy, was brought out, and the article on gold
carefully studied, whereupon all doubts vanished.
IarsbaU propo::-ed that Sutter should return with him to the mill tbat
night, but the latter declined, saying that he would be mrer the next day.
It was now supper-time. and sti11 drizzling; would not the visitor rest
himself till morning? No, he must be off immediately; and without
even waiting to eat, he wrapped bis
erape about him, mounted his
borse, and rode off into the rain and darkness. Sutter slept little that
night. Though he knew nothing of the magnitude of the affair. and
did not fully realize tIle evils he bad present1y to face, yet he felt there
would soon be enough of the fascination abroad to turn the heads of his
men, and to disarrange bis plans. In a word, with prophetic eye. as be
expressed himself to me, be saw that night the curse of the thing upon
bim.
On the morning of the 29tb of January Sutter started for the saw-miU.
'Vhen half-way there. or more, he sa.w an ohject moving in tbe busbes
at one side. "V{hat is that?" demanded Sutter of his attendant.
1861-88]
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
31
"Tbe man who was with you yesterday," wa
the reply. It was still
raining. "Have you been here all night?" asked Sutter of )larshall;
for it was indeed he. "No," :Marshall said, "I f'lept at the mill, and
came back to meet you."
\..s they rode along :Marshall expressecl the
opinion tbat the whoìe country was rich in gold. Arrived at the mill,
Sutter took up his quarters at a housc )I31'sha11 had lately built for him-
self, a little way up the mountain, and yet not far from the mill. Dur-
ing the night the water ran in the race. and in the morning it was shut
off. All present then proceeded down tbe channel, and jumping into it
at various points began to gather gold. \\Tith some contributions by
the men, added to what be himself picked up,
lltter secured enough for
a ring weighing an ounce and a half, which he soon after exhibited with
great pride as a specimen of the first gold. A private examination by
the partners up the river disclosed gold all along its course, and in the
tributarv ravines and creeks.
Sutte; regarded tbe discover}T as a misfortune. '\Vithout laborers his
extensive works must come to a stop. presaging ruill. Gladly would he
have shut the knowledge from the world, for a time, at least. 'Yith tbe
men at the mill tbe best be could Jo was to make them promise to con-
tinue their work, and say nothing of the gold discovery for six weeks,
by which time be boped to have his flour-mill completed, and bis other
affairs so arranged as to enable him to withstand tbe resuÌt. The men,
indeed, were not yet prepared to relinquish good wages for the uncer-
tainties of gold-gathering.
If only the land could be secured on which this gold was scattered-
for probably it dià not extend far in any direction-then interloping
might be prevented, mining controlle<1, and the discovery made profit-
able. It was worth trying, at all eventg. Mexican grants being no longer
possible, Sutter began by opening negotiations with the natives, after
tbe manner of the Englisb colonists on the other side of the continent.
Calling a council of the Culumas and some of their neighbors, the lords
aboriginal of those lands, Sutter and :Marshall obtaine{l from them a
three years' lease of a tract some ten or twelve miles square, on payment
of some shirts, hat:-, handkerchiefs, flour, and other articles of no great
value, the natives meanwhile to be left unmolested in their bomes.
Sutter then returned to New Ilelvetia, and the great discovery was con-
summated.
I .
32
HUBER l' HOWE BANCROFT.
[1861-88
ARG-ONAUT LIFE AND CHARACTER.
[Frum the So me.]
C ERTAIK distinctiveness of dress and manner assisted the physical
type in marking nationalities; but idiosyncrasies were less con-
spicuous here than in conventional circles. owing to the prevalence of
the miner's garb--checked or woolen shirts, with a predominance of red
and blue, open at the bosom, which coul(l boast of shaggy robustness. or
loosely secured by a kerchief; pantaloons half tucked into high and
wrinkled boots, anù belted at the waist, where bristleù an arsenal of
knife and pistols. Beard and hair, emancipated from thraldom, revelled
in long and bushy tufts, which rather harmonized with the slouched
and dingy hat. Later. a
pecies of foppery broke out in the flourishing
towns; on Sundays particularl
T gay colors predominated. The gam-
blers, taking the lead, affected the :Mexican style of dress: white shirt
with diamond studs, or breastpin of native gold, chain of native golden
specimens. broad-brimmed uat with sometimes a feather or squirrel's tail
under the baud, top-boots, and a rich scarlet
ash or silk handkerchief
thrown over the shoulder or wound round the waist. San Francisco
took earJ
' a step further. TraL1ers and clerks drew forth their creased
suits of civilization, tin tlle shooting-jacket of the Briton, the universal
hlack of the Yankee, the tapering cut of tbe Parisian, the stove-pipe hat
and stand-up collar of the professional, appeared upon tbe street to rival
or eclipse the prostitute and cognate fraternity which at fir:5t monopo-
lized elegance in drapery.
Iiners. however, made a resolute stand agaim:t any approach to dan-
dyism, as they termed the concomitants of shaven face and white shirt,
as antagonistic to their own foppery of rags and undress which attended
deified labor. Clean, white, soft hands were an abomination, for such
were the gambler's and the preacher's, not to speak of worshipful femi-
ninity. But horny were the honest miner's hands, whose one only soft
touch was the revolver's trigger. A storekeeper in the mines was a
necessary evil, a cross between a cattle-thief and a constable; if a fair
trader, f
ee to give credit, and popular, he was quite respectable, more
so than the saloon-keeper or the loafer, but let him not aspire to the dig-
nity of digger.
Nor was the conceit illusive; for the finest specimens of manhood
unfolded in these rugged forms, some stanch and broad-shouldered,
some gaunt and wiry; their bronzed, hairy features weather-bleached
and furrowed, their deep rolling voices laden with oaths, though each
ejaculation was tempered by the frankness and humor of the twinkling
eye. All this dissolution of old conventionalities and adoption of new
1861-88]
HUBERT llOWE BANCROFT.
33
forms, which was really the creation of an original type, was merely a
part of the overflowing sarcasm and fun started by the òissoluti('n of
prejudice and the liberation of thought.
.LA... marked trait of the Californians was exuberance in work and play,
in enterprise or pastime-an exuberance fuIl of vigor. rro reach this
country was in itself a task which implied energy. self-reliance, seIf
denial, and similar qualities; but moderation was not a virtue conso.
nant with the new environment. The climate was stimulating. :Man
breathed quicker and moved faster; the \Tery windmills whirled here
with a velocity that would make a Hollander's bead swim. And so like
boys escaped from school, from supervision, the adventurer yielded to
the impulse, and allowed the spirit within him to run riot. The excite-
ment, moreover, brought out the latent strength hitherto confined by
lack of opportunity and conventional rules. Chances presented them-
selves in different directions to vaulting ambition. Thrown upon his
own resources midst strange surroundings, with quickened observation
and thought, the enterprising new-comer cast aside traditional caution,
and launched into the current of speculation; for everything seemed to
promise success whatever course might be pursued, so abnormal were
the times ami place which set at naught all calculations formulated by
wisdom and precedent. A,mid" the general free and magnificent disor-
der, recklessness had its votaries, which led to a widespread emphasis
in language, anti to a fuIl indulgence in exciting pastimes. All this,
however, was but the bubble and spray of the river hurrying onward to
a grander and calmer future.
This frenzied haste, no less than the absence of families, denoted that
the mania was for enrichment, with hopes rather of a speedy return to
the old home than of building a new one. San Francisco and other
towns remained under this idea, as weIl as temporary camps and depots
for the gold-fields, whither went not only diggers, but in their wake
a vast following of traders, purveyors, gamblers, and other ravenous
non-producers to absorb substance.
The struggle for wealth, however, untarnished by sordidness, stood
redeemed by a whole-souled liberality, even though the origin of this
ideal Californian trait, like many another virtue, may be traced to less
noble f'ources; here partly to the desire to cover up the main stimulant
-greed; partly to the prodigality bred by easy acquisition j partly to
the absence of restraining family cares. Even traders scorned to hag-
gle. A half-doUar was the smallest coin that could be tendered for any
service, and many hesitated to offer a quarter for the smallest article.
Everything proceeded on a grand scale; even boot-blacking assumed
big proportions, with neatly fitted recesses, cushioned chairs, and a sup-
ply of entertaining journals. Wages rose to a doUar an bour for labor-
VOL. Ix.-3
34
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
[1861-88
ers, and to twelve and twenty dollaros a day for artisans. With them
was raised the dignity of labor, sanctified by the application of all
classes, by the independence' of mining life, anù by the worshipful
results-gold.
A natural consequence was the levelling of rank, a democratic equali-
zation hitherto unapproached, and shattering the conservative notions
more or less prevalent. The primary range of classes was not so varied
as in the older countries; for the rich and powerful would not come to
toil, and the very poor could not wen gain the distant land j but where
riches lay so near the reach of all, their accumulation conferred less
advantage. Aptitude was the esteemed and distinguishing trait. The
aspiring man could break away from drudgery at home, and here find
many an open field with independence. The laborer might gain the
footing of employer j the clerk the position of principal; while former
doctors, lawyers, and army officers could be seen toiling for wages. even
as waiters and shoe-blacks. Thus were grades reversed, fitness to grasp
opportunity giving the ascendency.
The levelling process left indelible traces j yet from the first the
mental reservation and consequent effort were made to rise above any
enforced subjection. The idea of abasement was sometimes softened by
the disguise of name, which served also for fugitives from misfortune or
di:,grace, while it flattered imitators of humble origin. This habit
received wide acknowledgment and application, especially in the mines,
w here nicknames became the rule, with a preference for abbreviated
baptismal names, particularized by an epithet descripti ve of the person,
character, nationality j as Sandy Pete, Long-legged Jack. Dutchy. The
cause here ma;r be sought chiefly in the bluut unrestrained good-fellow-
ship of the camp, which banished all formality and superfluous courtesy.
The requirementR of mining life favored partnership; and while few
of the associations formed for the journey out kept together, new unions
were made for mutual aid in danger, sickness, anù labor. Sacred like
the marriage bonds, as illustrated by the softening of patineI' into the
familiar "pard," were the ties which oft united men vastly different in
physique and temperament. the weak and strong. the lively and sedate,
thus yoking themselves together. It presented the affinity of opposites,
with the heroic possibilities of a Damon or Patroclus. Those alreaùy
connected with benevolent societies sought out one another to revi ve
them for the practice of charity, led by the Odd Fellows, who united as
early as 18-:1:7.
Obviously in a community of men the few women present were very
conspicuous. There were whole groups of camps which could be
searched in vain for the presence of a single woman, and where one was
found sbe proved too often only the fallen image, the centre of gyrating
18131-88]
IIUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
35
revelrvand discord. In San Francisco and other large towns, families
began
to settle, yet for a long time the disreputable element outshone
the virtuous by loudness in dress and manner, especially in public
resorts. In the scarcity men assumed the heroic, and women became
worshipful. The few }wesent wore an Aphrodite girdle, which shed a
glamour oyer imperfections, till they found themselves divinities, cen-
tres of chivalric adorers. In the mining region men would travel from
afar for a glance at a newly arrived female, or handle in mock or real
ecstasy some fragment of female apparel. Even in the cities passers-by
would turn to salute a female stranger, while the appearance of a little
girl would be heralded like that of an angel, many a rugged fellow bend-
ing with tears of recollection to give her a kiss and press a golden
ounce into her hand. The eíIects of these tender sentiments remained
rooted in the hearts of Californian
long after the romance age, the only
mellow trait with many a one, the only thing
acred beiLg some base
imitation of the divine image.
Distance did not seem to weaken the bond with the old home
to
judge especially by the general excitement created by the arrival of a
mail-steamer. \Yhat a
training of eyes toward the signal-station on
Telegraph hill, as the time of her coming drew nigh! "
hat a rush
toward the landing! "That a struggle to secure the month-old newspaper,
which sold readily for a dollar! For letters patience had to be curbed,
owing to the scauty provisions at the post-office for sorting the bulky
mail. Such was the anxiety, however, that numhers took their position
in the long line before the ùelivery-window during the preceding day or
niglJt. fortified with stools anù creature comforts. There were boys and
men who made a business of taking a place in the post-office line to sell
it to later comers, who would find tbe file probably extending round
more than one block. There was ample time for reflection while thus
waiting before the post-office window, not to mention the agony of sus-
pense, heightened by the occasional demonstration of joy or sorrow on
the part of others on reading their letters.
rrhe departure of a steamer presented scenes haàUy IE'SS stirring, the
mercantile class being e
reciany earnest in efforts to collect outstanding
dehts for remittance. At the wharf stood preëminent sturdy miners
girdled with well-filled belts, their complacent faces turned eastward.
Old Californians they boasted themseh?es, thoug'h counting, perhaps, less
tban a half-year sojourn; many struttiug in their coarse and soiled camp
attire, glorying in their rags like Antist henes, through the holes of
whose clothes Socrates saw such rank pride peering. Con!"picuous by
contrast were many hap-:rard and dejectcd f:lceR. stampcd by broken con-
stitutions, soured by disappointment. Others no less unhappy, without
even the means to follow them, were left behind, stranded; with hope
36
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
[1861-88
fled, and having relinquished the struggle to sink perhaps into the out-
cast"s grave.
Housekeeping in these days, even in the cities, was attended by many
discomforts. The difficulty of obtaining female servants, which pre-
vailed even in later years, gave rise to the phenomenon of male house-
servants, first in Irish, French, or Italian, and later in Chinese form.
Fleas, rats, and other vermin abounded; laundry expenses often ex-
ceeded the price of new underwear; water and otber conveniences were
lacking, and dwelling accommodations most deficient, the flimsy cloth
partitions in hotels forbidding privacy.
For the unmarried men any hovel answered the purpose, fitted as tbey
wel'e for privation by the hardships of a sea-voyage or a transcontinental
journey. The bunk-lined room of tbe ordinary lodging-house, the
wooden shed, or cannts tent. could hardly have been more uncomforta-
ble than the foul-smelling and musty ship-hold. Thus the high price
prevalent for board and lodging, as wen as the discomforts attending
housekeeping and home life, tended to heigbten the allurements of vice-
breeding resorts.
The miners were a nomadic race, with prospector
for advance guard.
Prospecting, the search for new gold-fields, was partly compulsory, for
the overcrowded camp or district obliged the new-comer to pass onward,
or a claim worked out left no alternative. But in early days tbe incen-
tive lay greatly in the cravings of a feverish imagination, excited by
fanciful camp-fire tales of huge ledges and glittering nuggets, the sources
of these bare sprinklings of precious metals which cost so much toil
to collect. Distance assists to conjure up mirages of ever-increasing
enchantment, encircled by the romance of ad\Tenture, until growing
unrest makes bitherto well-yielding and valued claims seem unworthy
of attention, and drives the holder forth to rove. He bakes bread for
the requirements of sm-eral days, takes a little salt, and the cheering
flask, and with cup and pan, pick and shovel, attached to the blanket
strapped to his back, he sallies forth, a trusty rifle in hand for defence
and for providing meat. If well off, he transfers the increased hurden
to a pack.animal; but as often he may be obliged to eke it out with
effects borrowed from a confiding friend or storekeeper.
Following a line pm'al1el to the range, northward or south, across
ridges and ravines, through dark gorges, or up some ru
hing stream, at
one time he is seized with a consciousness of slumbering nuggets
beneath his feet, at another he is impelled onward to seek the parent
mass; but prudence prevails upon him not to neglect the indications of
experience, the hypothetical watercourses and their confluences in dry
tracts. the undisturbed bars of the living streams, where its eddies have
thrown up sand and gravel, the softly-rounded gravel-bearing hill, the
1861-88]
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
37
crevices of exposed rocks, or the outcropping quartz veins along the
bank and hillside. Often the revelation comes by accident, which upsets
sober-minded calculation; for where a child may stumble upon pounds
of metal, human nature can hardly be content to toil for a pitiful ounce.
Rumors of success are quickly starteù, despite all care by the finder
to keep a discovery secret, at least for a time. The compulsion to
replenish the larder is sufficient to point the trail, anrl the fox-hound's
scent for its prey is not keener than that of the miner for gold. One
report starts another; and some morning an encampment is roused by
files of men hurrying away across the ridge to new-found treasures.
Then spring up a camp of leafy arbors, brush huts, and peaked tents,
in bold relief upon the naked bar, dotting the hillside in picturesque
confusion, or nestling beneath the foliage. The sounds of crowbar and
pick reëcho from the cliffs, and roll off upon the breeze mingled with
the hum of voices from bronzed and hairy men, who delve into the
banks and hill-slope, coyote into the mountain side, burrow in the
gloom of tunnels and shafts, and hreast the river currents. Soon <1rill
and blast increase the din; flumes and ditchf's creep along the cañon
walls to turn great wheels and creaking pumps. Over the ridges come
the mule-trains, winding to the jingle of the leader's bell and the shouts
of arrieros, witb fresh wanderers in the wake, bringing supplies and
consumers for the stores, drinking-saloons, and hotels that form tbe soli-
tary main street. Here is the valve for the pent-up spirit of tbe toilers,
lured nightly by t1le illumined canvas wal]s, and the boisterous mirth of
rev elle r:-:, noisy, oath-hreathing, and sbaggy; the richer the more disso-
lute, Jet as a rule good-natured and law-abiding. The chief cause for
trouble lay in the cup, for the general display of arms served to awe
criminals hy the intimation of summary punishment; yet theft founù a
certain encouragement in tbe ease of escape among the ever-moving
crowds, witb little prospect of pursuit b.v preoccupied miners.
The great gathering in the main street was on Sundays, when after a
restful morning, though unbroken by the peal of church-bellR, the miners
gathered from bills and ravines for miles around for marketing and
relaxation. It was the harvest day for the gamblers, who raked in
regularly the weekly earnings of the improvident, and then sent them to
tbe store for credit to work out another gambling-stake. Drinking-
saloons were crowdeù all day, {hawing pinch after pincb of gold-dust
from the buckskin hags of the miners, who felt lonely if the,Y could not
share their gains with barkeepers as well as friends. And enon
h there
were of these to drain their pur::,es and sustain their rags. Besides the
gambler, whose abundance of means, leisure, and self-possession gave
him an influence second in this respect only to tbat of the storekeeper,
the general referee, adviser, and proviùer, there was the bully, who gen-
38
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
[1861-88
erally boasted of his prowess as a scalp-hunter and duellist with fist or
pistol, and whose following of reckless loafers acquired for hun an unen-
viable power in the less reputable camp8, which at times extended to
terrorism. His opposite was the effeminate dandy, whose regard for
dress seldom conciled him to the rough shirt, :--ash-bound, tucked pan-
taloons, awry oots, and slouchy bespattered hat of the honest. unshaved
miner, and whose gingerly handling of implements bespoke an equal
considerat1 li for his hands and back. l\Iidway stood the somewhat
turbulent Irishman, e\'er atoning for his weakness by an infectious
humor; the rotund Dutchman ready to join in the laugh raised at his
own expense; the rollicking sailor, widely esteemed as a favorite of for-
tune. Tbis reputation was allowed also to the Hispano-Californianð,
and tended here to create the prejudice which fostered tbeir clannish-
ness. Around flitted Indians, some half-naked, others in gaudy and ill-
assorted covering, cast-off like themselves, and fit suhjects for the priests
and deacons, who, after preaching long and fervently against tbe root of
evil, had come to tear it out by hand.
On week-days dunnes:; 8ettled upon the camp, and life was distributed
among clusters of tents and buts, some of tbem sanctified by the pres-
ence of woman, as indicated by the garden-patch with flowers. For
winter, log and c1apboard bouses replaced to a great extent the pre-
carious tent and brush hut, although frequently left with sodded floor,
bark roof, and a split log for the door. The interior was scantily pro-
vided with a fixed frame of sticks supporting a stretched canvas bed, or
bolster of leaves and straw. A similarly rooted table was at time:,: sup-
plemented by an old chest, with a bench or blocks of wood for seats. A
sbe1f with some dingy books and papers, a broken mirror, and news-
paper illustrations adorneù the walls, and at one end gaped a rude
hearth of stones and mud, witb its indispensable frying-pan and pot,
and in tbe corner a flour-bag, a keg or two, and some cans with pre-
served food. The disorùer indicated a bachelor's quarters, the trusty
rifle and the indispensable flask and tobacco at times playing hide and
seek in the scattered rubbish.
The inmates were early astir, and the cabin stood deserted tbrough-
out tbe day, save when some friend or wanderer might enter its
unlocked precincts, welco
to its comforts, or wben the owners could
afford to return for a siesta during the midday beat. Toward sunset
the miners came filing back along tbe ravines, gathering sticks for the
kitchen fire, and merrily speeding their halloos along tbe cliffs, whatso-
ever may have been the fortune of the day. If several belonged to the
mess, each took his turn as cook, and preceded the rest to prepare the
simple food of salt pork and beans. perhaps a chop or steak, tea or cof-
fee, and the bread or flapjack, tbe former baked with saleratus, the lat-
1861-88]
HUBERT HOWE BANCROFT.
39
tel' consisting of mere flour and water and a pinch of salt, mixed in the
gold-pan and fried with some grease. Many a f'olitary miner devoted
Sunday to prepare supplies of bread and coffee for the week. Exhausted
nature joined with custom in sustaining a change of routine for this ùay,
and here it became one for renovation, bodily and mental, foremost in
mending and washing, brushing up the cabin, and preparing for the
corning week's campaign, then for recreation at the village. Every
evening also, the camp-fire, replenished by the cook, drew convivial
souls to the feast on startling tales or yarnH of treasure-troves, on merry
songs with pan and kettle accompaniment, on the yarying fortunes of
the carl1s. A few found greater interest in a book, and others, lulled by
tbe bum arouml, ::;ank into reverie of home and boyhood scenes.
The young and unrnated could not fail to find allurement in this free
and bracing life, with its nature environment, devoid of conventional-
isms and fettering artificiality, with its appeal tu the roving instinct and
love of adventure, and its fascinating vistas of enrichment. Little mat-
tered to them occasional privations and exposure, which were generally
self-imposed and soon forgotten midst the excitement of gold-hunting.
Even sickness passed out of mind like a fleeting nightmare. And so
they kept on in pursuit of the will-o'-the-wi
p of their fancy, neglecting
moderate prospects from which prudent wen were constantly getting a
competency. At times alighting upon a little" pile," which, too small for
tbe rising expectation, was lavishly squandered; at times descending to
wage-working for relief. 1'hus they drifted along in semi-beggary, from
snow-clad ranges to burning plain, brave and bardy, gay and careless,
till lonely age crept up to confine them to some ruined hamlet, emblem-
atic of their shattered hopes-to find an unnoticed grave in the aurifer-
ous soil which they had loved too well. Shrewder men with better-
directed energy took what fortune gave, or combining with others for
vast enterprises, in tunnels and ditches, hydraulic and quartz mining,
then turning, with declining rrospect
, to different pursuits to aid in
unfolding latent resources, introducing new industries, and adding their
quota to progress, throwing aside with a rÍJaming life the loose habits of
dress and manner. frhis was the .....-\lnerican adaptability and self.
reliance which, though preferring independence of action, could organize
and fraternize with true spirit, could build up the greatest of mining
commonwealths, give laws to distant states, impart fresh impulse to the
world's commerce, and foster the development of resources anù indus-
tries throughout the Pacific.
The broader effect of prospecting, in opening new fields, was attended
by the peculiar excitement known as rushes, for which Californians
evinced a remarkable tendency, possessed as they were by an excitable
temperament and love of change, with a propensity for speculation.
40
lJIONCURE DANIEL CONn A Y.
L18()1-88
This spirit, indeed, had guided them on tbe journey to the distant shores
of the Pacific, and perhaps one step farther might bring them to the
glittering goal. The discoveries and tro\res made daily around them
were so interesting as to render any tale of gold credible. An efferves-
cing society, whose day's work was but a wager against the hidden treas-
ure of nature, was readily excited by ever,\- breeze of rumor. Even men
with valuable claims, yielding perhaps twenty or forty dollars a da.y,
would be seized hy the vision and foJIow it, in hopes of still greater
returnR. Others had exhausted their working-ground, or lay under
enforced inactivity for lack or excess of water, according to the nature
of the field, and were consequently prepared to join the current of less
fortunate ad venturers.
ß:1oncure
anícl <!ron\t1ar.
BORN at "Middleton," Stafford Co., Va., 1832.
DEATH AS FOE, A
D AS FRIEKD.
[Demonology and Dp'I-,il-Lore. 1879.]
THE Skeleton Death has the advantage over earlier forms of suggest-
ing the naturalness of death. The gradual discovery by the people
that death is not caused by sin has 'lrgely dissipated its horrors in
regions where the ignorance and impostures of priestcnJft are of daily
observation; and although the reaction may not be expressed with good
taste, there would seem to be in it a certain vigor of nature, reasserting
itself in simplicity.
In the northern world we are all too sombre in the matter. It is the
ages of superstition which have moulded our brains, anù too generaJIy
given to our natural love of life the unnatural counterpart of a terror of
death. '\Vhat has been artificially bred into us can be cultivated out of
us. There are indeed deaths corresponding to the two Angels-the
death that comes by lingering disease and pain, and that which comes
by old age. There are indeed Azraëls in our cities who poison the food
and chink of the people, and mingle death in the cup of water; and of
them there should be increasing horror until the gentler angel abides
with us, and death by old age becomes normal. The departure from life
being a natural condition of entering upon it, it is melancholy indeed
that it should be ideaJIy confused with the pains and sorrows often
attending it. It is fabled that :\Ienippus the Cynic, travelling through
Hades, knew which were the kings there by their howling louder than
1861-88]
.JlOJ.YCURE DANIEL CO-,-YWAY:
41
the rest. They bowled loudest because they had parted from most pleas-
ures on earth. But all the happy and young Lave more reason to lament
untimely death than kings. The only tragedy of Death is the ruin of
living Love. }'fr. Watts in his great picture of Love and Death re\Tealed
the real horror. Not that skeleton, which has its right time and place,
not the winged demon (called angel), who has no right time or place, is
here, but a huge, hard, heartless form. as of man half.blocked out of
marble: a terrible emhlem of the remorseless force that en. bodies the
incompleteness and ignorance of mankind-a force that steadily crushes
hearts where intellects are devoting their energies to alien worlds. Poor
Love has little enough science; his puny arm stretched out to resist the
colossal form is weak as tbe prayers of agonized parent
and 10\Ters
directed against neyer-swerving laws; be is almost exhausted; his lus-
trous wings are broken and torn in the struggle; the dm-e at his feet
crouches mateless; the rose that climbed on his door is prostrate; over
his shoulder the beam-like arm has set the stony hand against the door
wbere tbe rose of joy must fall.
The aged when they die do but follow the treasures that have gone
before. One by one tbe old friends have left tbem, the sweet ties parted,
and the powers to enjoy and help become feeble. 'Vhen of the garden
tbat once bloomed around them memory alone is left, friendly is death
to scatter also the leaves of that last rose where the loved ones are sleep-
ing. This is the real office of death. Nay, even when it comes to the
young and happy it is not Death but Disease that is the real enemy; in
disease there is almost no compensation at all but learning its art of war;
but Death is
ature's pity for helpless pain; where love and knowledge
can do no more, it comes as a release from sufferings which were sheer
torture if prolonged. The presence of death is recognized oftenest by
the cessation of pain. Super
tition has done few heavier wrongs to
humanity than by the m.Y
terious terrors with which it has invested that
change which, to the simpler ages, was pictured as tbe gentle river
Lethe, flowing from the abode of sleep, from wbich the shades drank
oblivion alike of their woes and of the joys from which they were torn.
AFRICAX SERPENT.DRA:\IA IN AMERICA.
[From the Same.]
O N tbe eve of January 1, 1863,-that historic New Year's Da,)' on
which President Lincoln proclaimed freedom to American slaves,
-I was present at a Watcb-nigbt held by negroes in the city of Boston,
42
.JfONGURE DANIEL CONWAY.
[1861-88
Mass. In opening the meeting the preacher said,-though in words whose
eloquent sbortcomings I cannot reproduce :-" Brethren and sisters, tbe
President of the United States has promised that if tbe Confederates do
not lay down their arms, he will free all their slaves to-morrow. They
have not laid down their arms. To-morrow will be the day of liberty
to the oppre
sed. But we all know tbat evil powers are around the
President. ,Yhile we sit here they are trying to make him break his
word. But we ha\-e come together tü watch, and see that he does not
break his word. Brethren, the bad influences around the President
to-night are
tronger than any Copperheads. The Old Serpent is abroad
to-night, with all his emissaries, in great power. His wrath is great,
because he knows his hour is near. He will be in this church this even-
ing. As midnight comes on we shall hear his rage. But, brethren and
sister
, don't be alarmed. Our prayers will prevail. His Lead will be
bruised. His back will be broken. lIe will go raging to hell, and God
Almighty's New Year wiII make the United States a true land of free-
dom."
The sen8ation caused among the hundreds of negroes present hy these
words was profound; they were frequently interrupted by cries of
"Glory!" and there were tears of joy, But the scene anrl excitement
which followed were indescribable. A few moment8 before midnight
the congregation were requested to kneel, which they did, and prayer
succeeded prayer with increasing fervor. Presently a loud, prolonged
hiss was heard, There were cries-" He's here! he's here!" Then
came a volley of hisses; they seemed. to proceed from every part of the
room, hisses so entirely like those of huge serpents that the strongest
nerves were shaken; above them rose the preacher's prayer that had
become a wild incantation, and ecstatic ejaculations became 80 universal
that it was a marvel what voices were left to make the hi8ses. Finally,
from a neighboring steeple the twelve strokes of midnight sounded on
the frosty air, and immediately the hisses diminished, and presently died
away altogether, and the New Year that brought freedom to four minions
of slaves was ushered in by the jubilant chorus of all present singing a
hymn of victory.
Far had come those hisses and that song of victory, terminating the
dragon-drama of America. In them was the burden of Ezekiel: "Son
of man, set thy face against Pharaoh, king of Egypt, and prophesy
against him and against all Egypt, saying, Thus saith the Lord Jehovah:
Behold I am against thee, Pharaoh, king of Egypt, tbe great dragon that
lieth in the midst of the rivers.. . I win put a hook in th.v jaws."
In them was the burden of Isaiah: "In that day Jehovah with his sore
and great and strong sword shall punish Leviathan the piercing serpent,
even Leviathan tbat crooked 8erpent: he shall slay the dragon that is in
1861-88]
JIONCURE DANIEL CONWA.Y.
43
the sea." In it was the cry of Zophar: ., His meat in his bowels is
turned, it is the gall of asps within him, He hath swallowed down
riches, and he shall vomit them up again. God shall cast them out of
his bel1y." And these Hebrew utterances, again, were but the distant
ecboes of far earlier voices of those African slaves still seen pictured
with their chains on the ruined walls of Egypt,-voices tbat gathered
courage at last to announce tbe never-ending struggle of man with
Oppression. as tbat combat between god and serpent, which never had a
nobler event than when tbe dying hiss of Slavery was heard in America,
and the victorious S.un rose upon a New ,Yorld of free and equal
men.
The Serpent thus exalted in America to a type of oppression is very
different from any snake that may this day be found worsbipped as a
deity by the African in bis native land. The swarthy snake-worshipper
in his migration took bis god along with him in bis cbest or basket-at
once ark and. altar-and in that hiding-place it underwent transforma-
tions. He emerged as the protean emblem of both good and evil. In a
my tb 01 ogic sense tbe serpent certainly held its tail in its mouth. Ko
civilization has reached the end of its typical supremacy.
PORTIA.
[The 'Wandering .Tell'. 18tH.]
A !\IOXG all these representative figures of the Yenetian court-room,
transformations from the flying doves and pursuing hawks, bound
victims and exacting deities of ancient mythology, there is one who pos-
sesses a significance yet to be considered. That is Portia. 'Yho is this
gentle woman in judicial costume? She is that human heart which in
every age, amid hard dogmatic systems and priestly intolerance, has
steadily appealed again
t the whole vindictive system-wbether Jewish
or Christian-and, even while outwardly conforming, managed to rescue
human love and virtue from it. 'Yith his wonted yet e\Ter-marvellous
felicity, Shakspeare has made tbe genius of this human sentiment sli p-
ping through the technicalities of priest-made law a woman. In the
mythology of dooms and spells it is often that by the seed of the woman
they are broken: the Prince must remain a Bear till BPfll1ty shall offer
to be hi
bride; the Flying Dutchman shall find repo
e if a maiden shaH
voluntarily share his sorrow. It is, indeed the woman-soul which has
silently veiled the rude hereditary gods and laws of barbarism-the piti-
le
s ones-with a host of gentle saints and intercessors, until the heart.
44
MONCURE DA1:{IEL CONWA Y.
[1861-88
less systems have been left to theologians. Inside the frowning but-
tresses of dogmatic theology the heart of woman has built up for the
home a religion of sympathy and charity.
Portia does not argue against the tecbnique of the law. She agrees
to can the old system justice-so much the worse for justice. In the
outcome she shows that tbis so-called justice is no justice at all. And
when she has shown that the letter of ,. justice" kills. and warned Shy-
lock that be can be sa,red from the fatal principle he has raised only by
the spirit that gives life, she is out of tIle case, save for a last effort to save
him from the blind law he has invoked. The Jew now sues before a
Christian Shylock. And Portia-like :Mar.r, and all sweet interceding
spirits tbat ever softened stprn gods in human hope-turns from the
judicial Jahve8 of tbe bench to the one forgiving spirit there. "'Vhat
mercy can you render him, Antonio?" The Christian Gratiano inter-
poses. "A balter gratis: nothing else, for God's sake." A natural
appeal for the victim-loving God; but the forgiving Jesus is heard,
however faintly, above the Christian, and Antonio forgives his part of
Shylock's penalty.
" Vengeance is mine," says the deity derived by fear from tbe remorse-
less course of sun and star, ebb and flow, frost and fire. Forgiveness is
the attribute of man. We may reverse Portia's statement, and say that,
instead of :Mercy dropping as the gentle rain from heaven, it is projected
into heaven from compassionate human hearts beneath. And heavenly
power cloth then show li1\:est man's when mercy seasons the vengeance
of nature. From the wild forces above not only droppeth gentle rain,
but thunder and lightning, famine and pestilence; it is man with his
lightning-rod, bis sympathy, his healing art, who turns them from tbeir
path and interposes a shield from their fury. When, as the two walked
together in tbe night, Leigh Hunt looked up to the beaven of stars, and
said, "God, the Beautiful," Carlyle looked, and said, ,. God, the Terri-
ble." It was the ancient worshipper of the Laws of Nature beside Abou
ben Adhem, who, loving not the Lord, yet loved his fellow-men. and sees
a human sweetness in the stars. All religions, beginning with trem-
bling sacrifices to elemental powers personified-powers that never for-
give-end with the worship of an ideal man, the human lover and
Saviour. That evolution is invariable. Criticism may find this or that
particular deified man limited and imperfect, and may discard him. It
may take refuge in pure theism, as it is caned. But it amounts to the
same thing. 'Vhat it worships is still a man-an invisible, vast man,
bu t still a man. To worship eternal love. f'upreme wisdom, ideal moral
perfection, is still to worship man, for we know such attributes only in
man. Therefore the Shylock-principle is non-human nature, harrl natu-
ral law moving remorselessly on its path from cause to effect; tbe
1861-88]
JOH
Y ALBEE.
45
Portia-principle, the quality of 11ercy, means tbe purely human religion,
which, albeit for a time using the terms of ancient nature-worship and
al10yed with its spirit, must be steadily detached from these, and on the
ruins of every sacrificial altar and dogma build the temple whose only
services shall be man's service to man.
101)11 g,lbce.
BORN in BelJingham, )Ia,.;;., 1833.
_l SOLDIER'S GRAVE.
[Poems. 1883.]
BREAK not his sweet repose-
Thou whom chance brings to this sequestered ground,
The sacred yard his ashes close,
But go thy way in silence; here no soulHl
Is ever heard but from the murmuring pines,
Answering the sea's near murmur;
Nor ever here comes rumor
Of anxious worId or war's foregathering signs.
The bleaching flag, the faded wreath,
)Iark the dead soldier's (lust beneath,
And show the death he chose;
Forgotten save by her who weeps alone,
And wrote his fameless name on this low stone:
Break not his sweet repose.
DANDELIONS.
No"r dandelions in the short, new grass,
Through all their rapid stages daily pass;
No bee yet visits them; each has its place,
Still near enough to see the other's face.
Unkenned the bud, so like the grass and ground
In our old country yards where thickest found;
Some morn it opes a little golden sun,
And sets in its Own west when (lay is done.
In few days more 'tis old and silvery gray,
And though so close to earth it made its stay,
Lo! now it findeth wings and lightly flies,
A spirit form, till on the sight it dies.
46
JOHN ALBEE.
[1861-88
BOS'N HILL.
THE wind blows wild on Bos'n Hill,
Far off is heard the ocean's rote j
Low overhead the gulls scream shrill,
And homeward scuds each little boat.
Then the dear1 Bos'n wakes in glee
To hear the storm-king's song;
And from the top of mast-pine tree
He blows his whistle lond and long.
The village sailors hear the cnll,
Lips pale and eyes grow dim j
Well know they. though he pipes them all,
He means uut oue shall answer him.
He pipes the dead up from their graves.
'Yhose bones the tansy hides;
He pipes the dead beneath the waves,
They hear and cleave the rising tides.
But sailors know when next they sail
Beyond the Hilltop's view,
There's one amongst them shall not fail
To join the Bos'n's Crew.
.
GOETHE.
[From" Goethe's Self-Culture," fl Lecture at the Concord School of Philosophy. 1885.]
I N the moral world, as in the natural, we shall not go far "Tong if we
seek for truth and reality in the direct opposite of what appears.
The apparent is something adjusted to the measure of the senses.
Although Goethe laid strong lwld of this apparent, there was for once a
man who turned it, not half or quarter, but clear round, and saw the
other, the real spirit, or ideal face.
lIe turned the plant clear round, and discovered its secret, the law of
its life. .L\..nd as ever appearances are confusing. while the reality is sim-
ple and satisfying, so now botany, which, when one looks into a text-
book or upon a f!"arden of fl.ower
, is the most bewildering of studies,
becomes by Goethe's discover
- as clear and beautiful as a remembered
single line of perfect poetry. In fact it is poetic; and it distinguishes
nearly an of his scientific investigation that it is resolved into poetry.
He is the first modern man who bas well succeeded in working this
1861-88]
JOHN ALBEE.
47
transformation; tbus restoring for us the manner of the most ancient
natural philosophers. who rendered everything in verse. It seems to
have been his aim in natural science to satisfy the desire for a produc-
tive thought.-one that should be a further means of self-cultivation.
His investigations in osteology re
ulted in nearly the same law as in
botany,-a simple principle on which tbe structure of animals and plants
is built up alike. 'Vhat 1S its value? Chiefly to the imagination in
man. There is no final good in scientific discoveries unless they furnish
us something beyond the useful; this also has its value, but not the
entire. As Goethe himself said, "
-'-hatever is useful is only a part of
what is significant." 'Vhen a simple, pregnant generalization, like
Goethe's in botany, is given us, we are not hindered by default of techni-
cal knowledge from tbe highest possible perception of the central idea
in the plant world. We no more stand before the simplest flower
ashamed of our ignorance because we cannot caU it by name; or when
we can, satisfied with our knowledge. But there ib now freedom for the
imagination, and an invitation to reflection. Then truly pansies will be
for thoughts; and the "flower in the crannied wall" will answer, not
what God and man is. but as much as it knows about itself. And
though some flower
recommend themselves by their beauty or rarity,
and others by their commonness, and some even because they are fash-
ionable, all of them, when we are acquainted with the law of their
inward being, help us to draw nearer to the spiritual symbols and resem-
blances which connect each province of nature with every other, and all
with man.
Goethe teaches us after a method, and to a point where we can teach
ourselves. In every direction to wbich he turned his mind, this is one
of his chief merits. that he takes ,You where you can go alone if you
wilL This makes him for adults, for poets and writers especially, the
most helpful master that has ever lived. How he becomes so is easy to
see; it is because he is trying to teach himself; in short, we come again
upon his self-culture as the fruitful source of his achievements and influ-
ence. His studies and investigations were private, unprofessional, with
no worldly or ulterior aim. "-'-hat he puts into the mouth of .Makaria
in "Wilhelm
Ieister's Travels" expresses his habit very nearly: "'V e
do not want to establish anything, or to produce any outward effect, but
only to enlighten ourselves." 'Yhen, therefore, Goethe, a man of ample
acquirements and genius, sits down to study something tbat he wishes
to know, and gives UR not only the results, but the steps and the method
of his effort, he becomeR a great teacher.
Yet we do not wish to foHow any master too far; he is the best who
leads us from himself to self-reliance. A man needs many, to whose
influence be can surrender himself, and recover hÌ1llself again and again.
48
JVILLIA.Jf no (IG LAS O'CON...YOR.
[1861-88
In Goethe's self-cultivation it is striking how often he meets with per-
sons and objects. and gives himself up to them until he has learned all
they bave to impart which can help him, or discovers his own false tend-
ency or position. Then he abandons them without regret or apology.
'Vithout regret, except the poetic, inspiring regrets of his love affairs,
which cannot be omitted from tbe account of the sources and circum-
stances of his inward culture. In these there were usually two produc-
tive phases or periods; one while elevated by passion, the other when
tormented by remorse. It is said by H. Grimm that
Iargaret grew out
of the latter. But usually he had no time or taste for repenting himself
of anything that had happened. In his self-complacent way he foresaw
compensation, and was not afflicted to know all sides of himself, the
weak, the strong, the excelJent, and the evil. He confessed that his
striving to become an artist was a mistake, but added that mistakes also
give us insight. This calm, quite superhuman characteristic has preju-
diced many good people against Goethe; they think that he sacrificed
everybody to his own selfish purposes. The French call love the egoism
of two; but some say Goethe's love was stm no more than th
t of one,
-self-love, in short.
Wíl1íam :IDougla
'Qtonnor.
BORN in Boston,
Ias8., 1833. D
D in Washington, D. C., 1889.
THE PRETTY PASS THI
GS CAME TO.
[Harrington: a Story of True Love. 1860,]
I N the mean time things bad come to a pretty pass in the private
counting-room of Mr. Atkins's office on Long Wharf.
" Yes, sir, things bave come to a pretty pass when such an infernal
rascal undertakes to let a black beggar loose from aboard my brig,"
foamed Captain Bangham, red with passion, and pounding the desk with
his fist.
The merchant sat in an arm-chair near tbe desk, looking at the cap-
tain, with iron-clenched jaws, his eyes sparkling with rage in his set
blanched face.
"If I ever heard of such a thing in all my life, Bangham!" he ex-
claimed, slapping both arms of his chair with his palms, and glaring
all around the little mahogany-furnished office. " But where were you
when this was done?"
"I, sir? Asleep in the cabin, Mr. Atkins. N ever knew a thing about
1861-88]
W ILLIAJI DO UG LAS O'CO.NXOR.
49
it, sir, till this morning. Just for special safety I didn't bave the brig
hauled up to the dock yesterday, but let her lay in tbe stream. 'Jones,'
says I, 'have you seen the nigger tbis morning?' · No I baven't,' says
he, cool as you please. 'I guess I'll take a look at him,' says I, and so
I took a biscuit and a can of water, and toted down to the hole where I
had tbe nasty devil tied up, and begod, he was gone! I tumbled up on
deck: 'Jones,' I shouted, 'where's the nigger?' , I don't know where
he is now,' says he, lazy as a ship in the dol,lrums. · All I know is,'
says he, 'that I rowed him ashore about midnight, and told him to put
for it.' By"-gasped Captain Bangham, with a frightful oath, "I was
so mad tbat I couldn't say a word. I just ran into the cabin. and when
I came out, Jones wasn't to be seen.-Hallo, there he is now!" cried the
captain, starting to his feet and pointing out of tbe window to a tall figure
lounging along the wharf, and looking at the shipping.
The merchant jumped from his chair, tbrew up the window, and
shouted, "Here, you, Jones! Come in here."
The figure looked up nonchalantly, and lounged across the street
toward the office.
"He's coming," said the merchant, purple witb excitement, and sink-
ing back into his cbair.
They waited in silence, and presently the tall :figure of the mate was
seen in the outer office, through the glass door, lounging toward them.
He opened the door in a minute, and came in carelessly, chewing slowly,
and nodding once to Mr. Atkins. .A. taU man, dressed sailor-fashion, in
a blue shirt and pea-jacket, with a straw hat set negligently on his head,
and a grave, inscrutable, sunburnt face, with straight manly features and
dull-blue eyes.
"
1r. Jones," said the merchant, his face a deeper purple, but his voice
constrained to the calm of settled rage, "this is a fine liberty you have
taken. I want to know what you mean by it."
"'Vhat do you refer to,
fr. Atkins?" returned the mate, stolidly.
"'Vhat do I refer to, sir ? You know what I refer to. I refer to your
taking that man from my brig," roared tbe merchant.
"
lr. Atkin
," replied the mate, phlegmatically, "Bangham, there,
was going to take tbat poor devil back to Orleans. You don't mean to
tell me that you meant he should do it? "
" Yes, sir, I d1'd mean he should do it !" the merchant vociferated.
,. Then you're a damned scoundrel," said the mate, with the utmost
composure.
Captain Bangham gave a long \Yhist1e, and sat mute with stupefac-
tion. 11 r. Atkins turned perfectly livid, and stared at the mate with
his mouth pursed into an oval hole, perfectly aghast at this insolence,
and almost wondering whether he had heard aright.
VOL. IX.-4
50
WILLIA:ðI DOUGLAS O'CO.iYNOR.
[1861-88
" You infernal rascal," he howled, springing to his feet the next instant,
purple with rage, "do you dare to apply such an epithet to me? You-
tom
?"
"To you?" thundered the seaman, in a voice that made
Ir. Atkins
drop into Lis chair as if he were shot. .. To you? Anù who are you?
You damned lubberly, purse-proud aristocrat, do you want me to take
you by the heels and throw you out of that window? Call me that
name again, and III do it as soon as I'd eat. You, indeed ! You're the
Lord High Brown, aint you ? You're the Lord Knows Who, you blasted
old money-grubber, aint you? You, indeed! .,
In all his life, }rIr. Atkins had never been so spoken to. He sat in a
sort of horror, gazing with open mouth and glassy eyes at the sturdy
face of tbe seaman, on which a brown flush had burned out, and the
firm, lit eyes of which held him f'pell-bound. Bangbam, too-horror-
stricken, wonder-stricken. tbunder-stricken-sat staring at Jones for a
minute, then burst into a short, rattling laugh, and jumping to his feet,
cried, "Ob, he's mad, be's mad, he's mad, he's got a calenture, he's got a
calenture, he's mad as a
farch hare/' capering and hopping and pranc-
ing, meanwhile, in his narrow confine, as if he would jump out of his
skin.
"Y ou, too, Bangham," said the mate, making a step toward him,
with a menacing gesture, at which the captain stopped capering, and
hrank, while :Mr. Atkins slightly started in his chair, "you just clap a
stopper on that ugly mug of yours, and stop your monkey capers, or
you'll have me afoul of you. I haven t forgot your didoes with the men
aboard the Soliman. Just you say another word now, and I'll put in J.
complaint that'll lay you by the heels in the State Prison, where you
ought to have been long ago, you ugly pirate, you!"
The captain evidently winced under this tbreat, which Mr. Jones
delivered with ominous gravity, slowly shaking, meanwhile, his clenched
fist at him.
"And now look here, you brace of bloody buccaneers," continued the
irreverent seaman, "short words are best words with such as you. I
untied tbat poor old moke of a nigger last night, and rowed him ashore.
'Vhat are ye going to do about it?"
Evidently a question hard to answer. ')[erchant and captain, stupe-
fied and staring, gave him no reply.
"Hark you, now, Atkins," he went on. ,. \Ve found that man balf
dead in the hold when we were three days out-a sight to make one's
flesh crawl. The bloody old pirate he'd run away from had put a
spiked collar on his neck, just as if he was a brute, with no soul to be
saved. I'm an old sea-dog-J am; and I've seen men ill-treated in my
time, but I'm damned if I ever seen a man ill-treated like that God-for-
1861-88]
WILL/AJ! DOUGLAS O'OONNOR.
51
saken nigger. He'd run away, and no blame to him for running away.
He'd been livin' in swamps with snakes and alligators, and if he hadn't
no right to his freedom, he'd earned one fifty times over, and it's my
opinion that a man who goes through what he did has more right to his
freedom than two beggars like y
m, who have never done the first thing
to deserve it. :Mind that now, both of ye! "
The mate paused a moment, hitching up his trousers, and rolling his
tobacco from one side of his twitching mouth to the other, and then,
with his face flushed. and his blue eyes gleaming savagely, went on:
"What's the first thing that brute there did to him? Kicked him,
and be lyin' half dead. Then in a day or two. when the poor devil got
his tongue, he told llOW he'd got away, and the sort of pirate he'd got
away from. God! when we all a'most blubbered like babes, what did
that curse there do? Knocked the man ùown, and beat bis head on tbe
deck, till we felt like mutiny and murùer, every man of us! And then
when we'd got the poor devil below, sorter comfortable, down comes
Bangbam, and hauls him off to stick him into a nasty hole unùer
hatches, and there he kep' him the whole passage, haJf.starved, among
the rats anù cockroaches. Scarce a day of his life aboard that he didn't
go down and kick and maul him. He couldn't keep bis hanùs off him-
no, he couldn't. 'Yhen I took the man ashore in the dead 0' night, he
was notbin' but a bundle 0' bones amI nasty rags, and he made me so
sick I couldn't touch him. That's the state he was in. Now, then,
look here."
The mate paused again for a moment, turning his quid, with his face
working, and laying the fingers of his right hand in tbe palm of bis left,
began again in a voice gruff and grum:
"That infernal buccaneer, Bangbam," he said, It was bent on takin' the
poor devil back to Orleans, after all he'd gone through to get away.
Well, he's a brute, and we don't expect nothin' of brutes like him. But
you're a Boston merchant, Atkins, and callin' your
elf a Christian man,
JOll put in your oar in this dirty business, and was goin' to help Bang-
bam. You thought I was goin' to stand by and see you do it, No!"
he thundered, with a tremendous slap of his right hand on the palm of
his left, which made both the merchant and the captain start, "no! I
wasn't goin' to stand hy and. see you do it! I'm an old sea-dog and my
heart is tough and. Lard, but I'm damned if it's hard enough to stand by
when such a sin as that's afoot, and never lend a hand to stop it. I took
that man out of your clutches, you brace of pirates, and J f:et him
adrift ! You think I'm afraid to own it? Ko, I'm not, begod! I did
it. Ephraim Jones is my name, and I come from Barnstable. There's
where I come from. I'm a Yankee sailor, and, so help me Goll, I could
never see tbe bunting of my country flying at the peak again, if I let you
52
WILLIAM DO UGLAS O'CONNOR.
[1861-88
two bloody Algerine thieves carry off that man to his murder. That's
all I've got to say. Take the law of me now, if you like. I won't skulk.
You'll find me when you look for me. And if James Flatfoot don't
have his harpoon into both of you one of these days, then there's no
God, that's all ! "
Turning on his heel with this valediction, which consigned the mer-
chant and the captain's future beyond the grave to the Devil, who, under
the name of James Flatfoot, occupies a prominent place in marine the-
ology, .Mr. Jones carelessly lounged out of the private room, leaving the
glass door open, and with a nonchalant glance at the three or four
startled clerks and book-keepers who sat and stood at their desks won-
dering what had been going on within, for they had onl.r caught con-
fused scraps of the stormy colloquy, he went down stairs, with a load
off his mind which had been gathering there during the whole voyage
of tbe Soliman.
For a moment after bis departure, Mr. Atkins sat m ute and still, feel-
ing like one in a horrid dream. Roused presently by a deep-drawn
breath from Captain Bangham, he wbeeled his chair around to the desk,
and taking out his white hankerchief, wiped away the cold sweat which
had started out on his face and forehead.
.
THE CARPENTER.
[From" The Carpenter: A Christmas Story."-Pulnam's .IIagazine. 1868.]
F OR a little while there was complete silence in the hollied room,
only broken by the murmur of distant voices and laughter from
the other apartments.
"Grandpa," at length said little Lilian, in her plaintive voice, II I want
to hear my 'Olian harp very, very much indeed."
The old man smiled.
"Do you, darling? And RO JOu shall, if the wind wins," he answered.
"Let's see. Where shall we put it, so that you won't get the draught?
Here, I reckon."
He had risen as he spo1..'
, and, taking from a shelf near by the Æolian
harp, he opened the window on the left-hand side of the fire-place a 1ittle
way, and set the instrument in the aperture; then resumed his seat and
attituùe beside the child.
For a minute all was still. But presently stole up on the silence, holy
and solitary as tbe breaking dawn, the long, low strain of remote and
thrilling sweetness, wild, de1icate, anù lonely, and hung hovering for a
1861-88]
1VILLIAJI DOUGLAS O'OONNOR.
53
moment in the charmed air, then failed away in a dim, mysterious
cadence, which, ended, yet seemed to linger, like the spirit of bright
things departed, of tender summers gone.
Little Lilian listened with a face of breathless ecstasy. The wind-
harp was. again still, remaining soundless in the minutes that followed,
and the child finally resigned herself with a little sigh.
"Grandpa," she said presently, "what was Jesus Christ? "
The old man glanced at her smilingly, with his never-failing surprise
at the oddity of her abrupt questions.
".il. mechanic, my dear," he presently answered. "\Vhat our fine
Southern gentlemen call a common mud-siB," he added, sardonically.
" A carpenter-God bless him I"
Lilian quietly sat, cogitating his reply, while the old man wagged bis
sturdy bead, grimly chuckling over the significance of his response with
an enjoyment beyond words.
"Grandpa," the silver elfin-voice began again, "will Jesus Christ
come here this evening? "
Elkanah stared at her in blank wonderment, then burst into a bellow
of laughter.
" \Vell, you are a young one 1 " he said, wagging his old head with
hearty amusement. "If I ever heard the like of that [ Now, what put
that into your noddle, Lilykin? "
"I put it in my own self," sbe answered with intense positiveness.
., But will he, grandpa? "
"\Ven, I don't know. He might," replied Elkanab, jocosely.
"Because he's alive, grandpa," earnestly pursued the child. ., Old
uncle Peter always said he was alive, and going 'round doing good.
Only that he'd grown olel and gray walking in the world so many hun-
dred years-just as old loafer Tomeny painted his picture in there on
the fire-place. ...t\.nd that's all true, grandpa j ain't it? "
"Of course," replied the waggish Elkanah, tickled to his very midriff.
"\Ven, then, I guess he might come," continued the little prattler,
with a satisfied air. "And I wish he would, for I want to see him very,
very much."
Elkanah laid back his head, and roared and shook with merriment.
Finally, subsiding, mellowed to the core with mirth, he relapsed into his
former position, his hands between his knees, his head bent forward,
gazing at the elk-horned flames, and tittering secretly. The little girl
sat sedately, taking it all with perfect seriousnes
.
" Now, supposing he was to come here this evening:' she resumed,
" and we was sitting here, and talking, and he should knock at the door
-and then, you know, we wouldn't hear him, grandpa."
The flames suddenly died down, involved in light-blue smoke, and tbe
54
WILLIAM DOUGLAS O'OONNOR.
[1861-88
hearth gave forth a strange and lovely amber light upon the darkening
room. At the same moment there was a faint, sweet chord of mysteri-
ous, trembling music from the barp.
" Vv el1," said Elkanah, "what then?"
"Then," continued tbe child, "he would say, 'Behold, I
tand at the
door and knock.' "
The :fire became so strangely low, and cast so weird a light, that the
old man felt a sort of wonder creeping over him, and, without replying,
or moving from his crouching attitude, turned his face slowly around,
with the singular glow and cross-bars of shade upon his features, and
scanned the sbadowed room, embowered in holy foliage, and hallowed
by that dusky, amber radiance. The distant voices ])aLl ceased, and the
house was still. The unusual light, the breathless hush that lay upon
all, surprised him, anù he slowly turned bis head back again, with a
secret thrill.
At that moment there was a gentle knock at the duoI'.
Elkanah did not move, but only revolved his great eyes and stared in
blank astonishment at the little girl. She sat very placidly, looking at
the fire. There was a moment's pause.
"Come in,:' he boomed, in a stentorian tone.
A t that instant a red cinder flew from the hearth, with a loud crack,
upon Lilian's dress, and in the momentary alarmed diversion of his
attention, as be hastened to :fillip it back into the fire, the old man heard
tbe opening and shutting of the door. It was with a feeling of vacant
amaze, almost rising into fright, that, turning his bead, as he did immedi-
atel.v, he saw a large, gray stranger standing in the room.
The old man rose slowly from his seat to his full height, with won-
dering eyes astare upon the new-comer. The latter stood composedly
gazing at him. He was tall and stalwart, with uncovered bead; a brow
not large, but full, and seamed with kindly wrinkles; a complexion of
rosy clearness; hemry-lidded, firm blue eyes, which had a stcm1fast and
draining regard; a short, thick, gray beard almost white, and thinly-
flowing dark-
ray hair. ilis countenance expressed a rude sweetness.
He 'was drf'ssed in a long, dark overcoat, much worn, and of such uncer-
tain fashion that it almost seen1f
d a gaberdine. As be stood there in
tbe gracious darkling light, he looked an image of long and loving
experience with men, of immovable composure and charity, of serene
wisdom, of immortal rosy youtb in reverend age.
\ faint perfume
exhaled from bis garments. III the lapel of his coat he wore a sprig of
holly. His left hand, in which he also be1ù his shapeless hat, carried a
carpenter's plane.
Elkanah stood, almost quaking inwardly in tbe pre
ence of this
1861-88]
WILLIAM DO UG LAS O'CO.N
VOR,
5[;
august stranger, in whose aspect were singularly blended the prophet
and the child. The cbild in him inspired love; the prophet. awe. He
drew and be repelled.
"This must be yours," said the stranger, in clear, slow accents, sweet
and vibrating, extending, as he spoke, the implement in his hand. " I
found it at your gate-post on the highway."
"\Yhy, yes," faltered Elkanah, with a slight start, taking tbe plane.
"Tom's work, I know. He was shaving away there where the gate shut
hard, and, just like the little love-daft noddy, he leaves the tool behind
him. "
"I am a waJfarer," said the stranger, after a pause, "and 'would like
permission to remain with you a little while."
"'Yhy, certainly. God bless me! wbat am I thinking of?" abruptly
broke forth Elkanah, recovering immediately at the chance of offering
hospitality, and beaming into smiles. " You are welcome, sir, right
welcome.
Iy name is Elkanah Dyzer. Sit ye down, sir-sit ye down.
Hah! spang ! Up goes the merry fire!" he cried, laying the plane upon
the mantel, and bustling forward his own oak chair for the stranger, as
the blaze laughed upward with a flood of light. .. You are right wel-
come. Your hand, sir," and, bowing with stately courtesy, he extended
his own.
The stranger slowly took the proffered hand, witb a pressure so grad-
ual. so cordial, and so strong, tbat Elkanah felt it down deep into his
very heart. As the sublime Scripture phrase has it, his bowels yearned
to this new friend, and, despite the reverent distance which tbe lofty
and sweet reserve of the stranger maintained, be felt a sudden intimacy
as of many years, born from his quality of manly 10\'e. At the same
time, his old brain was still in a daze of wondering confusion.
"Sit ye down, sir-sit ye down," he chirruped, stepping backward
with a wave of both hands j while the stranger, slow in all his motions,
paused standing beside the chair. "And if I might not be thought
over-bold, sir," he went on, confusedly engaged with the odd coincidence
of the stranger's advent and personal aspect with the child's words,
"what might I call your na-occupation-the name of your occupation
-no-ycs-Û dear me, dear me! "
...\.nd Elkanah tweaked his great eagle nose in comical bewilderment,
somewhat dubious wbat he had asked for, but impressed that it was the
name, after all, as he intended.
"I am a carpenter," said the stranger. simply, in a rather low but dis-
tinct voice. " )1 Y name-"
" Ah, yes; excuse me," said Elkanah, unaware that be was interrupt.
ing, in the haste of his flurried belief that he had got. the information be
meant to ask for. "Carpenter. ...\ IlaI1le I like well-as I do you, sir,
56
TVILLIAJI DOCGLAS O'OONNOR.
[1861-88
if you'll excuse an old man's frankness. Sit ye down, :Mr. Carpenter.
You are right welcome."
The stranger bent his grand and gentle head with a slow smile, like
one amused at the new name accidently conferred upon him, :vet wen
content to let it be so; and, tossing his shapeless hat upon a footstool in
the angle behind the fire-place, took tbe oaken chair.
Little Lilian, wbo had been intently looking at him with an air of
breathless satisfaction, and had not uttered one word, now rose, deposited
doHy carefully upon his hat, limped back between his knees, and stood
a-tiptoe with bel' small arms upreacbed to him. He took her up instantly
on his breast, and kissed her with a long kiss upon the mouth.
"I know wbo you are," she whispered eagerly. " And I won't tell
nobody."
The stranger made no answer. She snuggled close upon his bosom,
and into his beard, for a minute or so, in perfect quietude; then sud-
denly clambered down, and resumed her seat in the little chair, with an
air of confidential and solemn gratification.
" I dec1are," said Elkanah, softly laughing, and rubbing his hands as
he sat down before the fire near the stranger, "it's the queerest thing I
ever knew. Do you know, }'Ir. Carpenter, you quite gave me a turn
w hen you came in? I've got the nerves of an ox, anyway, but I tell
you I felt queerish for about the first time in my life. \Ven, now, it
was the oddest thing 1 And by Gee and Dee, odd it is stin 1
"I'll tell you how it was," he continued, after a pause, before the
slow-speaking carpenter could reply. ., Little magpie there was twitter-
ing a lot of stuff we have over here a good deal in the family. Of
course, you never heard of myoId uncle, Peter Dyzer:
" , Old miser Dyzer, skin a fly, sir,
Sell the skin, and turn the money in.'
as the boys u
ed to rhyme it about him. I inherited tbiR fine old place
from him. 'Yen, of aU the queer, odd, eccentric, funny old chaps that
ever were-my, my! But he wasn't loony on a bargain, sir-no, indeed;
and be'd plenty of hard horse-sense, and took good care of his property,
you can rely: but he had notions, sir, on some subjects, tbat would
make you think him mad as any }'farch hare you ever knew. .,
The old man paused, shaking with restrained mirth.
'" You ought to bave seen him," he resumed. "Tall, big-boned, dry
as a chip in all his speech and way:.;. And plumed himself on a kind of
resemblance he had to President \Vashington. On Sundays, sir-he
never went to church-read Tom Paine, Volney, Diùerot, Voltaire, and
all the French fellows of those da,Ys, and hated clergymen (priests as he
called 'em) worse than p'ison-swore by Tom Jefferson, too, in politics,
1861-88]
WILLIAJI DOUGLAS O'CONNOR.
57
and in everything else, except his knuckling under to slavery-and
there I'm with him, sir, there I'm with him :-,yell, sir. as I was saying,
on Sundays he'd rig bimself out Ii ke President 'Vasbington, c1aret-col-
ored, square-tailed coat, long satin vest, ruffles, knee-breeches, black-silk
stockings, buckled shoes, cocked hat, and so forth-and take a walk all
over tbe place, flourishing a gold-headed cane, peert as a lizard, sir-
peert as any lizard you ever saw. 'Vith a train of his darkeys behind
him (he'd buy 'em, take out their manumission papers, and keep 'em on
wages; 'Lesson for bloody aristocrats,' he'd say)-witb a train of 'em
behind him, in even line, the women first-' mothers before men.' he'd
say; then the male adults; then the little girls; tben the boys, ranged
in their order down to the smallest walking piccaninny-' Brothers in
Adam, sisters in Eve,' he'd say. He at the head, flourishing his gold-
headed stick, every now and tben turning, and halting them to see if
they were in exact line. 'Keep tbe straight line r' he'd bawl; 'every
real trouble in life comes from not keeping the straight line!' And if
be saw one of 'em out of line, he'd march down, pull ears if it was a
girl; rap pates if it was a boy; punch her in the ribs with the gold head
of his cane if it was a woman; and if it was a man, by George! he'd
pull him out, and thrash him like a Rack, sir I "
And Elkanah drooped his head, sbaking with silent inward laughter.
H That's a sample-lot of old Peter Dyzer," he resumed. Lord, sir! I
could sit here all night and tell ye stories about him! Well. as I was
going on to say, one of old Peter's fancies was pictures. He'd got hold
of an old loafer, Tomeny by name, a house-painter, as near as I could
ever gather, with the strongest taste for apple-jack you ever knew ill
your life, and he kept him here to paint pictures for him. The horrid-
est old daubs-my sakes! I'd like to show you a lot of 'em up garret,
though they're pretty well faded out now. But uncle Peter thought
Tomeny the prince of painter:-" an unappreciated genius, and aU tbat-
Torneny the Great, be always called him ;-and when he died, he buried
him with a handsome gravestone at bis poor old apple-brandy soaked
head, and on it just the words, 'Simon Tomen,y, Painter,' as if that was
enough for all posterity. Now, one of old Peter's maddest notions was
that Jesus Christ was still alive. and grown old and gray with walking
the earth for eighteen bundred years, as wen he might. indeed. lIe'd
got hold of the old story of Ahasuerus, the 'Vandering Jew, d'ye see.
'That's him-that's Christ,' says old Peter. 'But, ßIr. Dyzer,' one would
say, 'that's the man the story says Christ put a curse on, bidding him
walk the world till he came ap-ain.' , All fa flam,' says rough old Peter j
'the Good
Ial1 '-be commonl.,' spoke of Chri
t as the Good
lan-'the
Good
Ian never put a curse on anyone. It's Christ himself, I tell you.'
Or, perhaps one might say. 'Why, }'fr. Dyzer, wbat should Christ be
58
WILLIAM DOUGLAS O'OON
NOR.
[1861-88
going 'round the world for? ' 'Going 'round doing good,' snaps uncle
Peter. Ah, my Lord, my Lord! tbe mad old fellow ! Well, sir, with
his own hands-for old Peter was a shifty man-he put a facing of
prime old oak on the chimney-place in yonder; and d'ye know, he got
old loafer Tomeny to paint on tbe right-band side of it-an ugly thing
to tell, sir, but it's true-a portrait of himself as J Ud3S, grasping the bag
-did you ever hear the like of that now?-and on the other side a fìg-
ure of Christ, old and gray, as he fancied him. Tomeny's master-piece,
he caned it. '\Vell, little humming-bird there was bringing up all this
in my mind, as I said, and you can perhaps fancy the turn it gave me
when you came in, with your gray hair and beard, and long coat, and
tbe plane, and an that. And the queerest thing of all is-I hope you'll
excuse me for saying so, for the picture is a wretched piece of imagery,
as much as you can see of it for the faded colors-the queerest thing is,
that you do look something like the fìgure of Christ as old Tomeny has
painted it."
And Elkanab again laughed softly, rubbing his hands, with his eyes
on the silent-smiling carpenter, who had listened, as the old man vaguely
thought, with the air of one to whom the story was not entirely new.
"It's a sort of pretty notion, too, that of old Peter's." presently resumed
Elkanah. "And little chattering blue-jay there gave it quite a fairy
turn in my mind by asking, just before you came, sir, if Jesus Cbrist,
old and gray, was coming here to-night. Dear me! it made me laugh
tin I felt juicy all through; but it grew in me afterwards what a pretty
thing it was, and for so young a ahild to say. Such a pretty thing!
And how would you think of Christ, sir, as coming here to-night, if such
a thing could be '?"
"I think of him always," said the carpenter, slowly, in solemn sweet
vibrations, "as the al1-10vmg man. Yes, he might come, perhaps as you
fancy him in this house, gray and old-come as cheer-bringer, dispeller
of evil, uniteI' of the estranged, assuager of sorrows, reconciler, consoleI'.
Always the wise friend, the lover true. Something so. "
The old man silently cogitated the reply, with eyes poring on the
:fire.
"Pardon the liberty," he said suddenly, "Lut what might your pro-
fession be?"
" I walk tbe hospitals," returned the stranger, quietly.
" Nursing the Union soldiers?"
" Union and rebel," was the answer.
"I hope," said the old man, after a moment's pause, kindling and
flushing a little with a faint misgiving, "I hope that you stand by the
country, sir. Sir, this is a loyal house. One son only, my boy that
once was, Rupert-but we never mention his name here, sir, never, for
18Gl-88]
WILLIAJf DOUGLAS O'CO
NOR.
59
he's in the ranks of the rebels-he only brings dishonor on the breed of
old Elkanah Dyzer. But we strive to atone for it. My boy John served
in the Union army, and be's going again.
Iy boy Tom wants to go,
and shall. 'Wait, laddie,' I said a year ago, 'till your bones harden a
little more; you'll :fight the better for it'; and the time's come for him.
)Iy boy George "-his voice faltered--" was lost at Fredericksburg-and
blown to bloody atoms on tbe field of battle, or alive rotting in some
rebel prison, I'm content and proud, for it's in the service of his coun-
try. And I myself, old as I am, I'm going too. The young eyes that
saw the bright flag dance so long when everything laugbed with prom-
ise, shaH see it now, now they're old, flap defìance to the last as all goes
down in war. There's but one flag, one country in the world for me. I
stand by them both forever."
"'Vhat yon say is wen," answered the stranger. "I like what you
say. "
" 'Yell! " retorted tbe fiery old man, "is there anything better? "
"There is nothing better than what you say," replied the other firmly.
Elkanah cooled down instantly, a little perplexed with the air the
stranger bad of cherishing some equal, perhaps more comprehending,
tru tho
WHAT A WITCH AND A THIEF l\IADE.
[From his Allegretto Capriccioso, " To Fanny."-Tlte Atlantic _'JIonthly. 1871.]
INTO a grand consermtory,
Lit by the moon of summer's glory,
The thief stole deep in the midnight hours,
And from a mass of camellias there,
Plucked the splendid candill flowers,-
Never a one di(l he spare;
And lone in her aromatic saloon,-
Where in the darks and lights of the moon,
Slept shapes of parian, buhl, and pearl,
And rich-hued ottoman and fautcuil;-
Where wind-moved draperies' sh:Hlow-play
Crossed and confused the sumptuous ray,
And shadowy flames from tripods made
Delicious shimmerings kin to shade;-
A temple of hloom and du!'k anel gleam,
An alahaster and velvpt drpam;-
The bright witch, smiling and dehonair,
Sat and charmell in the magic night,
The petals into a la,ly white,-
Glowing white and fair.
60
WILLIAM DOUGLAS O'CONNOR.
[1861-88
Still they bloom, hrilliant and fresh,
In your camellia flesh;
They are the splendor and grace
Of your japonica face;
And the glossy camellia leaves are seen
In the dress you wear of silken green.
And the thief went off where night uncloses
Her sleeping wild white roses.
He left them slumhering on the stem,
But he stole the odor out of them,
And brought it all to the fay.
She was singing a melody sweet and gay
Of tender and dreamful sound;
And as she sang there breathed around
Some rich confusion, dim and strange;
And change that was and was not change
Perplext the semhlance of her hall
To a doubtful bowery garùen tall;-
The columns and wavc>ring tapestries
To indeterminate shapes of trees,
'Vith darkling foliage swaying slow;
And checkering shadows 8trown below
On the pile enflowered of Persian looms,
Becoming ,"ague parterres of blooms;
And glittering ormolu, green divan,
Fautcuil, and lounge, and ottoman,
Half-merged, transfiguring yet thereto,
In forms of bushes gemmed with dew,
Shrubs blossomy-bright or freaked with gleams,
Dark banks and hillocks touched with beams;
'Vith vase and statue here and there,
As in some ordered garden rare.
And what o'er all did stream and flee,
Lifted and dropt perpetually,-
Flame-shimmerings and the flooding ray,-
Half-seemed the revel of sun and Jlay.
A wilder life began to show;
A wilder air began to hlow;
Subtly through all, like a soul,
The bre
Lth of the wild-rose stole;
But suddenly the song did swoon,
And the place was again a graml saloon,
"\Yith the sman witch, smiling and debonair,
O'er the work she haa wrought in secret there.
What was it? Where was the odor gone?-
o arch, gay face I am rlreaming on,-
Sweet face that tenderly shows
In its delicate paly glows,
It was moulded from the perfume of the wild white rose,-
1861-88]
· HORACE HOWARD FURNESS.
61
He who gazes sees, if he uut will,
The dream of the roses on it still!
The wild-rose fragrance haunts the face 80 fair,
And the witch's song is there.
ota'c
o\UartJ furtte
.
BOR
in Philadelphia, Perm., 1833,
A KI
DRED DR.A:\lATIC
IETHOD, IX THEIR USE OF DOUBLE TnIE,
PURSUED BY ÆSCHYLUS AND SHAKESPEARE.
[A 3"ew Variorum Edition of Shakespeare.- Vol. VIL The Merchant of Venice. 1888.]
IT seems to me that whatever Professor '\'ïlson says of the Double
Time in Othello is applicable to the Double Time in the Jlerclzant if
Venice, and that Shakespeare's consummate art is shown here no less
than there. 'Vilson claimed for Shake8peare originality in the use, or
in the invention, of this art. Original it unquestionably was, as far as
Shakespeare's know ledge of it was concerned, but I think it can be
shown that the same art was employed in The Agamemnon, by Shakes-
peare's greatest predecessor in Tragedy.
In Othello, through this art, we accept as perfectly natural the gradual
change of intense love to a murderous frenzy of jealousy, all within the
space of thirty-six hours. Days and weeks are compresseù into minutes
and hours, not only without Ollr detecting any improbability, but with a
full faith that events have fonowed their natural, orderly course.
Here in the Jlerclwnt if renÙ:e, by the same thaumaturgy, three
months are to be compressed into as many days, a harder task than in
Othello, in so far as the limit is fixed. At the very outset we are told
that the bond is to be for
o much money" and/or three months." There
is no attempt to weaken the- impression. As soon as it is firmly fixed,
then Shakespeare begins at once to "hurl his dazzling spells into the
spongy air." He knew, none better, that just as soon as the ducats
were pursed, Bassanio, swift as the thoughts of love, must fly to Portia.
Did not Bassanio know, had he not himself told Anthonio, tbat the wide
worl(1 knew Portia's worth, and the four winds blew in from every coast
renowned suitors? Could he afford to risk an hour's delay? In that
longing sip-h, "Ob, my Anthonio, " did he not breathe his soul out for
the means to hold a rival place with the many Jasons? As soon, there-
fore, as he has received the means from Shylock, he comes before us full
of eager, bustling haste,-supper must be ready, at the very farthest, by
62
HORACE HOWARD ]fTURNE/iS. ·
[lSül-88
five of tbe clock,-letters must be delivered,-his servant must make
purcbases and stow tbem aboard,-he must return in baste,-he must
go for Gratiano to come at once to his lodging,-and then after all tbese
commissions, full of feverish impatience, he bids his servant,-" hie
thee,-go." But-and here we catch the first glimpse of Sbakespeare's
spell-the tbree months have begun to run, and against the swift cur-
rent of Bassanio's baste tbere must be some check. Bassanio tells his
servant to "put the liveries to making." This takes time. Liveries are
not made in a day. Next, Bassanio tel1s Launcelot that Shylock had
spoken with him that very day about Launcelot's change of masters.
This sounds as though Bassanio and Shylock had met casually in the
street; surely they would not mingle the businesf: of signing such a
bond and of handing over so large a sum of money with discussing the
qualities of servants. But these two checks will serve well enough for
the thin edge of the wedge; and Bassanio's eager haste returns again,
and he excuses himself to Gratiano on the plea that he has" business."
In this bustling, feverish, hurr.ving mood we leave him, and do not see
him or hear him again until he has reached Belmont, and is entreating
Portia to let him choose, to let him to his fortune and the caskets, for,
as he is, he "lives upon tlie rack." What man is there, whose blood is
not snow-broth, but knows that Bassanio has sped to Belmont with all
speed of wind and tide.
But Shakespeare's magic wiU he busy with us before we see Bassanio
again. Nearly a fourth of the play is carried on (herein revealing
Shakespeare's art in the mere construction of his dramas), and days and
weeks and months must pass before us, consuming the time of the Bond.
A new interest is excited. Jessica and her fortunes are introduced.
Time obliterates Shylock's antipathy to eating with Christians. 1Ve are
taken to Belmont to see the Prince of :Morocco and watch his choice of
the casket. 'Ve are brought back to Venice to find Shylock so publicly
furious over the loss of his ducats and his daughter that" all the boys
in Venice follow him." Rumors, too, are in tbe air of the loss of
Anthonio's ships. Salarino talked with a Frenchman about it "yester-
day." Again we are taken to Belmont; by this mere sbifting of scenes,
back and forth, from Belmont to Venice, and from Venice to Belmont,
is conveyed an impression of the flight of time. The deliberate fool,
the Prince of Arra
on, fails in his choice, and departs. Lest we should
be too much absorbed in aU this by-play and IOf;e our interest in Bas-
sanio, we are told immediately after Arragon has left that a young
Venetian has alighted at the gate. 'Ve are not told outright that it is
Bassanio, yet we know that be is on tbe way, and it must be he. But
before we actually see him, fresh from Venice as we know he is,
although it is so long sjnce we saw him and so much has bappened,
-r
\ \
TII
. I '\ \
.,--
l
.
/.
",\
-- II
- II
f I (
''\I
I , "J
"
I I
!
1861-88]
HORACE HOWARD FURNESS.
63
more spells must be woven round us; there must be the very riping of
the time.
One is always conscious that between the Acts of a play a certain
space of time elapses. To convey this impression is one of the purposes
for which a drama is divided into Acts. Thus here, after merely inti-
mating that Bassanio has reached Belmont, an entr'acte artfully inter-
venes, and when the curtain again rises we are all the more ready to
accept any intimations of the flight of time which may be thrown
out.
\.ccordingly, when the Third Act opens with Salanio's question:
"'Vhat news on the RiaIto ? " Salarino replies that ,. it yet lives there
unchecked" that Anthonio has lost a ship. Furthermore, the wreck has
taken place not on any sea-coast near at hand, from which communica-
tion could be speedy, but on the remote Goodwins, almost as far off as
it could be, within the limits of Europe; even for rumor to reach Ven-
ice from so remote a quarter implies much time; it could be brought
only by slow argosies or heavy carracks, and days and weeks might
elapse before any arrived direct from the scene of the disaster, and for
many a long day the rumor might live unchecked. :Much more time
was implied to an Elizabethan audience, in this distance between the
Goodwins and Venice, than it is to us.
Then Shylock enters, still so deeply cut by þis daughter's flight that
his first words are reproaches to Salarino and Salanio for being privy to
it; but evidently his first ebullition has cooled, and time has brought
some self-control. It must have been days, nay, weeks. Have not
Anthonio's bearing and deportment undergone a gradual change that
only time can bring about? Shylock says, that Anthonio scarce dare
show his head on the Rialto: this is not the work of hours, but of days,
perhaps weeks. Anthonio's smug air upon the mart is spoken of as a
thing long past: "he that was used to come so smug upon the mart."
Then comes in with startling effect, "let him look to Ins bond." B.y this
one allusion the three months shrink; we feel tbe first cold chill of
Anthonio's fast-approaching peril, aud this impression is deepened with
every repetition of the allusion by Shylock: "let him look to his bond!
He was wont [again, how long ago that seems!] to can me usurer. Let
bim look to his bond! he 'leas 'Wont to lend money for a Christian cour-
tesy. Let him look to his bond!" This is one of the masterstrokes of
art in the play. Except one fleeting allusion to it by Salarino, we have
heard nothing of the bond. 'Ye have watched Jessica elope with bel'
lover, and gilded with ducats glide out of sight in a gondola, the Prince
of :Morocco has come and gone, the Prince of Arragon has strutted forth
and back, the Rialto, with its busy life and 'whispered rumors of Antho-
nio's losses, has pas
ed before us day after day, week after week, the
smug merchant has Lroke
down, and now all of a suùden looms up the
6.1
HORACE HOWARD FURNESS.
[1861-88
fateful bond, and its term is sbrivelling a
a scroll. To deepen this
impression of tbe Long Time that has elapsed, Tubal returns from his
weary quest after Jessica; he tells Sbylock that he often came where
he heard of her; he must have kept moving from place to place,
because Shy lock groans over the money that was spent in the search.
Then, too, another of Anthonio's ships has been cast away coming from
Tripolis, much nearer home than the Goodwins; and some of the ship-
wrecked sailors have reached Genoa, nay, bave even talked with Tubal.
There is no hope for Anthonio now, his bankruptcy is sure; and so
close has the limit come that Tubal must go, and go at once, to secure
an officer for Anthonids arrest; within a fortnight the term win have
expired and the bond be forfeit.
The minute-band that has recorded for us so many varied events is
fast catching up with the bour-hanel.
There is no entr'acte now. Weare taken at once to Belmont, at last
to meet Bassanio in happy torment, full of eagerness and haste, fresh
from Venice, unwilling to piece the time or stay one minute from his
election. 'Yith the success of Bassanio's hazard and with the winning
of his prize, the ouly obstacle to the completion of the full term of the
bond disappears. There is no longer need of further delay. Time's
steeds may now be fiery-footed and gallop apace. Yet even at this last
minute two more spells from the past are to be cast around the present,
and our imaginations must untread again the long weeks that bave
passed since the bond was signed. Salerio brings word from Venice
that morning and night Shylock is plying the Duke for justice, and that
twenty merchants, the Duke himself, and tbe magnificoes, have been
pleading with the Jew for mercy. And Jessica, too, who left Venice
when Bassanio left it, has reached Belmont after her merry junketings
at Genoa (which we accept without questioning their possibility), and
adds a masterstroke of legerdemain by saying that sbe had heard her
Father swear to Tubal and to Chus that he would rather have Antho-
nio's flesh than twenty times the value of the Lond. 'Ve never stop to
think that she left Venice within a few hours after the signing of the
bond, and had seen her Father but once, and then for onl,y a few min-
utes. Her words summon up pictures of many a discussion between
the three 01(1 usurers in the seclusion of Shylock's hOLlse, and tell
plainly enough of the gradual hardening of Shy
lock's heart. Thus the
mighty magician "winds him into us eas
T-hearted men, and hugs us
into snares"; and so completely entangled are we th
t tbere is no jar
now when Anthonio's letter says that his ships have al1 miscarried, his
creditors grow cruel, his estate is very low, and his bond to the Jew .fCn:feit!
The minute-hand is on the stroke of the hour. But one more fleeting
impression and the bammer falls. Anthonio says tbat his griefs and
18Gl-88]
HORACE EO 1VARD F[
RNESS.
65
losses have so bated him that he will hardly haye a pound of flesh to spare
for his "bloody creditor to-morrOlc." The ro.yal ::\lerchant's gaunt and
haggard looks tell of many a weary week, and the bond expires to-morrow!
Although it was necessary that Portia should. hasten to Venice as
rapidly as Bassanio, Jet some time mu
t he gi,-en to bel' to master her
brief; sbe might have done it while on the ferry, after receiving Bella.
rio's notes and garments from Ba1thasar at the Traject, and probably did
do so; but BelIario's letter to the Duke supplies the requisite time, if
any be needed, in our imagination, by saying that he and tbe young
Doctor ., had turned over many books together," evidently a faithful
and prolonged consultation, ending in au "opinion," the resu1t of labo.
rious and learned reRearch.
How long the home journey from Venice to Belmont lasted, whether
it took one day or two days, is a matter of small moment. ::Notbing
was at stake, no art is demanded, nothing has to be smoothed away; we
need neither Long Time nor Short Time. For aught that concerns the
dramatic action, it might have taken a month. All that is needed is
that Portia should reach home first, and that Bassanio should follow
hard after. 'Yhen K erissa telIs Gratiano that the Doctor's Clerk had
been in her company "last night," sbe had already given Gratiano the
ring, or was in the act of handing it to him; the jest was revealed, her
eyes were dancing with merriment, and he would know in a flas,h that
wbat was true of last nigM, be it in Belmont or Venice, was equally true
of every night since she had been born. .
It is to Dr. W. ,Yo Goodwin, of Harvard College, that I owe the sug-
gestion tbat in The Agamellmon an illustration might be possibly found
of a treatment of Dramatic Time similar to Shake:,peare's Double Time.
In representing the arrival of Agamemnon at Argos within a few hours
of the fall of 1'1'oy. Æschylus has been charged by many an Editor with
a violation of the Unity of Time. Dr. Goodwin suggested that a solu-
tion of the difficulty might be traced in the Herald's speech to the
Chorus. It is greatly to be regretted that a pressure of many duties
bas kept these pages from being enriched with Dr. Goodwin's promised
investigation of the question, and that the task has therefore fallen,
instead, to my unskilful bands.
In the first place, if there be in The Agamemnon a violation of the
"Cnity of Time, Æschylus committed it either wittingly or unwittingly.
To say that he committed it unwittingly is almost unthinkable. From
the very structure of a Greek tragedy, a downright violation of the
Unity of Time, during tbe continued presence of the Chorus, would be
a defect glaring a1ike to auditors and author; if to our eyes there
appears to be such a violation, the presumption is strong, so strong as to
VOL. 1X.-5
66
HORACE H01VARD FURNESS.
(1861-88
amount almost to a certainty, tbat the defect lies in our vision, not in
the play itself.
This apparent violation, then. .LEschylus must have committed wit-
tingly; and if so, an analysis of the tragedy will show, I think, that in
dealing with time he wa,'ed over Lis audience, with a master's art, the
same magician's wand that Shakespeare wields, and that by subtle, fleet-
ing impressions of the flight of time a false show of time is created,
which is accepted by us for the real. 'Ve must remember that in listen-
ing to Sbakespeare or to Æschylus we are subject to their omnipotent
sway, and that wben they come to us ,. with fair enchanted cup, and
warbling charms," we are powerless to U fence our ears against tbeir 801'-
ceri es. 77
r:rhe opening Scene of The AgaJnemrwn reveals the tired 'Yatchman on
tbe Palace top at Argos. Of a sudden he sees on the distant horizon
the flash of the fire on
It. Aracbnæum, the si
nal that Troy is taken.
rrbe Chorus enters, and the 'Yatchman bastens to tell Clytemnestra.
'Vhen the Queen enters, and is asked by the Chorus to tell how long
it is since the city had fallen, she replies that ., it was this night, the
mother of tbis very day" (T'ì
vuv TEH.OÚÕ17
rpro; róå' El:)(PPÓV11
,
ÀÉyro, line 279.)
The Chorus, knowing how far it is from Troy, and how many days
and nights must pass in journeying thither, expresses surprise that the
11ews could travel so fast: whereupon Clytemnestra explains that it was
through the aid of Hephaistos; a fire was lit on Ida, then on the Her-
rnæan crag of Lemnos, then on )[ouflt Athos, and so on, till "tbe great
beard of flame" flashed on the roof of the Atreidæ, anù "this very day
the Achæans hold Troy:' (Tpoíav AXalOl Tað' È'xOl1Õ' Ëv 'íllÉpr;, line
320).
The openinf! hour of the Tragedy has struck. It is the morning after
the night during which Troy. was taken. The release of tbe weary
'Vatcbman from his sleepless years, Clytemnestra's de;:,cription of the
speed. tbe speed of light, with which the beacon-fires had brought tbe
news, her rejoicings over the end of the warrior's h
rdships, all empha-
size it. :No impression with regard to Anthonio's three months' bond is
conveyed more clearly than that here, in Argos, it is but a few hours
since Troy had fallen.
"The yoyage from Troy to the baJT of Argos." says Dr. Goodwin, in a
letter, "would now be a good day's journey for a fast steamship. So I
think we are entitled to at least a week of good weather for the mere
yoyage, leaving out the storm and the delays." That much time, then.
will it take Agamemnon to reach his home, if he starts within an hour
after he bas conquered Troy. But the drama has beiun, the Chorus is
-on the stage, and before it leaves the stage Agamemnon must arrive,
1
ijl-88]
HORAOE HOWARD FURNESS.
67
here in Argos, anù yet aU trace
of improbability must, if possible, be
concealed.
The time during which the Chorus is on the stage is Æschylus's
Short Time, and corresponds to Rassanio's jOllrney from Venice to Bel-
mont. ....Esch,vlus.s Long Time is Agamemnon's week's voyage from
Troy to Argos, corresponding to Anthonio's three months' bone1. The
same power that can compress three months at Vellice into one day at
Belmont, 111ust expand a few bours at Argos into a se'en night's voyage
from Trov.
The ta
k in The Agaotemnon is the reverse of the task in The Merchant
of Ven'ice. Shake8peare must compress a long term into a short one,
while .LEschylus must Jilate a short time into a long one. Shakespeare
presents tu U8 the
py-glass, and bids us see wbat is distant close at
at hand; while Æschylus reverses the glass, and what is but an arm's
length from us recedes to the verge of the horizon.
To a certain extent and for many purposes, what Shakespeare can
effect by Acts and the shifting of Scenes, ..LEsch,ylus can bring about by
means of the Chorus. Yet here jt is not easy to see how the Chorus can
help him; nothing that the Chorus could say would lesscn the shock
to our sense of the fitnesí' of things if Agamemnon himself were to be
brought at once upon the scene. Old Argive citizens compose this
Chorus; they have remained here quietly in Argos; of Agamemnon, or
of his journey, they can ten us nothing.
Of a sudden Clytemnestra sees a Herald hastening from the shore.
In thus introducing a IIeraIù, art is shown. Heralds always travel in
ad vance of their lords, and this Herald, as far as we know, may possibly
have left Troy before its fall. That it is a llerald from the Argive king
we feel sure, and baving accepted the fact of his presence, we sink into
a receptive mood for any impression which his story can impart. But
while he is yct at a (listance, Clytemnestra seeR tbat he is travel-stained
with dust and grime. Thus is the spell begun, the magieian is at work.
'Ve accept the Herald without a shade of suspicion; what can be more
natural than that he should have tnweIleù with extreme haste? The
thrill of jo
v at the sight of one who can hring us news is beightened by
waving olive branche
, the pledges of peace and victory, which he bears
aloft. Thus artfully is the Herald announced before he enters on the
tage; when at last he docs enter and breaks out into a thrilling greet-
ing of his home, criticism is forgotten in jn,'- and sympathy.
'Ve must remember, and we cannot too d('eply rcmember, that both
The Agamerllnon and The JIprclwnl if Ye1tlCe were written, not to be
tudied and pored over, line by line, anrl analyzed sentence by sentence,
hut to be acted; to be communicated by the :-:peaking voice to the hear-
ing ear and interpreted Ly the quick thought. It is hy a repetition of
68
HORACE HOWARD FURNESS.
[1801-88
faint, fleeting, subtle impressions, felt but scarcely heeded at the time,
that a deep, abiding effect may be at last produced. The ,. sllowflake Oll
the river" may be but" a moment there, then gone forever"; yet let
but enough fall aml the stream is locked in frost.
""'hat need to hurry with our questionings how the Herald came
hither; he stands before us, and his storJT will tell us all.
In order to appreciate the delicacy with which .LEschylus smooths
away the objections to this speedy appearance of the Herald, we must
bear in mind that every allusion to the flight of time since the bour
that Troy has fallen, however light and evanescent the allusion may be,
helps to make that hour recede into the past; and, for my purpose, I
think I may be permitted to claim every possible impression which I
can detect, of this nature, however fleeting, and then to multiply its
effect on Grecian ears many times over. How clearly must it not have
spoken to those ears, when it can penetrate even my adder's sense!
Thus, when the Herald in his first speech (lines 523 et seq.) says that
Agamemnon must be welcomed back, who has, with tbe crowbars of the
just gods, levelled Troy to the ground, with all its towers amI fanes, and
that all earth's seed lie scattered on the ground, is not Time's thievish
progress intimated here't Can walls, and towers. and temples be top-
pled over in a minute? Can harvests be burnt, and acres ploughed up,
for leagues around, in an hour? Lost in the thought of these great
tasks and of the mighty victory, we never stop to count the days; but
the succession of pictures creates the flight of time, and tbe hour of
Troy's fall begins to recede. ·
Too much, however, is not demanded of us at once; the Chorus here
speaks; and then Clytemnestra exults in the assurance that the beacon-
fires are true, and we are gently prepared for Agamemnon's approach by
the message which the Chorus is to deliver wben he arrives, telling him
of her fidelity during his absence. Hereupon the Chorus asks after
Jltlenelaus, and the llerald reluctantly confesses that Lis fate is unknown.
The Chorus presses for a more exact reply, and asks whether he set sazl
wt.th all the rest if the .fleet and then left them, or whether a storm snatched
him away, but the Herald only ambiguously replies that it was even so.
The Chorus returns to the point, and asks 'lchat rumors there were
about him in the fleet, among the sailors. "No one knows anything
about him," replies the Herald; "the sun, the nourisher of the earth,
alone can tell his fate."
It seems needless to point out how insidiously, up to this point, the
passage of time has been worked in by a succession of pictures, every
one of which is suggested by a word or phrase which could not have
fallen unheeded on Grecian ears. Troy has been conq uered ; and
burnt; and razed to the ground; and reduced to a desolate ruin; the
1861-88]
HORACE HOWARD FURNESS.
69
Greeks have divided the spoils; and allotted tbe trophies to be hung up
in temples (577): the armies have been gathered together; and embarked
in their fleet; and ha\re advanced on their voyage; and been overtaken
by a storm; and after the storm sufficient time has elapsed for the fleet
to be collected; their losses counted; and rumors to "live unchecked"
as to tbe fate of their companions.
(And Troy fell only last night I)
Trusting to tbe effect already produced. the Poet advances more
boldly. .Moreover, on the emotion, the uncritical emotion, excited in
Lis auditors by the absorbing interest of the Tragedy he has a rigbt to
COUll t.
L rgecl by the Cborus, tbe Herald hereupon describes tbis frightful
storm which fell upon the fleet ,I by nlght" (line 653 et seg.), when fire
and sea combined against it, and Thracian blasts dashed all the ship
together j and "when the fair light C!l the sun arose, we saw the ..L-Egean
Sea enamelled like a meadow (dJ/
ot-v) with the ùrowned corpses of sail-
ors and of Greeks."
To an tbe previous inl1ications of the flight of time, which were but
delicate, artful bints. there must be now added the explicit description
of a night of storm. when the :fleet was well on its way (tbe blasts came
down from Thracc), amI tbe next mornÙlg afterwards when the sun
shone bright and clear.
Is not the goal \Von? The days of gloom, the night of storm, the
smiling morrow, have passed before us
we have lived through them
all, and the journey from Troy to Argos is accomplished. To Grecian
eyes has not every league been measured?
Not to disturb tbif; impression, but to deepen it by repose, the Chorus
breaks in with four Strophes and four Antistropbes, wherein no allusion
to tbe journey is found.-that is left as something fixed and settled; but
it anathematizes Helen, and at the close, so far away have our thoughts
been carried that any allu
ion tv the journe,v from Troy to Argos seems
like a thrice-told tale; that journey has become a fact around which no
shadow of mistrust can cling.
Thus beralded. thus prepared for, A
amemnon enters, and the task is
done. After the spells tbat have been woven around us, we find no
more violation of probability in Agan1emllon's appearance, from Troy,
at that minute than in the expiration of tbe three months' Bond within
the hour after Bai'
anio has cho
en the leaden casket; and is there a
man. who, when s-itting at the play, can say with truth that, on that
score, he ever felt a jar?
I do not think it is claiming too much thus to urge that the two great-
est dramatic poets of the worltI used a kindred skill in producing kin-
dred dramatic effects. If _ we find tbose effects in their dramas, their
70
HORACE HOlVARD FURNESS.
[1861-88
hands put them there, and to imagine tbat we can see them and tbat the
mighty poets themf'elves did not, is to usurp a position which I can
scarcely conceive of anyone as wiI1ing to occupy.
"IT HATH THE EXCUSE OF YOUTH."
[From tlw Same.]
I N Dixon's Story of Lord Bacon's L
ìè, p. H
. Lady Anne Bacon tens
her son Anthon
T that she seUlls him "xij pigeons. my last flight.
and one ringdove besirle. and a black coney taken by John Knight this
day, and pigeons, too. to-day." This incident I am :-::ure that I have
seen, in some attempted proof that Bacon wrote Shakespeare's plays,
cited (in conclusive answer to C. A. Brown's question) as the genuine
dmrecotc whencc issued Gobbo's doves. I mistrust the fitness of spenù-
ing an,v time in
earch for it.
l.v editorial conscience is rendered placid
by thc simple allusion; merely begging to be allowed to remark that if
Bacon wrote this passage. I full
- respond to Pope's estimate of Bacon's
baseness, and finel herein e\-en a lower depth, in thus introducing his
:Mother as a prototypc of old Gobbo. One is
ometimes inclined to Ray
to those who dispute the authorship of these plays, as the Cockney did
to the eels, "down, wanton
, down!" but a little calm reflection reyeals
to us that this attempt to dethrone Shakespeare. so far from being trea-
son, or lèse majesté, is, in fact, most devout an<l respectful homage to him.
In our salad days, when first we begin to
tucly Shakespeare, who dues
not remember his bewildering efforts to attribute to mortal hand these
immortal plays? Then follows the fruitle:-:s attempt to discern in that
Stratford youth, the Emperor, hy the gracc of GO(l, of alliiteratnre. In
our despair of marrying, as Emerson says, the man to the vprBe, we wed
the verse to the greatest known intellect of that agE'. Can llomage be
more profounrl? But, as I hase said, this we do when we are young in
judgment. The older we grow in this stuùy, and tbe further we advance
in it, the clearer becomes our vision that, if the royal robes do not fit
ShakcBpeare, they certainly do not, and cannot, fit anyone else. 'Yhere-
fore, I conceive that we haye here a not altogether inaccurate p:auge of tbe
depth, or duration, or persi
tence of Shakespearian stuùy, and, measuring
by a scale of maturity. or p:rowth, in this study, I ha'"c come to look l1}'on
aU attempts to pro,Te that Bacon wrote these dramas, merely as indications
of youth, possibly, uf extreme youth, and that they find their comforting
parallels in tbe transitory ailments incident to childhood, like the chicken-
pox or tbe measle
. Tbe attack is pretty sure to come, but we know
1861-88]
GEORGE E. W
4RLVG, JR.
71
that it is neither dangerous nor chronic, that time will effect a cure, and
that, when once well over it, there ií" no likelihood whatever of its recur-
rence.
<!5cotge <!f. rnatíng,
t.
BORN in PouDùridge, 'Vestchester Co., N. Y., 1833.
VIX.
PVhzp and Spur. 1875.]
"THEN the work on the Central Park had fairly commenced, in
\t \ the spring of 1858, I found-or I fancied-that proper attention
to my scattered duties maùe it necessary that I should have a saddle-
horse.
How easily, by the way, the arguments that convince us of these
pleasant necessities find their way to the umlerstanding!
Yet, how to subsist a horse after buying one, and how to buy? The
memory of a well-bre(1 and keen-eyed gray, dating back to the earliest
days of my boyhooù. and forming the chief feature of my recollection of
play-time for years; an idle propensity, not a whit dulled yet, to linger
over Leech's long-necked hunters, and Herring's field scene
: an almost
superstitious faith in the different anal.\-Tses of the bones of the racer and
of the cart-horse j a firm belief in Frank Forester's teachings of the value
of "blood,"-all these conspiretl to narrow my range of selection, and,
unfortunately, to confine it to a very expensi ve class of hor
es.
Unfortunately, again, the commissioners of the Park had extremely
inconvenient ideas of economy, and evidently dill not consider, in fixing
their schedule of salaries, how much more satisfactory our positions
would have been with more generolls emolument.
How a man with onl.\' a Park salary, and with a family to support,
couIIl set up a
addle-hor
c,-and 1101. ride to the dogs,-was a question
that exercised not a little of my engineering talent for weeks; anrl many
an othl corner of plans aUll estimates was figured over with calculations
of the cost of forage and shoeing.
Stable-room was plenty and free in the condemned buildings of the
former occupants, and a little "over-time" of Olle of the men would
suÛÌee for the grooming.
1 finally concluded that, by gi.ving up eigar
, and devoting my ener-
gies to the pipe in thei.r stead, I could save enough to pay for my horse's
keep; and so, the ways aud means having Leell, in this somewLat ,-ague
72
GEORGE E. WARING, JR.
[1861-88
manner, provided, tbe next step was to buy a hon::e. To tell of the
days passed at auction Rales in tbe hope (never there realized) of find-
ing goodness and cheapness combined,-of the stationery wasted in
answering advertisements based on eyery conceivable form of false
pretence; to describe the numberless broken-kneed, broken-winded, and
broken-down brutes tbat came under inspection, would be tedi
us and
dishearteni n g.
Good borses there were, of course, though very few good saddle-borses
(America is not productive in this direction),-and tbe possible animals
were held at irn possible prices.
Those who rode over the new Park lands usually rode anything but
good saddle-horses. Fast trotters, stout ponies, tolerable carriage-horses,
capital cart-horses, there were in plenty. But tbe clean-cut, tbin-cresteù,
bright-eyed, fin e-earerl , steel-limbed saddle-borse, the saddle-horse par
excellence,-may I say the only saddle-hor:-5e ?-rarely came under obser-
vation; and when, by exception, such a one did appear, he was usually
so ridden tbat his light was sadly ùimmed. It was hard to recognize an
elastic step under such an unelastic seat.
Finally, in the days of my de
pair, a kind s
ddler,-kept to bis daily
awl by a too keen eye for sport, and still, I believe, a victim to bis pro-
pensity for laying bis money on the horse that ought to win but don't,
-bearing of my am bition (to him the most laudable of all ambitions),
came to put me on the long-sought path.
He knew a mare, or he hall knowJl one, that would exactly suit me.
She was in a bad way now, and a good deal run down, but he always
thought she "harl it in her:' and that some gentleman ought to keep
her for the saddle,-" which, in my mind, sir, she be the fiuest bit of
'orse-flesh that was hever imported, sir." That was enough. "Imported"
decided my case, and I listened eagerly to the enthusiastic story,-a story
to which this man's life was bound with threads of hard-earned silver,
and not le
s by a real honest love for a fine animal. He had never been
much given to saving, but he was a good workman, anù tbe little he bad
saved had been blown away in the dust that clouded his favorite at the
tail of the race.
Still, he attached himself to her person, and followed her in her dis-
grace. "She weren't quite quick enough for the turf, sir. but f'he be a
good 'un for a gentleman's 'ack."
lIe had watched her for years, and scraped acquaintance with her dif-
ferent owners as fast as she had changed them, and finally, when she
was far gone with pneu monia, he had accepted her as a gift, and, by
careful nursing, had cured her. Then. for a time, he rode her himself.
and his eye brightened as he told of her leaps and her striùe. Of course
he rode her to the races, and-one luckless day-when he had lost every-
1861-88]
GEORGE E. WARING, JR.
73
thing, and his passion had got the better of his prudence, he staked the
mare herself on a perfectly sure thing in two-mile heats. Like most of
the sure things of life, this venture went to tbe bad, and the mare was
lost,-lost to a Bull's Head dealer in single driving-borsf's. "r see bel'
in his stable ahfter that, sir; and, forbieten
he were twelve year old,
sir, and 'ad 'ad a 'ard life of it, she were the youngest and likeliest of the
lot,-you'd swore she were a three-year-old, sir."
If that dealer had had a soul above trotting-wagons, my story would
never have been written; but all was fisb that came to his net. and this
thoroughbred racer, this beautiful creature who had never worn harness
in her life, must be shown to a purchaser who was seeking something to
drive. She was always quick to decide, and her actions followed close
on the heels of her thought. She did not complicate matters hy waiting
for the gentleman to get into the wagon, but then and there-on the
instant-kicked it to kindlings. This ended tbe story. She had been
f:bown at a high figure, and was subsequently sold for a song,-he could
tell me no more. She had passed to the lower sphere of equine life and
usefulness,-he !tad heard of a fish-wagon, but he knew nothing about
it. ",Vhat he did know was, that the dealer was a clreadful jockey, and
that it would never do to ask him. Now, here was something to Jive
for,-a sort of princess in disgrace, whom it would be an honor to rescue,
and my horse-hunting acquired a new interest.
By easy stages, I cultiyated the friendship of the youth who, in those
days, did tbe morning's sweeping-out at the Bull's Head IIoteL He had
grown up in the alluring shades of the horse-market, and his dail.v com-
munion from childhood had been with that" noble animaL" To him
horses were the individuals of the world,-men their necessary attend-
ants, and of only attendant importance. Of course he knew of this
black she-devil; and he thought that" a hoss that could trot like she
could on tbe halter" must be crazy not to go in harness.
However, he thought she had got her deserts now., for he had seen
her, only a few weeks before, .. a draggin' clams for a feller in the Tenth
Avener." IIere was a clew at last.-clams and the Tenth .L1\xenue. For
several days the scent grew cold. The people of the Licensed Yenc1er
part of this street seemed to have little interest in theil' neighbors' lwrses.
but I found one man. an Irish grocer, who had been bred a
table-boy
. to the :Marquis of , Vater ford, and who did know of a "poor old screw
of a black mare " that harl a good head, and might be the one I was
lookin f :!" for; but, if she was, he thought I might as well give it up, for
she was all broken down. and would never be good for anything again.
Taking the adllre
s, I went to a ò:'5table-yard, in what was then the very
edge of the town, and here I found a knowing young man, who devoted
his time to peddling clams and potatoes between N ew York and Sing
74
GEORGE E. TVARING. JR.
[18(jl-
8
Sing. Clams np, and rota toes down,-twice every week,-distance
thirty miles; road hilly
and that was the wagon he did it with,-a
heavy wagon with a heavy arched top, and room for a heavy load, and
only shafts for a single horse. In reply to m.v question, he said he
changed horses pretty often. because the work: broke them down; but
be had a mare now that had been at it for three months, and he thought
she would last some time longer. "She's pretty thin, but ,vou ought to
see her trot with that wagon." 'Vith an air of idle curiositj", I asked to
see her,-I had gone shabbily dres
ecl, not to excite suspicion; for men
of the class I had to treat with are usually sharp horse-traùers,-and
this fellow, clam-pedler though he was, showed an enthusiastic alacrity
in taking me to her stall. She had won even bis dull heart, and he
spoke of her gently, as he made the most of her good point:;, and glossed
over her wretched condition.
Poor Vixen (that had been her name in her better days, and it was to
be her name again), she had found it hard kicking against the pricks!
Clam-carts are stron
er than trotting-wagons, and even her efforts had
been vain.
he ha(l succumbed to dire necessity, and earned her igno-
ble oats with clogged fidelity. She had a little warm corner in her
driver's affections,-aH she always had in the affections of all who came
to know her weIl,-but her lot was a very hard one. 'V orn to a skele-
ton, with sore galls wherever the harness had pres:;ed her, her pasterns
bruised by clumsy shoes. her silky coat burnet! brown by the sun, and
her neck curved upward, it would have needed more than my knowl-
edge of anatomy to see anything gt>od in her but for her ,yonderful head.
This was the perfection of a horse's heacl,-
rnall. bony, and of perfect
shape, with keen, deer-like eyes, and thin, aetive ears; it told the whole
story of her virtues, and
howed no trace of her sufferings. Her royal
hlood shone out from her face, and kept it beautiful.
JIy mind was made up, and Vixen must be mine at any cost. Still,
it was important to me to buy as cheaply as I could,-and desirable,
above all, not to be jockeyed in a horse-trade
o it req uired some diplo-
macy (an account of which would not be edifying here) to bring the
transaction to its successful close. The pendulnm which swung between
offer and demand finally rested at seventy-five dollars.
She was brought to me at the Park on a bright moonlight eyening in
June, and we were called out to
ee her. I think she knew that her.
harness days were over. and
he danced off to her new quarters as gay
as a colt in training. That ni
ht my wakefulness would have done
credit to a boy of sixteen: and I was up with the dawn, ana bound for
a ride; but when r examined poor Yix again in her stahle, it seemed
almost cruel to think of using her at all for a month. She was so thin,
so wom, so bruised. that I determined to give her a long re:::t and good
1861-88]
GEORGE E. W..1RLYG, JR.
75
care,-only I must try her once, just to get a leg over her for five min-
utes, and then she should come back and be cared for until really well.
It was a weak thing to do, and I confess it with all needful humiliation.
but I mounted her at once: anù. although I had been a rider all my
days, this was the first time I had ever reaIly ridden. For the first time
in my life I felt as though I had four whalebone legs of my own, worked
by steel muscles in accorùance with my will, but without even a con-
scious effort of wil L
That that anatomy of a horse should so easily, so playfully, handle
my heavy weight was a mystery, and is a mystery still. She carried
me in the same high, long-reaching, elastic trot that we sometimes see a
young horse s.trike when first turned into a field. ....'\, low fence was near
by, and I turned her toward it. She cleared it with a bound that sent
all my blood thrilling through my veins, and trotted on again as though
nothing had occurred. The five minutes' turn was taken with
o much
ease, with such eyidcnt delight, that I made it a \"irtue to indulge her
witb a longer course and a longer stride. 'Ve went to the far corners of
the Park, and tried all our paces; all were marvellous for the power so
easily exerted and the evident power in reserve.
Yes, Frank Forester was right. blood-horses are made of finer stuff
than others.
Iy intention of giving the poor old mare a montb's rest
was never carried out, because each return to her old recreation-it was
never work-made it more evident tbat the simple change in her life
was all i'he needel1; and. aJthough in constant use from the first. she
soon put on the flesh and form of a sound horse. Rer minor bruises
were obliterated, and her more grievou
ones grew into permanent scars,
-blcmishes. hut only f:kin deEp: for every fibre of every muscle, and
every tenùon and bone in her whole bod.,., was as strong and supple as
spring-steel.
The Park a:ffor led ?ood leaping in those da3-s. Some of tbe fences
were still standing arounrl the anandoned gardens, and new ditches and
old brooks were plenty. Yixeu gave me lessons in fencing which a few
years later, in time of graver need, stood me in good stead. She weigbed
less than four times the weight that she carried: yet sbe cleared a four-
foot fence with apparent ea
e. and once, in a moment of excitement. she
earTied me over a brook, with a clear leap of twenty-six: feet, measured
from the taking-nff to the landing.
Her featc;; of endurance were equal to her feats of strength. I once
rode her from Y orkville to Rye (twenty-one miles) in an hour and f(ìrty-
five minutes, including a rest of twenty minutes at Pelham Bridge, and
I frequently rode twenty-five miles out in the morning and back in the
afternoon. "\Vhen put to her work, her steady road-gallop (mostly on
the
ra
y sides) was fifteen mile::3 an bour.
76
GEORGE E. WARING, JR.
[1861-88
Of course these were extreme cases; but she never showed fatigue
from them, and she did good service nearly e,'ery day, winter and sum-
mer, from her twelfth to her fifteenth year, keeping always in good eon-
dition, though thin as a racer, and looking like a colt at the end of the
time. Horsemen never guessed her age at more than half of what it
actually was.
Beyond the ayerage of even the most intelligent horses, she showed
some almost human traits. Above all was she fond of chilùren, and
would quiet down from her wildest moods to allow a child to be carried
on the pommel. ',hen engaged in this serious duty, it was difficult to
excite her, or to urge her out of a slow and measured pace, a1though
usually ready for any extravagance. Not the least marked of her pecu-
liarities was her inordinate vanity. On a country road, or among the
workmen of the Park, Fhe was as staid and business-like as a parson's
cob: but let a carriage or a party of visitors come in sight, and she
would give herself the prancing airs of a circus borse, seeming to watch
3S eagerly for some sign of appro,'al, anù to be made as happy by it, as
though she only lived to be admired. :\Iany a time have I heard the
exclamation, "'Yhat a beautiful horse! ,. and Yix seemed to hear it too,
and to appreciate it quite as keenly as I did. A trip down the Fifth
A venue in the afternoon was an immense excitement to her, and she
was more fatigued by it than by a twenty-mile gallop. However slowly
she traveHed, it was always with the high springing action of a fast trot,
or with that long-stepping. 8idelong action that the :French call à deux
pistes. Few people allowed her to 1)3SS without admiring notice.
Her most satisfactory trait was her fondness for her master; she was
as good company as a dog,-better, perhaps, because she seemed more
really a part of one's
elf; and she was quick to respond to my chang-
ing moods. I haye sometimes, when unable to sleep, got up in the
night and saddled for a ride, usually ending in a long walk home, with
the bridle over my arm, and the old mare's kind face close beside my
O\yn, in something akin to human sympathy: sbe had a way of sighing,
when things were especially sad, that made her very comforting to have
about. So we went on for three years. alway
together, and always very
much to each other. 'Ve had our little unhappy episodes, when she
was pettish and I was harsh,-sometime
her feminine freaks were the
cause, sometimes my masculine blundering.-hnt we always made it
up, and were soon good friends again. and. on the whole, we were both
better for the friendship. I am sure that I was, and some of my more
grateful recoHections are connected with this dumb companion.
The spring of 1861 opened a new life for both of uS,-a sad and a
short one for poor Vix.
I never knew just how much influence she had in getting my commis-
1861-88]
GEORGE E. WARLYG, JR.
77
sion, but, judging by the manner of the other field-officers of the regi-
ment, she was evidently regarded as the better ha]f of the new acquisi-
tion. The pomp and circumstance of glorious war suited her temper
exactly, and it was ludicrous to see her satisfaction in first wearing her
gorgeous red-bordered shabrack; for a time she carried her head on one
side to see it. She conceived a new affection for me from the moment
when she saw me bedecked with the dazzling bloom that preceded the
serious fruitage of the early New York ,.olunteer organizations.
At last the thrilling day came. Broadway was alive from end to end
with flags and white cambric and sad faces. Another thousand were
going to the war. "\Vith" Swiss Bugle ]'Iarch "and chanted II :MarseiUaise."
we made our solemn way through the grave and anxious throng. To
us it was naturally a day of sore trial j but with brilliant, happy Vixen
it was far different; she was leaving no friends behind, was going to
meet no unknown peril. She was showilJg her royal, stylish beauty to
an admiring crowd, and she acted as though she took to her own especial
behoof every cheer that rang from U nioH Square to Cortlandt Street. It
was the glorious day of her life, anrt as we tlismounted at the Jersey
ferry, she was trembling still with the delightful excitement.
At \Vashington we were encamped east of the Capitol, and for a
month were busy in getting settled in the new harness. Mr. Lincoln
used to drive out sometimes to our evening drill, and he always had a
pleasant word-as he always had for everyone. and as everyone had
for her-for my charming thoroughbred. who had made herself perfectly
at home with the troops, and enjoyed every display of the marveUous
raiment of the regiment.
On the 4th of July we crossed the Potomac and went below Alexan-
dria, where we lay in idle preparation for the coming disaster. On the
16th we marched, in Blenker's brigade of hIiles's division, and we passed
the night in a hay-field, with a confusion of horses' feed and riders' bed,
that brought Vix and me ver:.y closely together. On the 18th we reachpd
the vaney this side of Centreville, while the skirmish of Blackburn's
Forù was going on,-3 skirmish now, but a battle then. For three
nights and two days we lay in the bushes, waiting for rations and orders.
On Sunday morning McDowell's army 111m-eel out j-we all know the
rest. l\Iiles's thirteen thousand fresh troops lay within sight and sound
of the lost battle-field.-he drunk and unable, even if not unwilling, to
take them to the rescue,-and all we did was. late in tbe evening, to
turn back a few troopers of the Black Horse Cava.lry, the moral effect of
whose unseen terrors was c1riviug our herds, panting, back to the Poto-
mac. Late in the night we turned our backs on our idle field, and
brought up the rear of the sad retreat. Our regiment was the last to
move out, and Vix and I were with the rear-guard. \-Vet, cold, tired,
78
GEORGE E. TVARIXG. JR.
[1861-88
hungry, unpursued, we crept slowly through the scattered débri
of the
broken-up camp equipage, and dismally crossed the Long Bridge in a
pitiless rain, as l\louday.s eveuing was closing in. Ob, the drea(ltul days
tbat followed, when a dozen re
olute men might have taken \Vashing-
ton, and bave driven the arm'y across the Chesapeake, whell everything
was :filleù with gloom and rain and grave uncertaiuty !
Again the old mare came to my aid. .My regiment was not a pleas-
ant one to be with, for its excellent material did not redeem its very bad
commander, anù I longed for service with the cavalry. Fremont 'was
going to St. Louis, and bis chief of
taff was looking for cavalry officers.
He had long known Yïxen, and was kind enough to ten me that he
wanted her for the new organization, and (as I was her necessary appen-
dage) he procured my transfer. aml we set out for the \Vest. It was
not especially flattering to me to be taken on these grouuds; but it was
flattering to Vixen, and that was quite as pleasant.
Arrived at St. Louis, "ye set about the organization of the enthusiastic
thousands who rushed to serve under Fremont. Whatever there was
of ostentatious display, Vixen and I took part in, but this was not much.
Once we turned out in great state to recei ve Prince PIon-PIon, but that
was in the night, and he didn't come after al1. Once again there wa
a
review of all the troops, and that was magnificent. This was all. There
was no coach and four, nor anything else but downright hard work from
early morning till late bedtime, from Sunday morning till Saturday
night. For six weeks, while my regiment of German horsemeu was fit-
ting up and driiling at the Abb
Race-track, I roùe a <.:art-horse, and
kept the mare in training for the hard work ahead.
At last we were off, going up the Missouri, sticking in itR mml, poling
over its shoals, awl being bored generally. At Jefferson City Vixen
made her last appearance in ladies' society, as by the twilight fires of the
General's camp she went through her graceful paces before )lrs. Fremont
and her daughter. r pass oyer the e,.entful pursuit of Price's army,
because the subject of my Rtory played onl.v a passive part in it. A_t
Springfield I tried her nerve by jumplnP' her over tbe deal1 horses on
brave Zagonyi'g bloody field; and, although distastefully, she did my
bidding without flinching, when she found it must be done. The camp-
life at Springfield was full of excitement and earnef:tness; Price, with
his army, was near at hand (or we belie,'eù that he was, which was
essentiaÌ1 y the same). Our work in the cavalry was very active, and
Vix had hard service on insufficient food,-
he seemed to be sustained
by sheer nen-ous strength.
At last the order to advance was given, and we were to move out at
daybreak: then came a countermanding order; and then, late in the
evening, Fremont's farewell. lie had been relieveJ. There was genu-
1861-88]
GEORGE E. W.ARLYG, JR.
79
ine and universal g.'ief. Good or bad, competent or incompetent,-this
is not the place to argue that,
he was tbe life anù the soul of his army,
and it was cruelly wronged in bis removal. Spiritless and full of dis-
appointment. we again turned back from our aim ;-then would have
been Price's opportunity.
It was the loveliest IndiarH
ummer weather, and the wonrlerful opal
atmosphere of the Ozark :Mountains was redolent with the freshness of
a second spring. As had alwa.ys been my habit in dreamy or unbappy
moods, I rode my poor tired mare for companionship's sake.-I ought
not to have done it.-I would give much not to bave done it, for I never
rode her again. The march was long, and tbe noonday sun was oppres-
sive. She who bad never faltered before grew nervous and shaky now.
and once, after fording the Pornrne-de-Terre in deep water, she behaved
wildly; but when I talked to her, called her a good girl, and combed her
silken mane with my fingers, she came back to her old way, and went on
nicely. Still she perspired unnaturally, and I felt uneasy about her
when I dismounted and gave her rein to Ruùolf. my orderly.
Late in the night, when the moon was in mid-heaven, he came to my
tent, and told me that something was the matter with Vixen, My adju-
tant and I hastened out,
md there we beheld her in tbe agony of a
brain fever. She was the most painfully magnificent animal I ever saw.
Crouched on the ground. with her forelegs stretched out and wide apart,
she was swaying to and fro. with hard and stertorous breath,-every
vein swollen and throbbing in the moonlight. De Grandèle, our quiet
veterinary surgeon, had been called while it was yet time to apply the
lancet. As the hot stream spurted from her neck sbe grew easier; her
eye recovered its gentleness. and she laid her head against my breast
with the old sigb, and seemed to know and to return all my love for her.
I sat with her until tbe first gray of dawn. when she had grown quite
calm. and then I left her witb De Grandèle and Rudolf while I went to
my dutie
. \Ve must march at five o'clock, and poor Yixen cOilld not
be moveiJ. The tbought of leaving bel' was very bitter. hut I feared it
must be done. and I asked De Grandèle how be could hest end her suf-
fering
,-or was there still some hope? He shook Lis bead mournfully.
like a kind-hearted doctor as he was, and said that he feared not; but
still, as I was so fond of her, if I would leave him six men, he would do
his best to bring her on, and, if he coul(l not, he would not leave her
alive. I have had few harder duties than to march that morning. Four
days after, De Grandèle sent a me
:5age to me at our station near Bona.
that he was coming on nicely, and hoped to be in at nightfall. ., Vixen
seems to be better and stronger." At nightfall they came. the poor old
creature stepping slowl.'. and timidly over the rough row1. a11 the old
fire and force gone out of her, aud with only a feeble whinny a;-;: she saw
80
GEORGE E. WARIXG, JR.
[1861-88
me walking to meet her. We built for her the best quarters we could
under the mountain-side, and spread her a soft bed of leaves. There
was now hope that she would recover sufficiently to be sent to St. Louis
to be nursed.
That night, an infernal brute of a troop-horse that had already killed
Ludlow's charger, led by some fiendish 8pirit, broke into Vixen's enclos-
ure and with one kick laid open her hock joint.
In vain they told me tbat she was incurable. I could not let her die
now, when she was just restored to me; and I forced from De Grandèle
the confession that she might be slung up and so bound that tbe wound
would heal, although the joint must be stiff. She could never carry me
again, but she could be my pet; and I would send bel' home, and make
her happ,v for many a long year yet. 'Ve moved camp two miles, to
the edge of the town, and she followed, painfully and slowly, the injured
limb dragging behind her; I could not give her up. She was picketed
near my tent, and for some days grew no worse.
FinaHy. one lovely Sunday morning, I found her sitting on her
haunches like a dog, patient and gentle, and wondering at her pain.
She remained in this position all day, refusing food. I stroked her
velvet crest, and coaxed her with sugar. She rubbed her nose against
my arm, and was evidently thankful for my caresses, but she showed no
disposition to rise. The adjutant led me into my tent as be would have
led me from the bedside of a dying friend. I turned to look back at
poor Vixen, and she gave me a little neigh of farewell.
They told me then, and they told it very tenderly, that there was no
possibility that she could get well in camp, and that they wanted me to
ive her over to them. The adjutant sat by me, and talked of the old
days when I had had her at home, and when he had known her well.
\Ve brought back all of her pleasant ways, and agreed that her trouble
ought to be ended.
As we talked, a single shot was fired, and all was over. The setting
sun was shining through the bare November branches, and lay warm in
my open tent-front. The band, which had been brought out for the
only funeral ceremony, breathed softly Kreutzer's touching "Die
Kapelle," and the sun went down on one of the very sad days of my life.
The next morning I carved deeply in tbe bark of a great oak-tree, at
tbe side of the Pacific Railroad, beneath which they had buried my
lovely mare, a simple VIX; anù some day I shall go to scrape the moss
from the inscription.
1861-88J
ALBERT DE
LYE RICHARDSON.
81
lbcrt iDcane 1àícIJartJøon.
BORl\ in Frauklin, :Mass., 1833. DIED in Kew York,
. Y., 18GU.
JOliN.
[Garnered Shem'es, from tILe Writings of Albert D. Richardson. Collected and AITanged
by his W(fe. 1871.]
J OHS presides over
everal large establishments filled with knick-
knacks from Japan and China, which visitors from the East pur-
chase to take home as curiosities. .Must of these articles illustrate his
ingenuity and marvellous patience. There are tables and work-boxes,
each composeJ of thousands of bits of highly-polished. many-colored
woods; glove-boxe
of lacquered ware. resembling papieJ' macht;, which
sell for two dollars and a half an<.1 three dollars, gold; handkercbiefs of
grass-cloth embroiùered by hmld with infinite pains; countless ,-arieties
of children's toys, including many curious and intricate puzzles; slee,'e-
buttons and breast-pins; cm'd-racks of yarious material: wooden and
metaHic counterfeits of insects and reptiles, so perfect that one half fears
to handle them lef't they should bite his fingers; gay Chinese lanterns
covered with painted paper and as large as rnarket-ba
kets; fire-crackers;
torpedoes which explode with a report like that of a tweh-e-}Jounder;
chop-sticks; writing-desks; alld a tLousaud other things to please the
fancy_ In waiting upon American customers, .Johnny shows himself the
model merchant. He is an adept in the simple art of not too much. He
proffers a Chinese cigar (execrable in flavor), and is grieved if Lis visitor
does not take at least a few whiffs from it. If tbe purchases are liberal
in amount, he makes a judicious discount in tbe prices, and perhaps
throws in some trifling gift::;. IIe is attentive, but not over-pressing;
cordial, Lut never impertinent; and he speeds tLe parting guest with a
good-by so polite and friendly t113t it leaves a pleasant flavor in the
memory.
Hi
advance into the higLly-skilled industries is sharply contested, but
his sure progress demonstrates that all things are his wuo has patience.
Thus far, in the anomalous life of California, labor has been stronger
than capital, a11(l has had things much in its own wa.r. In hand- or
placer-mining John has been graciously allowed the gleanings: but
quartz-mining Las been closed to him. Not only has he been kept from
digging ore in the shafts and reducing it uncleI' the stamps, but even
when owners bave employed him to cut and haul wood for the mills he
has been driven away with riot anù Lloodshed. California working-
men are in lliany respects tbe mO::3t intelligent in the world; but they
YoLo IX.-6
82
ALBERT DE.LVE RICHARDSON.
[1861-88
sometimes show a narrowness ann ignorance worthy of the dark ages.
lore than once they have presented the astonishing spectacle of skilleù
laborers, in a country of free schools and cheap newspapers, re
isting
with \'iolence the introduction of a new invention, on the grounù that it
diminished the necessity for hand-labor.
His path has been smoother toward the raising of silk-worms and of
olives, the culture of the tea-plant, the making of wine, and the other
new and peculiar industries of the coast, which seem capable of bound-
less expansion, and are weB adapted to his training and capacity. He
has pushed his way into many paths which are not noted here. He
begins to buy land, instead of leasing it, for the production of fruits and
vegetables. Negro minstrelsy, wbich, Jike so many other thing
. grows
more luxuriantly in California tban in the East, and is more an abstract
and bJ'ief chronicle of the time, already makes him the central figure in
its broadest burlesques. the putative father of its most atrocious jokes.
He has become a part of the warp and woof of life 011 the Pacific
coast.
TVhat manner of man Ù; he? Yery black of }lair, very low of stature,
and not a thing of beauty. In laughter he shows his gums horribly.
But he is seldom The :Man 'Yho Laughs, except among his own mates.
1Vith Americans, when he is not addressed, he is immovably serene,
ilent, and serious.
He is a born gambler. 'Vhatever his age or condition, games of
chance-with ludicrousl:,v trifling stakes-possess a wild fascination for
him. Ever.\
California town has its Cbinese quarter j every Chinese
quarter abounds in gambling-houses. On the subject of opium, too, the
variance between his theory and his practice reveals the human nature
strong within him. Opium-smoking, he invariably avers. is had, very
bad; and yet, six out of every seven idlers wbom one meets 011 an even-
ing walk through the Chinese quarter, bear indelible evidence of the
habit written on their jaded, ghastly faces.
He is gregarious. He must have, not one, but several friends, to
whom to whisper, "Solitude is sweet." No practicable pecuniary temp-
tation win induce him to come to the Eastern States, unlesH half a dozen
or a dozen of his comrades are to accompany him and to live with him.
He loves to dwell in tuwnE'. E\yen as a bouse-senrant, he does not sleep
under his ma
ter's roof, if he can possibly a\roid it. but p:oes to the Chi-
nese quarter to spend every night with his comrades. lIe will work as
late as he is wanted, however, witbout complaint, and he will he on hand
at any required hour in the morning. He is a great night-bird. and his
turn is convivial. He and his mates join in frequent little suppers,
which they keep up until nearly daylight. The materials for these
nocturnal banquets are believed to be contributeù, unwittingl}
, by John's
1861-btj]
lLBERT DEAYE RICHARDSON.
83
employer, and brought away surreptitiously in John's basket. His mis-
tress often keeps her most valuable stores locked up, and issues only a
week's supply to him at a time; but be is frugality embodied, and can
make gleanings enough for the midnight suppers, and sometimes, per-
baps, for supplying himseH with pocket-money besides.
Ask him why he wi]] not lodge in his employer's house, and he replies
tbat he and his friends like to meet at night, and tell each other what
they have learned during the day. It is doubtless their custom to
instruct newly arrived senTants in household matters. J u
t as he is
going away at night, ..Tobn will often question his mistress as to how she
compounds a particular kind of cake, or accomplishes some other triumph
of cookery, and. in answer to her i nq uiring look, will explain that he
wishes to tell a friend who has not been here long.
John prizes the pennies.
-\..n offer of half a dollar more per month
may take him away from a household to which he seemed warmly
attached. But his people are so numerous in California that it is easy "
to fill his place.
John has the true Oriental tendency to mysticism, and the Oriental
vein of poetry cropping out in the most prosaic places. At borne he
has proverbs and exhortations to virtue written on his tea-cups, fans,
chairs, and the walls of his inns. In San Francisco hi
sign-board litera-
ture is a study. "Virtue and Felicity," "Sincerity and Faith," are
common inscriptions over his shup-Joors. A recent writer in "The
Overland
lonthly" introduces us to a meat-market bearing the label
"Virtue aboünding"; a clrug-store named ., Benevolence-and-Longevity-
Hall," and a restaurant st,r led" The Garden of the Golden Valley."
He is quick and eager to learn. He reckons nimbly and accurately,
not with the pencil and paper, but with marbles strung upon wires, as
in tbe abacus used for teacbing arithmetic to young learners. He does
not reaùily catch our i<lioms or pronunciations. but soon learns to make
himself intelligible in his jaw-wrenching pigeon-Eng!ish,-"
Ie washe
belly (very) muchee,77 He shows- the
ame hunger for knowledge which
was such a marked and touching trait in the contrabands during the
war. '\'Vhere\Ter night- and Snnday-:,chools are established for teaching
him English he is prompt to attend. A Sacramento lady of my acquaint-
ance ha:-:; been compel1ed at ùifferent time:, to discharge two young Chi-
nese
ervants, solely because, the momeut bel' hack was turned, they
would devote themselves to tbe
pelling-book. to the neglect of the
wash-tub.
lImv do 'We treat hÙn? Olltrageousl,Y. So long as he sta,Ys at borne
we send missionaries to convert him; but when he throws himself upon
our hospitality, we meet him with cruelty and oppre
sion. _\..nd even
while doing this we have been building chapel8 for him, and making
84
ALBERT DEANE RICHARDSON.
[1861-88
incoherent attempts to Christianize him. 'Vha.t a fascinating idea of
the Christian religion our laws and practice, until very recently, must
have given him! "\Ve do our best to make the witty proverb of his
nati ve country true here, at least in its application to him: "The tem-
ples are kept open, but they are always empty; the prisons are locked,
but they are always full." In California, as elsewhere, nine people out
of ten mean to be just and considerate: the trouble is in leaving John
at the mercy of the brutal and cowardly tenth. One hears sickening
stories of this everywhere. Even boys in the streets take the cue, and
kick and cuff the little yellow-faces. 'Vhen a new cargo of Chinamen
arrives, there is a strong disposition to mob them; and the police of San
Francisco, in bad emulation of the police of New Orleans in the negro
massacre of 1866, haye aided and participated in the diabolical work.
John's advance into each new pursuit has been resisted, step by step,
with assault, riot, arson, and murder. Not only have factories been
destroyed for giving him employment, but school-houses and churches
bave actual1y been burned beeause they afforded him opportunity for
learning to read.
TVhat shall 'lee do lCl',h him? This is the
phinx-riddle which we must
solve if we would not be eaten. It concerns also his half-brother, the
"Jap." The old restriction against emigration haR been removed in
Japan as wen as in China. 'Vhile I was in California last June, fifty
Japanese families arrived to settle in one colony, and engage in silk- and
tea-culture; and a Pacific-mail steamer found two hundred and fifty
Japanese at Yokohama, waiting to embark for San Francisco, but was
unable to take them, as she was already loaded down with twelve hun-
dred Chinamen.
The problem is too large and serious to dogmatize upon. The signifi-
cant fact about Jobn, after his numerical strength, is. that he never lets
go. There are Yankees, it is Baid, so thrifty and tenacious that they
would take root and grow upon a marble slab. The same is true of this
strange yellow man. \Ve may extort tribute from him, and revile him,
and smite him on both cheeks; but wherever his feet are once planted,
there he stays. Into every industry he slowly works his way. In per-
sistence, thoroughness, and precision, he is more than a match for us.
Put him in a factory, and be works as systematically as the looms and
spindles, every day in the year. lIe is a one-day clock, and when the
dol1al' has wound him up he keeps perfect time. But it is only the time
of the machine. IIe reaclB literally the old saw; we render it, "'Vbat-
ever man has not done, man may do. 77 lie will stand beside tliÐ 100m
from c1Úldbood to old age, but his ears will never catch any whispered
hint from its buzzing lips how to make it do its work quicker or better.
Therein seems to lie our chief advantage over him. There are excep-
1861-88J
JfARY AGNES TINCKER.
85
tional cases.-a Chinese servant in San Francisco lately assisted his
mistress to perfect a great improvement in the sewing-machine, by which
the needle can be threadell while running at fuB speed,-but in general
Jobn's ingenuity is imitative, not inventi\-e.
Still be is an appalling problem. He bas no radical objection to
menial pursuits, but it is folly to expect that he will be permanently
confined to them. He will swarm in all the avenues of our industrial
life. California to-day is a faint pruphecy of the whole country a few
years hence. One cannot descend the broad stairway of the Lick House,
or walk
[ontgomer'y Street, or enter a store or a factory, or penetrate
the remotest mining-camp of the mountains, or land from steamboat or
railway-train. but right at one's elbo\y stands like a fate this silent man,
in bis basket-hat, blue tunic, and cloth shoes with wooden soles,-this
man of tbe long pigtail and bare neck, the restrained, eager eyes, and
the yellow, serene, impassive face.
filar}!
gttC
íttclicr.
BOR
in Ellsworth, )le., 183.'3.
IK THE H
\LL OF CYPREðSES.
[Signor .JIonaldini's Þliece. 1879.]
T HE
teaming horses were urged to their utmo
t; and Don Filippo,
leaning from the carriage every moment to see if the mountain city
grew nearer, fancied tbat it receded instead of ad\yancing.
It was already twilight when he reached the villa; and, on entering
the garden, he saw Camilla's white figure on the terrace, looking pale and
spirit-like in that dim light, for the moon lmd not Jet risen.
She turned at sound of his step, and he knew that e\-en at a distance
be was recognized; but she stood immO\yable, and waited for him. She
had always before corne to meet him, and her failure to do so was sig-
nificant. He could not know, nor even :-;uspect, what bad happened
since the day of their parting-; hat be pereeivec1 at once that an entire
change had taken place. The panor which he noted was no longer
radiant, tbe drooping no longer that of a flower oyer-full of dew. Yet
sbe was more than friendly. The soft hanJ she gave him immediately.
the low-voiced welcome, the serious regard, all were full of tenderness;
but it was a tenderness that made him tremble, for it spoke of parting.
She appeared like one who looks her last on the thing she best loves.
86
JIARY AG...VES TINCKER.
[1861-88
"What bas happened. Camilla?" he exclaimed. .. Sometbing is tbe
matter with you."
She gazed at him a moment, her eyes searcbing though tearful, her
lips trembling.
" Yes, something has happened." she said, with that fainting of tbe
voice which tells bow the heart faint
. " My uncle is angry with me for
a fault which exists only in his imagination. anù we have
eparated for-
ever. Madame von Klenze is disappointed and dissatisfied with me to a
degree whi<;h makes it unpleasant for me to stay witb her longer; and
some one on whom I depended bas failed me utterly. I am friendle.:;s,
Don Filippo! "
"Not while you have me! You shall never be friendless while I
live! " He had not released her hand. He beld it closer, and stood
nearer t') her. "Camilla, you must tell all, and trust all to me," be
said. "This hour was sure to come, and it bas come sooner than I
expected."
She did not withdraw her band nor herself. She stood still, and
looked up into bis face. But there was no joy nor relief in bel' own.
Sorrow and tenderness alone were there.
rrhe voice of Madame von !{lenze interrupted them. "Camilla, it is
very imprudent for you to be in the garden at this hour," she caIleJ out
from the window. " You are taking in malaria with every breath."
"We must see each other without interruption," Don Filippo said
bastily. "'V e will go to her now. 'Vill you meet me, as soon as she
frees you, in tbe Hall of Cypresses: '
Camilla assenteù, and they went toward the window. "Don Filippo
is come," she said.
Madame was astonished, and m;;ked a hundre(l Cluestions, which he
answered or parried with a gayety which jarred upon Camilla's mood.
She forgot that, while she was bent under the heaviness of a painful cer-
tainty, he was excited by suspense.
After a little \vhile, she excused herself, and hurried out into the dewy
garden again. The way \-vas dark. under trees and crowding shrubs;
but sbe had learned every step, and sbe followed a cl ue of varied per-
fumes. 'Vhere the roses made the air delicious with thcir breath, she
was to tu
n to the right; where tbe odor of beliotrope met her in a
fragrant sigh, she must go
traight on, till the sigh became a full breath.
and the breath a heaviness too ricb to be borne. Then the darkness
cleared a little for a pine grove with its fine perfumes, then came a
cloud of jasmine. And, after the jasmine, she bad to stretch her hands
out to right and left. and walk carefully, touching the thick hedge at
either side, and turning with it, till there came one turn where a little
gate barred tbe way. The gardener had given her the key to this gate.
18Gl-88]
MAR r AGNES TLYCKER.
87
When it was opened, she entered the semicircular green behind the great
fhall. went up tbe stair. and stepped into the Hall of Cypresses. As she
entered, all tbe pointed tips arounù were catching fire from the risen
moon, wbich looked over with a white face, shining in a mist of illumi-
nated dewy air, like an Eastern bride in her saffron veil. The upper end
of the fountain-basin 'was like trembling quicksilver. the rest a live
black, and ::,0 polished that the tree-tops were reflected in it with every
shining spire. Underneath the trees, an absolutely opaque darkness
reigned. Anything or anybody might bave lurked there without fear
of being seen. For if a white face had leaned out to look at Camilla as
she passed, it would bave bidden itself quickly when her eyes turned
that way. If a stealthy Btep had foHowed bel'. it would have timed itself
carefully witl-i bel' fo'tep. AnJ, besilles. the ground under the cypresses
was as smooth as a floor, and slipvery with fallen needles from the trees
above. So tbat a footfall there would sound like a breatb, or like a
rustle of leaf to leaf in the chestnuts beyond.
Camilla glanced about the fairy-like place, and the weight lifted a
little from her heart. It was impossible in such a scene to find the hard
facts of every-day life all-import
nt. The interests which were catching
and crushing her in their crnel grasp appeared contemptible amid this
splendor of fairy-land. Besides. in another moment sbe was to see Don
Filippo!
For the first time in her life. she tasted the wild sweetnes
of a stolen
pleasure. There was delight in hiding from jealous eyes, in walking
softly, in speaking low. She began to feel temptation in its utmost
force, wben what is de.;;ired seems more beautiful, more noble, and more
holy tban any other earthly thing, and wben all else is as ashes.
The gate below shut with a faint cJick, tbere was a step on the stair,
and Don Filippo was at her side.
It may seem strange to some when I say that her temptation grew
weaker with the presence of him who caused it, but it was so. Sbe had.
the delicate shrinking of a woman who has never had an accepted lover;
and, while she could stretch her arms out to him afar off, she shrank
from him w hen near.
,. Ten me at oncc what has happened!" he exclaimed. ., I have been
in an agony about you. I felt that something was the matter."
,. I have been troubled by my relativefo'," she said gently, "and not for
the first time; but now I am forceù to feel that for the future I must
depend upon myself. I must do something to earn money, and shall
tr}
to get pupils in the languages. I hope to succeed 111 tbe end: but it
is not easy at first. and that has made me rather saù."
" Have you friends? " he asked, after a moments pause.
"I have acquaintances," she replied besitatingly.
88
JfAR Y AGNES l'1.LYCKER.
[1861-88
"Ha\ye .you any influential friend, whose word is a shield In itself,-
any woman friend? ,.
The question was like an arrow through her heart, though it did not
surprise her. It showed that be considered a woman friend necessary.
"I have no one," she replied. ".At present Madame von l{]enze is
too much disappointed, because I do not take bel' advice, to be willing
to assist me. l\[a y be she will later."
" You have just given her a disappointment?" he asked quickly,
thinking of Carlisle.
" Yes! "
Don Filippo took her hand, pressed it, then released it instantly.
" Courage!" he said, and there was a breath of joy in his voice. "I
know two distinguished ladies who will befriend you. They may advise
you, perhaps, to adopt Rome other mode of freeing yourself; but they
wilI help you in wbatever course you choose. Courage, CamiIla nna!
You have, at least, one friend. No harm shall touch you. You are not
alone and deserted. Leave all care to me. To-morrow morning I will
go to tbese ladies. I have already spoken of you to them, and they have
promised to aid you in case you sbould need it. Are you content?"
He spoke rapidly. warmly, and with a caressing softness in the con-
cluding question. .As he uttered it, he again took bel' hand. .. Are you
content?" he repeated.
She tried to speak, but could not. She had been sure tbat he would
help bel' j yet his quick generosity almost broke her beart. It made
him so much more dear, so much harder to lose.
Her head bad drooped, and her face wa:::3 in shadow. lIe could not
see what emotion kept her silent. It might be disappointment.
"There is another way," be said in a lower voice. "I love you. If
you consent, I will marry you, in spite of obstacles."
She drew quickly back, and raised her hand to silence him. " You
have a wife, Don Filippo," she said j ., and you have vowed to be true
to bel' tin death shall part you. She is not dead. There can be no talk
of marriage between us. 'Ve could not be happy, remembering her.
.And the world would blame you, would tbink hardly of you. It would
seem cruel to desert utterly one so feeble and unfortunate as she. True,
she might never know. But, if a friend we lo\'ed were dying, we could
not leave him till tbe last breath, though our going might not be per-
ceived. You mu
t not stain your noLle name, which all the world
sees. "
Don Filippo was silent. He had not expected so decisive a refusal.
Tbe firmness of pain sounded to him like that of coldness.
"I thank and bless yon for your goodness to me." she resumed in a
trembling voice. "It will be a great charity if you assist me, as you
1861-88]
MARY AGNES TINCKER.
89
first proposed. If tbose ladies would enable me to go to France, and to
go soon, recommending me to some one there, I
hall be very gratefu1.
Her emotion touched him again with tenderness. lIe saw that she
still suffered, in spite of the refuge he offered her.
"'Vhy should you go away?" he asked eagerly. " You can stay
here in a circle so different from that of your relatives that you need
never meet them.
tay, Camilla! IIave you no thought for me? I will
not disturb you. I could not let you go. Have you no idea what you
have become to me, dear love? Rome would be du:;t and ashes without
you. Remain with friends of mine, where I can ::;ee you, and can know
that you are well and content."
"I could not be contented so," she said. "I could not stop there.
Once I thought that it would be enough for me to be near you, and to
know that you wished me well; but now I have learned that I should
desi re more."
" Camilla!" he exclaimed, and blushed crimson all over his face.
She did not blush, but went on in the same tone of deep sadness.
"I thought it all over last night: I bad thought of it before, but last
night I {reed myself from all illusions. There was no one near of whom
I could ask advice; but I am not uninstructed. and. besides, God is
always near. I was wishing that I could see some one like Saint Fran-
cis of Assisi. I thought of him, because he was poor and pure, and
because he and Saint Clara were so fond of each other and so holy ill
their affection. It seemed to me that he would have told me how the
spirits of t"yO friends can embrace joyfully. awl the flesh remain di,Tideù.
I did understand, indeed, that with two saints it could be so. But I am
not a saint, and am not read.\
to lead the life which subjects the human
affections so utterly. I would, indeed, willingly Lave forsaken the world,
if you had done the same; but that could not be. 'Yell, I studied it all
over, and tried to see my way clear. First, I said a pra,yel' to the Holy
Ghost, because he is tbe enlightener. Then I sat ùown by the window,
with the moon shining over me, and no lamp in the ruom. I thought
that tbe moonlight was like the Holy Ghost shining on me. It was
necessary to have some rule to think by, and I remembered that of our
Lord, that we f'hould <10 b.\
others what we would wish them to do by
us. Then I imagined myself somf'bocly's wife, as that poor laùy is
yours. I am smitten and ruined, I Raid. 'VeH, so be it! He cannot
take pleasure in me, and he only pities and shrinks from mc. I am
resigned to that. I cannot love him with a living love, becáuse I am
strange to myself, and lost. and dead in a way. \V ell , again. It was
sad, but I could only bubmit. Then I said, there is another who is
healthy, and has a clear will, and can guide herse1f, and rejoice in life,
and she stands beside him, anù pleases him, auù tbey call e.wh other
90
VARY AGNES lTf;TKER.
[1861-88
friends. Then it began to trouble me; but still I said. I am resigned.
It pains me, but it is not wrong. \Ye cannot live without human sym-
pathies. But then I thought of the thingð this happier woman would
wish to ao, one by one: and I look-eel and imagined her doing them. and
before [ had finished them all. I cried out: 'She is a wicked woman!
She has no such right. Her talk of friendship is a mask. rrbat is love! . "
Camilla raised her eyes and looked at bim. "It was all clear in tbe
ligbt of the Holy Gbost, Don Filippo. The only thing allowed was
what I could no longer be content to be confined to. 'Ye must separate."
,. \Vhat were the tbings you imagined this happier woman would wish
to do?" he asked steadily, yet with a beating beart. He was incredu-
lous of so much firmness.
" I will tell you, because I want you to know aJI," she replied. with a
faint tremor in her yoice. ,. I sball have a feeling of peace. knowing,
being snre. that you read my whole heart. It is very childish. perbaps j
but women and children love in tbat way. At first, it was not so j but,
later, I have sometimes lookeel at your hair,-it is so soft and snnny,-
and I have thought I would like to touch it, and to draw my fingers
along tbe waves. wbich go. first a shadow, and tben a golden light, and
then a shadow again. Am], then. once I sat behind you, and saw how
fine YOltr ear and cheek and neck are, and the little quick tbought which
came to me was like a flash. I wished tbat for an instant you and every-
body could be stricken blind, so tbat I might run to you, and kiss you
just under the ear."
"Camilla!" he exclaimed again, and flung himself forward at her feet,
and lifted his arms to em brace bel'.
She put him back with a gentle hand, looking at him with startled,
reproachful eyes.
,. Do you think I could ten you tbis, if it were not impossible to be
done!" sbe exclaimed. " See how I trust and love you. I talk to you
as if you were my guardian angel. I conceal nothing. Could I insist
on what gives you pain, could I resist a prayer of yours, without telling
you ever,vthing that would make it clear that I must do so?"
Don Filippo's flushed face grew pale. He began to perceive something
inexorable in bel' pure and sorrowful gentleness. He sank on tbe stone
seat opposite ber. and sat with his lip under his teetb, gazing at her,
doubting if, inrleed. he must g-ive bel' up, or should snatch her by force
away from the world she lived in, and by his pleading wear out her
resolution where none could interfere.
"It would be mo
t bold and indelicate. if I were to say this in any
otber circumstances," she said. " But it is almost as if my spirit should
come back after my deatb to tell you. In one way, I am dead. :My
ignorant illusions have perished, and their loss has left me chilly. I saw
1861 -88]
NARY AG
VES 17XGKER.
91
an Enghsh play once tbat comes to my mind now. In it there was a
king who had killed a great many people. At la
t, one night, on the
eve of battle, he dreamed: and. in his dream, all wbom he had killed
came back to him. one by one. and looked at him, and spoke, each one,
his eruel word, and passed away. So it was with me last night. E,'ery
hope and wish and sweet \'ision which I was forced to destroy canle back
and looked at me, and stabbed me to the heart, and departed."
..
Iy poor darling!" he exclaimed. ..
Iy poor darling! Hmy I have
ruined your life! "
" X ot so!" sbe said with tender eagerness. "Do you not know that
there is a sadness and pain sweeter than is most pleasure? I would not
give the pain I have, knowing you, {or an.y joy I could have had, not h3\T-
ing known you. I sometimes tbink tbat su:ffering is a better pO
5ession
than delight. You can bold a sweet pain all your life, and it may he as
a shield between you anù e\Ter:,- otber trouble; but pleasure may escape at
any moment. See what prpcious thoughts I can cherish. I shall say,
I know tl13t he 100'ed me tenderly, and be knew tbat he was all to me,
and that I shall not change toward him, though '\ve sbould not meet
ever again. I shaH say, we were together a little while, meaning no
harm, and, as soon as we saw that iH would come of it, \
e separated,
and it is well witb us. Every day and night my thoughts wi]] turn
toward :,'ou, blessing you, and tLat part of tbe heavens over your dwell-
ing will seem to me the place where the sun rises. I want a little picture
of you, and you 'fiust put a ring on m." finger the last time we meet. I
am not going to try to forget you. Do not you see, Filippo mz'ú, tbat
there win be few married people in the world so perfectly united as we
shall be? \, e shall bave entered on the spiritual life. No misullder-
standin
s can come between us, ',e shall live in the region above the
clouds. "
Something of her tranquillit
9 communicated itself to him. He felt so
sure of bel' love that even parting seemed bearable. But he was not yet
satisfied.
,; Camilla," he said. "will not }"OU say that you could be happy as my
wife, if it migbt be so? "
.. Certainly," she replied, without hesitation. ., And, if we stayea
together, I could not be content in an,)" other wa
.. It is no sin. It is
as natural that I should wish it as that I should breathe. 'Vithout it, it
seems to me that I do not breatbe any more. but only sigh."
He rose hastily from the seat. and stood bE'sitle her as she rose from
the rocky basin-ledge, and stood looking clown upon the water into
wbicb her tears were dropping.
,.
I v love!" be exclaimed pa
sionately. ., I cannot give you up ! We
should suffer more in parting tban in staying together. You forget that
92
.MAR Y AGNES TLYCI{ER.
[1861-88
we should be anxious about each other, if not doubting. In sickness,
danger, or death, we should suffer too much if separated I am not a
slave of love, dear, and I will be guided by you. I yield to your deci-
sion, and will say nothing of malTinge. But JOu must yield, and remai n
near me. If you refuse, you will fly me in vain; for I shall follow you
to the world's end. In everything else I yield; in this I must be a tyrant.
N e\yer shall you hide your dear face and form from me. Death only
shall hide you from me; life, never! Look up, darling! Giye me your
hand! Take courage, and trust me. I will be true and honest! At
my first fault, you may leave me. I promise you that. Give me the
trial! "
If only she might do so! Some hope and comfort sprang up in her
heart at his words. She turned her face toward him, with a balf-smile,
and balf-extended her hand, which he fell on bis knees to clasp and kiss.
"Tell me'what is right for me to do," she said. .. I know that I am
sometimes too uncompromising, and perhaps I have been so now. I love
you humanlY,-Jes; but I love you as almo::::t an angel. I trust you.
You are to me an honor and noblenes
. You will tell me what is truly
best, wbat I may safely do. Ten me, and I will obey you."
lIe felt as'if a mountain bad been laid on his shoulders. Her trust in
bim swept from his hold the faintest excuse for self-deception. Bound
by it, he was forced to choose an heroic course, which of himRelf he felt
too weak to cboose. In the bottom of his heart, he knew that tbey must
separate. rrbeirs was the passion as well as the tenderness of love, and
only tbe last terrible remedy remainE'fl for them. He could ha\ye dared
to sue, he could have been led to hush the reproaches of his own con-
science, but bc could not abase himself in the eyes of the woman he
adored. She loved him because she believed him heroic. She would
cease to 10\-0 him. if she foun,l him capable of betraying bel' trust.
He kissed her hand again before replying; but, even as it touched his
lips, it was snatche(1 away from him. Some arrowy shadow sprang for-
ward, and retreated while the words yet lingered on his tongue, and
Camilla was swept from him as by a whirlwind. The smile had not
died from her face when the plunge of her fall woke a hollow echo in
the grove, and the waters had devoured her. All the shadows of tbe
c,\
pre8ses, with their lighted tips, ran crinkling across the pool, like ser-
pents with fiery tongues.
Don Filippo remained paralyzed, gazing into the black water. He
seemed to be
azing into eternity. The sudden echo died away, the rip-
ples and shadows smoothed themselves, and the horror that had been
receded into tbe past, as thouf!"h a century had rolled away since it thus
struck him to stone. How many years had he been asking himself if
she would come back to him, or if he should go to her?
1861-88]
.MARY AGNES TLYCKER.
93
"Come back! Come back to me, my love!" he cried, at length :find-
Ing VOice.
There was no sound but the
trange, muffled echo of his own words,
and a footstep which fled do\vn the bill. There was something inexora-
bly stern in the place. The cypresses were s\Yords; the moonlight was
tbe glance of .Medusa: the fountain jet laughed on, in spite of despair;
the ripples cbased each otber round and round. like the slow spokes of
a great whee1. There was nothing human in the scene but the bursting
heart tbat waited and the strangled love below.
Two or three bubbles broke against the fountain-edge, there was a
terrible receding motion in the dark wave, and up floated Camilla, as
motionless as a stone but for that rising.
Almost faning into the water, Don Filippo leaned over, snatched
desperately at her dress, and drew and lifted her out dripping. Clasp-
ing and kissing her, murmuring \Yords of desperate fondness and distress,
he ran toward the house, bearing her in his arms.
., Call a doctor! l' he cried to the first servant he met. ,. Take a borse,
and ride him to death! If the doctor loses an instant, I'll shoot him."
She had not stirred in his clasp while he bore her to the house. Her
arms hung straight downward over his, her head dropped back on his
shoulder, and a line of cold. light parte(1 her eyelids.
He hurried with her to the room wbere
[adame von Klenze sat with
her book, wondering over tbe cau
e of the sudclen
tir she heard.
":My God!" she cried, "what has happened? lias she fainted? "
But the face of Don Filippo was not tbat of one who bears a merely
fainting woman. He did not answer. He only laid Camilla on a sofa,
and began to try such means as he knew for her restoration. Her (hip-
ping garments and the wet hair, in which a long weed was tangled, told
tbe story without words.
:Madame von Klenze was a woman of flreat self-possession, and, after
the first instant, went promptly to work. Don Filippo himself was
scarcely more imperative than she. The whole household was put in
motion; every possible help was procured. Servants came anfl went
witb flying feet, or
tooc1 whispering at the doors. ready for service.
:Madame's efforts were no more prompt than intelligpnt.
In the midst of all this stir, Camilla lay white and motionless, her
arms hanging straight down from her siùe, and that line of frozen light
parting her eyelids.
The doctor came. Hours went by.
From a frantic ùistres
, Don FiliÌ)po passed to the silence of despair.
Leaving aU efforts of re
toration to others, he threw himself on his knees
at the head of the sofa, and buried his face in the pillow. There was no
thought of concealmeut before those prescnt. IIe careù not for them.
94
TrILLIAlJI LEIGHTON.
[1861-88
All who were there heard him call Camilla his angel, and beseech her to
speak to him once more: all saw him weep over her. and kiss her band.
Not one but knew that it was tbe iJol of his heart who Jay there unan-
swermg.
Unanswering. It was terrible to see how her cold silence resisted all
their efforts. Death became infinitely more awful when it could make
so much beauty an(l gentleness implacable to every prayer of agonized
love. She was like a bird on which the tempest beats without being
able to ruffle a feather.
Science and affection exbausted them
el \Tes. They
truggled long
after they knew that their struggles were vain.
At last, when the da}T began to break, tbe doctor (hopped the cold
hand from his grasp. au(l turned away. He did not dare to say any-
thing, even to
fa(lame yon KJenze, who, all need for exertion past, gave
way to her grief and self-reproach. Bending over Camilla and caressing
her, she sobbed out her prayer for forgiveness. She felt. when too late,
bow false she had been to the real duty of friendship j how tbis poor
dove, beaten hither and thither by the storm, bad in vain sought a shel-
ter with bel'.
Don Filippo was roused by the sound of her weeping, and lift
d his
bead to look at her. He saw that all effort was abandoned, and that no
one else was near. The doctor was just passing out through a group of
servants clustered at tbe door. They whispereù their question, and
gazed anxiously in bis face.
lie answered them with a single w;.ord. .. Dead! .,
míllíat11 Lrígl)ton.
BOH'" ill Cambridge, 'Ia!"s., 18:3.3.
ODIX DETHRUXED.
[At the COll'rt of King Edu'in. A D'l'frma. 1878.]
SCENE: The Great Ilall of the Palace. The Rem and QUEEX in chairs of stale; beside
tlte ]Ú:ng, EARL BLECCA, COIFI, lords, and GOLDDIX: beside the Queen, the Princess
ENID, ladies, P AULIXUS, and priests. In front, KIXG PEXDA, BRIA]\; disguised ((S a
lIercian noble, Mercian lords, priests of Odin. etc. At sides and back, gU{lrds and
attendants. On one side, an armed figure 1'epl'e..;;enling Odin; on the otlter, a great
crucifix held by (t priest.
P ATLIN'GS. [liOÙdill!f tf) tlle crllc{tÌ;'c.] Here is a refuge in the
heart of Lm'e
From storm, and night, anù death,
1861-88]
WILLI.iJ.JI LEIGHTOK.
KING. "
isc Lord of Lincoln,
Beneath thy painted mask of poetry
And skilful picturing of words appears
Question too great for our philosophy:
The ceaseless wash of nature's waves, the years,
Laves with upri
ing crests our solvent lives,
'Vith sinking cblJ bears off a part of us
Into the sea of time. Afar that sea
Looks smooth as summer lake, more near in storm
It breaks on man, a billowy dash of spray
And so wilù tumult of mad agonies,
That death is rest anù haven from its rage;
But storm or rest, a constant menstruum
Of human life-that life, for briefness. like
The fleeting moments a spent swimmer keeps
His head above the '"ast and pitiless flood:
Then shall we see, in death, a hand of Love
Stretched upward mid the boiling wa'"es to save 1
Or some hugc kraken that all. hungrily
Sucks us adown to its insatiate Inaw?
PE1"DA. A nobler picture, if 80 brief be life,
A javelin's flight: it sings along the air
From Odin's hanù, and, crashing through shield-rim,
Dies there, blood-drunken; to he caught anou
Out of pierced shield, and wing again its flight.
But, to my mind, this life hath space cnoug'h
For largest honors: if my hap to till it
'Vith glory such as Criùa greatly won
Then glory shall assume enduring shape
'Like 10nlly palace huildl'C.l to the skies,
Speaking from lips of sculph1re1l ]'Iazonings
Yalor's grt
at acts; its shining pinnaclcs
Kcighhoring the stars; its famc enduring ever
'Vhile lm"c of glory stirs in hearts of men.
Kay, it is idlc prattle of life's shortness;
Life is too long if filled with idlenes
:
Quite long enough for Yalm's high rcno\\ n
And thoughts and acts that live renewed in hreath
Of minstrclsy, immortal in a song.
Lo! in the hall, the hungry feast is over,
And kitchen-knaves bear off the cmpty platters,
'YI1Ïle warriors loosen belts, and cry aln1HI,
To fill thc horn, and scnd it gaily muml.
Then while bright drops are sparkling in each heard
The king calls up his minstrel, hidding him
Pour forth the soul of glory on thc flood of song.
:Kow while hc sweeps his hfu.p, all l)('nd intent
To catch sweet notes; hut when in swelling tones
He sings of glory. lo! the warriors rise,
Push hack huge benches; from hright baldrÍf's pull
Their great swords out, and while the torchlight tlickers
95
96
WILLI.A
1f LEIGllTON.
On flashing blades, shout till the oaken roof
Sends back, each rib reverberate with din,
A great response to glory. Life is short?
Nay, it is great and deathless when i lives
On minstrel lips, thus summoned back again
From hollow vase, sea-cave, rich. marble tomb,
Or the rough cairn that marks u hero's grave-
Ay, deathless through all fortuneE save the chance
Of glory's death in man's degenerate heart.
'Vhat is the tame existence of dull years,
Though stretched by magic through unending time,
Crawling from bed to food, from food to bcd,
Compared to life eternal in the breath
Of song?
QUEEN. Ro would you (1rown each gentler note,
That Peace may sing of sweet affection's joys,
In drums of uattlc. Pray, most warlike king,
'Vby do you seck a queen? a carven thing
Cut of white ivory, and crowned with golrl,
,V ouId fill your chair of state, 0, set not there
A woman of warm heart, to feel that heart
('rushed :in such iron keeping, if you know
No dearer yearning than a "ictOl.'S hope,
Ko fonder thrill than comes of glory's song!
PEXDA.
Iy picture hangs with others on the wall;
"That t.ime hath frightenetlltird, or a spent swimmer,
To dream of lm"e? Turn your reproachful eyes,
Fair quecn, on him of Lincoln anù the king;
Perhaps my heart hath pulse of love as great
As either. These arc ot\ly pictures, lady,
And mine no more reality than theirs.
COIF!. I see 1I0t why we trifle thus with pictures
When great realities come face to face
'Vith idle fancies, pushing these shadows forth
Out of om' hearts. Too long have worshipped pictures
Helù our obedience. Look, how Odin stands,
Picture of might! If he were might indecd,-
Not hollow seeming, empty, shining armor
Set up in fashion of an armored man,-
",
ould he not leap from marble perlestal
To smite our sacrilege? I long have served
This idle god; have set hefore his face
The fairest things; upon his altars burn('d
Gifts of great price; the blood of slaughtered captives
Poured at his feet; hut yet he stood as now,
Only a })icture; and the power, I dreamed
Shut up in his mailed bosom, never once
Gave me a sign; yet still I served, and worshipped,
l"ntil the light of this new faith shone down,
And day dawned in my soul. Then I beheld,
In place of deity, an empty figure,
[1861-88
1861-88]
WILLIAJf LEIG HTO.N.
97
A shell of form and nothingness within,-
Nor like a shrivelled acorn with a germ
Of future life,-while prayerful at its feet
Knelt Illany nations offering sacrifice,
Burning rich gifts, and shedding human blood.
This sight. sostr:mge, awakened my contempt;
I laughed at it, and, fi11ed with scornful hoe,
Snatched thc great lancc-shaft from his nerveless hand,
And beat his helmet till the roof-tree rung
,yith noisy clatter, and the dinted brass
Bent with my blows. 0 lords, is this a thing
To worship, this dull god that may be Leaten
Like any drunken slåve ?
PENDA. Blaspheming dog!
Doth the round moon heed evcry snarling cur
That yc1 ps at his great disk?
A PInEST OF ODIN. Hear me, 0 king!
Nor decm great Odin's sleep, the sleep of death:
,y 01"11 with long vigils. at his mighty foot
I slumbered; waked to hear an awful voice,
Deep as the thunder,-while blue lightning played
About his helmet,-bid me bring 11Ïs shield,
The sculptured stone a hundred men in vain
Might strivc to move; I marvel1e<l, hut obeyed;
And when I touched the ponderous block, it stirred
As light as gossamcr, that therc I hung it
On the left arm of Odin; then he cried,
" Sleep on," and at his word I fell asleep;
But whcn I waked, looked upward tremblingly
"
he..e on the arm of Odin still there hung
The can"en stone-Then I cricd out; at which
It fell with frightful sound as if the wind
Split into tatters an enormous sail;
And I heheld the marvellous shield roll hack
To where I took it up; and many heard
The great stone fall. camc hastily, aJul saw
The form of Odiu shake, Llue tongues of fire
Still flaming round his helmet, while I lay
In tcrW1' at his feet.
COIF!. A stupid dream!-
This god is moveless, voiceless, powerless.
Behold, I wage my arm against his might!
Give me an axe, and I will smitc this image;
If it ùe not the senseless thing I say,
Let it smite back; but if I cast it down,
And stand unharmed, I have dethroned the god.
IÜ
G. Gi,oe him an axe.
[One of the soldiers of the King's gu,ard gives an axe to COIFI, who admnces to the statue
of Odin.]
COIFI. So fall the Æsir gods!
[COIFI raises the axe to strike.]
VOL. IX. - 7
98
WILLIAM LEIGHTON.
[1861-88
PENDA. So Odin strikes!
[PEYDA, 'll'ilh a 8word-th1-ust, kills COIF], who falls at the feet of the statue of Odin.]
1\:1:\G. 0 traitor !-Ho! my guard!
[Tlte lurds of Deira dmw tlteir sW01'ds, and, with the King's gu,ard, press forward ,. the
JJJercian lords close about their Iling u'l"tlt drawlt 8u'ords / while KING EDWIY advances
in front of PENDA. BRIAN leads EYID among tlle JJe1'cians.]
PENDA. Here at your feet, 0 Christian king, I cast
My vassalage. Set up your cross of Peace
In Deira; )Iercia knows no gods sa,'e those
Our fathers worshipped-" Traitor," do you say?
Nay, I am true unto my ancient faith,
And will not serve a traitor. There lies one
[Pointing to tlte body of COlFI.]
,V hose purchased hand presumed to soil his god
With its vile touch-one, you would make a king
For treachery; he was unkingly ever,
And past your kingly power to crown him now.
KING. Thy head shall lie as low!
PENDA. Then shall these halls
Be red with slaughter. I have filled your court
With l\Iercians, and will cut a bloody track
Back to my land. I ask nor peace, nor war;
But stawl prepared alike for either chance.
KING. .\. monstrous rebel!
QUEE
. Dear my lord, I pray thee,
Turn not thy court to a wild hattle-field;
Because I am no warrior, swords affright me;
Let the fierce Penda and his )[ercians go.
KING. Let it be so.
To KI
G PENDA. We give thee safely forth
To :l\Iercia; there full well defend thyself;
For, by yon crucifix, we swear to plant
The cross in every village of thy land!
PENDA. Hed will the soil of l\Iercia grow, 0 king,
About your plants. I take this offered truce;
And for the-Princess Enid, who will go
WIth me to )Iet'cia, will return the price
Of a king's ransom.
KING. Nay, we give her thee,
All ransom less, in payment of past service;
We wouillnot owe an enemy so much
As is thy due; and thus we cancel it.
So, having paid old scores, we now may feel
The only debt we owe is present due
Of bold rebellion. Go; the path is clear
That leads to 1[ercia.
PENDA. l\Iercia, by my hand,
N ow breaks her chains; no recreant to the gods
Shall claim her service. For this courtesy,
Your gift of Gwynedll's princess, 'tis set down
1861-88]
ISAAC DILL BROMLEY.
99
As a new debt to courtesy; all debts else
Cancelled, my country oweth naught but this.
Now, King of Deb"a. Pend a, King of Mercia,
No more a vassal, giveth hi8 farewells.
He gaily bids you to his wedding feast,
You and your court-a welcome unto all;
Or choosing rather war, come with your hosts,
And still he promises a kingly welcome.
[ Exeunt.]
jJ
aac
íll 'Brot1\lc!,.
BORN in Norwich, Conn., 1833.
THE NOBLE TETON SIOUX.
[The New- York Tribune, 1875.]
HOW beautiful the picture of tbe Red )fan of the Forest walking
westward with measured tread and sometimes tangled locomotion,
sustained and soothed by the unfaltering arm of the Indian agent.
Barbarism fans back slowly before the onward march of Progress and
Civilization, but Philanthropy sends out at the nation's expense a
sbining band of agents and traders, wbo smooth the Red Man's path-
way to the setting sun with whiskey of an inferior quality but tremen-
dous power, and who see to it tbat when the Doble savage reaches the
goal of his earthly career and wraps the draperJ- of bis couch about him,
the drapery shall be such as has paid several bundred per cent. profit to
the trader, with the privilege of reversion. No finer picture could be
than of the Indian and the agent walking we
tward together; Govern-
ment supplying the Indian, tbe Indian snpplying the agent, and the
agent making remittances East. Complete and harmonious circle of
operations. Here is no complication of relations, no balance of trade,
no delicate adjustments; nothing but a simple process of drawing from
tbe Treasury in the name of the untutored savage, on behalf of tbe
tutored agent. It is the refinement of simplicity as well as philan-
thropy.
Nothing in the annals of our country can equal the generosity with
which the American People bave treated the original owners of the soil.
The amount of money that has been paid for the maintenance and sup-
port of each individual Indian in the countr.\- would, if ciphered out and
tabulated, aðtonish the effete monarchie
. It hns always been the policy
of the Government to do the hanùsome thing oy the Iudians. For :y<'ars
100
ISAAC HILL BROJ.'JfLEY.
[1861-88
and years we have watched their retreating forms with unmixed
adness,
have pursued them with our sympathies and emigrant trains, and for
the sake of old associations in part and partly for agricultural purposes,
have occupied the lands they abandoned. We have made large and
frequent appropriations for their benefit, and some of the most bril1iant
and acute statesmen of this or any period have watched with constant
interest the flow of money from the Treasury to the Red1fan, and have
amassed handsome fortunes by simply Rtanding by and seeing that every-
thing went right. 'Ve have made treaties with tbem as with indepen-
dent nations, and at the same time maintained them aR Government
wards. We have sent them the agent and trader as examples in the
process of Christianization, furnished them with rifles and ammunition
to keep the peace, and promoted contentment and quiet with whiske)
of
the highest projectile force. We have tried various policies upon them
in the determination to have them suited, and occasionally, to show
there was nothing mean about us, have sent them a Major-General's
scalp. l\{ore than al1 this, we have sent a class of men to deal with them
with whom in vigor and dash and grip for currency tbe bounty-jumpers
of the late war bear no comparison.
And with a1l this the Indian is not happy.
He complains that there is not enough of him, and that he cannot
repeat as he would. A noble Sioux, for instance, whose share of the
appropriation, before it goes through the usual sweating process, is about
sufficient to support a small family in :\Iadison-ayenue, finds that when
the bounty which this great and glorious Government gi\Tes him for being
red in color, and bandy with hair, and wearing only one garment, reaches
him, it will hardly buy a drink of the trader's commonest whiskey. So
he moves away and organizes another tribe. r:l'be Department of the
Interior hears of his dissatisfaction and forthwith sends a commission
out to meet him and negotiate with him. Discovered in the stage of
intoxication, at which the imagination is most active and numbers are
of small consequence, he answers mathematical conundrums in the large
way of a lord of the soil. The Department recognizes him as a tribe
and calls him, for instance, the Teton Sioux. He says there are 1,400
lodges of him. The Department at once estimåtes cight souls to a lodge
and computes him at 11.200. 'Vhat could the Department ùo then but
ask for an appropriation of $500.000 for him? The amount was voted.
Parties were sent out from tbe Department to find this Teton Sioux and
present him, on behalf of the Government, with $500,000, less mileage
and expenses of the commission. The expedition failed. The Teton
Sioux, who was 11,200, had gone away, and the Committee, which com-
prised some of the best talent in the Department, could not find bim.
They found another one, however, who was reasonably sober, and was
1861-88]
ISAAC HILL BRO.J.JILEY.
101
only about 6,000 Teton Sioux. They came back aud made an appro-
priation of $200,000 to him, and sent it to him by the usual channels.
Nothing has since been heard of him, but it is supposed that he got
tired, as wen of being so many as of waiting so long, and suffered
absorption into some tribe, or perhaps a sea-cbange into sometbing rich
and strange. Notbing so kindles the enthusiasm of tbe Interior Depart-
ment as the knowledge that a Teton Sioux is wandering tbrough l\Ion-
tana or Dakota in a state of savage unrest. Immediately a committee
from the Department goes for the Teton, finds him nomadic and discon-
tented, says to him, "How many art thou, 0 Teton?" and conjures him
by his expectation of a lodge in the happy hunting-grounds to enter into
a treaty and consent to accept an appropriation from the Government.
Having obtained his reluctant consent to receive aid from the oppressor,
tbe Department gets an appropriation and divides it among deserving
persons who support the Administration on account of its admirable
Indian policy.
'Vho would not, under such circumstances, be an Indian-or at least
an Indian agent? 'Vho would not unite with the poet in the aspiration,
" I want to be an Indian and with tbe Indians stand?" Let us mourn
that the red men are disappearing from the whiskey shops of tbe frontier,
but let us give the Interior Department the credit it deserves for making
the most of them while they remain.
THE SEASON OF RAMP AG E.
[The New-York Trib'une. 1874.]
F ALLS now upon the crimson fringe of the flying October the flut-
ter of unusual stationery, the printed "bugle blasts" with which
the Committee rouses the apathetic voter to patriotic action. The poster
and the handbill, the circular, the call, and tbe address fall as the leaves
fall into the lap of Autumn, startling tbe sober citizen with reminders of
his political privileges and dnties and harrowing his feelings with con-
undrums of the gravest magnitude in type of the most serious and
threatening character. The voice of tbe Committee is heard in the land.
The man who saves his country and delivers the tax-payers from tbe
grasp of plunderers and highwaymen leans p:racefully at an angle of
about forty-five against the bar of public opinion, or some other, anù
a:::suages his patriotic thirst with fluids of the most positive character
while he dec1aims upon the subject of government, and his stately pro-
boscis takes on the gorgeous hues of the American forest. " lIeadquar-
102
ISAAC HILL BROMLEY.
[1861-88
tel's" break out with the most exasperating transparencies in the most
unexpected places, or become confluent with the obtrusive saloon and
the gilded gin-mill.
1
he reticent barkeeper recognizes the emergency and throws states-
manlike remarks into the swirl of discussion that eddies and gurgles
around him. Now ablebodied persons offer bets at various odds, and
beefy-cheeked sovereigns indulge in prophecies. Political economists
gather in corner groceries, and in full view of the painted exhortation
" Do not spit on the stove," proceed to expectorate wildly as they con-
template the bruised and bleeding condition of the Republic. And
now shortly will come from all the organs a full chorus of appeals in
behalf of the" aged and infirm voter." Communities will he urged to
look out for him, to see to him, to get him out early in the morning, to
send for him with wagons and phaetons and hacks and
tage-coaches,
and to keep at work upon him till all of him has voted, and voted right.
Young persons will be addressed in the most eloquent terms upon the
subject of their rights and duties, and no man of any age, complexion,
or condition will escape the inquiry, "Have you registered?" It will
be flung in his face at breakfast, it will meet him at his place of busi-
ness, he will encounter it on hi
return to his :fireside, he will have it
in his
oup. Dead walls will follow him with it, the curbstones will
throw it up at him, and wagons with transparencies will accompany him
up and down town wherever he goes, with the contin ual reminder.
For ten days coming there will be, every day with a sort of increas-
ing emphasis and loudness, the suggestion that the day" is coming and
growing nearer all the time. Bets will increase, noses grow redder, a
great many persons in political life will, as General Sharpe remarked the
other evening, "feel the touch of elbows," and a great many more
elbows will be crooked and uplifted afterwards; the country will draw
near utter destruction, and still nearer, and then the voting will begin.
that is to finish everything and close the last chapter in history. After
that the votes win be counted, and there will be bonfires, and perhaps
guns, and the next clay a great many disinterested persons will have the
headache. It is more than likely, too, that the country will go right on
afterward very much as though it had not been ruined. Let us hope so.
1861-88]
DA VID ROSS LOCKE.
103
abítJ mO
Loche.
BORN in Vestal, Broome Co., N. Y., 1833. DIED in New York, N. Y.. 18&.
MR. NASBY FINDS A NEW BUSINE
S WHWH PROMISES AMPLE
PROFITS,
[The Struggles-Social, Financial, and Political-vi Petroleum Y. Nasby. 1872.]
POST OFFIS, CONFEDRIT x ROADS,
(wich is in the StRit uv Kentucky),
January 20, 1869.
I HEV it at last! I see a lite! A grate lite! a brite lite! I shan
not go to Noo York, nor shall I be forced to leave the Corners, at
least permanently. I hev at last struck ile! I shel live like a gentle-
man; I shel pay for my likker, and be on an ekal footin with otber
men. Bascom, whose smile is happiness, but whose frown is death, will
smile onto me wunst more.
To }liss Soosan 'Murphy I owe my present happiness. The minnit I
notist that she hed put in a claim agin the Government for property
yoosed doorin the war by Fedral soljery, I to-wunst 8aw where my finan-
shel salvasben wuz. Immejitly I histed my shingle ez a agent to pros-
sekoot claims agin the Government for property destroyed or yoosed
dOOl'in the late onpleasantnis, by Fedral troops. That shingle bedn't
bin ont an hour before Joe Bigler hed red it to half the citizens uv tbe
Corners, and in two hours I heel biznis on my hands, and money in my
pockets. Ez a matter uv course, I insisted upon a retainin fee uv ten
don aI's in each case.
Issaker Gavitt and his two younger brothers wuz the first clients I
hed. Their case is one u\- pekoolyer bardship, and I feel a
hoored that
Congris will to-wunst afford em the releef they ask. The property
destroyed wuz a barn and its contents, wich wuz destroyed by Bue! in
tbe second yeer uv the war; that is, the contents wood hev bin destroyed
only they wuzn't in the barn, ez they hed bin sold jist previously to
the Confedrac,V. But ez the Elder, peace to his ashes, took Confedrit
munny for sed contents, wich munny he, in a moment uv entboosiasm,
invested in Confedrit bonds, wich finally got to be worth nothin, we put
in a claim for the valyoo uv the contents ez wen ez uv the barn. Bein
70 veal'S uv age when the war l,roke out, he did not volunteer in the
Co
fedrit service, and consequently never fired a" shot at the Old Flag.
His two youngest sons did, it is troo, but the Elder can't be helù respon-
sible for them boys. The e
tate is entitled to damage jist tbe same ez
tho the Elder wuz alive.
104
i
DA YID ROSS LOCKE.
[1861-88
Elder Pennibacker bez also claims to a considerable amount, wicb is
for fences, crops, barns, and sich, destroyed by Fedral armies. The
Elder is not quite certain but that the fences wuz destroyed by order uv
a Confedrit General, wicb wuz retreetin, and it is possible that the crops,
barns, and sich, wuz yoosed up at the sam
time. It wuz doorin tbe
war, at any rate, and ez the Fedral Government wuz, in his opinyun, to
blame for the war, wich never wood' hev bin carried on bed it yeelded
ez it ought to hev done, why tbe Fedral Government ought to pay all
these losses. U v course I shan't put an tbe Elder'F: talk into the petishen.
Miss Jane }fcGrath's case, wich is the one I shel push the hardest, is
one wich, ef Congris does not consider favorably, it will show that Con-
gris hez no bowels. Miss McGrath is a woman. U v course doorin the
war she wuz loyal, ez she understood loyalty. Sbe beleeved in her
State. Sbe bed two brothers which went into the Confedrit servis, and
she gave em both horses. But wood any sister let her brother go afoot?
Them horses must be set down to the credit u v her sisterly afIeckshun.
It will be showed, I make no doubt, that when bel' oldest brother's regi-
ment (he wuz a Colonel) left for the seat u v war, that Miss McGrath pre-
sented to it a soot uv colors wich she made with her own bands, wich
soot included a black flag with skull amI cross-bones onto it. Sposin
sbe did? It wuz loyalty to wat she considered her State. And the fact
tbat doorin tbe war sbe rode twelve miles to inform a Confedrit officer
that four Fedral soljers wich hed escaped from Andersonville wuz hid in
her barn, shood not operate agin bel'. Onto bel' piano ther wuz a choice
collection uv Southern songs, and }her is a rumor that in Louisville
wunst she did spit in the face uv a Fedral offiser: but wat uv that? Is
a great Government goin to inquire closely into sich trifles? :Miss
McGrath give me tbe names uv three Fedral Generals who campt on bel'
place doorin the last year uv the war, wich wood certify to her loyalty,
wich, ef they didn't, wood show that there wuzn't any gratitood in
humanity.
Deekin Pogram hez uv course a claim. The Deekin's horses wuz all
taken by a Feùral offiser, wich wuz the more aggravatin, ez the Deekin
hed, in addishen to his own, jist bought 25, wich be wuz to hev deliv-
ered to General :Morgan, uv the Confedracy, tbe next day, who wuz to
hev paid for em in gold. Tbey were gobbled. For these horses the
Deekin claims payment. He wuz, doorin the war, strictly nootra1.
Kentucky did not secede, neither did the Deekin. nis boys went into
the Confedrit service, and on several occasions he might hev cleaned his
trusty rifle and gone out at nite to git a crack at Fedral pickets. lIabit
is strong, and ez ther were no schoolmasters to shoot, the Deekin must
shoot somethin. He considered the war a great misforchoon, and many
a time hez the old patriark, with teers streemin down bis cheeks,
1861-88]
DA VID ROSS LOCKE.
105
exclaimed, "\Vhy won't Linkin witbdraw bis troops and let us alone? "
He hez bin since the close uv tbe struggle a hankerin arter Peece.
., Let us hev Peece!" is his cry. "Give me back my niggers; let me
bev things ez they wunce wuz, and I shel btJ sootbed into q uietood."
He voted for
Iicklellan in 1864, and for Seymour in 1868, but that nv
course won't count agin him in tbe matter uv the claim. The minnit
be decided to put in the claim he withdrew from the Ku-Klux. llV wich
associashun be bez bin chief for this seckshun. He"s sorry now that he
sbot any niggers since the close of the war. He is an inoffensive old
man, whose pathway to the tomb needs soothin. The horses be lost he
counts worth $10,000, and he uv course wants remuneration to the
amount uv $10,000 more for the anguish he suffered seein uv em go.
Almost every white citizen uv the Corners hez a claim, uv wich I
shel hey the prosekootin; that is them wicb kin raise the retainin fee.
Some hundred or more wbo never hed anything before or doorin the war,
and who are in the same condisben now, hey put in claims for sum::;
rangin from $10,000 to $20,000, offerin me the half I git. I may take
em. They kin swear to each otber's loyalty, wicb will redoose the cost
uv evidence to a mere nominal sum.
I shel hie me to \Vashinton and get :Mrs. Cobb to take hold with me,
givin her a share. Ef she succeeds with Congris ez well ez she did
with tbe President, the result will be all that I kin desire.
PETROLEUM V. NASBY, P. M.
(wich is Postmaster).
},fR. NASBY LOSES HIS POST OFFICE.
[From the Same.]
ON A FARM, THREE MILES FROM CONFEDRIT x ROADS !
(wich is in the Stait uv Kentucky),
June 20, 186D.
T HE die is cast! The guilloteen hez fallen! I am no longer Post-
master at Confedrit x Roads, wich is in the State uv Kentucky.
The place wich knowd me wunst will know me no more forever; the
paper wich Deekin Pogram takes will be handed out by a nigger; a
nigger will hey the openin uv letters addre
sed to parties residin here-
abouts, containin remittances: a nigger will hey tbe riflin uv letters
adJrest to lottry managers, and extractin the sweets therefrom; a nigger
will be.- But I can't dwell upon the disgustin theme no lonp-er.
I bed bin in Washington two weeks assistill the Caucashens uv that
city to put their foot upon the heaùs uv the cu::;siJ niggers \VIlo ain't
106
DA VID ROSS LOCKE.
[1861-88
content to accept the situashen and remain ez they alluz hev bin, infe-
rior beins. Tu say I hed succeeded, is a week expreshen. I organized
a raid onto em so effectooally ez to drive no less than thirty uv em out
uv emplo.,y'ment, twenty-seven uv wich wuz compelled to steel their
bread, wich gi ve us a splendid opportoollity to show up tbe nateral cus-
sidness uv the Afrikin race, wich we improved.
On my arrival at tbe Corners, I knew to-WUTIst tbat suthin wuz wrong.
The bottles behind the bar wuz draped in black; the barrels wuz fes-
tooned gloomily (wich is our yoosual method of expressin grief at pub-
lie calamities), and the premises generally wore a funeral aspeck.
" 'Vat is it?" gasped 1.
Bascom returned not a word, but waved his hand towards the Post
o ffis.
Rushin thither, I bustid open the door, and reeled almost agin the
wall. AT THE GENERAL DELIVERY WUZ THE GRINNIN FACE UV A NIG-
GER! and settin in my chair wuz Joe Bigler, with Pollock beside him,
smokin pi pes, and laffin over suthin in a noosepaper.
Bigler caught site uv me, and dartin out, pulled me inside them
hitherto sacred precinks.
"Permit me," sed he, jeerinly, "to interdoose you to yoor successor,
Mr. Ceezer Lubby."
"My SlTCCESSOR! Wat does this mean?"
"Show him, Ceezer!"
And the nigger, every tooth in his head shinin, handed me a com-
mishn dooly made out anù signed. I saw it all at a glance. I hed left
my biznis in the hands uv a depetty. It arrived the day after I left, and
Isaker Ga\Titt, who distrihbited the mail, gave it to the cuss. Pollock
made out tbe bonds and went onto em himself, and in ten days the com-
mishn come all regIer, whereupon Bigler backt the nigger and took
forcible possession uv the office. "\Vhile I wuz absent they hed hed a
percession in honor uv the joyful event, sed perceshn consistin uv Pol-
lock, Bigler, and the new Postmaster, who marched through the streets
with the stars and stripes, banners and sich. Bigler remarkt that the
percession wl1zn't large, but it wuz talented, eminently respectable, and
extremely versateel. He (Bigler) carried the flag and played the fife;
Pollock carried a banner with an inscripshen onto it, "Sound tbe loud
timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea," and played the Lass drum; while tbe
nigger bore aloft a banner inscrihed, "'Vhere Afric's sunny fountins
roll down the golden sands," with his commission pinned onto it, playin
in addisben a pair uv anshent cymbals. Bigler remarkt further that the
perceshun created a positive sensashun at the Corners, wich I shood
think it wood. "It wuzn't," sed the tormentin cuss, "very much like
the grand percession wich took place when yoo received yoor commishn.
1861-88]
DA VID ROSS LOCKE.
107
Then the whites at tbe Corners wuz elated, for they spectid to git wat
yoo owed em in doo time, and the Diggers wuz correspondinly deprest.
They slunk into by-ways and side-ways; they didn't hold up their
heads, and they dusted out ez fast ez they cood git. At this percession
there wuz a change. The niggers lined tbe streets ez we passed, grin-
nin exultinl}7, and tbe whites wuz deprest correspondinly. It's singler
that at the Corners the two races can't feel good both at the same time.
:My arrival hevin become known. by tbe time I got back to Bascom's
all my friends hed gatbered there. There wuzn't a dry eye among em ;
and ez I tbot u v the joys once tastid, but now forever fled, mine moist-
ened likewise. There wuz a visible change in their manner towards me.
They regarded me with solisitood, but I cood discern that the solisitood
wuz Hot so much for me ez for themselves.
" vVat shel I do?" I askt. "Sutbin must be devised, for I can.t
starve."
"Pay me wat yoo owe me!" ejakelatid Bascom.
"Pay me wat yoo owe me!" ejakelatid Deekin Pogram, and the
same remark wuz made by all uv em with wonderful yoonanimity.
'Vatever differences uv opinyun ther mite be on other topics, on this
they wuz all agreed.
U Gentlemen!" I commenced, backing out into a corner, "is this gen-
erous't Is this the treatment I hev a right to expect? Is this -"
I shood bev gone on at lengtb, but jist at that minnit Pollock, Joe
Bigler, and tbe new Postmaster entereù.
"I hev biznis!" sed the Postmaster; "not agreeable biznis, but it's
my offishel dooty to perform it."
At the word "offishel," comin from his lips, I groaned, wich wuz
ekkoed by tho5<e pre
ent.
"I hev in my hand," continyood he, "de bond. giben by my prede-
cessor, onto wich is de names uv George 'V. Bascom, Elkanab Pogram,
Hugh l\IcPelter, and Seth Pennibacker, ez sureties. In dis oder Land I
bold a skedool ob de property belongin to de 'partment wich wuz turned
ober to bim by his predecessor, com:istin of table, chairs, boxes, locks,
bags, et set try, wid sundry dollars worf of stamps, paper, twine, &c.
None ob dis post offis property, turned over to my preùecessor by bis
rredeces
or, is to be found in de offis, and de objick oh dis visit is to
notify yoo dat onless immejit payment be made uv de amount thereof,
I am directed by de 'partment to bring
oot to-wunst against the sed
sureties."
Never before did I so appreciate A. Johnson, and his Pustmaster-
General Randan. Under their administrashen wat Postmaster wuz ever
pulled up for steel in anythill
Eko anser
. This wuz the feather that
broke tbe camel's back.
.
108
ROBERT GREEN INGERSOLL.
[1861-88
U v course I can't go back to the Corners under eggslRtm circum-
stances. It wood be uncomfortable for me to live there ez matters hev
terminated. I shel make my way to \Yashinton, and shel see if I can't
git myself electid ez :Manager of a Labor Assosation, and so make a
livin till there comes a change in tbe Administrashen. I wood fasten
myse1f on A. Johnson, but unforchnitly there ain't enuff in him to tie to.
I would ez soon think uv tyin myse1f to a car wheel in a storm at sea.
PETROLEUM V. N .ASBY
(wich wuz Post
raster).
taobcrt <!ðtCcn j;ngCtS5oll.
BORN in Dresden, N. y" 1833.
SELECTIONS FRO
I HIS ORATORY AND WRITINGS.
[Prose Poems. 1884.-Rel.,'i8ed Edition. 1888.]
ARRAHA
I LINCOLN.
S TRANGE mingling of mirth and tears, of the tragic and grotesque,
of cap and crown, of Socrates and Rabelais, of Æsop and
farcus
Aurelius, of all tbat is gentle and jus
, humorous and honest, merciful,
wise, laughable, lovable, and di vine, and all consecrated to the use of
man; while through all, and over all, an overwhelming sense of obliga-
tion, of chivalric loyalty to truth, and upon aU, the shadow of the tragic
end.
Lincoln was not a type. He stands alone-no ancestors, no fellows,
and no successors. He had the advantage of living in a new country, of
social equality, of personal freedom, of seeing in the horizon of his future
the perpetual star of hope. IIe preserved his individuality and his se1f-
respect. He knew and mingled with men of every kind; and, after aU,
men are the best books. He became acquainted with the ambitions and
hopes of the heart, the means used to accomplish ends. the springs of
action and the seeds of thought. He was familiar with nature, with
actual things, with common fact
. He loved and appreciated the poem
of the year, the drama of the seasons.
Lincoln was a many-sided man, acquainted with smiles and tears, com-
plex in brain, single in heart, direct as light; and his words, candid as
mirrors, gave the perfect image of his thought. He was never afraid to
ask-never too dignified to admit that he did not know. No man had
keener wit, or kinder humor. He was not solemn. Solemnity is a mask
1861- f)8]
ROBERT GREEN I.NGERSOLL.
109
worn by ignorance and hypocrisy-it is the preface, prologue, and index
to the cunuing or tbe stupid. He was natural in his life and thought-
master of the story-teller's art, in illustration apt. in application p;rfect,
liberal in F:peech, shocking Pharisee
and prudes. using any word that
wit cou lel disinfect.
He was a logician. Logic is the nece
sary product of intelligence and
sincerity. It cannot be learned. It is the child of a clear head and a
good heart. He was candid, and with candor often deceived the deceit-
ful. IIe had intellect without arrogance, genius without pride, and
religion without cant-that is to say, without bigotry and without
deceit.
He was an orator-clear, sincere, natural. He did not pretend. He
did not say what he thought others thought, but what he thought. If
you wish to be sublime you mu
t be natural-you must keep close to
the grass. You must sit by the fireside of the heart: above the clouds
it is too cold. You mURt he simple in your speech: too much polish
suggests insincerity. The great orator idealizes the real, transfigures the
common, makes even the inanimate throb and thrill. fin
the gallery of
tbe imagination with statues and pictures perfect in form and color,
brings to light the gold hoarded by memory the miser, shows the glitter-
ing coin to the spendthrift hope, enriches the brain, ennobles the heart,
and quickens the conscience. Between his lips words bud and blossom.
If you wish to know the difference between an orator and an elocu.
tionis"t-between what is felt and what is said-between what the heart
and brain can do together and what the brain can do alone-read Lin-
coln's wondrous words at Gettysburg, and then the speech of Edward
Everett. The oration of Lincoln will never be forgotten. [t will live
until languages are dead and lips are dust. The speech of Everett win
never be read. The elocutionists belie\-e in the virtue of voice, the sub-
limity of syntax, the majesty of long sentences, and the genius of ges-
ture. The orator loves the real, the simple, the natural. He places the
thought above all. IIe knows that the greatest ideas should he expressed
in the shortest words-that the greatest statues need the least drapery.
Lincoln was an immense personality-firm but not obstinate. Obsti-
nacy is egotism-firmness, beroism. He influenced others without
eflort, unconsciously; and they submitted to him as men submit to
nature, unconsciously. Hc was severe with himself, and for that reason
lenient with others. He appeared to apologize for being kinder than his
fenows. He did merciful thing
as stealthily as others committed crimes.
Almost ashamed of tenderne
s, be said and did the noblest worùs and
deeds with that charming confusion, tbat awkwardness. that is the per-
fect grace of modesty. As a noble man, wishing to pay a small debt to
a poor neighbor, reluctantly offers a hundred-dollar bill and asks for
110
ROBER1' GREE.N iNGERSOLL.
[ltìGl-88
cbange, fearing that he may be suspected either of making a display of
wealth or a pretense of pa,yment, so Lincoln hesitated to show bis wealth
of goodness, even to the best he kne'W.
A great man stooping, not wishing to make bis fellows feel that tbey
were small or mean.
He knew others, because perfectly acquainted with himself. He cared
nothing for place, but everything for principle; nothing for money, but
everything for independence. lV-here no principle was involved, easily
swayed-willing to go slowly if in the right direction-sometimes will-
ing to etop; but he would not go back, amI he would not go wrong.
He was willing to wait. He knew that the event was not waiting, and
that fate was not the fool of chance. He knew that slavery had defend-
ers, but uo defense, and that they wbo attack the right must wound
tbemselves. He was neither tyrant nor slave. He neither knelt nor
scorned. '\"'ith him. men were neither great nor small,-they were right
or wrong. Tbrough manners, clothes, titles, rags, and race he saw the
real-that which is. Beyond accident, policy, compromise, and war he
saw the end. He was patient as Destiny, whose undecipherab1e hiero-
glyphs were so deeply graven on his sad and tragic face.
Notbing discloses real cbaracter like the use of power. It is easy for
the weak to be gentle. Most people can bear adversity. But jf you
wish to know what a man really is, give him power. Tbis is tbe
supreme test. It is the glory of Lincoln that, having almost absolute
power. he never abused it, except upon the side of mercy.
'Vealth could not purcbas(>, pow
r could not awe, this di\'ine, this
loving man. He knew no fear except tbe fear of doing wrong. Hating
slavery, pitying the master-seeking to conquer, not persons, but preju-
dices-he was the embodiment of the self-denial, the courage, the hope,
and the nobility of a nation. He spoke, not to inflame, not to upbraid,
but to convince. lie raised his hands, not to strike, but in benediction.
lie longed to pardon. He loved to see the pearls of joy on the cheeks
of a wife whose husband he bad rescued from death.
Lincoln was the grandest figure of the fiercest civil war. He is the
gentlest memory of our world.
(\ ',\U
LIFE. yr
Life is a narrow vale between tbe cold and barren peak} of two
eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heiglht
'Ve cry
aloud, and the only answer is tbe ecbo of our wailing
From the
voiceless lips of tbe unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the
night of death hope sees a star and listening 10\Te can bear the rustle of
a wIng.
He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking tbe approach of death for
1861-88]
ROBEIlT GREEN INGERSOLL.
III
the return of health, whispered with his latest breath: II I am better
now." Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears,
that these dear words are true of
he countless dead.
7
ART AXD MORALITY.
The artist, working simply for the sake of enforcing a moral. becomes
a laborer. The freedom of genius is lost, and tbe artist is absorbed in
the citizen. The soul of the real artist should be moved by this melody
of proportion as the body is unconsciously swayed by the rhythm of a
symphony. No one can imagine that the great men who chi:5eled the
statues of antiquity intended to teach the youth of Greece to be obedi-
ent to their parents. vVe cannot believe that .Michael Angelo painted
his grotesque and somewhat vulgar" Day of Judgment" for the purpose
of reforming Italian thieves. The subject was in all probability selected
by his employer, and the treatment was a question of art, without the
slightest reference to tbe moral effect, even upon priests. 'Ve are per-
fectly certain that Corot painted those infinitely poetic landscapes, those
cottages, those sad poplars, those leafless vines on weather-tinted walls,
those quiet pools, those contented cattle, those fields flecked with light,
over which bend the skies, tender as the breast of a mother, without
once thinking of the ten commandments. There is the same difference
between moral art and the proùuct of true genius that there is between
prudery and virtue.
The novelists who endeavor to enforce what they are pleased to call
"moral tru ths " cease to be artists. They create two kinds of charac-
ters-types and caricatures. The first never has lived, and the second
never will. The real artist produces neither. In his pages you will
find individuals, natural people, who have the contradictions and incon-
sistencies inseparable from humanity. The great artists "hold the
mirror up to nature," and this mirror reflects with absolute accuracy.
The moral and the immoral writers-that is to say, tho8e who have
some object besides that of art-use convex or concave mirrors, or those
with uneven
mrfaces, and the result is that the images are monstrous and
deformed. The little novelist and the little artist deal either in the
impossible or the exceptional. The men of geni us touch the universal.
Their words and works throb in unison with the great ebb and flow of
things. They write anù work for all races and for all time.
It has been the object of thousands of reformers to destroy the pas-
sions, to do away with desires; and could this object be accomplished,
life would beco
1e a burden, with but one desire-that is to say, the
dc
ire for extinction. Art in its highest forms increases passion, gives
tone and color and zest to life. But while it increa:5c:5 pa:::;sioll, it refines.
112
ROBERT GREEN INGERSOLL.
[1861-88
It extends the horizon. The bare necessities of life constitute a prison,
a dungeon. Under the infl uence of art the walls expand, the roof rises,
and it becomes a temple.
Art is not a sermon, and the artist is not a preacher. Art accom-
plisbes by indirection. r.!.'he beautiful refine:,. The perfect in art sug-
gests the perfect in conduct. The harmony in music teaches, without
intention, the lesson of proportion in life. The bird in his song has no
moral purpose, anù yet the influence is humanizing. The beautiful in
nature acts through appreciation and sympathy. It does not brow beat,
neither does it humiliate. It is beautiful without regard to you. Roses
would be unbearable if in their red and perfumed hearts were mottoes
to the effect that bears eat bad boys and" that honesty is the best policy.
Art creates an atmosphere in which the proprieties, the amenities, and
the virtues unconsciously grow. The rain does not lecture the seed.
The light does not make rules for the vine and flower.
THE AGE OF FAITH.
For a thousand years Faith reigned, with scarcely a rebellious subject.
Her temples were "carpeted with knees," and the wea1th of nations
adorned her countle
s shrines. The great painters prostituted their
genius to immortalize her vagaries, while the poets enshrined them in
song. At her bidding. man covered the earth with blood. The scales of
Justice were turned with her gold, and for her use were invented all tbe
cunning instruments of pain. She J:mi1t cathedrals for God, and d un-
geons for men. She peopled the clouds with angels and the earth with
slaves. The veil between heaven and earth was always rent or lifted.
The shadows of this world, the radiance of heaven, and the glare of heU
mixed anù mingled until man became uncertain as to which country he
really inhabited. Man dwelt in an unreal world. He mistook his ideas,
his dreams, for real things. His fears became terrible and malicious
monsters. lIe lived in the midst of furies and fairies, nymphs and
naiads, goblins and ghosts, witches and wizards,
prites and spooks,
deities and devils. The obscure and gloomy depths were filled with
claw and wing-with beak and hoof, with leering looks and sneering
mout.bs, with the malice of deformity, with the cunning of hatred, and
with aU the slimy forms that fear can Jraw and paint upon the shadowy
canvas of the dark.
It is enough to make one almost insane with pity to think what man
in the long night has suffered; of the tortures he has endured, sur-
rounded. as he supposed, by malignant powers, and clutched by the
fierce phantoms of the air. No wonder that he fell upon his trembling
knees-that he built altars and redùened them even with his own blood.
1861-88]
TRAC Y ROBINSON.
113
No wonder that be implored ignorant priests and impudent magicians
for aid. No wonder tbat he crawled grovelling in the dust to the tem-
ple's door, and there, in the insanity of despair, besought the deaf gods
to bear bis bitter cry of agony and fear.
'\[tac1! mobtn
on.
BORN in Clarendon, Orleans Co., ;-;l. Y., 1833.
THE )IAJORITY.
[Song of the Palm, and Other Poems. 1888.]
HOW fare they all, they of the pallid faces,
Beyond our power to beckon their return Y
How is it with them, in the silent places?
How shall we learn
Their solemn secret? How can we discover,
By any earnest seeking, the true way
Unto the knowing in what realm they hover?
In what high day,
Or in what sombre shadows of the night,
They are forever hidden from our sight?
We question vainly. Yet it somehow pleases,
'Vhen they have spoken the last sad good-bye,
It somehow half the pain of parting eases,
That in the sky,
In the vast solitudes of starS and spaces,
There may be consciousncss and life and hope;
And that when we must yield to Ðeath's embraces,
There may be scope
For the unfolding of the better powers,
So sadly stifled in this life of ours.
VOL. IX.-8
114
JUNIUS HENRI BROWNE.
[1861-88
g; U1ttuø
e1ttí 1Broú)1tc.
BORN in Seneca Falls, N. Y., 1833.
MARRIAGE IS COl\IP ANIONSHIP.
[Women as Oompanions.-The Galaxy, 1873.]
W 01IAN is tbe complement of man, and in their union, which
rightly understood means companionship, unity consists. Union,
as commonly interpreted, signifies merely a legal tie-made legal that it
may bind in the absence of other bonds. Genuine companionship forms
no part of it. There is a species of association, rather material than
spiritual, for a few hours out of the twenty-four, and that is all. Practi-
cal duties absorb the man; domestic obligations consume the woman.
Their thoughts, their activities, their spheres are different. They
touch each other only at the point of mutual interest. Beyond that
their existences are unfamiliar and flow apart. They seldom have the
delightful middle ground-the welcome oasis in the Libya of life-on
which their inner selves may meet. Or, if they have, it is too narrow
for them both, because they have made it narrow. One may stand
there and watch and wait; but the other, though near, is distant-will
not come-will not hear the cooing of the heart. His labors and anxi-
eties tire him; her endless occupations and cares weary anù wear on her.
To him home is simply a couch; to.her it is a toilsome field, where the
harvest is never gathered. They work and sleep, and sleep and work;
and from their dreary daily round èontentment slips away, aspiration
falls to the ground.
For such couples there can be no cpmpanionsbip; they are mere part-
ners in business, in which the finer issues of achievement are indefinitely
postponed. They have a hearthstone, but no altar; a refuge, but no
sanctuary; a temple, but no gods. They have relations without sympa-
thies; associations without affinities; communication without commu-
nion. They hold the creed and perform the rites of the affections, but
they never ask for, since tbey do not feel the need of, the precious
sacrament. They are the menial acolytes who kindle the tapers and
bear the bread and wine, tbough careless and ignorant of the sacred
mysteries they celebrate.
True marriage is complete companionship. As the companionship
grows less, the marriage becomes untruthful, loses its earliest spring,
dwindles from its apex. The deepest expression of love is longing for
the object loved. When tbe longing decrease8, love has decreased in
the same proportion. Companionship is tbe realization of tbe longing j
1861-88]
JUNIUS HENRI BROW-,,-VE.
115
and the realization wbicb rloes not produce satiety touches and blends
with the ideal. All the romance of the freshest emotions tends to and
demands companionship. The most ordinary lovers are as Daphne and
Apollo when first they catch the soft infection. The sentiments with
which they are inspired warm them with poetic fervor, and the common
things tbat compose their life assume the hues of remembered dreams.
The instinct of companionship is f:trong upon them. They glide to each
other like concurrent streams, and, once together, their rustic silence
is more eloquent than moulded words. Their sole thought, their one
desire, is companionship, whose presence and influence lend color and
warmth. rhythm and rhyme to the rude prose of their being. For hours
they will sit beside a stagnant pool and see the heaven of their hope
mirrored on its turbid surface. They will walk hand. in hand through
barrell fields that are to them as Armiòa's enchanted garden. They
will be surrounded by poverty and meanness, and personal contact will
conjure these into affluence and spìendor. In all such externals com-
panionship is the transparent power, the cunning creator of beautiful
illusions, the spiritual sorcerer that compels tbe outward state to reflect
the inner mood.
As with coarse, so it is with fine humanity. Like seeks like through-
out the universe, and this seeking attains its end in companionship. The
masculine and feminine in all the kingdoms strive toward each other;
wanting rest until conjoined, and wanting development until contiguity
be secured. While companionship continues satisfaction lasts; but both
are usually temporary from the absence of congenial conditions. 1\1ar-
riage, I repeat, is companionship, and with the termination of com-
panionship veritable divorce begins. 'Vedlock, as generaHy seen, is a
cum bersome volume, with a sweet preluJe of verse fonowed hy tedious
chapters of awkwardly constructed prose. The proem represents com-
panionship, and the subsequent part its withdrawal. If the companion-
ship could but be preserved, each month would prove a honeymoon;
discords, bickerings. anù mi
:mnderstandings would diminish rather than
increase, because the .action of contact wears off angles and adjusts
uneven surfaces to one another. !\fen would not sulk; women would
not regret; nor would both turn to the past with the unavailing wish to
undo the present. Their burdens would be lighter by the sharing of
them; their discontents be softeneù by sympathetic unfolding., Their
ways might be dark and devious; but the consciousness tbat they should
walk, where'er they went, closely and tended). tOf!'ether, would shed such
light upon their pathway that the darkness would be dispelled and tbe
deviousness mad.e straight. It is ne\-er too late to resume companion-
ship-would that they who need -it most might remember this !-and yet
they who Lave surrenùered it rarely look for it again. 'Yhen they step
116
JUNIUS HENRI BRO WNE.
[1861-88
apart, the slightest channel of their separation broadens and deepens,
until what was a crevice becomes a yawning chasm. which few have the
strength or courage to leap. If they would but stretch their yearning
arms across, wounded faith, broken affection, bruised tenderness could
pass over the natural bridge and be made whole once more by receiving
back what had been their own, and must soon again be mutually pos-
sessed.
GENIUS AND LABOR.
[Appleton's Journal. 1878.]
THERE are two distinctive kinds of genius, although there is but
one kind of labor. There is the genius which is patient. toilsome,
persevering, which accomplisbes something, which becomes known.
There is also the genius which is careless, indolent, occupied with tbe
present, indifferent to results. This is usually brilliant, often more brill-
iant than the other; but its recognition is apt to be limited and its influ-
ence fleeting. It is likely to be mistaken for talent: for the general
opinion of genius is so high as to hold that it must make itseH widely
felt, and assume some form of permanence. The former kind may be
calJed productive-it is of the more fortunate sort; tbe latter. convul-
sive, and, being convulsive, is unrecorded. This is like to be purely per-
sonal, to depend upon time and occasion, to be prorligal, to waste itself
in a hundred unworthy ways. Any account of it is preserved mainly
as tradition, for its character is such that it cannot be accurately under-
stood out of its own atmosphere.
Convulsive genius :is unquestionably the more natural of the two.
All genius has an instinctive dislike to labor; is impatient of mental proc-
ess; dashes at conclusions. But tbe productive sort tempeI:s reason with
instinct; is stimulated by ambition; gains self-discipline; grows accus-
tomed to work as means to an end. The convulsive lacks such disposi-
tion; has not the same latent power, and therefore contents itself with
spontaneous expression or mere tentative effort. It often expires witb
its immediate activity, anll, beyond its own circle or its direct contempo-
raries, is not ranked as genius nt alL Hence the definition of genius as
untiring capacity to labor, inexhaustible patience to perform. Convul-
sive genius is prone to be more ideal than the productive; it has fre-
quent glimpses of possibility which it feels that it cannot command the
industry to reach, and which, to its broad sweep, may not seem worth
reaching. Its exalted ideal renders all performance, especiaJ1y its own,
unsatisfactory, and puts aspiration at a discount. It is generally weary;
1861-88]
JUNIUS HE.NRI BRO WNE.
117
it is easily tired; it abhors drudgery; it discovers no adequate reward
for exertion; it despises, from its higher view, what narrower natures
long to attain and are eager to toil for night and day.
Convulsive genius is il1ustrated through all history. Much of it bas
come down to us, and is still famous, though more from innate force and
irrepressible bril1iancy than from individual effort or deliberate design.
The genius which has been named convulsive, for want of better title,
has frequently produced; and yet it is very different from the genius
allied to unremitting diligence and steady aim, inspired by reflection on
itself with perpetual fanaticism for work.
:Men of the most spontaneous intellect are rarely spontaneous in
their distinguishing acbievements. Hard, absorbing work must gener-
ally be done some time, either in preparation or execution. Sheridan
had the name of a radiant and ever-ready wit; he haù but to open
his mouth, it was thougbt, and epigrams flowed thence in a sparkling
stream. He was very vain of, and carefully cultivated, such reputation.
But he did not deserve it. His astonishing readiness was a sham; be
used to lock himself in his chamber, and, under pretense of recovering
from a debauch, slowly and deliberately devise the fine speeches which
he assumed to throw off by sudden impulse. Some of his vaunted
impromptus cost him hours of reflection. The present text of ,. The
School for Scandal" is tùtally different from the first copy; not lines
merely. but passages, scenes, and entire acts were recast and rewritten
again and again. Almost everything that emanated from him was the
result of much deliberation. He was a rare genius; Lut before he was
so ranked, as well as after, he was a hard worker.
Tennyson's best poems seem as if they had run in all their sympathy
and sweetness from his overflowing brain. But no poet has ever toiled
more over his verses; he forms and reforms them; changes, erases,
reproducefJ, files, and polishes them, until those that stand would never
suspect their relation to their early and remote progenitors.
Very few poems or writings of any kind that are reread or remem-
bered but have been wrought with copious brain-sweat. As a rule, tbe
offspring of genius, whatever its nature, is vorn with exceeding travail,
although it is common to believe it generateù after the manner of
Pallas.
The published production of genim; is like the personation of an actor
on the stage. We see it, and judge of it as it is presented, witbout
thinking or caring by what means he has arrived at his superiority.
Research, reflection, study, are not taken into account: it is tbe effect of
his work, not the work, that we consiùer. Quite likely we explain his
impressiveness, his influence upon us, his naturalness, as we choose tù
style it, by pronouncing him a genius, just as we explain discoveries in
118
ELISHA ,JIULFORD.
[1861-88
science, accomplishments in art, triumphs in literature. They are what
they are because they have sprung from genius-the measureless work
which has aided, shaped, ripened, expressed, the genius, is not remem-
bered, nor is it generally suspected.
Productive genius has almost invariably its attendant agony of effort,
and the willingness, often the gladness, to undergo such agony is a con-
comitant and inseparable part of productive genius. Nevertheless, it
is maintained that labor is primarily unwelcome, even hateful, to real
genius, and is undertaken for the most part from egotism. curiosity.
ambition, or some other form of self-love. Convulsive genius, fre-
quently of the purest, sometimes of the highest, obeys its instinct and
refuses to work with any such earnestness or persistency as will pub-
licly make manifest its affluent possession. But, as has been said, the
convulsive is not recognized nor regarded as true genius, since it is
averse to harmonizing with what seems to be its destiny. Strictly
speaking, it is unnatural for genius to sustain continued and severe
effort, notwithstanding it generally does sustain it. Convulsive genius
alone acts out its inward promptings; productive genius, by resisting
and overcoming strong temptation to ease, or at most to mere occasional
endeavor, earns appreciation, and wears the laurel above the crown of
labor, which in itself is a crown of thorns.
lí
1Ja jaulfOti).
BORN in ::\Iontl'Ose, Penn., 1833. DIED at Cambridge, Mass., 1885.
THE RIGHT OF REVOLUTION.
(The Nation: the Foundations of Civil Order and Political Life in tlte (TnÜed
States. 1870.]
I F there be in the constitution no provision whereby tbe political peo-
ple in its normal action can effect an amendment, or if the mo<le pro-
vided be such as to obstruct its action, there yet
mbsists in the people
the right of reform; and if, while yet there is no way open to it or only
some inaccessible way is inllicated, the bope of reform shall fail, and the
constitution and the government which is instituted in it be wrested
from their foundation in the consent of the organic will, there is then, at
last, the right of revolution. This, in the supreme peril, is the supreme
npcessity of the people. If the people no longer finds the correspond-
ence to its aim in the constitution which it has once established, if its
1861-88]
ELISHA .J.VULFORD.
119
ad\
ance is thwarted and it is being deflected from its course, and its life
is being deformed, although under the form it once enacted and alone
has the right to enact; if the government becomes thus subversive of its
ends, and the future holds no hope of a reform which may effect those
ends, then revolution is a right. This maintenance of the continuous
life and continuous development of the nation, against that which is
hindering its growth, or sapping its energy, is not strictly a revolution.
It is rather the reverse, since there is in it the maintenance of the organic
being of the nation and it is in conformance to the organic law. It is
not anarchic, for it is the only possible pursuance of the order of the
nation, and its vindication from the false order which is interrupting it.
It is the spirit of the people in its real strength which breaks through the
system by which it is gyved. But it is only to be justified in the
supreme necessity of the nation, and as itself the act of the nation as an
whole, the work of the political people. It is not to be the act of a part
only, as a section or faction. The development is only of the nation as
an organic whole, and conditional in its organic unity, and it is this
alone that is thwarted or im perilled, and in this alone the right subsists.
Thus a revolution is not an insurrection, since the one presumes the action
of the people as an organic whole, and is justifieJ in proceeding from
the people, whose determination is law; the other is tbe act of inJivid.
uals, a section OJ' a faction, in revolt from the will of the whole.
The revolution which is thus a necessity is not the discord, but it is
more strictly the concord of the nation, and when thus a necessity, the
order which is set aside win be succeeded immediately by the real order
of the nation, in its new form, with the return of the energy of the peo-
ple, and its ampler freedom. It iH not tùerefore of any to glorify revo-
lution, which can appear only in a disturbed order j but when in the
mystery of evil, tbe energy of the people is impaired and its life wither-
ing, although its path can be only through \-i01eot struggle. it is yet to
rejoice in the power which may resist and overcome the evil. It is thus
that epochs of national revolution bave been those not of despair, but of
hope and exultation. and there has been in them, as there is not in the
triumph of parties or factions, the renewal of the strength and spirit of
the people.
The nation thus may be the stronger in the crisis in which its con
ti-
tution is swept away, and there may be in it the evirlence of a power
which opposing evils could not wholly destroy. Tt is the life which
could not be utterly crushed, and the strength which could not be
entirely consumed by fetters forged through lapse of time, in which
privileges assumed to be alone the precedents of action, and were girt by
legal forms and devices, until they barred out the rights of men. The
transition from the feuùal constitutions of Germany has been in every
120
ELISHA MULFORD.
[1861-88
crisis the development in its higher unity of a national life. The age of
commonwealth. when the same result in part was effected in England,
was the last great age in her history. The French Revolution bore
throughout the deepest devotion to the nation, and in its tumultuous
changes no voice was lifted against tbe unity and glory of France. The
American Revolution was the act of the political people of the whole
land, in the endeavor toward the realization of tbe nation. These crises
were in the development of national life, and the constitution displaced
was foreign to the political people.
THE NATION THE ANTAGONIST OF THE CONFEDERACY.
[From the Same.]
T HE confederate is the immediate antithesis to the national principle,
as the confederacy is the necessary antagonist to the nation in his-
tory. This antithesis becomes apparent in every aspect in which they
may be regarded. The nation, as the organism of human society, pre-
sumes an organic unity: anù its being, as organic, is that which no man
can impart.. The confederacy assumes the existence of society as arti-
ficial, as formed through an association of men in a certain copartnership
of interests, and as only tbe aggregate of those who, before living sepa-
rately, voluntarily entered it. The I1ation is formed in tbe development
of the historical life of the people in its unity; the confederacy is a
temporary arrangement which is formed in the pursuance of certain
separate aud secular ends. The nation in its necessary being can bave
its origin only in the divine will, and its reali
ation only in that. The
confederacy assumes the origin of society in the voluntary act of those
who separately or collectively enter it, and its institution has only this
formal precedent. The nation is constituted in a ,'ocatioll in history,
and therefore has its own purpose and work; and of this it cannot divest
itself, as if it was an external thing, nor alienate, nor transfer it to
another. The confederacy is the device of a transient expediency, and
in conformance to certain abstract or legal notions, or formulas, as the
exposition of a scheme. The nation exists as a relationship, as it is in
and through relations that personality is realized; and it can neither
have its origin in, nor consist with, a mere individualism. The confeder-
acy comports only with an extreme individualism,-the association of
private persons. the accumulation of special interests, to be terminated
when these may dictate or suggest. The nation exists in an organic and
moral relation to its members, and between tbe nation and the indiviù-
1861-88]
ELISHA Mr:LFORD.
1
1
ual no power of earth can intervene. The confederacy is only a formal
bond, and the individual has no more, in the state, an end in correspond-
ence to his moral being; and it is thus that the word confederate has
become stamped with a certain moral reprobation. The nation exists in
its unity in the divine guidance of the people. 'rhe confederacy allows
only the formal unity which is created in the conjunction of certain men
or associations of men.
Their antithesis appears the more obvious, the more intimately they
are regarded. The confederacy assumes only the aggregation of separate
parties, as individuals or societies, but allows no principle in which a
real unity may consist, nor the continuity in history of the generations
of men. It is a formal order whose condition is a temporary expedi-
ency, and its limitation is defined in that, and not in the conditions of
an organic and moral being. It is not the guidance of the people in its
vocation, in the realization of its being in history, but its structure is
framed after its own device, and out of the material which it bas heaped
together. [t builds of its own brick and mortar-which it has accumu-
lated-\\' hat it alone can build, although its brick be as venerable as
that upon which
Ir. Carl. vIe has pronounced his political eulogium,
building after its own scheme in the structure of society a Babel, and the
result, which is not only a recurrent fact but a moral necessity, is that
the work fails of all permanence in history, and the builders are driven
away, or, if it be preferred, they go away with confusion and division.
The antithesis which appears in the national and confederate princi-
ple has its manifestation in history. The confederate principle in its
necessary sequence can bring only division, and unity and order are
established only in the same measure in which it is overcome. The
security, which it has made its single aim, it has failed to obtain; and
in the furtherance of private and special interests it has been rent and
broken by them. The pages of history contain everywhere the record of
its disaster. The illustration of its course and its consequence appears-
as in these lands also it had its widest construction-in Greece and in
Germany. The termination of tbe history of Greece is abrupt, as if tbe
sudden and violent issue of crime. It was as the confederate spirit
came to prevail, in the division of her separate communities, and in the
exclusive af:sumptions and supremacies of these communities, in the
precedence of Athenian, and Spartan, and Theban, and :\facedonian
power, tbat the strength, which in it
unity of spirit had triumphed over
tbe multitudes of Asia, was lost j and in tbe dissension of these com-
munities; which preferred alliance with a foreign power, so entirely was
the national purpose effaced, and in the rivalries and jealou
ies of pri-
vate ambition and devotion to private end
, the life of Greece was
destroyed. The only union sought or allowed was in that fataÌ device:
1 .) 'J
-.;.I
ELISHA MULFORD.
[1861-88
a balance of power, which was always irregular and disturbed, while
separate communities with their separate interests alternately contended
for the supremacy. The disease in the members could be overcome by
no organific force working in tbe wbole, for this was prevented by tbe
assumption of a merely formal relation. Then followed a succession of
internal wars, interrupted only by transient intervals of peace. The
greater power of the confederate principle was then also in those com-
munities where a system of slavery predominated, as in Sparta; while
in Atbens there remained until the close the memories and hopes of a
national life. This has left its expression in some of the noblest political
conceptions in literature. And sti11 it is in Athens that the national
1ife of Greece is slowly reillumined. But the issue of the confederacy
was a disaster from which none were exempt. The citizens of Athens
themselves were disfranchised. The separate communities sank into the
condition of Roman provinces, and the ruin involved the whole, and the
subjef'tion of the wbole to a foreign power. The termination of the drama
has been fitly represented Ly tbe historian, when the last great patriotic
statesman of Greece went alone into the temple of Poseidon, to hail and
welcome death. The most complete recent illustration of this principle
is in the German Confederation. The assumption of the rights of sover-
eignty b.y petty states and municipalities, each with its claim to independ-
ence and legitimacy, divided the people, and in its resultant weakness
left it through centuries the ally or the subject to some imperial power.
The mocker.y of the power of a great people was in the construction of
the German Bund. It was the prop of weak and pretentious sovereignties
-mere lords of division at home and agents of imperial powers abroad.
It led the people across every frontier as the antagonist of nations; and
France, and Italy, and Denmark, in turn, have felt its assault. It could
not protect the people from domestic tyranny, nor avert foreign inva-
sion. In the most immediate danger to the people it could not act;
while the Turks were before Vienna, Diet after Diet was held, but no
common action followed. There are nune of tbe great highways of Ger-
many over which her own soldiers have not been compelled to march as
the ally of a foreign power, and none of her capitals over which they
have not aided to hoist a foreign flag. It is only after long humiliation
that there comes the dawning of the unity and freedom of the German
nation. Tbere is alike in ancient and modern history, the evidence how
deadly a foe the confederate spirit has been; how close its alliance has
been with slavery and with the predominance of every selfish interest;
how, through the division and resultant weakness of the people, it has
opened the way to foreign supremacy and to imperialism, and bow long
ha" been the battle which the nation has had to fight.
The nation attains the realization of its sovereignty and its freedom
18Gl-88]
GEORGE WASHBURN SJ:lALLEY.
123
only as it strives to overcome tbis false principle, and yet as its root is
in a selfish tendency, it is only at la!'t overcome in tbe close of the con-
flict of history. The confederacy in itself has no permanence, but the
evil principle, the bite of the serpent, remains. aud in some sudden
moment it may rise and strike at the life of the nation. "
ith the peo-
ple of the United States the conflict of the nation and the confederacy
passed through a long period of years, until tbe cbaracter of the princi-
ple and purpose in each was to become manifest, and they were to meet
face to face, and over a continent from its centre to the sea their armies
were to be gathered, and in a struggle of life and death, not only for
those who are, but for those who shall be, the issue was to come forth
in the judgment of Him with wbom are the issues of eternal conflicts.
..
<!5corge [[Iaøgbuttt
ntalle
.
BORN in Franklin, Mas!>., 183:1.
LOUIS BLANC, THE MAN AND THE POLITICAL LEADER.
[The New-York Tribune, 4 February, 1883.]
I SUPPOSE he might have returneù to Paris if he had wished, but
nothing would induce him to set foot on French soil so long as it lay
under the yoke of Napoleon the rrhird. It was the Republic of '48
which harl driven him from France, but it was the Bonapartist Empire
for which he reserved al1 his resentment. He pardoned the injustice
done to himself j the outrage upon his beloved France he would pardon
never.
That wi]} serve as well as anything for tbe key-note to his public
character, or to one rare and attractive side of his character. He was
tbe most disinterested of men. His great fame bas been won by a life
filled with sacrifices, one afteJ' the other. of almost everything that
brings fame to a man. It is not that he was careless of honor and repu-
tation, or ever affected a superiority to applause j he valued it. coveted
it, hungered for it, an(] sa
J'ifked it all the same. Praise pleased him
as it pleases a chilù, as it plpases most simple natures. But with a pas-
sion for popularity he was fore'"er doing. amI consciously doing, the
most unpopular acts. By birth he belonged to the upper middle class,
and his life was given to strengthening the hands of a class below his
own, intensely hostile to it, whose idea of rising is to pull down what-
ever is above it. The bent of bis mind was naturally toward culture.
124
GEORGE WASllBUR...Y SlJIALLEY.
[1861-88
Nobody could have made more admirable contributions to purely ele-
gant literature; nobody was more academic, more capable of the last
refinements and the supreme polish which are the results of a leisure
devoted to making the most of one's natural gifts. But from his first
article in a newspaper to the last page of his History he made himself
the servant of an idea. He was fond of society, of salons, of conversa-
tion, of art, and be turned away from them all to preach a gospel w hicb
in the hands of less scrupulous practitioners would surely put an end to
them all. His socialism-for I may as well say the inevitable word
about it at once-was very far-reaching in theory, yet with him I always
thought it less theoretic than sympathetic. In his stringent analysis of
the existing social structure he found faults enough, and not in the
structure only, but in the whole scheme and idea which were the foun-
dation of it. He had drunk deep at the half-poisoned fountain of Rous-
seau. He thought for himself, boldly, clearly, with singular power of
logic, with endless critical ingenuity, and bis socialism, as I said above,
was essentially of a destructive kinù. He would not have destroyed a
fly, himself; he invariably refused to apply on any great scale the sub-
versive principles he announced in his books. He never foresaw and
harùly ever admitted the consequences which others drew from them,
and the results to which his so-called disciples would have made them
contribute. What in truth underlay tbese utopian 1'peculations was not
so much a reasoned conviction as a passionate pity. He could not wit-
ness the misery of the poorer classes without longing to relieve it. His
books on social questions were a crv of distress. When his heart was
touched his head became its servant. No doubt he had argued himself
into the belief that the organization of society was radically faulty and
radically uujust. He described himself as hungering for justice, and it
was a true description. But a passion for all the gentler virtues lay just
as deep in his being. Charity, merc
-, infinite compassion and affection
for whoever was weaker or poorer or less gifted and happy than him-
self, were the constant motives of his acts and thougbts.
His books, whether historical or political or socialistic, are an one
long panegyric on tlae people. An American reader is liable to forget
that the word people does not mean in his mouth what it means with us
-the wbole people. rrhese long pæans are sung in honor of a class.
and that the lowest class of all. Louis Blanc's faith in the people was
not in tbe true sense a democratic faith. He was not for the rule of a
Inajority. The people meant with him in theory the whole sum of the
population of France excluding tbe nobility. tbe aristocracy, the clergy
(albeit springing mostly from the soil), the professions, tLe whole middle
class in whose hands are the wealth and the property accumulated by
successful industry. The artisan and tbe peasant were the people.
1861-88J
GEORGE WASHB URX SJI.dLLEY.
1 ')"
.....0
They were a majority, it is true, but there never has been a momeut
since '93 when the peasantry was revolutionary in the social sense. It
was the artisan, and above aU the artisan of Paris, to whom Louis Blanc
looked as the arbiter of the destinies of France. Paris was to give law
to tbe rest of the country, and the Paris workingmen to give law to
Pari
. He was for the rule of the section which had accepted his doc-
trines. But when the people of Paris appeared in the streets in 1848
and invited him to govern tbe country, lIe shrank back appalled from
the task; and be was appalled with reason. Of the particular cbarges
brougbt against bim, and on which he was expelled from France, he was
not guilty. But be was certainly a danger to any government, of which
he was not the head, and tbe choice lay between his dictatorship and his
exile. Such is the irony of fate. Louis Blanc believed in a republic
witbout a bead, and because he woulù not govern, his mere presence
made a republic impos
ib]e.
Those wbo have once met Louis Blanc in society or at his own house
will neyer forget the charm of his manner. To those who have been
fortunate enough to meet him often, the memory of it will remain as
among the best life has had to offer. It may be said in one sense tbat
his manner never varied. He had the same kindly and polished greet-
ing for visitors of every rank. It was never cold. To his friends it
was affectionate, whether you had seen him yesterùay or not for many
months. His eye was as beautiful as a woman's, with that luminous
depth which betokens a profoundly sympathetic nature. lie was some-
thing more tban sympathetic; he was a man to be loved. His conver-
sation was varied, imaginative, abounding in reminiscence and anecdote,
every now and then ligbting up the remotest depths of a subject with
flashes of penetrating intelligence. He was in earnest, but never heavy;
serious but free from gloom; the life of a dinner-table and the most
delightful of companions in private. From everything like pretence or
affectation he was absolutel,y free. It was too much his custom to take
sombre views of affairs; especially the affairs of his own country, for
wbich be had a love tbat knew no bounùs. But of tbe men who were
mismanaging France he had little to say that was hard, nothing that was
uncbaritable; while of his personal enemies he hardly ever spoke with
severity. He had to bear during the last eighteen months of his life tbe
most acute and unremitting torment. It never disturbed the serenity of
his temper nor checked his interest in public matters. To the last he
was at work for otbers. I saw him in September; sadl.v altered in face,
but tben, as ever, the same simple, genuine, heroic nature that for so
many years I bad admired, and that I now think I never admired enough.
126
GEORGE WASHBUR,..v SJL-1LLEY.
[1861-88
BISMARCK IN THE REICHSTAG.
[The Nell'- York Trilfune, 15 April, 1888.]
B y half-past two some two hundred members have arrived and the
public galleries are half full. They remain haU fun during all the
proceedings, which seem to bave no great interest for the people of Ber-
lin. Possibly the people of Berlin are aware that this highly respectable
Imperial Parliament is not the final arbiter of the destinies of the German
Empire, whether for weal or woe. The centre of political power is not
here, so the centre of political interest is elsewhere; whether at Charlot-
ten berg with the dying Emperor, or in the Palais Radziwill in the Wil-
helmstrasse where lives the Imperial Chancel]or, may be a question. It
is not here in the Reichstag, at any rate
not even when the Imperial
Chancellor puts in a formal appearance. rJ1be members have, neverthe-
less, a business-like look. rfhey are a stalwart body, with for the most
part good gray heads 011 their bodies. anù would be the more distin-
guished in aspect if they wore fewer spectacles. It may be the specta-
cles which stamp on them as a body a slightly pedantic air, as of a body
of professors. The House of Commons looks, even i 1) these degenerate
days, like a gathering of men of the world; of men who spend their
lives, whether in countr.y or city, on a high le\'el, and who take large
views of affairs; with their eyes set well apart in their heads. They
have not derive{l their opinions, Liberal or Tory, from books; they are
not parochial. The German analogue for parochial is Particularist. A
man who regarùs the concerns of his own province, or even kingdom,
more than he regards the concerns of the Empire, is a Particularist.
What business bas he in an Imperial Parliament ? Yet there are many
such; nay, I thought I detected this provincial stamp on some men who
would re:5ent the application of such a name to them.
The defect of the Germans, if we are to helieve :\11'. Matthew Arnold,
is a defect of civic courage. Perhaps, but I 8uspect an American would
discover in them a want of practical politics. I do not use that phrase
on this occasion as a synonym for machine, or anything like it. It is a
colloquial way of saying that they are without that political training
which comes from long and responsible connection with public affairs,
beginning with municipal and ending with imperial affairs. They see the
thing next to them with painful distinctness; beyond it, little or nothing.
I speak of the average; the best of them belong to a totally different
class. But I confess, a8 I looked upon the Reichstag and thought over
the history of its contentions. and of the Prussian and other disputes
that had preceded it, it seemed to me an assembly of amateurs. 1'\0 Ger-
man Parliament is comparable in efficiency to the House of Commons or
1861-88]
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
1 ')....
...1
to the Congress at Washington. 'Vhat is bere efficient is tbe Crown. It
is the Kingly principle, the Imperial principle, by which fifty millions
of Germans, though with universal suffrage, and triennial Parliaments,
and the power of the purse in their hands, are really governed.
There is time enough for these and other reflections while the House
assembles. Nobody seems to know whether Prince Bismarck is coming
himself or not. But while tbe President, wbo has the air of a man about
to deli,rer a sermon, is conversing sedately with a group of deputies on
the steps of his pulpit. a dark young man enters at his right from a door
in the rear, and lays a large red portfolio on the shelf in front of the
ministerial seat nearest the tribune. Just beneath stands a tall man of
slender builJ, in an undress uniform of dark blue and red, his smooth-
shaven face scored all over with fine lines, the nose aquiline and thin,
eyes sunken, forehead lofty and broad and deeply thoughtful, a palpa-
ble brown wig on his bead; the whole figure slightly stooping; an air
of refinement and delicate firmness marking him out among the sturdy
personages near him. That is the first soldier of Europe, Count V 011
Moltke, and the seat below which he stands is that of Prince Bismarck,
who enters a moment later.
It was all but two and twenty years since I had seen Prince Bismarck.
In 1866 he was fifty-one; be is now seventy-three, wanting some days, and
they are years that make a difference. They have left a mark even on
this man of iron. He is grayer and stouter, and the lines in his face are
as if burnt in; the scars that corroding time bas left. They are visible
even in his photographs; his scorn of insincerities is far too deep for
such flatteries as artists in black and white are wont to practise. They
are visible even from the box where I sit, as the light from the ceiling
falls full on his upturned face. He strides heavily in; it is but a step
from the door to the spot where the scarlet portfolio is waiting for him,
but the weight of the step is what first strikes you. It is not lassitude;
it is sheer physical bulk. He stands six feet two, and his frame is the
frame of a giant. He is broad and square in tl}e shoulders and deep-
chested; the arms are big; the legs are big; and that part of the body
which is intermediate between legs anù chest is big, yet not gl'os
. He
is as heroic in his physical proportions as in his character. The head is
set on the shoulders and almost into them with a singular solidity and
closeness. The man is all of a piece; body and mind, as it were, fused
and welded together. Faithful as are many of the photographs, I remem-
ber none which brings out strongly the helmet-shape of the head. It is
the head of Pericles: dome-like in its ampliturle as well as in its curve,
with a breadth at the temples which its towering height cannot disguise;
and far overhanging the steel-gray eyes, which look out as from caverns,
deep fringed with gray eyebrows. There is no regularity of feature or
128
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
[1861-88
of contour. The nose is short and carelessly moulded; the mouth you
must imagine, for a gray mustache shades it; the jaw is the jaw-well,
of Prince Bismarck, and of him alone. The stamp of power, of irre-
sistible force, is on face and figure; into this one human form has Na-
ture for once collected all her irrepressible energies, and subdued them
to his overmastering will.
The impression I get as I gaze from a distance only recalls the impres-
sion of twenty years ago. when I sat in bis study and listened to him till
long pa
t midnight, and mentally noted down features and tbe fleeting,
flashing expressions that lighted them up. The changes are many and
they are scathing: age has brought with it increase of strength: he looks
more like a giant than he did then. He is in uniform, but not in the
white of the cuirassiers, which is still, I believe, his favorite costume.
He wears a single-breasted dark-blue frock, reaching halfway from the
waist to the knees. silver-buttoned to the throat; collar and deep cuffs
of what, from this distance. looks like tarnished silver lace, gray in tone,
with broad edges of bright yellow. The star of the Black Eagle glitters
on the blue coat. and a whole tier of other orders stretches clear across
the breast. As he opens with his right hand the scarlet portfolio, which
contains the royal message, the left rests on his sword-hilt: an attitude
that gives rise to reflections. Never, that I heard of, did the Chancellor
enter Reichstag or Landtag in any but a soldier's dress; once, at least,
I saw him arrive in jack-boots, and even to-day he wears spurs.
It is for the Chancellor that the IIouse had been waiting. As soon as
he was in his place the President rang his bell; some brief formalities
were briefly got through, and Prince Bismarck was at once on his feet.
A murmur of cbeers greeted him. VV ith a bow to bis audience and
another to the Presidf'nt, be began reading, holding the message on a
folio sheet in bis hand. He read ill a :5trong voice. audible everywhere,
I judged, throughout the ban; deliberately, with marked emphasis on
some sentences. It was the Emperor's first message to the Imperial Par-
liament; the band of the Chancel10r who countersigned and now deli v-
ered it to its destination, visible in every line. 'Vbat could be more like
him than these thanks-" imperial thanks "-offered in tbe name of the
late Emperor to the Reichst:tg, which had voted those last millions of
money and men while tbe Emperor was 8til1 living? The voice rang
out clearest of an in the final words, "Trusting in the tried love of the
whole people and their representatives for tbe Fatherland, we leave tbe
Empire's future in God's hand." CromweJIian hypocrisy? Cromwellian
if you like, bnt hypocrisy, no. For if anything be true of this stern
statesman, as of his dead master, it is that hoth of them ever had a sim-
ple faith in the God of wbom tbey avowedly stand in fear. " \Ve Ger-
mans fear God. and nothing else in the world beside." The confession,
1861-88]
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
129
and perhaps also the boast, seem to belong to a past age, but of the gen-
uineness of both I, for my part, have no doubt.
The message ended, the scene changed. Prince Bismarck sat down,
and the President rose; the Deputies still all upstandmg as while the
Imperial message was reading. The Prince sprang up too, and the
President spoke briefly. All at once, in the middle of his speech, as he
mentioned the Emperor, there came a cry from the body of the hall
which seemed like a signal. The President took it up and called, Ger-
man fashion, for cheers. The whole assembly, raising each man his
right arm to its full length, shouted out the deep, guttural "hoch"
which does duty for our hurrah. "Again," cried the President, and
theu, "again," so tbat the three cheers were duly given, and given with
a solid heartiness of voice and manner that befitted the place and occa-
sion-German to the core. r cannot remember to have looked down
ever before on a Parliament thus expressing itself in cheers; stiU less
with these strange but fine salutes.
.L-\.s this scene and the President's brief harangue ended, once more
Prince Bismarck rose, and, to everybody's delight, began to speak. To
everybod.y's astonishment, also, this :Minister of the German Empire
appeared all at once as a mouth-piece of Parliaments. He asked leave,
in quiet tones, to consider himself charged by the House to communicate
the thanks of the Reichstag to foreign Parliaments who bad expressed
their sorrow and sympathies in the grief that had fallen upon the Ger-
man nation. He spoke for not more than three or four minutes, but it
was a very different business from the mere reading of the message.
Orator, perhaps, he is not, but no man excels him in the faculty of so
saying what he wishes as to impress his thought and his will-there is
the real point-on bis audience. 'V ords are to him weapons. In great
crises, tbey are words which thrce millions of soldiers are ready to
enforce. On an occasion like this, hardly more than ceremonious, there
is still the trace of the manner of the master of many legions. Nothing
can be said or done at such a time in an ordinary manner. The black-
ness of death still hangs over Berlin-her streets and the hearts of her
people still in mourning; the shadow of a coming tragedy blending with
that whieh is not yet past.
As before, the voice easily filled the hall, and it had that vibration
which comes from the direct appeal of one man to many before him.
There are hard tones, as you might guess, in Prince Bismarck's register,
but it is a full, deep voice, rising and faHing not too abruptly, capable
of expressing emotion. I have heard it when it sounded like a com-
mand for a cavalry charge. \Vhen he used to speak to a hostile Parlia-
ment, as often befell in old days, it was tbe hoarse summons of an angry
sovereign to his rebellious subjects. To-day, of course, everything goes
YOL.IX.-9
130
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
[1861-88
smoothly. The Prince concerns himself little about gesture or anv
purely oratorical act. He stands erect behind his closed portfolio. The
right hand swings carelessly, almost continually, by his side, the arm at
full length, the fingers sometimes contracted, more often loose, and the
hand quite open. The left again, all unconsciously, finds its way to the
sword-hilt. The head is thrown well back. Tbe face is in profile from
where I si:t, and he looks for the most part straight forward, but turns
once or twice to our box, and then tbe light from his eye, with the
light from above glancing on it, is opalescent. Of fatigue or illness I
could see no trace. I heard afterward that the Prince was really ill, and
that his doctors had given him tonics, or whatever it may have been, to
brace him up for this afternoon's work.
He is cheered from time to time. vVhen he sits down a few Deputies
go up, some of them timidly, to congratulate him. He shakes hands
with some of them. One who comes from near the door bows almost to
the ground. 'Vith him the Prince, who bows in return rather stiffiy,
omits to shake hands. He tarries a inoment in his seat. As he rises
the group about him divides swiftly and leaves him an open road to the
door. He bows again; one rapid inclination of the head to either side
in response to all the salutes, and strides off, still erect, the step firm, but
not less heavy than when he came; the steel scabbard of his long cavalry
sword ringing sharp against the brown oak. The door opens, as a door
opens on the stage, wide before him, with invisible hands. He fins it as
he passes through; the broad shoulders, the towering form, the kingly
head of this king of men are set in.a frame for one instant, then vanish.
He has done what he came to do; done it in that rapid, workmanlike,
decisive way of his; with energy, with authority; done it, though no
great matter, once for all, and with the dignity befitting the occasion.
Everyone feels that in this first message from an Emperor, so soon to
be an Emperor no more, there is something solemn, and it has been
solemnly delivered. In all, Prince Bismarck has not been twenty
n1Ínutes in the chamber, but as he passes out it is as if another chapter
in history had been transacted-another leaf turned in the Look of fate.
CONVERSATION IN LONDON DRAWING-ROO:\IS.
[The New- York Tribune, August-September, 1888.]
^ MONG many changes in the social life of London, none perhaps is
more striking than the cbange in tbe fasbion of talk. The note of
to-Jay is not tbe note of twenty years ago, or of the generation which
1861-88]
GEORGE WASHBURN SJIALLEY.
131
preceded. The literature, the biographical literature, the reminiscences,
of the last fifty years are fun of the renown of great talkers.
facaulay
may be taken as a type of them. He was the superior of aU in his own
style, but the style was one which prevailed, and it is fair to judge it by
its best example or exponent.
)!.-\.CA L"LA Y AND HIS TYPE.
I have asked a number of persons who knew Macaulay well; who
met him often, who made part of the world he lived in, who sat with
him at table: who listened to him, whether his immense reputation was
deserved, and whether he would now be thought a good talker. I quote
nobody, but I sum up the general sense of an the answers in one phrase,
-he would be thought a bore. \Vhether that is a reflection on :Macaulay
or on the society of to-day is an open question, but the opinion cannot
be far wrong. "}"Iacaulay," said a talker whose conversation ranged
over three generations, "did not talk; he lectured. IIe chose his sub-
ject, it mattered little what, and he delivered a discourse on it; poured
out masses of facts, of arguments, of historical illustration: He was not
witty; he had no humor; he was not a critic, as he himself confessed; he
was devoid of imaginative or poetic faculty. But he had the most prodi-
gious memory ever possessed by a human being, and on thi
he drew,
without stint and without end. People in those days listened to him,
his aut.hority was established, his audience docile, nobod.v interrupted,
contrm-ersy was out of the question." "Now," continued the witness,
"no dinner-table would stand it; he would be stopped, contradicted, his
long stories vetoed: no monopoly or monopolist is tolerated. If you
wanted to know about Queen Anne yuu could go home and read a cyclo-
pædia. "
This is perhaps overstated; the picture is overdrawn. :Macaulay is
made as much too black as Trevelyan has made him too white. But it
is true in substance, and it will give you a notion of the change in the
fashion of talk which, as I began b,v saying. has reall,y taken place.
Everything now is touch and go. Topics are treated lightly, and above
all briefly; if you want to preach a sermon you must get into a pulpit
or a newspaper; preach it at table you cannot. The autocrat who beld
sway over the company and forced them to listen has vanished. Perhaps
it is the democratic tendency of the age which has dri ven him out of the
field, or out of the drawing-room; at any rate, he is gone and nobody
wants him back. You may tell a story, but you must, in IIayward's
phrase, cut it to the bone. The ornamental elaboration, the tricking out
your tale with showy tOf!s-purpureis pannis-the leisurely prolongation
of the narrative once practised, can be practised no more. If you do not
132
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
[1861-88
cut it short you will be cut into, and before you are half way through
another man will have begun and finished his, and your audience will
have gone over to the enemy. Worse still, if you persist, you may for
once have your way, but it will be for once only; your host makes the
appalling discovery that you are impossible, and he asks you not again,
-neither he nor any of the company. No reputation is so universal
as that of the bore; no other criminal is so shunned by his fellow-men.
THE NOTE OF TO-DAY.
It is this rapidity, this lightnes
of sound, which makes it so difficult
for the provincial or the foreigner to catch the note of modern society in
London. Seldom does either succeed at once. Of the provincial I will
say nothing; he shall be left unsung. But the transient visitor has pain-
ful experiences at times, because he insists on bringing with him to Lon-
don the manners amI customs which he has found avail in his native
land. Women make few mistakes; their preternatural quickness of
perception, their instantaneous insight into the real condition of things
perfectly new to them, their intuitions, are so many extra senses and
safeguards. It is the male foreigner whose tact cannot alwa,Ys be
depended on to carry him safely over the social reefs and shoals which
surround him in the sea he bas never navigated before. He comes, let
us say, from Central Africa; the Congo is his home. He is a cultivated,
an accomplished man; but not quite what is here understood by a man
of the world. He belongs, in fact to that same past generation which
had so heavy a hand or such a genius for getting to the bottom of a
subject; and sometimes staying tbere. He is asked to an evening party.
He goes correctly attired, and bent on conquest. He is not content
with the silent bow, or tbe word or two of commonplace greeting to
his hostess which here are thought sufficient. He comes to a dead
halt at the top of the staircase; sets forth in elegant language his pleas-
ure at seeing her, his pleasure at being asked, the pleasure he expects
from seeing so many pleasant people, his pleasure at having quite unex-
pectedly found the English so civil to the tribes of Central Africa.
Long before he has finished, the pressure of guests arriving behind him
bas carried him on into the middle of the drawing-room, and the com-
pliment which be began to his hostess is completed in the ear of a
stranger.
His friend introduces him to the stranger; a woman of the world, and
of the London world. She receives him precisely as she receives nine-
tenths of her acquaintances. Perhaps she even shakes hands with him,
seeing that he expects it, then, after two or three of those vapid sen-
tences which do duty for conversation in such a crush, turns to a new-
1861-88]
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
133
comer. Our friend from the Congo thinks she does not care for conver-
sation, and, if he be sensitive, that she does not care for him. Again he
is introduced-presented, I may say between dashes, is only used here
for introductions to royalties-and again the English lady, young or
old, does her best to be civil to him, but her civilities, too, are of the
same fleeting kind. It does not occur to her that this dark cousin from
over the sea expects to exchange opinions with her on the Irish ques-
tion, or to extract a fuH account of her views on the correlation of
forces. She also turns away, and after one or two more such experi-
ences he announces sadly that he is not a success in London society.
He has not caught the note-that is all. The very women whom he
thought rude to him took his measure, made all allowances for his unac-
quaintance with customs necessarily new to him, liked him, and before
they slept sent him nice notes to ask him to lunch next day, or, more
probably, next week.
He is puzzled. but pleased, and accepts and goes. What does he find?
He is welcomed cordially but without fuss j if there be anything which
English women dislike more than another, it is making a fuss. They
do not gush over a new acquaintance or over an old one j it is the
avoidance of fuss and gush and sloppy compliments which has gained
them a reputation for coldness of manner. The coldness of manner is
simplicity of manner: that and nothing else, and it is simplicity of
nature which dictates the simple manner. Lunch may mean a party of
twenty people, but whether twenty or two, there is no ceremony. The
ladies walk into the dining-room by themselves, the men straggle after,
and find their way to such seats as suit them. The talk is as easy as if
you were sitting about a fire j or more so. If the lunch is a small one,
the talk ripples about the table; if large, you have to take your chance
with the two fellow-creatures next you; men or women. as chance, you,
or superior strategy may have determined. Not even to these or to
either of these will the cousin from the Congo have a chance to expound
his notions on the correlation of forces, unless he can do it in half a
dozen phrases. He may have to carry them back again to the tropics
un expounded ; at no entertainment of a purely social kind will he find
hearers for these valuable views. If he has anything to say. people will
hear it with interest, on one condition; that it be said in the manner of
the society amid which he moves for the time being. Society does not
object to serious topics, or even to the serious treatment of them; what it
objects to is pedantry, pretension, dullness; to that which is heavy as
distinguished from that which is serious. It has preferences and strong
preferences j but it will endure much. 'Vhat it will not endure is the
professor who brings into its presence the solemnities of the lecture-
room, or the man who arrives with a mission.
134
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
[1861-88
GLADSTONE.
There remains to this generation one talker who may be likened to
:Macaulay; I mean
fr. Gladstone. To write about a living celebrity as
freely as about one who already belongs to history is impossible; it is
equally impossible to give in a few sentences a complete account of .Mr.
Gladstone's characteristics as a talker. I name him not as a type, but an
anti-type. His manner belongs to a period that is past, if that can be
said to belong to any period which is in fact entirely individual. If I
liken him to :Macaulay it is because he also has in a degree that habit of
monologue which Jvfacaulay had, and with him other less famous person-
ages of his time. His talk is a stream; a stream like tbe Oxus in
Arnold's verse:
" Brimming am} bright and large." . . .
Nor does anybody, like Horace's rustic, wait for it to flow out; it is a
stream you would like to flow on forever.
Roughly speaking, :Macaulay passed his li.fe among books;
ir. Glad-
stone has passed his in affairs.
fan of the world in one sense he
is not, but preëminently a man of affairs; of English affairs; all his
life long engaged in the transaction of the weightiest public business.
His conversation reflects the habit of mind which all this continuing
experience has formed. No one ever lived who knew the political
history of his own time so well, and no English statesman ever had so
many interests outside of statesmanship; literary, religious, and the
rest.
There is no subject on which he will not talk. His memory is tIle
marvel of everybody who has been his associate or acquaintance. Scarce
a topic can be started on which he has not a store of facts. He takes
little thought of hi
audience or of what may be supposed to interest
them. His subject interests him, and it nf'ver occurs to him that it may
not interest others. .....-\nd he is quite right; in his hands, whatever it be,
it is entertaining. He has been known to discourse to his neighbor
through the greater part of a long dinner on the doctrine of copyright
and of international copyright. His neighbor was a beautiful woman
who cared no more for copyright than for the Cherokees. She listened
to him throughout with unfailing (lelight.
You may hear all sorts of stories about :Mr. Gladstone and his talk;
not all of them good-natured, for society does i.ts best to dislike him, and
succeeds when he is absent. I will repeat one which gives you another
side of him. While Prime :Minister, he appointed a certain well.known
man to a certain difficult post abroad, requiring a great deal of special
knowledge and personal acquaintance with the country and people; all
1861-88]
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
135
of which this young man had acquired in the course of several laborious
years.
lr. Gladstone sent for his commissioner to corne and see him
before he set out. He came and next day a friend congratulated him on
tbe impression be had made. ")fr. Gladstone says he never met anyone
who knew so much about the Caucasus." Lord X. laughed: "I was
with him two hours and never opened my mouth."
If you doubt tbat, I could tell you another which is the exact dupli-
cate of it, save tbat the person and the office to which he was appointed
were whoIly different. But the same thing happened.
fr. Gladstone
talked all the time, and to the next friend he met remarked that be had
never known anybody whose knowledge of mathematics was so complete
as }'fr. F.'s. Wherever he is, be takes the lead, if he does not always
monopolize the talk, whicb, of course, he does not. Ko doubt, he is
sometimes oratorical in private. It would be a fault in a lesser orator,
but you are only too happy to hear those stately sentences roll out and
ron on; the eye flasbing, the voice varying with every emotion; of
hardly less compass and perhaps of even greater beauty than on the
platform.
THE AL"TOCRATS DETHRONED.
To name anyone man or even any group of men or women as a type,
or as complete iIIustrations of the conversation of the day, is impossible.
There is no longer an Autocrat of the Dinner-table. Dr. Holmes him-
self, whether at Dinner or Breakfast, would have to share his beneficent
despotism with somebody else. It is no longer the man who rules j it is
society. Nobo,ly has all the talk, and everybody has some. The inùi-
vidual withers and the world is more and more. The less numerous the
company, the less chance bas anyone talker of supremacy over the rest.
Society becomes not merely democratic; it is communistic. Everything
is put into a common stock and divided among the contributors. And
the result is precisely what it would be if there were a redistrihution of
other property. The cleverest soon resumes his former share j adding
some of his neighbor's for the extra trouble. He conforms, nc\-ertheless,
to custom; he carries no sceptre to assert or to denote his rank; he
renounces all the appearances of authority in order to preserve the sub-
stance; he submits to be interrupted and interrupts nobody j he waits
his turn; he modulates his voice j he yields to others; he draws out
others; he does not argue: to contradict be would be ashamed. His
reward is that he escapes tbe almost inevitable penalty of superiority;
tbe envy of his fellow-men. He is one of those uncrowned kings to
whom Democracy pays the homage of unquestioning and unsuspecting
obedience.
136
GEORGE WASHBURN SMALLEY.
[1861-88
There are certain kinds of "shop" which men and women permit
themselves to talk. They tacitly assume that everybody elf::\e present
knows all about their subject, or ought to know. If you do not know,
so much the worse for you. .. The conversation, indeed, is seldom
monotonous, or on one topic only, but, whatever the topic may be, the
talk is fun of allusions, of unfinisbed sentences, of hints, of phrases
and references that are simply incomprehensible to the outsider. It is
like a family party; you must know all the relations and all the family
history, and all the pet names, and all the incidents of domestic life,
before you can be on even terms with the rest. It changes from one
year to another; the note cbanges; last year's key will no more open
this year's secret places than last year's argot will pilot you along the
Boulevards in Paris. Yes, and in London or anywhere in England
among London society, which spends often as much of the year in the
country as in London, you want a pilot among the shoals and quicksands
far more than in deep water. rrhe art of silence is more subtle than the
art of speech.
A FAIR INVADER.
The presence of American women in London society has had an influ-
ence on conversation as it has on other things. Youth and beauty and
cleverness are often to be found in the same person; it would be won-
derful if they were not to be found in the same group. The American
girl who marries in England has begun life earlier than her English
cousin. She has met men and even talked to them while yet unmarried,
a thing which few English girls venture to do. She has probably lived
in Paris; part of her education is French; she knows three of the great
capitals of the world; ber ideas are not bounded by the horizon of May-
fair. She is fresh, original, independent. She cannot always be clever,
but she has been taught to think for herself, and never was there a more
apt pupil in that science. Aboye all, perhaps, she was not born into a
respect for rank, or even for royalty, and she catches therefore at once
that note of equality which is essential to social success-in London as
much as anywhere in the world-as well as to intellectual freedom. It
was always said that the secret or one secret of American popularity in
royal circles was in this American freedom from the purely conventional
notion about royalty which prevails in England. A girl from New York
talked to the Prince of 'Vales as if royalty had no more rights tban
republicanism. She spoke her mind, as she expected the Prince to speak
his. I don't know that he always did, but he was delighted by the girl's
frankness. It is many years since he began to covet American society,
and thpre has never been a time when there was not some one or more
1861-88]
WILLIAM OLEA VER WILKINSON.
137
American women who, in the current phrase of London, had to be asked
if you wanted the Prince.
I say nothing of other aspects of the matter. It is the question of con-
versation, and of the influence of American women on the conversation
of London society, which alone concerns us at present. Of course.
these young girls and these young married ladies who had found out
how to amuse His Royal Highness found imitators. How to amuse His
Royal Highness is one of the social problems of the United Kingdom j a
single solution of the problem is not enough. It is a never-ending series
of novel answers to this ever-recurring conundrum which have to be dis-
covered or invented by somebody. The English ought to be grateful to
their American kinswomen for helping them to so many. I am not sure
that they are.
[[{t1Ham c[leaber mílliín
on.
BORN in Westford, Vt., 1833.
IN VINDICATION OF WEBSTER.
[Daniel Webster and the Compromise Measures of 1850.-The Century Magazine. 1876.]
THE fight now is fought, and the victory, somehow, has been won.
In the truce of antislavery strife that has happily succeeded at last,
and with us become, it may be trusted, a perpetual peace, it is no longer
excusable if we let the unjust reproach against Webster grow traditional
and inveterate.
But this cannot happen. Posterity, at least, will not suffer it. How-
ever minded still may be the new American nation that now is, the new
American nation that is soon to be will surely do him justice. His own
great words come back. They seem chosen for our needs in speaking
of him. We give the phrase a forward aspect, and we say of Webster,
The future, at least, is secure. For his renown, is it not of the treas-
ures of the whole country? The tree sent its top llÏgh, it spread its
branches wide, but it cannot fall, for it cast its roots deep. It sunk
them clean through the globe. No storm, not of force to burst the orb,
can overturn it. It certainly is not less safe to stand than is the repub-
lic itself. Perhaps it is safer.
'Vhat he spoke lives, while what was spoken against him perishes,
and his own speech, in the end, will effectual1y defend him. Already
the rage of defamation breaks and disperses itself, vainly beating against
that monumental rock to bis fame.
138
WILLIAM OLEA VER WILKINSON.
[1861-88
"Their surging charges foam themselves away."
When tbe storm bas fully spent itse1f, wben the fury is quite overpast,
the candid weather will quickly drink up the drench of mist and of
doud that stilI stains it. Then Webster's works win be seen, and the
speech of the seventh of March among them, standing there, like :Mont
Blanc, severe and serene, to attest, "bow silently I" but with none left
to gainsay, the greatness of the man, the pureness of the patriot.
But thus far to anticipate, amI not to anticipate farther, would be
scarce half to have guessed the recompense of acknowledgment tbat
surely awaits Daniel Webster. History will sit down by and by to
meditate his words, and, wisely comparing events, make up her :final
award. She then will perceive, and proclaim, that, not once, nor twice,
in an hour of darkness for his country, this man, not merely in barren
wish and endeavor, but in fruitful force and accomplishment as well,
stood forth sole, or without rival eminent, vindicator and savior of the
republic. She will see, and she will say, that, especially in 1850, while
many clear and pure spirits were accepting, amid applause! the glorious
bribe of instant enrollment among ostensible and confessed defenders of
liberty, one spirit was found-a spirit of graye and majestic mold, capa-
ble of putting this brilliant lure aside, to choose, almost alone, amid
obloquy, and scorn, and loss, a different bribe-a bribe which turned
sternly toward its chooser an obverse of rejection for himself, but which
hore, concealed from other, less deeply bebolding eyes than his, a reverse
of real eventual rescue for liberty, involved in necessary precedent
redemption for bis country. That chief selected spirit's name, history
will write in the name of Daniel Webster. Nor will she omit to point
out that, in thus choosing bravely for country, he did not less choose
wisely for liberty.
But history will go farther. She will avouch that not even with
death did vVebster cem,e being savior to his country. It was Webster
still, she will say, tbat saved us yet again in 1861. Illuminating her
sober page with a picture of that sudden and splendid display of patriot-
ism which followed Fort Sumter, she will write under the representation
her legend and her signature, "This is Daniel W eoster." I have pon-
dered his words, she will say, I have studied his life, and this apparition
is none other than he. Sleeping wakefully even in death for her sake,
he hearkened to hear the call of his country. He heard it in the guns
of Fort Sumter. Resurgent at the sound, that solemn figure once more,
and now, for tbe last and the sufficing occasion, reappeared on tbe
scene, standing visibly, during four perilous years, relieved, in colossal
strength and repose, against her dark and troubled sky, the Jupiter
Stator of his country.
1861-88]
WILLIA.Jf OLEA VER WILKINSON.
139
For that magnificent popular enthusiasm for the Union-an enthusi-
asm, the like of which, for blended fury and intelligence enlisted on
behalf of an idea, the world had never before beheld, this, as history
will explain, was by no means the birth of a moment. Fort Sumter
fired it, but it was otherwise fueled and prepared. Daniel Webster, by
eminence, his whole life long had been continuously at work. Speech
by speech, year after year, the great elemental process went on. These
men might scoff, and those men might jeer, but none the less, through
jeer and scoff, the harried Ti tan kept steadily to his task. Three gene-
rations, at least, of his countrymen he impregnated, mind and conscience
and heart, with the sentiment of devotion to the Union. This, in great
part, accounts for the miracle of eighteen hundreò sixty-one. Thus was
engendered and stored in the American character the matchless spirit of
patriotism which slept till Fort Sumter, but which, with Fort Sumter,
flamed out in that sudden. that august, that awful illustration an over
the loyal land. One flame-who forgets it ?-one flame of indignation
and wrath, like a joyful sword from its sheath, leaping forth, released at
last, from the patient but passionate heart of the people! That monster
Union meeting, for example, in New York city on the twentieth of
April, :fining U nioD Square from side to side, and from end to end, with
swaying surges of people-what was it, history will inquire, but Daniel
'Yebster, come again. in endlessly multiplied count, but in scarce aug-
mented volume of personal power?
Such is certain to be the final sentence of history. And if history
notes, as she will, that the generous desire of freedom for the slave-a
desire bond of conscience before, in mil1ions of hearts, but gloriously
emancipate now, by the welcomed foretokenings of war-if history notes
that this influence entered to heighten the noble passion of the hour,
this influence, too, she will grateful1y recognize to bave been largely a
fruit of the eloquence of Webster.
Should some share, perchance, of this confident prediction fail, his-
tory, at least, must decide that, comprehensively surveyed in its relation
to tbe whole of his own life, and in its relation to the life of the repub-
lic, Webster's part in the affairs of eighteen hundred fifty was the part
of an honest, a consistent, a wise, and an upright patriot and statesman.
With this measure of justice, let us make late haste to pacify now his
indignant fame.
140
WILLIAM OLEA VER WILKINSON.
AT MARSHFIELD.
[From" Webster: an Ode."-Poems. 1883.]
H IS way in farming all men knew;
'Vay wide, forecasting, free,
A liberal tilth that made the tiller poor.
That huge 'Vebsterian plough what furrows drew,
Through fallows fattened from the barren sea!
Yoked to that plough and matched for mighty size,
'Vhat oxen moved !--in progress equal, sure,
Unconscious of resistance, as of force
Not finite, elemental, like his own,
Taking its way with unimpeded course.
He loved to look into their meek brown eyes,
That with a light of love half human shone
Calmly on him from out the ample front,
While, with a kind of mutual, wise,
1rlute recognition of some kin,
Superior to surprise,
And schooled by immemorial wont,
They seemed to say, We let him in,
He is of us, he is, by natural dower,
One in our hrotherhood of great and peaceful power.
So, when he came to die
At l\Iarshfield by the sea,
And now the enù is nigh,
Up from the pleasant lea
Move his rlumb friends in solemn, slow,
Funereal procession, and before
Their master's door
In melancholy file compassionately go;
He will be glad to see his trusty friends once more.
Now let him look a look that shall suffice,
Lo, let the dying man
Take all the peace he can
From those large tranquil brows and deep soft eyes.
Rest it will be to him,
Before his eyes grow dim,
To hathe his aged eyes in one deep gaze
Commingled with old days,
On faces of such friends sincere,
With fonùness brought from boyhood, dear.
Farewell, a long look and the last,
And these have turned and passed.
Henceforth he will no more,
As was his wont before,
Step forth from yonùer door
L1861-88
1861-88]
JAJIES MORRIS WHITON.
141
To taste the freshness of the early dawn,
The whiteness of the sky,
The whitening stars on high,
The dews yet white that lie
Far spread in pearl upon the glimmering lawn;
Never at evening go,
Sole pacing to and fro,
'Vith musing step and slow,
Bene3.th the cope of heaven set thick with stars,
Consiùering by whose hand
Those works, in wisdom planned,
'Vere fashioned, and still stand
Serenely fast and fair above these earthly jars.
Never again. Forth he will soon be brought
By neighbors that have loved him, having known,
Plain farmers, with the fanner's natmal thought
And feeling, sympathetic to his own.
All in a temperate air, a golden light,
Rich with October, sad with aftemoon,
Fitly let him be laid, with rustic rite,
To rest amid the ripened harvest boon.
He loved the ocean's mighty mmmur deep,
And this shan lull him through his dreamless sleep.
But those plain men will speak above his head,
This is a lonesome world, and 'VEBSTER dead!
antc
;fflotrt
m1)tton.
BORN in Boston, Mass., 1833.
THE ASSURANCE OF IMMORTALITY.
[The Law of Liberty and Other Discourses. 1889.]
I N the reign of Henry VIII., Sir Thomas More, tbe foremost English-
man of his time, was required to take a new oath of allegiance, in
which was a clause affirming that the King's divorce from Catherine,
his first queen, was, in a religious point of view, valid. This ltfore did
not in his conscience believe, and therefore declined to suny his con-
science by swearing falsely. For his refusal he was brought to the scaf-
fold as a traitor and beheaded, while many of his fellow Catholics saved
themselves by committing perjury. The question is, whether ltlore, by
bis heroic fide1ity to conscience merely contributed to keep integrity
alive in other men, who admired bis example, or whether, beside this,
be kept his own integrity alive, although his body perished.
142
JAMES MORRIS WHITON.
[1861-88
Let us imagine a modern disbe1iever in immorta1ity arguing with
:More to persuade bim not to resolve on death.
Your integrity is dear to you. Sir Tbomas, but what is integrity? It
is only a refined sort of taste, a very delicate physical sensation, as
much a part of bodily nature as your preference for the fragrance of a
rose. If you save your life by consenting to this required perjury, you
cannot, of course, enjoy your integrity as you bave hitherto. But tbat
will be only parting with one sweet odor; you will have one enjoyable
physical sensation less tban now. And this you can, no doubt, make
up by some new or increased enjoyment in otber directions. You will,
of course, for a time feel a certain disgust, but that is also a wholly
pbysical matter, like a vile smell in the nostrils, and tbis you will, no
doubt, be able to banish in time by various agreeable expedients.
Ien
never hesitate to sacrifice a limb or an eye to save their life, and your
integrity is a mere function of your brain, the same as your sight.
Why not sacrifice it to the royal mandate rather than take it to the
scaffold, where in a moment you will lose it and everything else for-
ever-all your fine feelings and wbat you call conscience vanishing
utterly at tbe faU of the axe in the last breatb tbat gurgles from your
beadless trunk ? Nay, rather, .rieh1 as others yield, keep what you can
of life, family, friends, enjoyments, honors, for many years to come.
Sucb is tbe plea with which a denial of the immortal life of tbe spirit
reënforces the natural instinct of the throbbing animal life which
recoils from death as its destroyer. A nd yet. in spite of a11 the ghastly
terrors in the way, in spite of the repugnance of a sensitive nature to
encounter its ùestroyer, in spite of all the doubts that are raised when,
to offset tbe visible and tangible benefits of continued life in this world,
there is nothing to cast into the opposite Bcale except what is invisible-
a simple faitb and bope-the self-preserving instinct of the moral life
girds tbe martyr of principle with an invincible courage to lay life down
that he may take it again.
Shall any thinking man here say that there is no life to take again
which is independent of the failing heart-beat? Did More keep his
integrity, but keep no life of integrity? One can say so only by tbe
sacrifice of reason to absurdity- Eitber integrity is perisbable, or the
life to whicb integrity belongs is imperishable.
But what f:tark unreason it is to say that the dictate of tbe moral
instinct of our nature, which bids us to part with life for the keeping of
integrity, is less rational than the dictate of the physical instinct, which
bids us part with integrity for the keeping of life! And when we see
and applaud the action of moral heroes and saints. in whom the self-pre-
serving instinct of the animal life is met and overborne in its most impe-
rious demands by the self-preserving instinct of the moral nature, what
1861-88]
JAMES MORRIS WHITON.
143
blind unreason, again, it is, to say that the defeated instinct to save tbe
body pointed to a substantial advantage; but the conquering instinct to
lay life down to take it again pointed to something unsubstantial-a
mere sbadow and illusion [ Beyond demonstration to our senses as i
the Hfe to be taken again, in contrast with tbe life of the senses which is
laid down, it is made good to our reason as an absolute certainty by this
one fact-that, if there were no such life to come, we could give no
rational account of the action of our bigher nature, our moral instincts.
We should be forced to admit that the noblest part of human nature is
the most deceptive and the most irrational.
'Vhen, therefore, Professor Drummond, with many other eminent
Christian thinkers, says that immortality is tbe one point in the Chris-
tian system which most needs verification from witbout, by some proof
of an external sort, we regret it as a most incautious and unwarrantable
concession. On the contrary, we are compe11ed to insist that the exact
contrary is the only true statement. We have to believe in the life
which we have not seen, simply because it is a necessity of reason for
tbe rational explanation of the phenomena of human nature. Similarly,
we bave to believe in other tbings invisible, because they are necessary
to reason. The ether which fills all space, through which the stars
move, no eye has seen. Yet that there is such an ether is tbe faith of
science. 'Vb y ? Because the phenomena of light can be explained
only by the existence of this invisible ether. Such scientists as Pro-
fessor Tyndall tell us we must believe it to be a reality, because it is a
postulate of reason for the rational explanation of the action of light.
Precisely on this scientific ground of rational necessity the doctrine of
immortality rest
, besides the declaration of the Scriptures. The evi-
dence for it from the action of our moral nature is so convincing, that a
distinguished writer of the last century-Sam uel Clarke-declared that,
even though there were no otber revelation, it could not be gainsaid or
doubted. In just this point we can also appeal to one of the most cele-
brated names of modern science. Says Professor Huxley: "If one is
able to make good the assertion that his theolo
y rests upon valid evi-
dence and sound reasoning, such theology must take its place as a part
of science." In view of what we are thus encouraged to claim as a sci-
entific verification of immortality, we may now quote the remark of
another of the great scienti::;ts of our time. Said Herbert Spencer:
"How truly its central position is impregnable, religion bas never ade-
quately realized."
That an assurance of immortality is the central necessity of religion is
evident. As there is no progress of any kind witbout seH-denial, as
there is no self-denial of any kind without tbe expectation of a gain to
overbalance tbe sacrifice, so an moral progress, all growth of virtue, is
144
WILLIA.M SWINTON.
[1861-88
at an end, if there is an end to the hope of life to be taken up when this
life is laid down.
"\Vhen so saying, we do not forget the splendid instances of self-devo-
tion in many, who have met death bravel,y in a noble cause without the
sustaining hope of a life to come. Hut in these we see that gracious
provision of God, through which, when reason falters, instinct takes its
place. In such instinctive heroism, unsustained by conscious reason,
we see just what we see in the unreasoning sagacity of the lower ani-
mals. It is the action of the Universal Mind, intelligently working in
the blindly acting creature.
But while we recognize this, we see, on the other hand, what history
shows without exception. No human virtue has ever been able to
propagate itself from generation to generation, to redeem society from
gravitation into profligacy and moral ruin, or to make truth and right-
eousness spread in the world, apa.rt from a rational conviction of the life
to come. A part from that conviction, at once awing and inspiring, men
generally act upon the maxim, that "a living dog is better than a dead
lion," and prefer to live like dogs than to die like lions. A bound is set
to the power of truth, conscience, duty, by any suspicion that the grave
is tbe bound which is set to life. It is only the hand of Immortality
that draws aside the veil which this world casts over the face of God as
our Judge. It is only the foregleams of Eternity which cast a saving
light on our pathway, so beset by the precipice and the pit. This
kindly light God has implanted as the central instinct of our souls. It
is ours to cherish as His most precious gift to reason. It is ours to fol-
low as our most precious guide to the Father's blessing and the Father's
house.
[[Ullíam
\Uínton.
BORN In Saltoun, Scotland, 1833.
THE LITTLE MONITOR.
[The Twelve Decisive Battles of the War. 1867.]
T HE gale of tbe previous day had abated, and there was but little
wind or sea. As the Confederate fleet steamed steadily into view
its character became apparent; tbe central figure was the long-expected
Merrimac, whose advent had been the theme of speculation through days
and nights for many weeks, not only in the squadron which waited to
receive her, but throughout the country. The cry of "the Merrimac I
1861-88]
WILLIA.Jl S JVISl'O
Y.
145
the
Ierrimac!" speedily ran from ship to fort, and from fort to shore.
To the curious eyes of the thousand spectators gazing intently from near,
or peering through telescopes from afar, she seemed a grim-looking
structure enough-like the roof of an immense building sunk to the
eaves. Playing around her, and apparently guiding her on, were two
well-armed gun-boats, the Jamestown and Yorktown, formerly New
York and Richmond packets, which seemed to act like pilot-fish to the
sea-monster they attended. Smaller tugs and gun-boats followed in her
wake, some of which had emerged from tbe Ja.mes River. On she carne,
the Cumberland and Congress meanwhile bravely standing their ground;
and, as tbe .Merrimac approached the latter vessel, she opened the battle
with the angry roar of a few heavy guns. The Congress answered with
a full broadside, and wben the .Merrimac, passing her, bore down upon
tbe Cumberland, the latter, too, brought to bear upon ber every avail-
able gun, in a well-delivered fire. To the chagrin of hotb vessels, their
heaviest. shot glanced as idly from the flanks of their antagonist as peas
blown at the hide of a rhinoceros. Hot and terrific as was the firing
tbat now took place, the contest could only be of short duratioll. 'Yith
fell intent, tbe huge kraken, unharmed by the missiles rained upon her,
bore down upon the Cumberland, and, striking that ill-fated vessel with
her iron beak, under terrific momentum, rent a great gaping cavern in
her side. In an instant it was
een that all was o\'er with tbe Cumber-
land. But, while tbe waters rushed into the yawning cbasm, and while
the ship sank lower and lower, her gallant crew, led by their heroic com-
mander, Lieutenant
Iorris, refused to quit their posts, and with loud
cheers continued to pour their broadsides upon the gigantic enemy. As
the guns touched the water they delivered a last volleYI then down to
her glorious grave went the good Cumberland and her crew, with her
flag still proudly waving at the masthead.
:Meanwhile the consorts of the
Ierrimac had furiously engaged the
Congre
s with their beavy guns. 'Varned by the horrible fate of the
Cumberland, she had been run aground in an effort to avoid being
rammed by the l\ferrimac. But the latter, at half-past two, coming up
from the destruction of the Cumberland, took deliberate position astern
of the Congress, and raked her with a horrible fire of heavy shells.
Anotber steamer attacked her briskly on tbe starboard quarter, and at
length two more, an unneeded re<.;nforcement, came up and poured in a
fresh and constant fire. Nevertheless, until four o'clock the unequal,
hopeless contest was maintained; and with each horrible crash of shell,
tbe splinters flew out, and the dead fell to the deck of the dauntless
Congre8s. She could bring to bear but fi ve guns on her adversaries, and
of these the shot skipped harmlessly from the iron hump of the dread
monster who chiefly engaged her. At last, not a single gUll wa:-: avail-
VOL. Ix.-lO
146
1VILLIAM SWINTON.
[1861-88
able; the ship was encircled by enemies; her decks were covered with
dead and dying. for the slaughter had been terrible; bel' commander had
fallen; sbe was on fire in several places; everyone of tbe approacbing
Union vessels bad grounded; no relief was possible; then. and then
only, was the stubborn contest ended, and the flag of the Congress hauled
down.
And now, with the waters rolling over tbe Cumberland and with the
Congress in flames, the Confederate dragon,
tiI1 belching her fiery, sul-
phurous breath, turned greedy and grim to the rest of the Union squad-
ron. Arrived within a mile and a half of Newport News, the :Minnesota
grounded wbile the tide was running ebb, and there remained a helpless
spectator of the sinking of the Cumberland and tbe burning of tbe Con-
gress. The Roanoke, following after, grounded in her turn; more for-
tunate, with the aid of tugs, she got off again, anù, her propeller being
useless, witbdrew down the harbor. In fine, the St. Lawrence grounded
near the :Minnesota. At four o'clock, the 1ferrimac, Jamestown, and
Yorktown bore down upon the latter vessel; but the huge couching
monster, Which in a twinkling would lmve visited upon her the fate of the
Cumberland, could not, from bel' great draught. approach within a mile
of the stranded prey. She took position on the starboard bow of the
:l\Iinnesota. and opened with her ponderous battery; yet with so little
accuracy tbat only one shot was effective, that passing through the
Union steamer's bow. As for her consorts. they took position on the
port bow and stern of the Minnesota, and with their heavy rifled ord-
nance played severely upon the ve
sel, and killed and wounded many
men. The 1ferrimac, meanwhile, gave a share of her favors to tbe St.
Lawrence, which had just grounded near the :\Iinnesota, and had opened
an ineffectual fire. One buge shell penetrated the starboard quarter of
the St. Lawrence, passed through the ship to the port side, completely
demolisbed a bulkbead, struck against a strong iron bar. and returned
unexploded into the wardroom; f'uch were tbe projectiles which the
Merrimac was fling-iug into wooden frigates. Very
oon the St. Law-
rence got afloat by the aid of a tug, and was ordered back to Fort :ßfon-
roe. Tbe grounding of the Minnesota bad prevented the use of bel'
battery, but at length a heavy gun was hrought to bear upon the two
smaller Confederate steamers, with marked effect. As for the lO-inch
pivot gun, its beavy shot 'were harmless against the
Ierrimac. Thus
the afternoon wore on, tin with the parting day died the fury of battle.
At length at seven o'clock, to tbe great. relief of the Union squadron, all
three Confederate vessels hauled off and steamed back to Norfolk.
So ended the first day's battle in Hampton Roads. 'Vhat wilù excite-
ment, what grief. what anxiety, what terrible foreboding for the morrow
pos
l'
ed the Union squadron when night fell, cannot be descrihed. All
1861-88]
WILLIAJl SJVIYTO.N.
147
was panic, confusion, and consternation. That the Merrimac would
renew the battle in tbe morning was too e\'idellt, and the result must be
tbe destruction of a part of tbe fleet, the di
persion of the rest, and the
loss of tbe barbor of Hampton Roads. Her first victim would be the
.:Minnesota, now helplessly aground off Xewport Xews; next, whatever
vessel might be brave or rash enough to put itself in her way; wbether
she would then pause to reduce Fort :\[onroe; or, passing it by, would
run along the K orthern coast, carrying terror to the national capital, or
making Ler dread apparition in the harbor of N ew York, was uncertain.
The commander of tbe fort, General 'V 001, telegraphed to 'Vasbington
tbat probably both the
linnesota and tbe St. Lawrence would be cap-
tured, and that" it was thought that the )lerrimac, Jamestown, and
Y OI'ktown will pass the fort to-night."
leanwhile, tbat officer admitted
that, should the
lerrimac prefer to attack the fort, it would be only a
question of a few days ,,"hen it must be aoandoned.
It wa
upon such a scene tbat the little )10nitor quietly made her
appearance at eigbt o'clock in the evening, having left the harbor of
New York two days before. Long before her arrival at the anchorage
in Hampton Roads the sound of hea'
y guns was distinctly heard on
board, and shells were seen to burst in the air. The chagrined officers
of the
lonitor conceived it to be an attack upon
orfolk, for wbicb they
were too late, and the ship was urged more swiftly along. At lengtb a
pilot boarded ber, and, half terror-stricken, gave a confused account of
the "!\Ierrimac's foray. The response was a demand upon him to put tbe
)lonitor alongside the 1Ierrimac; terrified at which, the moment tbe
Hoanoke was reached he jumped into his boat and ran away. The
appearance of the )lonitor did little to abate tLe consternation prevail-
ing. That so insignificant a
tructure could cope with the giant
lerri-
mac was not credited; and those who had anxiously watched for ber
arrival-for she had been telegraphed as having left New York-gazed
witb blank astonishment, maturing to despair, at the puny affair before
tbem. Her total weight was but nine hundred tons, while that of tbe
)lerrimac was five tbollsand. "That Laù yonder giant to fear from tbis
dwarf? A telegram from ,r ashington had ordered tbe Monitor to be
sent thither the moment she arrived: hut this of course was now disre-
garded, and the senior officer of tbe
q uadron, Captain
larston, of tbe
Roanoke, authorized Lieutenant 'Vorden to take the :Monitor up to tbe
luckless
Iinnesota and protect ber.
It was a memorable night. In fort, on shipboard and on shore, Fed-
erals and Confederates alike could not sleep from excitement: tbese were
flushed with triumpb and wild with anticipation. those were oppressed
with anxiety or touched the depths of despair. Norfolk was ablaze witb
the victory, and the sailors of the 1\Ierrimac and her consorts caroused
148
WILLIAJf SWINTON.
[1861-88
with its grateful citizens. In IIampton Roads. amidst the bustle of the
hour, some hopeless preparations were made for the morrow. The
loni-
tor, on reaching the Roanoke, found the ded..s of the flag
hip sanded
aud all hands at quarters, resolved, though destruction stared them in
the face, to go down in a hard fight. Her sister ship still la,y agrounJ
off Kewpol't News, tugs toiling all night painfully but uselessly to set
her afloat again. :Meanwhile a fresu supply of ammunition was sent to
her. As for the officers and crew of the Monitor, though worn out by
their voyage from Kew York, they had little mind for sleep. and passed
much of the night in forecasting the issue of the coming da.,'. The
stories poured into their ears respecting the armor and battery of the
Ierrimac had not dismayed them, or weakened their confid.ence in their
own vessel j yet, as the officers had not been long enough on her to
learn her qualities, nor the men to be dri]]ed at the guns and at quarters,
the guns, the turrets, the engines, the gear, and everything else, were
careful1y examined, and proved to be in working order.
While thus in toil and expectation the night-hours passed, an entranc-
ing spectacle illumined the waters around. The landscape, a short dis-
tance off, in the direction of Newport News, was bri]]iantly lighted by
the flames of the burning Congress. Ever and anon a shotted gun,
booming like a signal of distre
s, startled the air around. the ill-fated
ship, when its charge had been ignited by the slowly-spreading flames.
rren hours now, the f'hip had been burning j and at one o'clock in the
night, the fire reached the magazine, which blew up with an explo
ioll
beard more than fift
T miles away. At once, in a gorgeous pyrotechny,
huge masses of burning timber rose and floated in the air, and f:trewed
the waters far and wide with the glowing débris of the wreck j then suc-
ceeded a sullen and ominous darkness, in which the flickering of the
embers told that the course of the Congress was nearly run.
leanwhile
the dark outline of the mast and yards of the Cumberland was projected
in bold relief on the i11 umined sky. Her ensign, never hauled down to
the foe, still floated in its accustomed place. and there swayed slowly and
solemnly to and fro, with a requiem-gesture all but human. over the
corpses of tbe hundreds of bra\Te fellows who went down with their ship.
At six o'clock on the morning of )larch 9th, the officer on watch on
the Minnesota made out the
lerrimac through the morning mist, as she
approached from Sewall's Point. She was up betimes for her second
raid, in order to have a long day for the work. Quickly the Monitor
was notified, and got up bel' anchor; the iron hatches were then bat-
tened down, and those below depended on candles for their light. It
was a moment of anxiety on the little craft, for there had been no time
for drilling the men, except in firing a few rounds to test the compres
ors
and the concussion, and an that the officers themselves, who were now to
1861-88]
WILLIAJ.1I S
7NTON.
149
figbt tbe ship. knew of tbe operation of the turret and guns, they learned
from tbe two engineers who were attached to the vessel, and who bad
superintended her construction. 'Vhen the great smoke-pipe and sloping
casemate of the Confederate came clearly into view, it was evident that
the latter had been smeared with tallow to assist in glancing off the sbot.
As she came down from Craney Island, the l\Iinnesota beat to quarters;
but the 1ferrimac passed her and ran down near to tbe Rip-Raps, when
she turned into the channel by which the :Minnesota had come. Her
aim was to capture the latter vessel, and take her to Norfolk, where
crowds of people lined the whanTes, elated with success, and waiting
to see the .Minnesota led back as a prize. Wben the l\Ierrimac had
approached within a mile, the little l\fonitor came out from under the
l\Iinnesota's quarter, ran down in bel' wake to within short range of the
lerrimac, "completely covering my ship," says Captain Van Brunt, "as
far as was possible with her diminutive dimensions. and. mucb to my
astonishment, laid herself rigbt alongside of the l\ferrimac. " Astounded
as the l\ferrimac was at tbe miraculous appearance of so odd a fish, the
gallantry with which the l\fonitor had clashed into the very teeth of its
guns was not less surprising. It was Goliath to David; and with some-
thing of the coat-of-mailed Philistine's disdain, the
Ierrimac looked
down upon the pigmy which had thus undertaken to champion the
Iinnesota. A moment more and the contest began. '-rhe l\ferrimac let
fly against the turret of her opponent two or three such broadsides as
had finisbed the Cumberland and Congress, and would bave finished the
linnesota; but bel' heavy shot, rattling against the iron cylinder, rolled
off even as tbe volleys of her own victims had glanced from the case-
mate of the
lerrimac. Then it was that the word of astonishment was
passed. " The Yankee cheese-box is made of iron! "
The duel commence(] at eight o'clock on Sunday morning, and was
waged with ferocity tin noon. So eager and so confident was each
antagonist, that often the yessels touched each other, iron rasping against
iron, and through most of tbe battle they were distant but a few yards.
Several times, while thus close alongside, the
lerrimac let loose her full
broadside of six gUll::;, and the armor and turret of the little l\Ionitor
were soon covered with dent
. The l\Ierrimac had, for tbose days, a
very formidable battery, consisting of two 7
-incb rifles, empl
ying
twenty-one-pound charges, and four 9-inch Dahlgrens, in each broadside.
Yet often her shot, striking, broke and were scattered about the
loni-
tor's decks in fragments, afterwards to be picked up as trophies. The
Monitor was struck in pilot-house, in turret, in side armor, in deck. But,
with their fi\-e inches of iron, backed by three feet of oak, the crew were
safe in a perfect panoply, while from the impregnable turret the II-inch
gUllS answereù back tbe broadsides of the
Ierrimac.
150
WILLL4Jf SWINTON.
[1861-88
However, on both side
, armor gained tbe victory over gum;; for,
unprecedented as was the artillery employed, it was for the :first time
called upon to meet iron, and was unequal to the task. Even the
:Monitor's II-inch ordnance, tbough it told heavily against the casemate
of tbe !\Ierrimac, often driving in splinters, could not penetrate it. So
excited were the combatants at :first, and so little u
ed to their guns, that
the latter were elevated too mucb, and most of the missile
were wasted
in the air; but, later in the fight, they Legan to depress their guns; and
then it was that one of tbe )lonitor's shot, hitting the junction of the
casemate with the side of the ship, caused a leak. A shot, also, flying
wide, passed througb tbe boiler of one of tbe 1\1errimac's tender
, envel-
oping her in steam, and scalding man
v of her crew, so that she was
towed off by her consort. But, in general, on both sbips the armor
defied the artillery. It is tbis fact which contains the key to the pro-
longed contest of that famous morning. Tbe chief engineer of the
Monitor, 111'. Newton, questioned afterwards by tbe 'Yar Committee of
Congress, why the battle was Bot more promptly decided against the
!\lerrimac, answered: "It was due to the fact tbat the power and
endurance of the II-inch Dahlgren guns, witb wbich the :Monitor was
armed, were not known at the time of the battle; hence the commander
would scarcely have been justified in increm;ing the cbarge of powder
above that authorizeù in the Ordnance :Manual. Subsequent experi-
ments developed the important fact that these guns coulJ be fired with
thirty pounds of cannon powder, with solid shot. If this had been
known at the time of the action, I .pm clearly of opinion that, from the
close quarters at which Lieutenant Worden fought his vessel, tbe enemy
would bave been forced to surrender. It will, of course. be admitted by
ever.,. one, that if but a f;ingle I5-inch gun could possibly have been
mounted within tbe :l\lonitor's turret (it was plauned to carr.,- the heavi-
est ordnance), the action would ha\Te been as short and decisive as the
combat between the monitor 'Veehawken, Captain .Tohn Rodgers, and
the rebel iron-clad 1'\..t1anta, which, in several res peets, was superior to
the )'Ierrimac." lIe added tbat, as it was, but for the injury received
by Lieutenant Worden (of wbich hereafter), that vigorous officer would
ver.v likely have "badgered" the Merrimac to a surrender.
The :Minnesota lay at a distance, viewing the contest with undisguised
wonùer. "Gun after gun," says Captain Van Brunt, "was fired by the
1Ionitor, which was returned with whole broadsides from the rebels, with
no more effect, apparently, than so many pebble-stones thrown by a
child clearly establishing tbe fact that wooden vessels cannot
contend with iron-clad ones; for never before was anything like it
dreamed of by tbe greatest enthusiast in maritime warfare." Despairing
of doing anything with the impregnable little :Mon i tor, the :\lerrimac
1861-88]
WILLIA.J:f SWLNTO,K.
151
now sought to avoid her, and threw a sben at the Minnesota which tore
four rooms into one in its passage, and set the sbip on fire. A second
shell exploùed the boiler of the tugboat Dragon. But by the time she
had fired the third sbell, the little .Monitor had come down upon her,
placing herself between them. Angry at this interruption, the ::\lerrimac
turned fiercely on her antagonist, and bore down swiftly against the
:l\1onitor with intent to visit upon her the fate of the Cum berland. The
shock was tremendous, nearly upsetting the crew of the :Monitor from
their feet j but it only left a trifling dent in her side-armor and some
splinters of the l\Ierrimac to be added to the visitors' trophies.
It was now that a shell from the l\Ierrimac, striking the :\Ionitor's pilot-
house, which was built of solid wrought-iron bars, nine by twelve inches
thick, actuaIIy broke one of these great logs, and pressed it inward an
inch and a half. The gun which fired this sheIl was not more than
thirty feet off, as the l\Ierrimac then lay across the l\lonitor's bow. At
that moment, Lieutenant '\V onlen, the commanùer, and his quartermaster
were both looking through a sight aperture or conning-hole, which con-
sisted of a slit between two of the bars, and the quartermaster, seeing the
gunners in the l\Ierrimac training their piece on the pilot-house, dropped
his head. calling out a sudden warning, but at that instant the shot
struck tbe aperture level with the face of the gallant 'Vorden, and
inflicted upon him a severe wound. His eyesight for the time and for
long after was gone, his face badly disfigured. and he was forced to turn
over his command to Lieutenant Greene. who hitherto had been firing
the gum:. Chief Engineer Stimers. who had been conspicuously efficient
and yal uable all day by his skilful operation of the turret and by the
encouragement and advice he gave to the gunners, thereby increasing
the effective service of the guns, now personally took charge of tbe
latter, and commenced a wen-directed fire.
IIowever, with tbe wounding of 'Vorden, the contest was substantially
over, a few weII-depres
ed sbots rang against the cuirass of the )lerri-
mac, and the latter, despairing of subduing her eager and obstinate antag-
onist, after four hours of fierce effort abandoned the fight, and, with her
two consorts, steamed away for Norfolk, to ten her vexation to tbe dis-
appointed throng of spectators, and then to go into dock for repairs.
153
GEORGE ARNOLD.
[1861-88
<l5corgc grnoll1.
BORN in New York, N, Y., 1834. DIED at Strawberry :Farms, :Monmouth ('0., N. J., 1865.
SWEET DIPATIE
CE.
[Drlft: A Sea-Slwre Idyl: and Othe.r Poems. 1866.-Poems Grave and Gay. 1866.-
Both edited by William lVinter.]
THE sunlight glimmers dull and gray
rpon my wall to-day;
This summer is too long:
The hot days go
\Veary and slow
As if time's reckoning were perverse and" rong:
But when the flowers
Have faded, and their bloom hns passed a" ny,
Then shall my song
Be all of happier hours,
And more than one fond heart shall then be gay.
But song can never ten
How much I long to hear
One voice, that like the echo of a silver bell,
Unconscious, low, and clear,
Falls, as aforetime angel-voices fell
On DRint Cecilia's car:
And it will come again.
An<1 I shall liear it, when
The droning summer bee forgets his song,
And frosty autumn crimsons hill and dell:
I shall not murmur, then,
" This summer is too long! "
The trellised grapes shall purple be
And all
The forest aisles rcëcho merrily
The brown quail's call,
And glossy chestnuts fall
In pattering plenty from the leafless tree
"Then autumn winds blow strong:
Then shall I see
Her worshipped face once more, and in its sunshine, I
Shall cease to s1 gh
" This summer is too long! "
)[eanw hile, I wander up and down
The noisy town,
Alone:
I miss the lithe form from my side,
1861-88]
GEORGE A RlVOLD.
153
The kind, caressing tone,
Thc gentle eyes
In whose soft depths so much of loving lies;
And loncly in the throng,-
Each jostling, bustling, grasplllg fur his OWll,-
The weary words arisc,
" This summer is too lung! "
Haste, happy hours,-
Fade, tardy, lingering flowers!
Your fragrance has dcparted, long ago;
I yearn for cold winds, whistling through the ruined
bowers,
For winter's snow.
If with thcm, she
:May come to teach my heart a cheerier song,
And lovingly
Iake me forget all wearines.;; and severance and wrong,
vVhispering close and low,
" Here are we still togcther, Love, although
The summer was sO long! "
BEER.
I =r ERE ,
'Vith my beer
I sit,
'Yllile golden moments flit:
Alas!
They pass
Unhecdeò by:
And, as they fly,
I,
Being dry,
Sit, idly sipping here
1\1y beer.
0, finer far
Than fame, or riches, are
The graceful smokc-wreaths of this free cigar!
'Vhy
I-'hould I
'Veep, wail, or sigh?
"That if luck has passecl me by ?
'Vhat if my hopes arc dead,-
l\Iy pleasures fled ?
Have I not still
l\ly fill
154
GEORGE ARNOLD.
Of right good cheer,-
Cigars anù beer?
Go, whining youth,
Forsooth!
Go, weep ana wail,
Sigh and grow pale,
'Veave melancholy rhymes
On the okl times,
'Vhose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,
But leave to me my beer!
Gold is dross,-
Love is loss,-
So, if I gulp my sorrows down,
Or see them drown
In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,
Then ùo I wear the crown,
'Vithout the cross!
A SUNSET F ANT ASIE.
W HEN the sun sets over the bay,
And sweeping shadowR solemnly lie
On its mottled surface of azure and gray,
And the night-winds sigh,-
Come, 0 L
onore, ùrown-cycd one,
To the cloudy realms of the setting sun!
'Yhere crimson crag, and silvery steep,
And amaranth rift, and purple deep,
Look dimly soft, as the sunset pales,
Like the shadowy cities of ancient tales.
As Egypt's queen went floating along
To her lover, when all the orient air
'Vas laden with echoes of dreamy song,
And the plash of oars, aIlll perfumes rare,
So will we float,
In a golòen ùoat.
On velvet cushions soft and wiùe;
I and my love, the on
-x-eyed,
'Vill watch the twilight radiance fail,-
Cheek by cheek and side hy side,-
And our mi ngled ùreath, 0 LEonore,
Shall fan the silken sail,
To the shining line of that faëry strand
Where sky is water and cloud is land,-
The wonderful sunset shore!
[18()1 -88
1861-88]
MARVIN RICHARIJSON VINCENT.
155
On those dim headlands, here and there,
The lofty glacier-peaks bet" een,
Through the purple haze of the twilight air,
The tremuluus glow of a star is seen.
There let us dwell, 0 Léonore,
Free from the griefs that haunt us here,
Knowing nor frown, nor sigh, nor tear:
There let us bide forevermore,
Happy fur aye in the sunset sphere!
In the mountainous c1oudland, far away,
Behold, a glittering chasm gleams!
0, let us cross the heaving bay,
To that land of love and dreams!
There would I lie, in a misty bower,
Tasting the nectar of thy lip,
Sweet as the honeyed dews that drip
From the budding lotos-flower!
Dip the oar anù spread the sail
For shining peak and shadowy vale!
Fill, 0 sail, and plash, 0 oar,
For the wonderful sunset shore!
;laarbÍ11 mícIJari:J
on
íncent.
BORN in Poughkeepsie, N, Y., 18.34.
THE PRIDE OF CARE.
[God and Bread; with Other Sermons. 1884.]
M EN win say, and very plausibly, "The anxious man has some
excuse." Take, for instance, a man in a position where many
are depending on him for guidance or instruction, and '\v here grpat
interests are bound up with his success. It wiII be said, "It would be
strange if he were not anxious." From the world's ordimlry point of
view, I should say so too. At any rate, he too often Ù; anxious, care-
worn, living in a feverish scramble to overtake his work, haunted by
the arrears of work. You honor his conscientiouf'ne
s. So do I. You
say it is un.iu
t to find fault with him. I reply, God finds fault with
him, even while He honors his diligence amI fidelity,-finds fault with
him because he win not cast off his anxiety on God, who has offered to
relieve him of it. Is that unjust on the part of our Father? If so, you
are guilty of similar injustice. Your little son is taken sick, and is
156
.J.llARVIN RICHARDSON VINCENT.
[1861-88
unable to prepare his lesson for to-morrow's 8chool. He is worried and
disappointed: he is anxiou
to excel; he is high up in his class, and
wants to keep his place. You say to him, ., Dismiss an care about that.
I win make it right with the teacher." .And you have a right to expect
that the boy will ùe satisfied with tbat; that he win take you at your
word, and trouble himself no more aùout tbe lesson. And if, in the
course of an hour, you find him worrying about it, are you not annoyed
and displeased with him? Do you not say to bim, "You ought to
have more confidence in me"?
Pride, I say,-subtle, unconscious pride,-is at the bottom of much of
this restlessness and worry. rrhe Ulan has come to think himself too
important, to feel that the burden is on his shoulders only; and that, if
he stands from under, there must be a crash. Anù, just to the degree
in which that feeling has mastered him, his thought and faith have
become divided from God. Let us give him his due. It is not for his
own ease or reputation that he has been caring. It is for his work.
And yet be has measurably forgotten that, if his work be of God, God
is as much interested in his succes::; as be himself can be; auù that God
will carryon his own work, no matter how many workmen lIe buries.
He divides the burden, and shows whom He tru
ts most by taking the
larger part himself, wben God bids him cast it all on bim. God, indeed,
exempts nobody from work. 'Ye may cast our anx-Ù:ly, but not our
work on him. A sense of responsibility is a brace to manhood, and a
developer of power; and, because God wants work and responsibility to
react healthfully on men, IIe wallts them to work with a hearty, joyous
spirit. 'Vhen the joy and the enthúsiasm have gone out of work, some-
thing is wrong. There is a pithy proverb that" not work, but worry,
kills men." God is providing for man's doing his work most efficiently
when He offers him the means of doing it joyfully by casting all anxi-
et,v on him,
There are few men in re
ponsible positions who have not felt tbe
force of a distinguished Englishman's words: "I clhTide my work into
tbree parts. One part I clo, one part goes undone, and the third. part
does itself." That third part which (loes it
eIf is a very pxpressi,-e hint
as to tbe needlessness of our fretting about at least one-third of our
work, besides giving a little puncture to our self-conceit by showing that
to one-third of 0\11' work we are not quite as necessar:y a
we had thougbt
ourselves. And as to tbe tbird, which the God-fearing man cannot do,
and which tberefore goes, or seems to go, undone, there is a further
hint tbat possibly that third is better undone, or is better done in some
other way and by some otber man, That ùoes not flatter our pride. I
am yery sure that it is always true for every faithful Christian worker,
tbat wbatever he cannot ùo, after having done his best, it is better that
1861-88]
Y.dRVLV RICHARDSON Vl.J.YCENT.
157
he should not do. And just there is where the humility comes in,-in
the frank and cheerful acceptance of the fact, in casting all care about it
on the Lord, and in not worrying and growing irritated over it. Says a
modern preacher: "I love to work, but I have carried all my life long a
sense that the work was so vast that no man, I did not care who he
was, could do more than a very little j tbat He who could raise up chil-
dren from the stones to Abraham could raise up men when He had a
mind to, and men of the right kind, and put them in the riglJt place;
that, after all, the Lord was greater than the work, and that it was of no
use for me to fret myself, and set myself up to be wiser than Provi-
dence. .All I was called upon to do was to ,,'ork up to the measure of
my wisdom and strength, and to he willing to go wherever God sent
me j and that then I was to be content."
A good deal of our energy is expended in planning j and, when our
plan is once made, we set our life on that track, and it runs with an
ever-increasing momentum. 'Ve do not relish a collision or a delay.
Insensibly we fall into the way of assuming that success in life means
simply the success of our plan. Do we bethink ourselves that, if our
plan is best in God's eyes, H(' is as much interested in carrying it out as
we are? If it is not best in bis eyes, surely we do not want it carried
out. Either way we may safely and restfully leave it with God. If
we are determined to carry it out anyway, and are irritated at obstacles
and delays, is that anything but pride? Are we so sure our plan is
right, so proud of our pet project, tbat we must torment ourselves if
God does not pet and foster it as we do? OL, how afraid we are that
our poor earthen vessels will go to pieces!
It is rigbt for us to make plans j hut we ought to draw them as we
draw the first draught of a plan for a new house. in lines that can be
easily rubbed out if God so please. Pride gets into these pbns before
we know it. 'Ve think we want God's work to succeed, and so we do j
only, we want it to succeed in our way, and 01} the line of our plan.
And yet not seldom God brings about the very result we are working
for, by breaking our plan all to piece
. Then comes the test of our
humility. Are we content to cast the wbole watter on God, and to look
cheerfully on tbe fragments of our plan? Are we h umble enough not
to feel p:rieved or angr,v because God chooses f-omebody or something
else to do the same work? Sometimes God Jets us see how much better
the work is done by the breaking of our plan, The forty years among .
the mountain solitudes seemed to .Moses, perhaps, lost time: but tbat
slow, tedious ripening gave Israel a leader and a lawgi vel'. The next
forty years yielded rich interest on the sad monotony of the previous
forty. It seemed to J acoL that everything was against him when
Joseph was stolen away. He could not see that Joseph had been sent
158
CHARLTON THOMAS LEWIS.
[1861-88
to prepare a home for his old age, and to lay the foundations of a nation
which should bear his name. It seemed as though the cb urch could
not spare Paul when he was shut up in prison, but the church of to-day
has the four epistles of the imprisonment from that chained hand. ..
<!tl)arlton '(!l)Otlta
ILC\\1í
.
BOR
in 'West Chester, Penn., 1834.
I
FLUENCE UF CIVILIZATION üX DUIL\TION OF LIFE.
[From a Discour.se before the .American Public Health Association, Boston, October, 1876.]
A N eminent school of scientific men are teaching the doctrine of nat-
ural selection, or the survival of the fittest, as the key to an prog-
ress in nature. I wish distinctl,v to bring out the starUi ng contrast
between this law and the laws of progress in vitalit.v which we have
found actuaII.r at work in human history. The first conùition of natural
selection is wholesale slaughter. It begins by assuming the principle of
l\Ialthus, that life tends to mu1tipl,Y bc:,ond the po
sibi]it.v of prpserva-
tion; of the infinite mass that come into being. nearly a11 must perish
unfulfiUeù. 'Vho shall the snrvivors be? Those, of course, who, by
superior vigor or by greater harIllo!?y with their en,-ironment, are most
fit to survive. These alone live to reproduce their kind, and transmit
the superiority which has preserved them; and thus, in successive gen-
erations, the race accumulates tbe qualities wbich promote life. Thus
the natural process of advancement is founded on limitless waste; tbe
growtb of life is in tbe soil of houndless death; the better form springs
ever from a world of graves. )lI-. Hux]e,Y tells us that the law of evolu-
tion, founded on this conception of natural selection, as eXplaining the
mode in which the organic world around us has arisen, stands on a basis
of evidence comparable to that which supports the Kewtonian theory of
the solar system. Let us a<1mit it, then, to the full extent claimed.
Admit that man himself, in the structural differences between bim and
lower forms, is the product of tbis law, and that. up to the time wben
he became distinctly human, as contrasted with his quadrumanous kin-
dred, his de\Telopment was !!,overned by it. We shall see that his human
progress is of an entirely different character. Observe that the forces
which we find at work in tbe physical and mental growth of man are
not merely independent of natural selection j they are exclusive of it,
and at war with it.
1861-88]
CIIARLTOX THO
1fAS LEWIS.
159
Look at each of the agencies we have enumerated. Of a generation of
infants entering the wor1d, natural selection says, Let them meet hard-
ship, severity, disease, which win destroy all but the most vigorous, and
leave these to become the parents of a hardier race. To the infirm of
aU ages, the diseased, the old. it says, Perish out of my way. You are
worthless of yourselves; and, if allowed to multiply, you but perpetuate
helplessness and increase misery. Of epidemics it says. Let them rage;
they may sweep away strong and weak together, but not without dis-
crimination. They destroy a larger share of the feeble, and leave the
average strength of the race and its posterity greater than before. By
the standard of natural selection. it would be clear gain that the human
race should be exterminated to-day, saving only a handful of the most
perfect humanity, to repeople the world after a higher standard.
But the foundation of society introduces the opposite principle. Fam-
ily affections and social ties have their meaning in the value of the indi-
vidual life to others; its value to society at large is a central thought of
civilization. The preservation of each by the common work and mutual
aid of an is the aim of government and law j the basis of families, com-
munities, anJ nations. Thui; the formation of society is the reversal of
the blind law of unconscious advancement, and its every step forward
weakens the forces on which this natural development depenJs. Its
history is a struggle against the conditions of natural selection, and a
steady reduction of its area of influence. Society preserves, for the pro-
genitors of the future. alike the weak and the strong, the diseased and
the healthy. If, then, this blind law is the one key to progress, man
must degenerate. Pessimi
ts, then. are right in holding that aU our
charities, public institutions, sanitary improvements, the very order of
society itself, are but means of protecting the weak against the sentence
of nature, and of perpetuating their weakness. Benevolence is then but
fony, mercy a crime, the charities of civilized life a pernicious force,
working for the degeneracy of tbe race.
There is but one reply: Civilization does largely sacrifice one princi-
ple of progress-the law of evolution by survivorship; but it introduces
another more potent principle. Under natural selection, improyement
must needs be fitful, occasional. and immeasurably slow; because the vari-
ations upon which it works and among which it chooses, are but casual
deviations from an average standard. which it can at most catch and
preserve. But civilization possesses the element of individual culture,
by which tbe standarJ itself is raised from generation to generation.
Society educates the child into a higher type of power. endurance, and
refinement than that in which he was born j its effects are stored up in
muscle, nerve, and brain, and through him transmitted to posterity, and
thus accumulate from age to age. Under natdral selection, when varia-
160
CHARLTON THO.JfAS LEWIS.
[1861-88
tions in capacity arise, thousands of them are wasted where one is
secured. fixed. and transmitted. But human society economizes much
of this waste, fastens upon anll improves an immensel.y larger proportion
of the capacitie
lavishly produced by nature, and thus concentrates, in
the brief historical movement, forces which would otherwise spread their
operation over countless ages. Thus it is the characteristic of ci viliza-
tion that the hereditary accumulation of inteIlectual and moral culture
gradually supersedes the unconscious and physical law of selection as
the agency of progress.
Now history, while it bas been a struggle between these two princi-
ples of advancement, has also been a test of their comparative power.
Natural selection, as its ablest expounders have shown, works with such
extreme slowness, under the mo
t favorable circumstances. that the prog-
ress of its work has ne"er yet been detected by observation. No
instance is known of its having effected any marked and important
change in any race of creatures, during the period of history. Vast as
is its cumulative force. it is exerted only in the course of ages defying
our imagination to span; and to accomplish a smaIl part of its work, it
must c1ea,-e its path of misery and slaughter through epochs measured
only by the formations of geology and the cycles of the stars. But the
intellectual and moral forces of cnlture, which have superseded it in
man, have actually, within the brief space of a few thousand years,
achieved the world of happiness in which we live. The rocks register
the story of a blind e,'olution, which they tell us is still going on as
rapidly as ever, yet so slowly that :he eye which watches for a few cen-
turies or millenniums can discern no movement; they cannot explain
those laws, by which, within generations too few to make one of their
minor epochs, the beast.like companions of the cave-bear and the mam-
moth-the wandering barbarians of the flint period-have produced the
intellects of Shakespeare and Newton, the scientific culture and the free
society into which men nre now horn.
,y
have seen that, where animal evolution ends and human progress
begins, the laws of individual hnd hereditary culture supersede the law
of natural selection. An interesting consequence of this is the fact toat
it makes a place for tbe prolongation of the individual life beyond the
period of vital and muscular activity. Under tbe reign of natural selec-
tion, there is no position in the universe for the being who has passed
the reproductive stage of energy. Hence wild animals. soon after this
period, usuaIly die; and, similarly, savage society has no home for old
age. But civilization centres wholly in the intellect, whose forces are
communicated by other than vital processes-in ideas which move and
mould the world through tbe minds and the posterity of others; and the
intellect, under favorable circumstances, not only continue;::, its work, but
1861-88]
CllARLES FARRAR BRO WNE.
161
grows in efficiency and usefulness after time has impaired the physical
powers. It is in civilized society alone that the activit
of the brain
makes old age valuable; and as civilization advances, tbe economy of
preserving a strong and cultivated mind through the longest possible
period of activity becomes more and more practicable, and yields a
richer reward. Thus it is a strictly scientific truth that the Lest symbol
of progress, the pride of social achievement, the nohlest ornament of our
race, is the venerable man, who, in a decaying body, preserves the ener-
gies of a wise, benevolent, and vigorous mind.
QtlJarlcø 1farrar 1J3ro\\1nc.
Bom. in 'Vaterforù, Me., 183,1:. DIED at Southampton, England, 1867.
ONE OF }[R. WARD'S BUSINESS LETTERS.
[ArtemllS Ward: llis Works, Complete. 187;),]
T o THE EDITOR OF THE
SIR-I'm movin along-slowly along-down tords your place. I
want you should rite me a letter, sayin how is the show bizniss in your
place. 11y show at present consists of three moral Bares, a Kangaroo
(a amoozin little Raskal-t'would make you larf yerself to deth to see
the little cuss jump up and squeal). wax figgers of G. vVashington, Gen.
Tay lor, John Bunyan, Capt. Kidd, and Dr. "tVebster . besides
several miscellanyus moral wax statoots of celebrated piruts & murder-
ers, &c., ekalled by few & exceld by none. Now :Mr. Editor, scratch orf
a few lines sayin how is the Rhow bizniss down to your place. I shall
hav my han bills dun at your OffiRS. Depend upon it. I want you
should git my hanbi11s np in flamin stile. Also git up a tremenjus
excitement in yr. paper 'howt my onparaleld Show. 'Ve must fetch
the public sumbow. 'Ve must wurk on their feelins. Cum tbe moral
on 'em strong. If it's a temperance community tell 'em I sined the
pledge fifteen minits arter I
e born, but on the contery ef YOlu peple
take their tods, say .:\lister 'Vanl is as Jenial a fe]]er as we eyer met,
full of conviviality, & the life an sole of the Soshul Boreel. Take,
don't you? If you say any thin abowt my show say my snaiks is as
harmliss as the new born Babe. 'Vhat a interestin study it is to see
a zewological animil like a f:naik under perfeek subjecshun! My kan-
garoo is the mORt larfahle EttIe cuss I ever saw. .All for 15 cent::;. I
am anxyus to skewer your infloounce. I repeet in regard to them han-
VOL. Ix.-ll
162
CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE.
[1861-88
bins that I shall git 'em struck orf up to your printin office. M}y per-
litercal sentiments agree with yourn exackly. I know tbey do, becawz
I never saw a man whoos didn't.
Respectively yures,
A. 'V ARD.
P. S.-You scratch my back & Ile scratch your back.
A VISIT TO BRIGHAl\I YOUNG.
[From the Same.]
I T is now goin on 2 (too) yeres, as I very wen remember, since I
crossed the Planes for Kaliforny, the Brite lanel of Jold. 'Vhile
crossin the Planes an so bold I fell in with sum noble red men of the
forest (N. B. This is rote Sarcasticu1. Injins is Pizin, w har ever found,)
which thay Sed I was their Brother, & wanted for to smoke the Calomel
of Peace with me. Thay then stole my jerkt beef, blankits, etsettery,
skalpt my orgin grinder & scooted with a Wild Boop. Durin the
Cheaf's techin speech be sed he shood meet me in tbe Happy Buntin
Grounds. If he duz thare will be a fite. But enuff of this ere. Reven
-,-Yoose :JIuttons, as our skoolmaster, wbo has got 'l'alent into him, cussy-
cally obsarve.
I arrove at Salt Lake in doo time. At Camp Scott there was a lot of
U. S. sogers, hosstensibly sent out thare to smash the mormons, but
reaIIy to eat Salt vittles & play poker & other beautiful but sumwhat
onsartin games. I got acquainted witb sum of the officers. They lookt
putt,v
crumpshus in their Bloo coats with brass buttings onto urn &
ware very talented drinkers, bu.t so fur as fhin is con::;arned I'd willingly
put my wax figgers agin the hun party.
I.v desire was to exhibit my grate show in Salt Lake City, so I called
on Brigham Y ung, the grate mogull amung the mormins, and axed his
permishun to pitch my tent and onfurl my banner to the jentle breezis.
Be lookt at nle in a austeer manner for a few minits, and sed:
., Do .YOU bleeve in Sûlomon. Saint Paul, the immaculateness of the
:M:ormin Church and the Latter-day Revelashuns? .,
Sez I. ., I'm on it!" I make it a pint to git along plesunt, tho I didn't
know wbat under the Son the old feller was drivin at. Be sed I mite show.
" You air a marl'id man, Mister Y ung, I bleeve?" sez I, preparin to
rite him sum free parsis.
,. I hey eighty wive::;, T\li::;ter Ward. I sertinly am marrid."
"Bow do you like it as far as you hev got? " sed 1.
1861-88J
CHARLES }?A,RRAR BRO rr1\
E.
163
He sed" middlin," and axed me wouldn't I like to see bis famerly, to
which I replide that I woul<1n't mind minglin with the fair Seck & Bar-
skin in the winnin smiles of his interestin wi,'es. He accordingly tuk
me to his Scareum. The house is powerful big & in a exceedin large
room was his wives &, children. which larst was squawkin and hollerin
enufI to take the roof rite orf the house. The wimin was of all sizes
and ages. Sum was pretty & sum was Plane-sum was helthy and sum
was on the Wayne-which is verses, tho sich was not my intentions, as
I don't 'prove of puttin verses in Proze rittins, tho ef occashun requires
I can Jerk a Poim ekal to any of them Atlantic .l\Iuntbly fellers.
":My wi,"es, Mister ",Vard," sed Yung.
" Your sarvant, marms," sed I, as I sot down in a cheer which a red-
heded female brawt me.
"Besides the
e wives you see here, :l\fister -n r ard," sed Y ung, "I hay
eighty lllore in varis parts of this consecrated land which air Sealed to
me."
., \Vhicb ? " sez I, gittin up & starin at him.
"Sealed, Sir! sealed."
" ',hare bowts? " sez 1.
"I sed, Sir, that they was sealed!" He spoke in a traggerdy voice.
"'ViII they probly continner on in tbat stile to any grate extent,
Sir?" I axed.
"Sir," sed he, turnin as red as a biled beet, "don't you know that the
rules of our Church is that I, the Profit, may hev as meny wives as I
wants? "
" J es so," I sed. " You are old pie, ain't you? "
"Them as is Sealed to me-that is to say, to be mine when I wants
urn-air at present my sperretooul wives." sed .Mister Yung.
"Long may thay wave!" sez 1. seein I shood git into a scrape ef I
didn't look out.
In a privit conversashun with Brigham I learnt the follerin fax: It
takes him six weeks to ki
s his wives. lIe don't do it only onct a yere
& sez it is wnss nor c1eanin house. He don't pretend to know his clÏil-
dren. thare is so many of urn, tho they all know him. He sez about
e,Tery child he meats call him Par, & he takes it for grantid it is so.
His wives air very expensiv. Tbey allers want suthin & ef he don't
buy it for urn tha.v set the house in a uproar. He sez he don't have a
minit's peace. His wives fÌte amun
theirselves so mucb that he bas
bilt a fitin room for thare speshul benefit, & when too of 'em get into a
row he has em turnd loose into that place, ",ha.re the dispoot is settled
accord in to the rules of the London prize ring. Sumtimes tlIay abooz
hi
self individooally. Thay bev pulled the most of his hair out at the
roots & he wares meny a horrible scar upon bis body, inflicted with
16-1
CHARLEfJ FARRAR BROWNE.
[1861-88
mop-handles, broom-sticks, and
ich. Occashunly they git mad & scald
him with bilin hot water. \Yhen he got eny waze cranky thay'd shut
bim up in a dark closit, previsly whippin him arter the stile of muthers
when thare orfsprings git onruly. Sumtimes when he went in swimmin
thay'd go to the banks of the Lake & steal all his close, thereby COnl-
pellin bim to sneek home by a sircootius rowt, chest in the Skanclerlus
stile of the Greek Slaiv. "I find tbat the keel's of a marrid life way
Lev.y onto me," sed the Profit, ,. & sumtimes I wish I'd remaned singel."
I left the Profit and startid for the ta\Tern whare I put up to. On my
way I was overtuk by a lurge krowd of :Mormons, which they surroundid
me & statid that they were goin into the Show free.
"\Vall," sez I, "ef I find a individooal who is goin round lettin folks
into his show free, I'll let you know."
II \Ve've had a Revelashun biddin us go into A. Ward's Show without
payin nothin !" tbay sbowtid.
" Yes," hollered a lot of femaile l\formonesses, ceasin me by the cote
tales & swingin me round very rapid, "we're all goin in free! So sez
the Rcvelashun !"
"What's Old Revelashun got to do with my show?" sez I, gittin
putty rily. II Tell :Mister Revelasbun," sed I, drawin myself up to my
full hite and lookin round upon the ornery krowd with a prowd &
defiant mean, "tell Mister Revelashun to mind his own bizness, subject
only to the Konstitushun of the United States!'
,; 01 now let us in, tbat's a sweet man," sed several femails, puttin
thare arms round me in luvin style. "Become 1 of us. Becum a Pre est
& hav wives Sealed to you."
II Not a Seal!" sez 1. startin back in horror at the idee.
"Oh stay, Sir, stay," sed a tall, gawnt femaile, ore whoos hed 37 sum-
mil's must hev parsd, "stay. & I'll be your Jentle Gazelle."
"Not ef I know it. you won't," sez 1. ,; A wa you skanderlus femaile,
awa! Go & he a Nunnery! " That's what 1 sed, JES so.
"& I," sed a fat chunky femaile, who must hev wade more than too
hundred Ibs., "I will he your sweet gidin Star! "
Sez I, " Ile bet two dollers and a half you won't! " Whare ear I may
Rome I1e still be troo 2 thee, Oh Betsy Jane! (N. B. Betsy Jane is my
wife's Sir naime.)
., WiJtist thou not tarr.y here in the promist Land?" sed several of
tbe miserabil critters.
II Ile see you all essenshally cussed be 4 I wiltist! " roared I, as mad as
I cood be at thare infernul noncents. I girded up my Lions & fled the
Seen. I packt up my duds & Left Salt Lake, which is a 2nd Soddum
& Germorrer, inhabitid by as them'in & onprincipled a set of retchis as
ever drew Breth in eny spot on the Globe.
1861-88]
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
165
francí
1âícl)arn
tocliton.
BORN in Philadelphia, Penn., 1834.
POl\IONA'S NOVEL.
[Rudder Grange. 1879.]
I T was in the latter part of A ugust of that year that it became neces-
sary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.
Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to
me as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than
anyone else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like to
do it. I went horne, and Euphemia anù I talked over the matter far
into the regulation sleeping-hours.
There "'ere very good reasons why we should go (for, of course, I
would not think of taking such a journeJ9 without Euphemia). In the
-first place, it would be of ad vantage to me, in my business connection,
to take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us.
We bad never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country
we would see would be new to us. ,Ye would come home by the great
lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But
then we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks,
and how could we do that?
This was indeed a clifficult question to an
wer. ',ho could take care
of 0111' garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and aU their complicated
belongings? The garùen was in admirable condition. Our vegetables
were coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory condition-
altogetber unknown to people who buy vegetables-for which I had
labored so faithfully, and about which I bad had so many cheerful anti-
cipations. As to Euphemia's chicken-yard,-with Euphemia away,-
tbe subject was too great for us. \Ve did not even discllss it. But we
wOllld give up all the pleasures of our' home for the chance of this most
desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would corne
and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could
not run itself for three weèks.
'Ve thought of every avaiJable person. Old John would not do. \Ve
did not feel tbat we could trllst bim. We thought of several of our
friends; but there was, in both our minds, a certain
hrinking from the
idea of banding over the place to any of them for such a length of time.
For my part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than anyone
else; but, then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with
me that she woulù rather trust her than anyone else, but she also agreed
166
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
[1861-88
in regard to the disqualifications. So, when I went to the office tbe next
morning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find
some one to take charge of our place while we were gone. "\Vhen I
returned from the office in the afternoon, I had agreed to go to St. Louis.
By this time, I had no choice in the matter, unles
I wished to interfere
very much with my own interests. 'Ye were to start in two clays. If
in tbat time we could get anyone to stay at the place, very well; if not.
Pomona must assume the charge. 'Ve were not able to get anyone,
and Pomona did assume the charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved
we felt when we were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrange-
ment was exactly wbat we wanted, and now that there was no help for
it, ou I' consciences were easy.
vVe felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord
Edward would be with her, and she was a young person WllO was extraor-
dinarily well able to take care of herself. Old John would be within
call in case she needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the
house at night. Pomona herself was more than sati
fied with the plan.
We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden, and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that
might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life, and
it has seldom happened that a young girl has heen left in such a respon-
sible anù independent position as that in which we left Pomona. She
was very proud of it.
Our journey was ten times mor delightful than we had expected it
would be, and successful in every way; and yet, although we enjoyed
every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our wa.\
home than
we became so wildly anxious to get there, that we reached Rudder
Grange on "\V. ednesday, whereas we had written that we would be home
on Thursday. "\Ve arrived early in the afternoon and walked up from
the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express wagon. As
we approached our dear home, we wanted to run, we were so eager to
see it.
There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; tbe gate was
locked. 'Ve ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then
I noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but tbe lettering
was large. apparently made with ink and a brush. It read:
TO BE SOLD
For TAXES.
We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.
"What does this mean?" said 1. ,
Has our landlord--"
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1861-88]
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
167
I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place
migh t pass a way from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I
did not put the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot,
and I got over the fence and helped Euphemia over. Th,en we climbed
our side-fence. This was more difficult, but we accomplished it without
thinking much about its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful
apprehensions. I hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the
lower windows were shut. '\Ve went around to the kitchen. \Vhat
surprised us more than anything else was the absence of Lord Edward.
Had he been sold?
Before we reached the hack part of the house, Euphemia said she felt
faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had
made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass, and I
ran to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper
which always hung b.r the pump. It was not there. But I had a trav-
elling-cup in my pocket: and as I was taking it out I looked around me.
There was an air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it
all meant, but I know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the
pump-handle and began to pump.
At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the
direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lorà
Edward. Before r had filled tbe cup he was' bounding about me. I
believe the glad welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia
than the water. He was delighted to see us, and in a moment up came
Pomona, running from the barn. Her face was radiant, too. We felt
relieved. Here were two friends who looked as if they were neither
sold nor ruined.
Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put
a question to her, she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.
" You know," said she, "you said you wasn't comin' till to-morrow.
If you only had come then-I was goin' to have everything just exactly
right-all' now you had to climb in-"
And tbe poor
irllooked as if she might cry, which would have been
a wonderful thing for Pomona to do.
"Tell me one thing," said I. " What about-those taxes?"
"Oh, that's all right," she cried. "Don't think another minute about
that. I'll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and 111 get you
some lunch in a minute."
We were somewhat relieved by Pomona's statement that it was "all
right" in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all
about the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her
any questions. As soon as she had made ready our lunch, she asked
us, as a particular favor, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself,
168
FRANCIS RICIIARD STOCKTOJlt.
[1861-88
and then, said sbe, "1'n have everything looking just as if it was to-
morrow. ..
We reRpected her fee1illgs
for, of course, it \vas a great disappoint-
ment to her to be taken th us unawares, and we remained in the dinine--
room until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to
go about. 'Ve availed ourseh'es quickly of the privilege, and Euphe-
mia hurried to the chicken-yard. while I bent my steps toward the gar-
den and barn. As I went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its
place, and passing the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I
asked Pomona about the chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was
her habit.
"'V ould you rather," said she, "hear it all together, when you come
in, or have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble? "
I called to Euphemia anù asked her what she thought, and she was so
anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait
and hear it all together. We found everything in perfect orùer,-the
garden was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had
not been for that cloud on the front fence. I should have been happy
enough. Pomona had said it was a1l right, but she could not have paid
the taxes-however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.
"Then Euphemia came in from tbe poultry-yard, sbe caned me and
said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona's account of things. So I went
in, and we sat on the side-porch, where it was shady, while Pomona,
producing some sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper
step.
"I wrote down the things of any account what happened," said she,
" as you told me to, and while I was about it, I tbought I'd make it like
a novel. It would be jus' as true, and p'r'aps more arnusin'. I suppose
you don't mind? "
No. we didn't mind. So she went on.
"I haven't got no name for my novel. I intenrled to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don't read the first chap-
ters, for they ten about my birth and my parent-age and my early
art ven tures. I'Jl just come down to wbat happened to me while you was
away, because you'll be more anxious to hear about that. All that's
written here is true, jus' tbe same as if I told it to you, but I've put it
into novel1anguage because it seems to come easier to me."
And then, in a voice somewl1at different from bel' ordinary tones, as
if the" novel language" demanded it, she hegan to read:
I. Chapter Five. The Lonely house and tbe Faithful friend. Thus
was I left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed
the lowing kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-
gal repast, I clos-ed tbe man-si-on, shutting out all re-co1lections of the
1861-88]
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
169
past and also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able
one. I slept soundly until the break of morn. hut had the events trans-
pired which afterward occur-red, what would haye hap-pen-ed to me no
tongue can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. &on after
breakfast, the vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-o-sene oil and
a half a pound of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well
the in-sid-i-ous foe. In the very out-set of his viI-li-an-}- I sent him
home with a empty can. For two long days I wander-ed amid the ver-
dant pathways of the gar-den and to tbe barn, whenever and. anon my
du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-Iect the fowlery. No cloud o'er-
spread this happy pe-ri-od of my life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the
horizon althougb I saw it not.
" It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a
Thursday. that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to ùo
with the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was
green corn and lima-beans and trophy tomatg, far more than I ere could
use. .A..ml here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for
as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed I bad put the
teed to grass.
And here was a wagon, none too new. which bad it the top taken
off, or even tbe curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-ced vender.
With the truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load that
wagon-"
"0, Pomona," interrupted Euphemia. "Y ou don't mean to say that
you were thinking of doing anything like tbat? .,
" 'VeIl, I was just beginning to think of it," said Pomona. "but of
course I couldn't bave gone away and left tbe bouse. And you'll see
I didn't do it." And then sbe continued her novel. "But while my
tboughts were thu::; employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-
ter-"
....\..t this Enphemia amI I could not belp bursting into laugh tel:
Pomona did not seem at all confused, but went on witb her reading.
"I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, 1 saw a wagon at the gate.
Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, "Vilt open thi
gate?' I had
fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every steal-able ar-tic1e from the
yard. "
Euphemia and I looked at each other. This eXplained the ab:-;ence
of the rustic seat and the dipper.
"Thuf', with my mind at ease, I could let m.y faith-ful fri-end. the dog
(for he it was), roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce bull-
dog guard-eel tbe man-
i-on within. Then said I, quite bold, unto him,
'No. I let in no man here.
r.v em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now
from home. 'Vbat do you waut?' Then says be, as bold as brass,
'I've come to put the light-en-iug rods upon the house. Open the gate.'
170
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
[1861-88
'What rods?' says I. 'The rods as \Vas ordered,' says he, 'open tbe
gate.' I stood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I sflw through his pinch-
beck mask. I knew bis tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he
would put up rod
, and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely,
too, some miser-able trasb tbat would attrack the light-en-ing, instea(l of
keep-ing it off. Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down,
they would be kept, and pay demand-ed. 'No, sir,' says 1. I No light-
ening rods upon this house whilst I stand here,' and with that I walk-ed
away, and let Lord Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on.
His eyes flash-ed fire. He would e'en have scal-ed the gate, but when
he saw the dog he did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away
to feed the fowls; but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the
blood with-in my veins-"
"The dog didn't kin him?" cried Euphemia.
"Oh no, ma'am!" said Pomona. "Y ou'll see that that wasn't it. At
one corn-er of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this
man, was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing
to hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a light-en-
ing rod-del' had brought a lad-del' to the other side of the house, up
which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. 'Vhat horrors fin-ed
my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This," continued Pomona, "is the
end of the novel," and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.
Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had
just reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing
yet about that affair of the taxes.
" You see, sir," said Pomona, "it took me so long to write out tbe
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that
I hadn't time to finish up the rest. But 1 can ten you what happened
after that jus' as well as if I had writ it out." And so she went on,
much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the
lightning-rod man.
" There was that wretch on top of the house, a-flxin' his old rods and
hammerin' awa.,. for dear life. He'd brougbt his ladder over the side
fence, where the dog, a-barkin' and plungin' at the boy outside, couldn't
see him. I stood dumb for a minute. an' then I know'd I had bim. I
rusbed into tbe house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to tbe bun-dog's
collar, an' dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom rung of the
ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence witb Lord Edward's cbain,
for I knew that if he got at that bun-dog there'd be times, for they'd
never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I to tbe boy, 'I'm
goin' to tie up tbe dog, so you needn't be afraid of his jumpin' over the
fence,'-which he couldn't do, or tbe boy would have been a corpse for
twenty minutes, or may be balf an hour. The boy kinder laughed, and
1861-88]
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
171
said I needn't mind, which I didn't. Then I went to the gate, and I
clicked to the horse which was standin' there, an' off he starts, as good
as gold, an' trots down the road. The boy, he said somethin' or other
pretty bad, an' away he goes after him; but the horse was a-trottin' real
fast, an' had a good start."
,. IIow on earth could you ever think of doing such things?" said
Euphemia. "That borse might have upset the wagon and broken all
the lightning-rods, besides running over I don't know how many peo-
ple."
"But you see, ma'am, that wasn't my lookout," said Pomona. "I
was a-defendin' tbe house, and the enemy must expect to bave things
happen to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there
was the man just coming down the ladder. He'd heard the horse go
off, and when he got about half-way down an' caught a sight of the bull-
dog, he was madder than ever you seed a lightnin'-rodder in aU your
born days. 'Take that dog off of there!' he yelled at me. ' No, I
wont,' says I. 'I never see a girl like you since I was born,' he screams
at me. 'I guess it would 'a' been better fur you if you had,' says I; an'
then he was so mad he couldn't stand it any longer, and he comes down
as low as he could, and when he saw just how long the rope was,-which
was pretty short,-he made a jump, amI landed clear of the dog. Then
be went on dreadful because he couldn't get at bis ladder to take it
away; and I wouldn't untie the dog, because if I had he'd 'a' torn the
tendons out of that fellow's legs in no time. I never f:ee a dog in such
a boiling passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curd- ·
lin' grunts. An' I don't see how the rodder 'would 'a' got his ladder
at all if the dog ùadn't made an awful jump at him, anel jerked the lad-
der down. It just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to
tbe other enel of it, and began pulIin' it away, dog an' all. 'Look-a-
here,' says I, 'we can fix him now:' and so he cooled down enough to
help me, and I unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end
of the ladder in, dog and all; an' then I shut the door as tight as it
would go, an' untied the end of the rope, an' the rorlder puIIed the ladrIer
out while I beld the door to keep the dog from {olIerin', which he came
pretty near eloin', anyway. But I locked him in, amI then the man
began stormin' again about his wagon; but when he lookeel out an' see
the hoy comin' back with it,-for somehody must 'a' stopped the horse,
-he stopped stormin' and went to put up his lac1(ler ag'in. 'No, you
don't,' says I; 'I'll let the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at
the foot of your ladder, you'll never come down.' 'But I want to go
and take down what I put up,' be says; 'I aint a-goin' on with this job.'
'No,' says 1. 'you aint; and you can't go up there to wrench off them
rods and make rain-boles in tbe roof, neither.' lIe couldn't get no mad-
172
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
[1861-88
.
der than he was then, an' fur a minute or two he couldn't speak, an'
then he sa,vs, 'I'll have satisfaction for this.' An' says I, 'now?' An'
says he, ' You'll see what it is to interfere with a ordere(l job.' An' says
I, 'There wasn't no order about it;' an' s
ys he,
I'll show you better
than that;' an' he goes to his wagon an' gits a book. 'There,' says he,
'read that.'
\Vhat of it?' says I; 'there's nobody of the name of Ball
lives here.' That took the man kinder aback. and he said he was told
it was tbe only house on tbe lane, which I said was right, only it was
the next lane he oughter 'a' gone to. He said no more after that, but
just put his ladder in his wagon, and went off. But I was not altogether
rid of him. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him.
"rrhat horrid bull-dog wouldn't let me come into the house! :No
matter what door I tried, there he was, just foamin' mad. I let him stay
till nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no
good. He'd got an awful spite ag'ill me. [found something to eat
down cellar, and I made a fire outside an' roasted some corn and pota-
toes. That night I slep' in the barn. I wasn't afraid to be away from
the ltouse, for I knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it and Lord
Edward outside. For tbree Jays, Sunday an' all, I was kep' out of this
bere house. I got along pretty well with the sleepin' and tbe eatin', hut
the drinkin' was the worst. I couldn't get no coffee or tea; but there
was plenty of milk."
"Why didn't you get f'ome man to come and attend to the dog? " I
asked. " It was dreadful to Ii ,.e that way."
"Yvell, I didn't know no man that could do it," said Pomona. "The
dog would 'a' been too much for (jld John, and besides, he was mad
about the kerosene, Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and :Mrs,
Atkim;;on and their little girl in a push-wagon, come here, and I told
'em you was gone away; but they says tbey would stop a minute, and
could I give them a drink: an' I had notbin' to give it to them but an
old chicken-bowl that I had washed out, for even the dipper was in the
bouse, an' I told 'em eyerything was locked up, which was true enough,
tbough they must 'a' thought 'you was a queer kind of people; but I
wasn't a-goin' to say notbin' about the dog, fur, to tell tbe truth, I was
ashamed to do it. So as soon as they'd gone, I went down into the cel.
lar,-and it's lucky that I baa the key for the outside cellar door,-and
I got a piece of fat corn-beef and the meat-axe. I unlocked the kitchen
door and went in, with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other.
The dog might take his choice. I know'd he must hè pretty nigh fam-
ished, for there was nothin' that he could get at to eat. As soon as I
went in, be came runnill' to me; but I could see he was shaky on his
legs. He looked a sort of wicked at me, and then be grabbed tbe meat.
He was all right then."
1861-88]
FRA:KCIS RICHARD 810C'KTON.
173
" Oh, my !" said Euphemia, "I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid
you never got in. But we saw the dog-is he as savage yet?"
"Oh no!" said Pomona; "nothin' like it."
"Look here, Pomona," said 1. .. I want to know about those taxes.
1\ T hen do they come into your story?"
"Prettv soon, sir," said she, and she went on :
,. Aftel: that, I know'd it wouldn't do to have tbem two dogs so that
tbey'd have to be tied up if tbey see each other. Just as like as not I'd
want them both at once, and then they'd go to figbtin', and leave me to
settle with some blootl-thirsty lightnin'-rodder. So, as I know'd if they
once had a fair fight and found out which was master. they'd be good
friends afterwards, I thought the be::;t thing to do would be to let 'em
fight it out. when tllere was nothin' else for 'em to do. So I fixed up
things for the combat."
"Why, Pomona!" cried Euphemia, ., I didn't think you were capable
of such a cruel thing."
., It looks that wa
-, ma'am, but really it aint," replied the girl. U It
seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of 'em to have the thing
settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed and
unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called
tbe bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin', and his blood-shot
eyes. and his crooked front legs. Like 1ightnin' from tbe mount'in
blast, he made one bounce for the big Jog, and oh! what a figbt there
was! They rolled, they gnashed, they knocke(l over the wood-horse and
sent chips a-flyin' all ways at wonst. I thout!ht Lord Edward would
whip in a minute or two; hut he diàn't, for the Lull stuck to him like a
burr, and they was havin' it, ground amI lufty, when I hear
some one
run up behind me, and turnin' quick, there was the 'Pi
copalian min-
ister, ':My! my! my!' he hollers; . what a awful spectacle! Aint there
no wa
7 of stoppin' it'?' '
o, sir,' says I, ailll I told him how I didn't
want to stop it, and the reason why. Then, says he, "Vhere's yonI'
master?' and I told him bow you was away. · T:-:ll't there any man at
all about?' r:ays he. 'No,' says T. 'Then,' says he, 'if there's nobody
else to stop it, I must do it myself: An' he took off his coat. 'No,'
says I, 'you keep back, sir. If there's anybody tv plunge into that
erena, the blood be mine:' an' 1 put my hand, without thinkin', ag'in
his Llack shirt-bosom, to hold him back; Lut be didn't notice, bein'so
excited. 'Now,' says I, 'jist wait one minute, and you'll see tbat bull's
tail go between his leg
. lIe's weakenin'.' An' sure enongh, Lord
Edward got a good grab at him, and was a-shakin' the very life out of
him, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar. · Drop it!'
says I, and he dropped it, for he know'd be'd whipped, and he was pretty
tired hisse1f. Then the bull-dog, be trotted off with his tail a-hangin'
174
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
[1861-88
dO\
'n. 'Now, tben,' says I, 'them dogs win be bosom friends forever
after this.' 'Ah me!' says he, 'I'm sorry indeed that your employer,
for who I've always had a great respect, should allow you to get into
such habits.' That made me feel real bad, and I tola him, mighty
quick, tbat you was the last man in the world to let me do anything
like that, and that, if you'd 'a' been here, you'd 'a' separated them dogs,
if they'd a-chawed your arms off; that you wa
very particular about
such things; and tbat it would be a pìty if he was to think you was a
dog-figbtin' gentleman, when I'd often heard you say that, now you was
fixed an' settled, the one thing you would like most would be to be made
a vestryman."
I sat up straight in my chair.
" Pomona!" I exclaimed, "you didn't tell him that? "
"That's what I said, sir, for I wanted him tò know what yon really
was; an' he says, "V ell, well, I never knew that. It might be a very
good thing. I'll speak to some of the members about it. There's two
vacancies now ill our vestry.' "
I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the bright-
est light.
"Perbaps it may aU turn out for tbe best," she
aid, "and you may
be elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully
funny thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestryman."
I could not talk on this subject. "Go on, Pomona," I
aid, trying to
feel resigned to my shame, "and tell us about that poster on the fence."
,. I'll be to that almost right away," she said. "It was two or three
days after the dog-fight that I vms down at the barn, antI happenin' to
look over to Old John's, I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin'
his book to John, and him and his wife and all the young ones was
a-standin' there, drinkin' clown tbem big peaches and pears as if they
was all real. I know'd he'd come here ag'in, for tbem fellers never gives
you up; and I didn't know how to keep him away, for I didn't want to
let the dogs loose on a man what, after all, didn't want to do no more
harm tban to talk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice, as
I came to tbe bouse, how kind of desolate everything looked, and I
thought perbap::; I might make it look worse, and be wouldn't care to
deal here. So I tbought of puttin' up a puster like that, for nobody
whose place was a-w>in' to be sold for taxes would be likely to want
trees. So I run in the house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And
sure enougb, the man he come along soon, and when he looked at that
paper, and tried tbe gate, an' looked over the fence an' saw tbe bouse an
sbut up an' not a livin' soul about,-for I bad both the dogs in tbe house
with me,-he shook bis head an' walked off, as much as to say, · If that
man had fixed his place up proper with my trees, he wouldn't 'a' come
1861-88]
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKl'O...Y.
175
to this!' An' then, as I found the poster worked so good, I thought it
might keep other people from comin' a-botheri n' around, and so I left it
up; but I was a-goin' to be sure and take it down before you came."
As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona
should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said that
there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did not
feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very par-
ticular.
'Vhen we were alone, I said to Euphemia:
,. If we ever have to go away from this place again-"
" But we won't go away," she interrupted, looking up to me with as
bright a face as she ever had, ,. at least not for a long, long, long time
to come. And I'm so glad you're to be a vestryman."
THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?
[The Lady, or the Tiger 1 and Other Stories. 1884.]
I N the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king. whose ideas,
though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of
distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as
became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuber-
ant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he
turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-com-
muning j and, when he and himself agreed upon anj"thing, the thing
was done. "
hen every member of his domestic and political systems
moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial;
but whenever there was a little hitch. and some of his orbs got out of
tbeir orþits, he was blander and more genial still. for nothing pleased
him so much as to make the crooked straight, and crush down uneven
places.
Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become
semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly
and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.
But even 11e1'e tbe exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The
arena of tbe ]
ing was built, not to give the people an opportunity
of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gla(liators, nor to enable them to view
the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and
hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop
the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheatre, with its
encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was
176
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
118Gl-88
an agent of poetic justice. in \V hich crime was punished. or virtue
rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incolTuptible chance.
'Vhen a subject ,,,as accused of a crime of sufficient importance to
interest tbe king, public notice was given that on an appointed day tbe
fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena,-a
structure which well deserved its name j for, although its form and plan
were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of
this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he
owed more allegiance than pleased his fanc
T, and who in grafted on
every adopted form of human tbought and action the rich growth of his
barbaric idealism.
,V hen all the people had assembled in the galleries. and the king, sur-
rounåed hy his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one
side of the arena, he gave a Rignal, a door beneath him opene(l. and the
accused subject stepped out into tbe amphitheatre. Directly opposite
him, on the other siùe of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly
alike and side by :-:ide. It was the duty and the privilege of the person
on trial, to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He
could open either door he pleased: he was subject to no guidance or
influence but that of the aforementione(l impartial and incorruptible
chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger,
the fiercest and most cruel that could he procured, which immediately
sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punishment for his guilt.
The moment that the caRC of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron
bells \yere clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted
on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads
and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning
greatly tbat one
o young and fair, or so old and respected, should bave
meri te(l so di re a fa teL
But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth
from it a lady. the most suitable to his years and
tation tbat his majesty
could select among his fair subjects; anù to this lad.,T he was immedi-
ately married, as a reward of Lis innocence. It mattered not that he
might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be
engaged upon an object of bis own selection: the king allowed no such
subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribu-
tion and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place
immediately, and in the arena. Another door opene(l beneath the king,
and a priest, followed by a band uf ....boristers, anll dancing maidens blow-
ing joyous airs on golden horn:5 and treading an epithalamic measure,
advanced to where the pair stood, side by side j and the wedding was
promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth
their merry peals, tbe people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent
1861-88]
FRA1..-CIS RICHARD Sl'OCKTOK.
177
man, preceded by children strewingilowers on his patb, led his "hride to
his home.
This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice.
Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of
which door would come tbe lady: he opened either he pleased, without
having the slightest idea whether, in tbe next instant, he was to be
deyoured or maniea. On some occasions the tiger came out of one
door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of tbis tribunal were
not only fair, tbey were positively determinate: the accused person was
instantly punished if he foupd himself guilty; and, if inllocent, he was
rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape
from the judgments of the king's arena.
The institution was a ver,'- popular one. ''fLen the people gathered
together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they
were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element
of uncertaint,v lent an interest to the occasion which it could not other-
wise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and
the thinking part of the community coulJ bring no charge of unfairness
against this plan: for did not the accused person have the whole matter
in his own hands?
rrhis semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid
fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. .A,s is
usual in such ca
es, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved oy him
above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that
fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional
heroes of romance who lo\-e royal maidens. This royal maiden was
well satisfied wi th her loyer, for he was handsome and l.n"a\?e to a degree
unsurpassed in all this kingdom; and sbe loved him with an ardor that
had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong.
This love affair moved on bappily for many months, until one day the
king happened to discover its existence. He did not he
itate nor waver
in regard to his dut
T in the premises. The youth was immediately cast
into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena.
This, of course, was au esp
ciany important occasion; and his majesty,
as well as all tbe people. was greatly interested in the workings and
development of this trial. Kever hefore had such a case occurred;
never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of a king. In
after-}Tears such tbings l,ecame commonplace enough; Lut then they
were, in no slight degree, novel and startling.
The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searcheJ for the most savage and
relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for
the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beanty throughout the
lanJ were carefully surveyeù by competent judges, in orùer that the
VOL. IX.-12
178
FRA..J..YCIS RICHARD Sl'OCKTOlf.
[1861-88
young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for
him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew tbat the deed with
which the accu
ed waS' charged had been done. He had Im"ed the prin-
cess, and neither he, she, nor anyone else thought of den.ying the fact;
but the king would not think of allowing an.y fact of this kind to inter-
fere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great
delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the ".outh
would be disposed of; and the king would take an æsthetic pleasure
in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or
not the young man had done wrong in
llowing himself to love tbe
prIncess.
The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered,
and thronged the great galleries of the arena; and crowds, unable to
gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king
and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors,-those fate-
ful portals, so terrible in their similarity.
All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal
party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall,
beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration
and anxiety. naIf the audience had not known so grand a youth had
lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terri-
ble thing for him to be there!
As the youth advanced into tbe arena, he turned, as tbe custom was,
to bow to'the king: but he did not think at all of tbat royal personage;
his eyes were fixed upon the princ
ss, who f'at to the right of her father.
Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it is probable
that lady would not have been there; but her intense and fervid soul
would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so
terribl y interested. From tbe moment that the decree had
one forth,
that h
r lover should decide bis fate in the king's arena, she had thought
of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects
connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of
character than anyone who had ever before been interested in such a
case, she had done wbat no other person haa Jone,-she had possessed
herself of the secret of the door
. She knew in which of the t,,,,o rooms,
that lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open
front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heav-
ily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise
or suggestion should come from within to the person who should
approach to raise the latch of one of them: but gold, and the power of
a woman's win, had brought the secret to the princess.
And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to
emerge, all blushing and radiant, should ber door be opened, but she
1801-88]
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKT01 1 {.
179
knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the
damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused
youth, should he be pro\-ed innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so
far above him; and the princess hatetl her. Often had
he seen, or
imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admi-
ration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these
glances were perceived and even returned. Now ancl then she had seen
them talking together: it was but for a moment or two, but much can be
aid in a brief space: it may have been on most unimportant topics, but
how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to
raise her eyes to the Im"ed one of the princess; and, with all the inten-
sity of the savage bloo\1 transmitted to her through long lines of wbolly
barbaric ancestors, sIle hated the woman who blushed and trembled
behind that silent door.
When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she
sat there paler and whiter than anyone in the vast ocean of anxious
faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is
given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door
crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected
her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured
tbat she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing,
hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. rrhe only hope for the
youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the
success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and tbe moment he
looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she
would succeed.
Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked tbe question:
""\Vhich?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he
stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in
a flash; it must be answered in another.
Her right aTm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised
her hand, and made a sligbt, quick movement toward the right. No
one but her lover saw bel'. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in
tbe :lrena.
He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty
space. Every heart storped beating, every breath was held, every eye
was fixed immovably upon that man. "\Vitbout the slightest hesitation,
he went to the ùoor on the right, and opened it.
Now, the point of tbe story is thi
: Did the tiger come out of that
door, or did the lady?
The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It
involves a study of the human þeart wbich leads us through devious
180
FRANOIS RICHARD STOCKTON.
[1861-88
mazes of passion. out of which it is difficult to find our way. Thiuk of
it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon your-
self, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a
white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had
lost him, but who should have him?
How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started
in wild borror, and covered her face with her hand
as she thought of
her lover opening tbe door on tbe other side of wbich waited tbe cruel
fangs of the tiger!
But bow much oftener had sbe seen him at the other door! How in
her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, anù torn her hair, when
she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened tbe door of the lady I
How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet
that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph;
when she had seen bim lead her forth. his whole frame kindled with the
joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad sbouts from the
multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen
tbe priest, ",..-jth his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make
them man and wife before bel' very eyes; and when she had seen them
walk away together upon tbeir path of flowers, followed by the tremen-
dous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing
shriek was lost and drowned!
Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her
in tbe blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?
And yet, tbat awful tiger, those;;hrieks, that blood!
Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made
after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known sbe
would be asked, she had decided what she would answer. and, without
the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right.
The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and
it is not for me to presume to set myself up as tbe one person able to
answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the
opened ùoor,-the lady. or the tiger?
1861-88]
AN
YIE ADA.JlS FIELDS.
nntC
lJat1tS$ fícIlJS$.
BOH
in Boston, )Iass., 1834.
THEOCRITUS.
[Unde-r the Olive. 1881.]
^ Y! Lnto thee belong
..L':l- The pipe and song
Theocritus,-
Loved by the satyr and the faun!
To thee the olive and the vine,
To thee the )Iediterranean pine,
And the soft lapping sea!
Thine, Bacchus,
Thine. the blood-red revels,
Thine, the hearded goat!
Soft valleys unto thee,
And Aphrollite's shrine.
And maidens veiled in falling robes of lawn!
But unto us, to us.
The stalwart glories of the North;
Ours is the sounding main,
And ours the voices uttering forth
By midnight. round these cliffs a might.y strain i
A tale of viewless islands in the deep
"
ashed by the waves' white fire;
Of mariners rocked asleep
In the great cradle, far from Grecian ire
Of :x eptune and his train;
To us. to us,
The darI\:-leaved shadow and the shining birch,
The flight of gole1 through hollow w()odland
driven,
Soft dying of the year with many a sigh,
These, all. to us are given!
And eyes that eager evprmore shall search
The hidden seed. and searching find again
Unfading hlossoms of a fadeless spring;
These, these, to u::;!
The sacred youth and maid,
Coy and half afraid;
The sorrowful earthly pall,
Winter and wintry rain,
And Autumn's gathercc1 grain,
With whispering music in their fall;
These unto us!
And unto thee, Theucritus,
To thee,
181
182
CHARLES TrILLIAJf ELI01'.
[1861-88
The immortal childhood of the world,
The laughing waters of an inland sea,
And beckoning signal of a sail unfurled!
<ZrlJatlcss [[líllíam <flíot.
BOH
in Boston, }Iass., 1834.
OUR A:\IERICAN GEXTRY.
r CÞ. B. K. Address on " The Working of the American Democracy." Ha;rv((1'(] Cnircer-
sity, 28 June, 1888.]
I T is said that democracy is fighting against the best-determined and
most peremptory of biological laws; namely, the law of heredity,
with which law the social structure of monarchical and oligarchical
States is in strict conformit
. This criticism fails to recognize the dis-
tinction between artificial privileges transmissible without regard to
inherited virtues or powers, and inheritable virtues or powers trans-
missible without regard to hereditary privileges. Artificial privileges
will be abolished by a democracy; natural, inheritable virtues or powers
are as surely tran
mis8ible under a democracy a8 under any other form
of government. Families can he made just as enduring in a democratic
as in an oligarchic State, if family permanence be desired and aimed at.
The desire for the continuity of vigorous families, and for the repro-
duction of beauty, geniu
, and nobility of character is universal. "From
fairest creatures we desire increase " is tbe commonest of sentimf'llt:3.
The American multitud,e will not take the children of distinguished per-
sons on trust; but it is delighted when an able man has an able son,
or a lovely mother a lovelier daughter. Tbat a democracy does not
prescribe the close intermarriage which characterizes a strict aristocracy,
so-caned, i::; physically not a disadvantage, but a great ad\Tantage for
the freer society. The French nobility and the English House of Lords
furnish good evidence that aristocracies do not succeed in perpetuating
select types of intellect or of character.
In the future there wiII undoubtedly be
een a great increase in the
number of permanent families in the United States,-families in which
honor, education, and property will be transmitted with reasonable cer-
taintv; and a fair beginning has already been made. On the quinquen-
nial catalogue of Harvarc1 University there are about five hundred and
sixty family stocks, which have been represented by graduates at inter-
vals for at least one hundred years. On the Yale catalogue there are
1861-88]
CHARLES WILLIA.lú ELIOT.
183
about four hundred and twenty such family stocks; and it is probable
that all othel' American coHegcs which have existed one hundred years
or more show similar facts in proportion to their age and to the number
of their graduates. There is nothing in ...\merican institution;:; to prevent
this natural process from extending and continuing. 'rhe college gradu-
ate wbo does not send his son to college is a curious exception. Ameri-
can colleges are, indeed, chiefly recruited from tbe sons of men who were
not college-bred tbemselves; for democratic society is mobile, and per-
mits young men of ability to rise easily from tbe lower to the higher
le\-els. But on tbe other hand notbing in tbe constitution of society
forces men down who have once risen, or prevents their cbildren and
grandchildren from staying on the higher level if they have the virtue
in them.
Two things arc necessary to family permanence,-education amI bodily
vigor, in every generation. To secure these two things, the bolding and
the transmission of moderate properties ill families must be so well pro-
vided for by law and custom as to be possible for large numbers of
families. For the objects in view, great properties are not so desirable
as moderate or even small properties, since the transmission of health
and education with great properties is not so sure as with small proper-
ties. It is worth while to inquire, therefore, what has been accomplished
und{'r the reign of the American democracy in the way of making tbe
holding and the transmission of small properties possible. In the first
place, safe investments for moderate sums have been greatly multiplied
and made accessible, as every trustee knows. Great trust-investment
companies have been created expressly to hold money safely, and make
it yield a sure though small income. The savings-bank and the insur-
ance company have been brought to every man's door, tbe latter insuring
against almost every kind of disaster to which property and earning
capacity are liable. Life insurance has been regulated and fostered, with
the result of increa
ing materially the stability of households and the
chanceF- of transmitting education in families. Through th(':-;e and other
agencies it has been made more probable tbat widow
and orphans will
inherit property, and easier for them to bold property securely,-a very
important point in connection with the permanence of familie;:;, as may
he strikingly illustrateù by the single statement tbat eighteen per cent.
of the students in Harvard College have no fatbers living. Many new
employments have been opened to women, who have thus been enabled
more easily to hold families together and educate their children. Finally,
society bas been saved in great mea
ure from war and revolution, and
from tbe fear of tbese calamities; and thus family property, as well as
happiness, bas been rendered more secure.
The bolding anù the translni::;sion of property in falllilie:-5 are, however,
184
CHARLES WILLLLtf ELIOT.
[1861-88
only means to two ends; namely, education and health in successive
f!enerations. From the first, the American democracy recognized the
fact that education was of supreme importance to it.-the elementary
education for all, the higher for all the naturally selected; but it awak-
ened much later to the necessity of attenùing to the hea1th of the people.
European aristocracies have always secured themselves in a measure
against physical degeneration by keeping a large proportion of their men
in training as soldiers and sportsmen, and most of their women at ease
in country
eats. In our democratic societ
v, which at first thought only
of work aUfl production, it is to be observed that public attention is
directed more and more to the means of preserving and increasing health
and vigor. Some of these means are country schools for city clIÍldren,
country or seaside houses for families, public parks and gardens, out-
of-door sports, systematic physical training in
choo]:;; and colleges,
vacations for business and professional men, and improvements in the
dwellings and the diet of an classeR. Democracy leaves marriages and
social groups to be determined by natural affiliation or congeniality of
tastes and pursuits, which is the effective principle in the association of
cultivated persons under all forms of government. So far from having
any quarrel with the law of hereditary transmission, it leaves the princi-
ple of heredity perfectl,v free to act; but it does not add to the natural
sanctions of that principle an unnecessary bounty of privileges conferred
by law.
From this consideration of the supposed conflict between democracy
and the law of heredity the transition is easy to my last topic; namely,
the effect of democratic institutions on the production of ladies and gen-
tlemen. There can be no question that a general amelioration of man-
ners is brought about in a democracy by public schools, democratic
churches, public conveyances without distinction of class, universal suf-
frage, town-meetings, and all the multifarious associations in which
democratic society delights; but this general amelioration might exist,
and yet the highest types of manners might fail. Do these fail? On
this important point American experience is already interesting, and I
tbink conclusive. Forty years ago Emerson said it was a chief felicity of
our country that it excelled in women. It excels more anJ more. 'VllO
has not seen in public and in private life American women unsurpa:::;:-;-
able in grace anù graciommess, in serenity and dignity, in affluent glad-
ness and abounding courtesy? Now, tbe laJy is the consummate fruit
of human society at its best. In an the higher walks of American life
there are men whose bearing and aspect at once distinguish thf'm as
gentlemen. They have personal force, magnanimit,V, moderation, and
refinement; they are quick to see and to sympathize; they are pure,
1861-88]
CHARLES WILLI.AJf ELIOT.
185
brave. and firm. These are also the qualities that command
uccess;
and herein lies the only natural connection bE'tween the po.ssession of
property and nobility of character. In a mobile or free society the
excellent or noble man is likely to win ease and independence; but it
does not follow that under any form of government the man of many
posses::-ions is necessarily excellent. On the evidence uf my reading and
of my personal observation at home and abroad, I fully believe that
there is a larger proportion of laùies and gentlemen in the "C'nited State
than in any other country. This propo
ition iR, I think. true witI) the
highest definition of the term "la(ly" or "gentleman "; but it is also
true, if ladic.'< and gentlemen are only persons who are clean and well-
dressed, who speak gently and eat with their forks. It is unnece
sar.r,
however, to claim any superiority for democracy in this respect; enough
that the highest types of manners in men and women are produced
abundantly on democratic soil.
It would appear then from .American experience that neither gen-
erations of privileged ancestors nor large inherited possessions are neces-
sary to the making of a lady or a gentleman. ''"hat is nece
sary? In
the first place, natural gifts. The gentleman is born in a democracy, no
less than in a monarchy. In other words, he is a person of fine bodily
and spiritual qualities, mostly innate. Secondly, he must have through
elementary education early access to books, and therefore to great
thoughts and high examples. Thirdly, he must be early brought into
contact with some refined anù noble person,-father, mother, teacher,
pastor, employer, or friend. These are the only necessary cunditions in
peaceful times and in law-abiding communities like ours. Accordiugly,
such hcts as the fonowing are common in the United State::;: One of
the numerous children of a small farmer manages to fit himse1f for col-
lege. works his way throu
h college, becomes a lawyer, at forty is a
mu
h-tru8ted man in one of the chief cities of the Union, and is distin-
guished for the courtesy and dignity of hi
bearing and speech. The
son of a country black;;:mith is taught and helpe<1 to a small college by
his minister: he himself becomes a minister, has a long fight with pov-
erty and ill-health, but at forty-five holds as high a plaee as his pro-
fession affords, and every line in his face and every tone in his voice
betoken the gentleman. The sons and daughters of a successful f'hop-
keeper take tbe highest places in tbe most cultivated society of their
native place, and well ùeserve the preëminence accorùed to them. The
daughter of a man of \'ery imperfect education, who began life with
nothing and became a rich mel'chant. is singularly beautiful from youth
to age, and pos
esses to the bi:Ihe
t degree the charm of dignified and
gracious manner:5. A young girl, not long out of school, the child of
respectable but obscure parents, marries a public man, and in conspicu-
186
RICHARD REALF.
[1861-88
ous station bears herself witb a grace, discretion, and nobleness whicb
she could not have exceeded had her blood been royal for seven genera-
tions. Striking cases of this kind will occur to every person in this
assembly. They are every-day phenomena in American society. 'Vhat
conclusion do tbey establish? They prove tbat the social mobility of a
democracy, which permits the excellent and well-endowed of either sex
to rise and to seek out each otber, and which gives every advantageous
variation or sport in a family stock free opportunity to develop, is im-
measurably more beneficial to a nation than any selective in-breeding,
founded on class distinctions, whicb has ever been devised. Since
democracy has every advantage for producing in due season and propor-
tion the best human types, it is reasonable to expect tbat science and
literature, music and art, and all tbe finer graces of society will develop
and thrive in America, as soon as the more urgent tasks of subduing a
wilderness and organizing society upon an untried plan are fairly accom-
plished.
mtt1JattJ mealf.
BORN in C chfield, near Lewes, Sus:>ex, England, 1834. Came to America in 1854:. DIED at
Oakland, Cal., 1878.
AN OLD MAN'S IDYL.
[The Atlantic .J.Wonthly. 1866.]
B y the waters of Life we sat together,
Hand in hand in the golden days
Of the beautiful early summ
r weather,
W'hen skies were purple and breath was praise,
When the heart kept tune to the carol of biròs,
And the hirds kept tune to the songs which ran
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy
m ards,
And trees with voices Æolian.
By the livers of Life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid;
AmI lighter than any linnet's feather
The lmrdens of Being on us weighed.
And Lon:'s sweet miracles o'er us threw
)[antles of joy outlasting Time,
And up from the rosy morrows grew
A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.
In tbe gardens of Life we strayed togetber;
And tIle luscious apples were 'ripe and r('(I,
1861-88J
RICHARD R EALF.
And the languid lilac and honeyed heather
Swooned with the fragrance which they shed.
And under the trees the angels walked,
And up in the air a sense of wings
Awed u:" tenderly while we talked
Softly in sacred communings.
In tlw meaclows of Life we strayed together,
'Vatching the waving harvests grow;
Anò under the benison of the Father
Onr hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro.
And the cowslips, hearing our low replies,
Broidered fairer the emerald banks,
And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,
And the timid violet glistened thanks.
'Vho was with us, and what. was round us.
Neither myself nor my (larling g'llessecl;
Only we knew that something crowned us
Out from the heavens with cruwns of rest;
Only we knew that something bright
Lingered lovingly where we stood,
Clothed with the incandescent light
Of something higher than human hood.
o the riches Love doth inherit!
Ah, the alchemy which doth change
Dross of body and dregs of spirit
Into sanctities rare nnd strange!
:My flesh is feeble and dry and old,
l\Iy darling's IJcautiful hair is gray;
But our elixir and precious gold
Laugh at the footsteps of decay.
Harms of the world have come unto us,
Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;
But we have a secret which doth show us
'V onderful rainbows in the rain.
And we hear the tread of the years mo\"e by,
And the sun is setting behind the hills;
But my darling does not fear to die,
Anù I am happy in what God wills.
So we sit by Our household fires together,
Dreaming the dreams of long ago:
Then it was halmy summer weather,
And now the valleys arc laid in snow.
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves;
The wind blows cold,-'tis growing late;
Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves,
I and my elm'ling. and we wait.
187
188
1fIRIAJI OOLES HA RRIS.
[1861-88
INTERPRETATION.
A DREA:\IIXG Poet lay upon thc ground.
He plucke(1 the grasses with his listless hands.
No voice was near him save the wbhful sound
Of the sea cooing to the unbosomcJ sands.
He leaned his heart. upon the naked sod.
He heard the audiblc pulse of nature beat.
He tremblcd greatly at the .Word of God
Spoken in the rushes rustling at his feet.
.With inward vision his outward sight grew dim,
He kncw the rhythmic secret of the spheres,
He caught the cadcnce, and a noble hymn,
Swam swan-like in upon the gliding year::;.
The Oentury JIagazine. 1879.
j}1íríaut
olcØ l
arríø.
BORN on Dosoris Island, L. I.
ound, N. Y., l
.
A SENTIMENTALIST'S SECU
D
IARRIAGE.
[A Perfect Adonis. 1t)'j5.]
T HERE was a second wecll1ing-day; this time no white silk and
orange blossoms; no dull elderly people in tbe way, and no smell
of f;'ied oysters. Dorla and Felix walked down the long- aisle of a silent,
crowded church. (To fill it had been Harriet's busine
s and pleasure.)
Tbere might ha\Te been ten or ten thousand people. it would have been
tbe same to DorIa: she walked beside the man she loved through this
gay crowd, as she would ha\'e walked through a fore;-;t, or through a
floweáng garden. There was a dreamy look on bel' face; she plainly
was not occupied with the thought of how bel' dress hung, nor bow her
back hair would look from. the chancel step:'. -She even forgot to hold
her bouquet in a tight grasp against her wai
t. but wa1ked past the
attentive spectators, with tbe unfortunate flowers trailing against her
dre
s, as they hung in her hanel She wore pearl-color, and bel' dress
was beautiful.
"She looks youngish for a person of her age," said Abby to a cavalier
beside her, who was gaping after the beautiful apparition ou her way to
tbe foot of the altar.
.
1861-88]
JfIRIA_Y COLES HARRIS.
189
Abby had not dared to speak while they passed her. but now, under
cover of the prayers, shc talked incessantly. She hated the prayers, and
meant to laugh at e\Terytbing; sbe no longer looked as if the world lay
before bel', but as if sbe had passed tbrough one \'er,\- dreary and hate-
ful part of it, and as if sbe were resolved to gain a reckless enjoyment
from the present. She looked years older tban she was, and much like
other women now, for prettines:,. The charm of freshness was quite
gone. During tbe henediction, she talked in a stage wbi:::;per about the
bride's bonnet; 1mt when the,v passed down the aisle beside her, she drew
bel' breath quick j that Quebec experience had gone deep. There walked
the man to whom in his perfect beauty she had given bel' beart: and in
a certain way, a woman has hut one heart to give. She did not love
him now: but she could never be the same again, for having loved him.
'1hen the newly married people had passeù out of the church, the
assembly relaxed its attention. and broke up in babble and confusion.
11:iss Greyson, in a wnterproof :mit and felt bat, was joined by 11r. Oli-
ver, well preserved, and unimpaired by time or by emotion. :Miss Grey-
son's father bad faile(l, and f'he had been permitted to teach school, and
to attend medical lecturef', and to do ever
- strong-minded thing that her
soul deligbted in. She held DorIa in great contempt.
"'Vel1. :Mr. Oliver," f'he said, ,. you see what it is to be constant."
" Yes, :Miss Greyson," he returned. .. It bas been the error of my life
to take tbe first answer."
And so on, pages of old-bachelory talk. He felt sure Miss Greyson
did not know tbat he had once offered himself to DorIa; indeed he
could hardly believe it now bimself. It was quite safe to talk to
1iss
Greyson in this way. He bad talked so forty times, indeed be always
talked f'0, and no one would suspect where the truth lay.
Mr. Davis, who bad been married f'cyeral years, and whose wife
was dowdy, made his way oyer to them, and said with a sigh: "Ab,
Miss Greyson, it doesn't seem like six years since that morning in the
Conneshaugh! Who would have thought it! But 11rs. Rotbermel, I
beg her pardon, 1Irs. Varian, doesn't look a day older than sbe did then."
Thip. was not pleasant to
liss Greyson in her felt hat, wbo knew that
lectures and teaching, blissful as the,v were, did not tend to youthful
looks.
"Nor a day wiser," said she with contempt.
,. I don't know about that," said Davif'. .. I think marrying Varian is
a step beyond marrying Rothermel in point of wip.dom."
Tben the dowdy heckoned him away to look up the carriage. She
was always recal1ing him, and that he did not get yery far away was
owing as much to her assiduity as to his want of ingenuity.
)frs. Bishop was crying a good deal, and got out of a side ùoor \,yith
190
MIRIAM COLES HARRIS.
[1861-88
the help of a nephew (not Henry). Poor Henry was now in South
America trying to learn the ways of a great mercantile bouse, and sav-
ing up beetles and butterflies for :\Iissy; working with one part of his
brain, and dreaming with the other. He could not get over the habit of
loving his love with a C.
Irs. Bishop bad not more than half forgiven
DorIa, but it was very necessary to bel' to bave some friends who were
not weary of bel' age, and who would fill up the many empty hours of
her days, and DorIa was the most conscientious friend she had, and so
she had to be forgiven, wholly or in part. Felix was quite resolved
tbis sort of thing should not go on, aftel" he had power to stop it.
"This sort of tbing" was a ùail.)" visit of
Irs. Rothermel to :Mrs. Bishop,
and endless arrangements for her comfort or pleasure. It was naturally
not an that a lover could ask, to have the drive in the park daily spoiled
by the addition of a cross child or a querulous old lady. But a man
who marries a conscientious woman must make up his mind to this sort
of thing, till he has power to put a stop to it.
Possibly he felt as if the time had come to put a stop to one nuisance
at least, when, an hour after tbe benediction had been said over DorIa's
head and bis, he stood in tbe hall waiting for her to come from her
room, where he knew she was saying good-bye to :Missy. The carriage
was at the door; the trunks had long been sent away; DorIa in her
travelling-dress at last came down the stairs. 'fhere had been a tem-
pest, he knew. But all was silent now, and DorIa was very pale. She
had just reached the foot of the stairs, and Felix was saying with a
smile, "Do people ever get left on their wedding journeys?" wben
tbere was a rush of pursuer and pursued, and :Missy, with a white face,
slid down tbe stairs like a spirit, and flung herself upon her mother
with a cr.v.
" :Mamma ! :Mamma! "
"
Iissy, you will kill me!" cried poor Doria, putting her hands up to
her face. ·
:Missy got her tiny, fierce fingers clutched in her mother's dress; she
was like a little maniac: all attempts to take her away witbout positive
violence were unavailing. It was pitiful to see her. Her wedding
:finerv had not been taken off. She was wbite to her fingers' ends. Her
short, pale hair stood out in a frizz about her poor. passionate little face;
her light eyes were full of an expression of violent emotion, strange on
such baby features. Tbe servants who had come into the hall to see
their mistress's departure, stood around in perplexity and dismay. The
nurse coaxed, wrestled, was despairing.
At last Felix, opening the han door, said, "V\T e shall be late," and
stepped outside.
Dorla said hoarsely, ":Missy, I must go; good-bye," and stooping
1861-88]
MIRIA
V COLES HARRIS,
191
down, with her own hands attempted to release herseH from the child's
grasp, and made a movement towards the open door.
Then poor little Missy, with a great cry, sprang before her, and flung
herself upon the ground across the threshold.
"For shame, :Missy, get up, for shame!" cried the nurse, stooping to
interfere. DorIa bent down and tried to lift her up j but she clutched
the sill of the door with all her strength, and screaming and sobbing,
lay face down, a barrier between her mother and the outer world. Felix
standing outside with lips compressed, looked on a moment silent1y.
"DorIa," he said, at last, and put out his hand.
She took it, and stepping over
fjssy as she lay, followed him down
the steps and into the carriage without a look behind. The servants
picked up the little figure and hustled her off into the house, before the
caITiage-door shut after Felix.
But what a beginning for a wedding journey! For two minutes
DorIa tried to command herself, but then she either stopped trying, or
it was no use, and she burst into tears.
"Felix," she said, ,. be good to me this once j I never wi]] be so weak
again j just let me go back. It win kill the child. I know she will be
ill to-night. All alone with servants-and tbey do not love her-think
of it, Felix. How can I go away and leave her?"
Then Felix's face grew very cold, and he did not take the hand that
she put out to him.
" You are not angry," sbe said, frightened.
"Yes, I am afraid I am," he answered, gravely. Then she turned
away her face, and tried to stop bel' tears. Tbis made him feel sorry
for her, and he said:
""... e cannot go back j you must see that is impossible. But we need
not stay very long away, nor go far off from the cit.v. You shall bave
a telegram every bour while we are away, if that will comfort you..'
" You must think me so unreasonable,'! said DorIa, in her tears.
" Well, I can't deny I do," he returned.
"But, Felix," she said, timidly, .. it 'Would comfort me to bave a tele-
gram to-night, to know whether they have got her pacified, if 'you won't
be very much ashamed of me."
So Felix called to the coachman, and stopped at an office, and bad
arrangements made by whicb a telegram should reach them by the bour
of nine j and it is to be presumed be felt wrathful and mortified to bave
to give tbe oròer. But when he went back to the carriage, be found
Dorla looking relieved. It had taken a great load off bel' heart to know
that she should hear again from
lissy that night j the separation \Voulcl
not seem so monstrous; she would yet watch over her going to sleep, as
she had never failed to do.
192
MIRIAM COLES HARRIS.
[1861-88
" It's a bad beginning," he said, trying to smile as he shut the carriage-
door, ,. but I have sent a telegram at tbe same time, countermamling my
orders to Philadelphia. We win just go over to - and maybe we
can get some dect'nt rooms, and maybe we can't. But you'll h
ve the
happiness of knowing that you can get to
Iissy in an bour, if she does
not enjoy her bread and milk without you."
., Felix!" cried DorIa. reddening with shame, while at the same time
a weight was lifted from her heart. " You are better tö me than I
deserve. You must think me so unreasouable; but I can't tell you how
cruel it seemed to me to be going away, and leaving poor
liss.y there
crying in her jealousy and misery."
.. She has often cried so before, and it hasn't killed her."
" Ah, yes! but, Felix, it wasn't the same thing; you know I wasn't
going away from her. She æalized it all."
"She realized that she had a little extra work to do, and she did it.
You see sbe conquered."
"I don't call it conquering," said DorIa, crying a little at tbe thought,
"to have me walk over bel' and go away with you. Ah, dear! It was
like S. Jane Frances de Chantal and her boy." "
"\Vhat was S. Jane Frances de Chantal going to do?" said Felix,
relenting, with a little caress. "Had she been getting married? "
"0. no," exclaimed DorIa, with a faint sbudder.
" I suppose saints don't do that?"
"She was going away-to found an order of nuns. Ab! it was very
different from me."
" Yes, I should hope it was," said Felix cynically. "I may be a ter-
rible fate, but I hope I'm not as bad as bread and water, and stone floors,
and hard beds, and a naggi ng lot of women."
"Ah, Felix ! You do not understand."
"Then you really wish you were on Jour way now to found an order
of nuns? "
"I didn't say that."
"What did you say, then?"
" I said you didn't understand."
"
Iaybe I don't. But it is too late now for you to cbange your mind.
You must make the best you can of what you've done, and try to be
contented. .,
" Ah! I am afraid it wi]] be only too easy!" said Dorla, with anotber
sigh.
"\Vell," said Felix, "you may add again, that I do not understand.
For I'm sure I don't."
,. This you may understand, at least," said Dorla, "that I am not fit
to be a nun, or I suppose I should bave been one. I am a failure, don't
.
1861-88]
HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.
193
you see, Felix. I've spoiled :Missy. I've never been able to make a
good housekeeper. I am afraid I never helped poor Harry any. I
don.t know that I was ever any comfort to mamma. .A,nd I wasll't-I
-.And perhaps, I shall not make you happy after an. I can't see what
I was created for."
.. I can't either, except to make people want to possess you. To have
and to hold you," he said, with a fierce sort of satisfaction.
.. But-" said Dorla.
"But-" said Felix, kissing' her.
And then she forgot all about S. Jane Frances de Chantal, and the
Order of the Visitation, and for the moment about poor :Missy, too.
It is a blessing that when you arc a failure, you can forget it some-
times for a while. But the fact remains the same.
arrtct jRC<æWC1t ßítubal1.
BORY in Portsmouth, N. fl., 1834.
THE GUEST.
"Behold. I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I
wi1l come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with mp."-Rev, Ïii. 20.
R PEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me;
I was sighing wearily;
Lamp and fire were out; the rain
'Vildly beat the window-pane.
In the dark I heard a knock;
And a hand was on the lock;
One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly,
"I am corne to sup with thee."
All my room was dark and damp;
"Sorrow," said I, "trim the lamp,
Light the fire, anel cheer thy face,
Set the guest-chair in its place."
And again I heard the knock:
In the dark I found the lock:-
"Enter, I have turned the key;
Enter, Stranger,
'Vho art come to sup with me."
Opening wide the door he came,
But I could not speak his llame;
VOL, IX.-13
194
.
HARRIET .JlcEWE.N KIMBALL
In the guest-chair took his place,
But I could not see his face.
'Vben my cheerful fire was beaming,
When my little lamp was gleaming,
And the fenst was spread for three,
Lo, my :\IAs'fER
Was tile Guest that supped with me!
WHITE AZALEAS.
A ZALEAS-whitest of white!
'Vhite as the drifted snow
Fresh-fallen out of the night,
Before the coming glow
Tinges the morning light;
When the light"is like the snow,
'Vhite,
And the silence is like the light;
Light, and silence, and snow,-
All-white! ·
White! not a hint
Of the creamy tint
A rose will hold,
The whitest rose, in its inmost fold;
Not a possible bluah;
White as an embodied hush;
A very rapture of white;
A wedlock of silence finll light.
'Vhite, white as the wonder undefiled
Of Eve just wakened in Paradise;
Nay, white as the angel of a child
That looks into God's own eyes!
[1861-88
1861-88]
KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORJIELEY.
195
listl)arínc prc
cott
lorntclC'F+
BORN in Suffolk, England.
A NIGHT-WATCH, AFTER FAIR OAKS.
[The Other Side of War. 1889.]
"'VILSO
SlIIALL," 5 June. 1862.
D EAR
IOTHER: I finished my last letter on the afternoon of the
day when we took eighty men on the Small, and transferred them
to the 1Yebster.
'Ve had just washed and dressed, and were writing letters when Cap-
tain Sawtelle came on board to say that several hundred wounded men
were lying at the landing; that the Dam;el TVebster ...\õ. f! had been
taken possession of by the medical officers, and was already half full of
men, and that the surplus was being carried across her to the randerbilt;
that the confusion was terrible; that there were no stores on board the
Daniel Tl'"ebster lYO. f! (she having been seized the moment she reached
the landing on -her return from Yorktown, without communicatiug with
the Commission), nor were there any stores or preparations, not e,-en
mattresse
, on board the Vanderbilt.
Of course the best in our power had to be done.
1rs. Griffin and I
begged Mr. Olmsted not to refrain from sending u
, merely because we
had been up all night. He said he wouldn't send us, but if we chose to
offer our services to the United States surgeon, he thought it would be
merciful. Our offer was seized. We went on board; and such a scene
as we entered and lived in for two days I trust never to see again.
fen in every condition of horror, shattered and shrieking, were being
brought in on stretchers borne by "contrabands," who dumped them
anywhere, banged the stretchers against pillars and posts, and walked
over the men without compassion. There was no one to direct what ward
or what bed they were to go into.
Ien shattered in the thigh. and even
cases of amputation. were shovelled into top berths without thought or
mercJT. The men had mostly been without food for three clays, but there
was nothing on board either boat for them; and if there had been, the
cooks were only engaged to cook for the ship, and not for the hospital.
".,. e began to do what. we could. The first thing wanted by wounded
men is something to drink (w1th the sick, stimulants are the first thing).
Fortunately we had plenty of lemons, ice, and sherry on board the Snzall,
and these were available at once. Dr. 'Vare discovered a barrel of
molasses, which, with vinegar, ice, and water,. made a most refreshing
drink. After that we gave them crackers and milk, or tea and bread.
19G
KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY.
[1861-88
It was hopele
s to try to get them into bed; indeed, there were no mat-
tresses on the Vanderb,t1t. All we could do at first was to try to calm
the confusion, to stop some agony, to revive the fainting lives, to snatch,
if possible, from immediate death with food and stimulants. Imagine
a great river or Sound steamer filled on every deck,-every berth and
every square inch of room covered with wounded men; eyen the stairs
and gangways and guards filled with tbose who are less badly wounded;
and then imagine fifty well men, on every kind of errand, rushing to
and fro O\
er them, every touch bringing agony to the poor fellows, while
stretcher after stretcber came along, hoping to find an empty place; and
then imagine what it was to keep calm ourselves, and make sure tbat
every man on botb those boats was properly refreshed and fed. 'Ve got
through about 1 A.M.,
frs. M. and Georgy having come off otber duty
and reënforced us.
\Ve were sitting for a few moments, resting and talking it over, and
bitterly asking why a Government so lavish and perfect in its other
arrangements sbould leave its wounded almost literally to take care of
themselves, wben a mes::;age came tbat one hundred and fifty men were
just arriving by the cars. It was raining in torrents, and both boats
were full. We went on shore again: the same scene repeated. The
wretched Yanderbilt was slipped out, the I{ennebec brought up, and tbe
hundred and fifty men carried across the Daniel 1 Vébster .A
o. 9 to her,
with the exception of some fearfully wounded ones, who could not be
touched in the darkness and rain, and were therefore made as comforta-
ble as tbey could be in the cars. W
gave refreshment and food to aU,
:Miss 'Vhetten and a detail of young men from the Spaulding coming up
in time to assist, and the officers of tbe &bago, who had seen how hard
pressed we were in the afternoon, volunteering for the night-watch.
Add to this sundry :Members of Congress, who, if they talked mucb, at
least worked well. One of them, the Rou. :Moses F. Odell, proposed to
:1fr. Olmsted t1at on his return to 'Vashingtoll he should move tbat tbe
tbank.:; of Congres
be returned to us! :Mr. Olmsted, mindful of our
feelings, promptly declined.
'Ve went to bed at daylight with breakfast on our minch;, and at six
o'clock we were all on board the Daniel TVebster No.2, and tbe breakfast
of six hundred men was got through with in good time. Captain Saw-
telle kindly sent us a large wall-tent, twelve caldrons and camp-kettles,
two cooks, and a detail of six men. The tent was put up at once, Dr.
Ware giving to its preparation the only hour when he might have rested
during that long nightmare. 'Ve began to use it that (Tuesday) morn-
ing. It is filled with our stores; there we have cooked not only the
sick-food, but all tbe food needed on the Government boats. It was
hard to get it in sufficient quantity; but when everything else gave out,
1861-88]
KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY.
197
we broke up "hard-tack" into buckets full of hot milk and water a little
sweetened,-" bread and milk" the men called it. Oh, that precious
condensed milk, more precious to us at tbat moment than beef essence!
Tuesday was very mucb a repetition of :Monday night. Tbe men
were cleared from the main-deck and gangways of the Daniel1Vebsta
}.,'T o . J onto the Ke1tneùec. The feeding business was almost as bard to
manage a
before. But
tin it was done, and we got to bed at 1 A.:U.
Irs.
r. and I were to attend to the breakfast at 6 next morning. By
some accident :Mrs.
I., who was ready quite as soon as I was. "as car-
ried off hy the Small, which started suddenly to run down to the
palll-
ding. I had, therefore, to get the breakfast alone. I accomplished it,
and then went ashore and fed some men wbo were JURt arriring in the
cars. and others who were in tents near the landing. The horrors of
tbat morning are too great to speak of. The men in the cars were
brought on board the ])ameZ Webster }.'T o . g and laid about the yacant
main-deck and guards and on the deck of a scow that lay alongside. I
must not, I ought not to tell you of the horrors of that morning. One
of the least was tbat I saw a ., contraband" step on the amputated stump
of a wretched man. I took him by the arm and walked him into tbe
tent, where I ordered them to give him otber work, and forbade that he
should come upon the ships again. I felt white with anger, and dared
not trust myself to speak to him. "\Vhile tho
e awful sights pass before
me I bave comparatively no feeling, except the anxiety to al1eviate as
much as possible. I do not suffer under the sigbts: but 011! the sounds,
the screams of men. It is when I think of it afterwards that it is 30
dreadful.
About nine hundred wounded remain to be brought down. :\fr. Olm-
sted says our boats have tram;ported one thousand seven hundred and
:fifty-six since Sunday: the Government and Pennsylvania boats together
about three thousand. Mr. Clement Barclay was with u
on
Ionday
night on the Vanderbzlt. I believe he went with her to Fortress JIonroe.
He was working hard, with the deepest interest and skill. J went witb
him to attend to a little ,. Secesh " boy, wounded in the tbigh: also to a
Southern colonel, a splendid-looking man, wbo died, saying to
Ir. Bar-
clay, with raised hand: ""\V rite to my wife and tell her J die penitent
for the part I have taken in this war." I try to be just and kind to the
Southern men. One of our men stopped me, saying: .. He's a rebel;
give that to me." I said: "But a wounded man is our brother! ., (rather
an obvious sentiment, if there is anything in Chri
tianity): and tbey
both touched their caps. The Southerners are constantly expressing
surprise at one thing or another, and they are shy, but not surh', at
receiving kindness. Onr men are a noble set of fe]lows, so chee'rful,
uncomplaining, and generous.
198
FRANCES LOCISA BUSHNELL.
[1861-88
Remember that in aU that I have written, I have told you only about
ourselves-the women. 'Vhat the gentlemen have been, those of our
party, those of tbe Spaulding and of the otber vessels, is beyond my
power to relate. Some of them fainted. from time to time.
Last night, shining over blood and agony, I saw a lunar rainbow: and
in the afternoon a peculiarly beautiful effect of rainbow and stormy sun-
set,-it flashed upon my eyes as I passed an operating-table, and raised
them to avoid seeing anything as I passed.
!1frattceø lLouíøa ']3uø1)nell.
BORN in Hartford, Conn.
IN THE DARK.
[The Atlantic :/lfonthly. 1872.]
R ESTLESS, to-night, and ill at ease,
Anù finùing every place too strait,
I leave the porch shut in with trees,
Aud wander through the garden-gate.
So dark at first, I have to feel
My way before me with my hands;
But soul-like fragrances reveal
l\Iy virgin Daphne, where she stanùs.
Her stars of blossom breathe aloft
Her worship to the stars above;
In wavering pulsations soft,
Climhs the sweet incense of her love;
Those far, celestial eyes can dart
Their glances down through leafy bars j
The spark that burns within her heart
'Vas dropped, in answer, from the stars,
She does not find the space too small,
The night too dark, for sweetest bloomj
Content within the garden wall,
Since upward there is always rOOlli.
Her spotless heart, through all the night,
Holds safe its little vestal spark.
o blessed, if the soul he white,
To breathe and blossom in the dark!
1861-88]
FRAJ.7"K LEE BEl-tEDIcr
199
franli Lee 13eneníct.
BORè'i' in Alexauùer, Gene!'ee Co., S. Y., 1834.
A LITTLE CAT.
[J.1fy Daughter ElinO'l'. 186f)']
I BELIEVE I have quoted somewhere what wise old Balzac said
about fifty-two being the age at which a man is most dangerous to
women. I never was fifty-two, and am therefore unable to speak from
experience, but obserration bas taught me that if a pretty girl wants to
make a puffy, pulpy, disjointed idiot of a member of my ill-used race,
she ought to select a man of that age to do it in perfection.
l' ow :Mr. Grey was a wise old serpent, and had been un lW1ïune galant,
and knew a good many things about women that women never know
about each other; but
fiss Laidley's type was not familiar to bim, and
he was completely deceived by bel' pretty innocence, her appealing help-
le
sness, bel' solitary condition, and the entire trust she had in bim,
wbich was expressed with such artIe
s freedom. He was not to be
deluded into making a blatant idiot of bimself, but be was a good deal
more fascinated than he would bave liked anybody to perceive.
Elinor did not observe )Iiss Laidley's performances at first-puss was
exceedingly wary. She baL1 ways and means of knowing when
fr. Grey
was alone in bis library-old Juanita was the most faitbful of waiting-
women-and she was always going in b.y accident, or to seek advice, or
to ask him to comfort bel' because she was a lonely little thing, who
would never be wise enough to remain unguarded in a wicked world.
'Vhen Elinor did discover what was going on. sbe was filled witb wrath;
and not aspiring to angelic amiability, sbe gave way to her temper, and
:Mi8s Laidley bad an unpleasant mornin
. X ot that Elinor betrayed the
real cause of her irritation; she \\'"as quite a match for any woman when
it came to tbe necessity of employing high art; and the Laidley had not
the satisfaction of knowing that her success was noticed. In the midst
of her rage Elinor would be civil: but there was an opening, and she
improveù it. .Miss Laidley chanced to amuse some callers with a repro-
duction of tbe Idol the very day OIl which Elinor discovered her machi-
nations toward the Secretary, and she reaù bel' a lecture which was worse
than being scalped.
And Elinor would not quarrel; she only would do her duty. She
tolù
fiss Laidley that she had talked so much about ùuty that bel', Eli-
nor's, mind was infected too; and she Lad to say, that to accept a per-
son's bospitality and pre;:;ents, and then laugh about bim or her, was the
200
FRANK LEE BENEDICT.
[1861-88
most contemptible tbing of which any woman past twenty could be
guilty. She frightened :Miss Laidley by vowing that if it happened again
sbe would write to .Mrs. Hackett and let her know bow her kindness
bad been returned j sbe begged to be understood thoroughly in earnest.
She conquered, and :Mi
s Laidley bad to cry and beg, and wound up
with a hysteric fit from passion. Elinor gave bel' a dose of very bitter
medicine, spattered her new dress mercilessly with water, and brought
bel' out of it.
"I mean it all for your good," said she, sweetly j "you know that.
But, my dear Genevieve, I cannot permit you to abuse my friends; I
want you to remember it."
Miss Laidley did a war-dance in private, and pulled old Juanita's
hair, and caned Elinor certain names which would not look well in
print, but which are sometimes not strangers to tbe lips of pink-and-
white creatures who look too ethereal for an earthly thought.
Elinor could not be sorry that she had given way to her temper, and
she vowed inwardly that, with all her craft, the creature sbould not
trouble tbe peace of her home. She had tbe highest respect for her
father's judgment, but she did know what unheard-of things men will
do, and she had no intention that :Miss Laidley sh<?uld carry proceedings
far enough for her to be forced to acknowledge tbat her father bad
foibles like common men.
[iss Laidley was more wary than ever, becau:,e sbe had sworn ven-
geance, and meant to sting Elinor's very soul. Indeed, she felt that she
could almost marry
fr. Grey for tbe satisfaction of torturing her j per-
baps she would have said quite, if it had not been for the iêcollection
of Leighton Rossitur and bel' unfinished romance. She did sbow her
hand, however. craft,y as she was. A few days after the e.1.plosion in
regard to the Idol, she suddenly fen at Elinor's feet, and, sobbing as if
her heart would break, cried out:
"Forgive me, Elinor, forgive me ! Your coldness tortures me."
"I have not been cold," replied Elinor j II I have treated you just as
usual. .,
,. But I feel tbe difierence-here-in my heart. Only say that you
forgive me. I know how wrong it was to speak so of Mrs. Hackett j I
know you meant it for my good j I should be called ill-natured if I
indulged in such thoughtlessnes
. Only say tbat you forgive me."
"If you want m.y forgiveness,
fiss Laidley, you have it."
"Darling, perfect Elinor! And don't be icy j you won't, dear? That
nearly kills me. for indeed I am a good little tbing."
"I am willing to think it was only thoughtlessness," replied Elinor
kindly enough, but not to be deluded, "unless you force me to believe
otherwise by continuing the practice."
1861-88]
FRA}fK LEE BE.NEDICT.
201
"I never will say a word against anybody," sobbed
fiss Laidley.
" You are sure you forgive me, cherie ? You wi]], I know you will,
because you are better than other women: you are perfect-"
., If I am not amiable when my friends are flttacked." said Elinor, not
thinking it necessary to thank the young lady for her encomiums.
"I am thoroughly ashamed. I can't think how I came to let my
tongue run away
ith me; I am so heedless. But I shall be careful
now; you haye made me see bow wrong it is, and I tbank you so much
for doing it-oh, so much! "
She did such exag:rerated gratitude tbat Elinor knew how venomous
she wa
at beart. )liss Laidley made the mistake of employing too
much art; her penitence and bel' thankfulness might have deceived a
man, but they only left her little game more apparent to her listener, and
she was on her guarrl.
Elinor did not say a word to her father, and she boped that be was
too much occupied to bestow any tbought 011 the smaIl serpent. But
one day, when weeks of preparation led Miss Laidley to believe that she
could venture on striking wbat she would have caned her grand coup,
make a smiling idiot of bel' guardian, and have the pleasure of te]]ing
tbe story far and wide, she rose up like a .voung
apoleon in his
might. "
Elinor was out, and
Ir. Grey had returned earlier than usual. Tbe
Laidley heard him go up to his room. She knew bis habits, and was
certain that he would presently descend to the liùrary. She stood before
the glass and made bel' wavy hair look more picturesque than ever; she
could at any time grow pale by working herself into a nervous state; she
would bave artisticaIIy darkened her eyelids till they seemed heavy with
paillful thoughts and unshed tears, had
he not remembered that she
might have to shed real ones, which would disturb the lines: and down
stairs she crept with the velvet tread of a panther.
"\Vhen :Mr. Grey opened the door of his library a few moments later,
he saw a figure crollched in a graceful attitude on the floor with ber
head buried in her hand
, and heard a broken voice sob-
"0 my father, my father! Come and take me-your lonely little
Evangel-O my {ather, my father! "
The diplomatist was absolutely startled by this paroxysm of suffering.
lIe closed the door softly and stood uncertain what to do, but the sligbt
sound he made was enough to disturb the mourner, who sprang to her
feet, uttering in a tone of passionate bitterness-
" '\"ho is it? Can I never have a moment's peace? .,
"
I.v dear child." he said, going toward her, "what is the matter?"
" llélas! it j... my guardian,"
he gasped. putting out her hands with a
gesture of confusion. ., Let me go. I beg your pardon, sir; I did not
202
FRANK LEE BENEDICT.
[1861-88
mean to intrude; I thought I was alone in the house; let me go." She
ran straight to him. and almost fell in his arms.
" You must not go, " he said, greatly touched by her grief. " Tell me
what has happened-what troubles you."
"Nothing-nothing! Let me go; let me go! 0' and she clung tigbt to
bis hand with bel' trembling fingers.
" Are you ill, dear child '1 IIave you had had news? "
" No; oh, no. There is notbing the matter. I was lonely-fooli
h.
Oh, I was thinking of papa. I would not have had you found me for
the world; I did not tlream of your being near."
":My dear little Genevieve. you know I am your nearest friend now,"
he Raid, somewhat fluttered, as masculine nature will be by tbe trem-
bling pressure of two white hands.
"The kindest, dearest friend ever a lonely, heart-sick creature had:"
sbe murmured, looking up in his face tbrough her tears. That appeal
was irresistible.
" You can talk to me if you really consider me such j you can tell me
everytbing that pains you," he continued.
"Ob, don't; you will make me cry again; don't speak in that gentle
voice. I thank you so much. I am so sorry to distress you." She
tried to check bel' sobs, but they would burst forth in spite of her efforts,
and very lovely sbe looked in her agitation.
" I am grieved to think you suffer," he said; "I cannot have it; you
stay too much alone."
"No, no; I am best alone. Nobody understands me, nobody cares
for me-but you," with tbe softest lingering inflection on tbe pronoun.
"Poor child, if I could help you in any way, you must know how
ready I sbould be."
"I do, I do; I am not ungrateful. Say you believe I am not."
"How could I think it? But where is my daugbter Elinor?"
" She is out. Don't tell her how you found me: it would only pain
her. Oh, dear sir, I am such a foolish child. You are hotb too kind to
me j but when I see you happy together, it makes me wretched. Once I
was loved and petted, and now I am alone-all alone! "
She flung up bel' snowy arms with a despairing gesture as they do in
novels, and fresh .tears gushed from her eyes; then she cl ung to him
again with tbat mute expression of confidence, and Mr. Grey was very
much moved, and quite dazed between her grief and bel' entire trust in
him.
" Your presence bere is always a pleasure to me," be said, "and no
business could be so important as my ward's happiness."
" Thanks-oh, a thousand thanks. Then sit down, and let me sit by
you-I'm sucb a foolish little thing, you know. See, I am quite com-
1861-88]
FRANK LEE BENEDICT.
203
posed and happy now," and she turned her angelic eyes upon him and
smiled again.
He permitted her to lead him to his favorite seat; she nestled on an
ottoman close at his side. and, in bel' cbildishness. laid bel' head down
on bis band, wbich chanced to be resting on the arm of the chair.
"Now I am quiet," she said, in a voice which might have made Mr.
Grey think of Lurely, or tbe wind-spirits of German legends, or any
other dangerous and devilish and beautiful thing, if be had not been for
the time under the influence of her spells. "Now I am quiet; I can
rest here- I can rest."
.. Rest, my pretty Genevieve," he replied; "this shall be your place as
long as you cboose to keep it."
He was bewildered, and he was a good deal fascinated, but he was
not prepared to be quite a smiling idiot. Lurely saw that she must go
further, she must do something that would upset bim completely: she
might never bave another opportunity like tbis.
"At rest, at peace," she murmured; .. ah! if I migbt always be as
bappy as I am now! ., She raised her blue eyes to bis and smiled: her
soft bail' floated o\-er his sleeve. I'll be banged if she would not have
made a fool of Solomon himself.
"If it were in my power to make you so, you should be," he said.
,. I know tbat," she answered; "oh. don't think me ungrateful."
"I think you everything that is lovely and charming," returned he,
"and yet a child at beart."
That was very pretty and it was pleasant to hear, but Lurely wanted
more than that, much more. She bad not been singing bel' siren's songs
for so little return; she wanted to dizzy his brain with her notes till she
could carry him down an unresisting captive, and bang bis head against
the sharpest rocks, in order properly to avenge herself upon Elinor;
and bang his head she would, no matter what sort of song she had to
smg.
" Yes, yes;' she sighed. "you only think of me as a child to be
petted and coaxed out of crying; you forget that I have a woman's
beart."
Bless the creature. what did she mean? Had he not been deceiving
himself? Did this lovely girl care for him in earnest, despite the dif-
ference of age? 'Vbat was he to think-what was he to say? He had
no fancy for being a dunce; he had known from the first how absurd he
should have considered thoughts like his in another man: but indeed,
when it comes to having a pink-and-white creature lay her head on the
arm of the sagest Solon of fifty-two, and look up in his eyes. and be the
very soul of childish innocence and truthfulness, it is somewl}at difficult
to think at all.
204
FRANK LEE BENEDICT.
[1861-88
-
" And I shall always be a child," Lurely sang in his ear; "I need to
be petted and loved-it is sunshine and life to me; I fade, and freeze,
and die without the warmth."
And the state
man was more bewildered than ever.
.. I sball never marry: nobody will ever pet me as you do, so I shall
stay here always-always," sang Lurely. "011, mayn"t I stay ? Won't
:you keep your little Evangel? ',hen darling Elinor marries some
great man, 1'11 stay and be petted; oh, mayn't I?"
He was more bewildered and dizzy still, but, before he could speak,
Lurely suddenly cried in a changed voice:
" I forgot. Perbaps I ougbt not to say such things. Oh, dear, I am
such a foolish girl, wearing my heart on my lips with tho
e I trust; but
they are so few now. Oh, my poor, lonely little life-only you-I have
nobody-no one in the world left but you! "
'\Vithout the slightest warning, Rbe went off into a fresh parox:sm of
anguish more poignant than the first, more painful to bel' audience of
one from its unexpectedness, when be bad thought her lying on his arm
and singing herself into quiet.
"Oh, my lonely life," she sobbed, snatching her hands from him
and flinging them wildly about. "Oh, my heart! I freeze-I ùie! Oh,
papa. come and take
'our poor Evangel-fatber, fatber, come! Is there
no one to hear? Are the angels deaf? has Heaven no mercy? "
"Genevieve, Genevieve!" pleaded
Ir. Grey, nearly frightened out
of su'ch wits as he had not lost before.
"Let me die," she moaned; "I 0l1ly ask for death! 0 Heaven, be
merciful, and give me rest in the grave:'
She threw herself on her knees, looked up, and seemed ready to soar
away, but Mr. Grey's voice checked hel" heavenward flight.
" :My dear child, you frighten me; he calm, I entreat."
" Yes," she shrieked, "one friend left-,one! Oh, my only friend,
don't grow tiretl of me-don't hate me; don"t let another take my place."
She caught his hand in her frenzied pleading; she had changed her atti-
tude, and was leaning on the ottoman. "Promise me," she repeated,
with passionate sobs; "promise, if you would not see me die here! "
Oh, :Mr. Grey, :Mr. Grey! Lurely had conquered, and you fifty-two!
The words were on his lips--he actually was going to be, not a smiling
but an agitated idiot, and ask Lurely if sIle could be content always to
stay there, if she could be his wife, his darling, his-Goodness knows
what he might have said: an elderly fool is much worse than a young
one.
But at that instant the door opened and Elinor Grey walked unsus-
pectingly into the room, not knowing that bel' father had returned, and
stood petrified by tbe tableau. :Mr. Grey saw bel' and felt his senses
1861-88]
FRA
VK LEE BENEDICT.
205
come back; no, he felt as if somebody bad slapped a lump of lCe sud-
denly on bis bead.
., Is :Miss Laidley ill?. asked Elinor in tbe lowest, quietest voice, but
one wbich would have sent the wildest dream whizzing away from a
man when heard under sucb circumstances.
11is8 Laidley caned ber a dreadful name between her teeth, went off
into a new spasm of sobs dictated by different sensations, and rushed
frantically out of the room. Once within the privacy of her apartment
sbe gave way to ber emotions without restraint. She had made herself
nervous in order to play ber part well. and now, enraged by this defeat
at tbe moment when ,-ictory was within her gra
p, she was reaùy to
bave spasms in earnest. She fairly danced up and down; she flew at
the bed and pul1ed the blankets off; she caught some china ornaments
from tbe mantel and dashed them on the floor; she must break things
and dance and storm, or sbe should fly in pieces. She moaned and
shrieked anù belabored Elinor in terrible apostrophes, and wben Juanita
came up and tried to get her in bed she flew at the long-suffering
mulatto and nearly took a brown fragment out of her with teeth and
finger-nails: but it did more to restore her than a quart of rell la,'ender
could have done.
'Yben disappointed Lurely dashed past Elinor and flew out of the
room in that high-trageùy way, the wise princess said coolly:
"Has Miss Laidle.y gone quite mad, papa?"
Mr. Grey was a good deal confu:5ed, and it took several pinches of
snuff to revive bim, but somehow the sight of Elinor had restored his
senses; the rememùrance of her would steady his bead during any
future scene Lurely might artempt.
., I am afraid the poor child is il1," said be. '" I found ber here a few
moments ago, crying as though her heart would break."
" 'Vhat occasioned her grief? 'I
" Upon my word, I hardly know. She was weeping for her father,
and I did my best to soothe her; but I absolutely thought she would
burst a blood-vessel."
"Oh, no," returned Elinor quietly; "she often makes those scene:'1.
She told me herself tbat she did it on purpose, by way of having a little
excitement wben she was dull."
"Oh !" was all Mr. Grey said, but he said it in the voice of a man
who had just tumbled out of the clouùs; and he took another pinch of
snuff.
"She has them onlv twice a week, as a habit," continued merciless
Elinor, "and she has .had two without this one, which must have been
for your special benefit."
Mr. Grey lingered over his pincL of snuff. 'Vhen any woman who
206
JAMbS ABB01'T MC.J.YEILL WHISTLER.
[1861-88
has a claim on a man, be she sister, daughter, or aunt, interrupts a ten-
der scene and remains beautifully unconscious that it was tender, but
talks about the woman who did Pauline in that mild voice, I would
counsel tlle man in whose home the speaker rules. be he President of the
United States or Emperor of France, to follow Mr. Grey's example-
take a pinch of snuff and say nothing.
j;antcø gbbott jR'
cíll Ut1JíØtlct.
BOR
in Lowell, ::\Iass., 1834.
THAT ART IS NOT OVER-INDEBTED TO THE :MULTITUDE.
[...1fT. Whistler's" Ten O'clock." 1888.]
A FA YORITE faith, dear to those who teach, is that certain periods
were especially artistic, and that nations, readily named, were nota-
bly lovers of Art.
So we are told that the Greeks were, as a people, worshippers of the
beautiful, and that in the fifteenth century Art was engrained in the mul-
ti tude.
That the great masters Ii ved in common understanding with their
patrons-that the early Italians were.artists-all-and that the demand
for the lovely thing produced it.
That we, of to-day, in gross contrast to this Arcadian purity, call for
the ungainly, and obtain the ugly.
That, could we but change our habits and climate-were we willing
to wander in groves-could we be roa!'ted out of broadcloth-were we
to do without haste, and journey without speed, we should again require
the spoon of Queen Anne, and pick at our peas with the fork of two
prongs. And so, for tbe flock, little hamlets grow near Hammersmith,
and the steam horse is scorned.
Useless! quite hopeless and false is the effort !-built upon fable. and
all bec3,use" a wise man bas uttered a vain thing and filled his belly
with the East wind."
Listen! There never wa
an artistic period.
There never was an Art-loving nation.
In tbe beginning, man went forth each day-some to do battle, some
to the chase; others, again. to dig and to delve in the field-all that
they might gain and live, or lose and die. Until there was found among
them one, differing from the rest, whose pursuits attracted him not, and
1861-88]
JAMES ABBOTT MCNEILL WHISTLER.
207
so he stayed by the tents with the women, and traced strange de"ices
with a burnt stick upon a gourd.
This man, who took no joy in tbe ways of his brethren-who cared not
for conquest, and fretted in the field-this designer of quaint patterns-
this deviser of the beautiful-who perceived in Nature about him curi-
ous cnrvings, as faces are seen in the fire-this dreamer apart, was the
first artist.
And when, from the field and from afar, there came back the people,
they took the gourd-and drank from out of it.
And presently there came to this man another-and in time, others-
of like nature, chosen by the Gods-and so they worked together; and
soon they fashioned, from the moistened earth, forms resembling the
gourd. And with the power of creation, the heirloom of the artist, pres-
ently they went be.\'ond the slovenly suggestion of X ature, and the first
vase was born, in beautiful proportion.
And the toilers tilled and were athirst; and the heroes returned from
fresh victories, to rejoice and to feast; and all drank alike from the
artists' goblets, fashioned cunningly, taking no note the while of the
craftsman's pride, and understanding not his glory in his work; drink-
ing at the cup, not from choice, not from a consciousness that it was
beautiful, but because, forsooth, there was none other!
And time, with more state, brought more capacity for luxury, and it
became well that men should dwell in large houses, and rest upon
couches, and eat at tables: whereupon the artist, with his artificers,
built palaces, and filled them with furniture, beautiful in proportion and
lovely to look upon.
And the people lived in marvels of art-and ate and drank out of
masterpieces-for there was nothing else to eât and drink out of, and no
bad building to live in; no article of daily life. of luxury, or of neces-
sity, that had not been handed down from the design of the master, and
made bv his workmen.
And
the people questioned not, and had nothing to say in the matter.
So Greece was in its splendor, and Art reigned supreme-by force of
fact, not by election-and there was no meddling from the outsider.
The mighty warrior would no more have ventured to offer a deRign for
the temple of Pallas Athene than would the sacred poet have proffered
a plan for constructing the catapult.
And the Amateur was unknown, am1 the Dilettante undreamed of!
And histor,y wrote on, and conquest accompanied civilization, and
Art spread, or rather its products were carried by the victors among the
vanquished from onE' country to another. And the customs of cuIti\ra-
tion covered the face of the earth, so that all peoples continued to use
what the artist alone produced.
208
CHAUNCEY.J.Y1TCHELL DEPEW.
[1861-88
And centuries passed in this using, and the world was flooded with
all that was beautiful, until there arose a new class, who discovered the
cheap, and foresaw fortune in the future of the sham.
Then sprang into existence the tawdry, the common, the gew-gaw.
The taste of the tradesman supplanted the science of the artist. and
what was born of the million went back to them, and charmed them, for
it was after tbeir own heart; and the great and the small, the statesman
and the slave, took to themselves the abomination that was tendered,
and preferred it-and have lived with it ever since!
And the artist's occupation was gone, and the manufacturer and the
huckster took his place.
And now the heroes filled from the jugs and drank from the bowls-
with understanding-noting the glare of their new bravery, and taking
pride in its worth.
And the people-this time-bad much to say in tbe matter-and all
were satisfied. And Birmingham and ::\fanchester arose in their might
-and Art was relegated to the curiosity shop.
c[lJaunccr j}lttcl)Cll JDcpC\1).
BOHN in Peekskill, N. Y,. 1834,
A SY
BOL.
[Oration at the Unveiling of the Bartholdi Statue of L1"berly, 28 October, 1886.]
T HE spirit of liberty embraces all races in common brotherhood; it
voices in all languages the same needs and aspirations. The full
power of its expansive and progressive influence cannot be reached until
wars cease, armies are disbanded, and international disputes are settled
by lawful tribunals and the principles of justice. Then the people of
every nation, secure from invasion and frce from the burden and menace
of great armaments, can calmly and dispassionately promote their own
happiness and prosperity. The maryellous development and progress
of tbis republic is due to the fact tbat in rigidly adhering to the advice
of 'Vashington for absolute neutrality and non-interference in the poli-
tics and policies of other governments we ha\"e 3Toidell tbe necessit,v of
depleting our industries to feed our armies, of taxing and impoverish-
ing our resources to carryon war, and of limiting our liberties to con-
centrate power in our government. Our great civil strife, with an its
expenditure of blood and treasure, was a terrible sacrifice for freedom.
1861-88]
CHAUNCEY.M1TCHELL DEPEW.
209
The results are so immeasurably great that by comparison the cost is
insignificant. The development of Liberty was impossible while she was
shackled to the slave. The divine thought which intrusted to the con-
quered the full measure of home rule and accorded to them an equal
share of imperial power was the inspiration of God. ',Ïth sublime trust
it left to liberty the elevation of the freedmen to political rights and the
conversion of the rebel to patriotic citizenship.
American liberty has been for a century a beacon-ligbt for tbe nations.
"Gnder its teachings and by the force of its example, tbe Italians bave
expelled their petty and arbitrary princelings and united under a parlia-
mentary government; the gloomy despotism of Spain has been dispelled
L.r the representatives of tbe people and a free press; tbe great German
race have demonstrated tbeir power for empire and their ability to
go\'ern themselves. Tbe Austrian monarcb, wbo, when a bundred years
ago 'Vashington pleaded with bim across the seas for the release of
Lafayette from the dungeon of Olmutz, replied that "be bad not tbe
power," because the safety of his throne and his pledges to his royal
brethren of Europe compelled him to keep confined tbe one man who
represented the enfrancbisement of tbe people of every race and country,
is to-day, in tbe person of bis successor, rejoicing witb his subjects in the
limitations of a constitution which guarantees liberties, anel a Congress
which protects and enlarges them. :Magna Charta, won at Runnymecle
for Englisbmen, and developing into tbe principles of tbe Declaration of
Independence with their descendants, has returned to the mother coun-
try to bear fruit in an open parliament, a free press, tbe loss of royal
prerogative, anù the passage of power from tbe classes to tbe masses.
rrhe sentiment is sublime which moves tbe people of France and
America, the blood of whose fatbers, commingling upon the hattIe-fields
of tbe Revolution, made possible this magnificent marcb of liberty and
their own Republic8, to commemorate tbe results of tbe past and typify
the hopes of the future in Òis noble work of art. Tbe descendants of
Lafayette, Rochambeau, and De Grasse, who fought for us in our first
struggle, and Laboulaye, IIenri Martin, De Lesseps, and otber grand and
brilliant men, whose eloquent voices and powerful sympathies were with
us in our last, conceived the idea, and it bas received majestic form and
expression tbrough tbe genius of Bartboldi.
In all ages the acbievements of man and his aspirations bave been
represented in symbols. Races have disappeared and no record remains
of tbeir rise or fall, but b.v their monuments we know their history.
The huge monoliths of tbe Assyrians and the obelisks of the Egyptians
tell their stories of forgotten civilizations, but the sole purpose of their
erection was to glorify rulers and preserve the boasts of conquerors.
Tbey teach sad lessons of the vanity of ambition, tbe cruelty of arbitrary
YOLo Ix.-14
210
OHAUNOEY MITOHELL DEPEW.
[1861-88
power, and the miseries of mankind. The Olympian Jupiter enthroned
in tbe Partbenon expressed in ivory and gold tbe awful majesty of the
Greek idea of tbe King of the gods; the bronze statue of
Iinerva on the
Acropolis offered tbe protection of the patron Goddess of .t'Ì.thens to the
mariners who steered tbeir ships by bel' helmet and spear; and in tbe
Colossus of Rbodes, famed as one of the wonders of the world, the Lord
of the Sun welcomed the commerce of the East to the city of his wor.
sbip. But they were all ùwarfs in size and pigmies in spirit beside this
mighty structure and its inspiring thougbt. Higher than the monu-
ment in Trafalgar Square, which commemorates the victories of Nel.
son on the sea; higher than tbe Column Vendome, which perpetuates
the triumphs of Napoleon on the land; higher than the towers of the
Brooklyn Bridge, which exbibit the latest and grandest results of science,
invention, and industrial progress, tbis Statue of Liberty rises toward the
beavens to illustrate an idea which nerved the three hundred at Ther-
mopylæ and armed the ten tbousand at Marathon; whicb drove Tar-
quin from Rome and aimed the arrow of Tell; wbich charged with
Cromwell and his lronsides and accompanied Sidney to the block;
which fired the farmer's gun at Lexington and razed the Bastile in
Paris; which inspired the charter in the cabin of the :Mayflower and the
Declaration of Independence from the Continental Congress.
It means tbat with tbe abolition of privileges to the few and the
enfranchisement of tbe individual, tbe equality of all men before the
law, and universal suffrage, the ballot secure from fraud and the voter
from intimidation, the press free and education furnished by the State
for all, liberty of worship and free speech; the right to rise, and equal
opportunity for honor and fortune, the problems of labor and capita], of
social regeneration and moral growth. of property and poverty. will work
themselves out under the benign influences of enlightened law-making
and law-abiding libert
-, without the aid of kings and armies. or of
anarcbists and bombs.
rrhrough the Obelisk, so ::::trangely recalling to us of yesterday the
past of twenty centuries, a forgotten monarcb says, "I am the Great
King, the Conqueror, tbe Chastiser of Nations," and except as a monu-
ment of antiquity it conveys no meaning and toucbes no chord of human
sympathy. But, for unnumbered centuries to come, as Liberty levels up
the people to higher standards and a broader life, this statue will grow
in tbe admiration and affections of mankind. \Vben Franklin drew the
lightning from the clouds, he little dreamed that in the evolution of
science his discovery would illuminate the torch of Liberty for France
and America. The rays from this beacon, lighting this gateway to the
continent, win welcome the poor and the persecuted with the hope and
promise of homes anù citizenship. It will teach them tbat there is room
1861-88]
OHAUNOEY MITOHELL DEPEW.
211
and brotherhood for an who will support our institutions and aid in our
development; but that those 'who come to disturb our peace and dethrone
our laws are aliens and enemieR forever.
THE A
IERICAX IDEA.
[Oration at the Reunion of the Army of the Potomac, 22 June, 1887.]
I F it be true that the transmittible property of tbe world accumulated
during the last twenty-five years equals an the gains from the birth
of Christ to tbe beginning of the present century, then much of it has
been made by this favored nation, which for sixteen hundred years had
no existence, and was not an appreciable factor in the divisible property
of the earth at the close of the Christian calculation. These unparalleled
results can be protected and continuf'd only by tbe spirit represented by
your sacrifices and inspiring your yictories-the spirit of patriotism.
This is a republic, and neither Mammon nor Anarchy shan be king.
The American asks only for a fair field and an equal chance. He
belie\
es that every man is entitled for himself and his children to the
full enjoyment of all he honestly earns. But he will seek and find the
means for eradicating conditions which hopelessly handicap him from
the start. In this contest he òoes not want the Rssistance of the red flag,
and he regards with equal hostility those who march under that banner
and those wbo furnish argument and excuse for its existence.
'l'hirty years ago :Macaulay wrote a letter to an eminent citizen of New
York which carries to the reader tbe
bock of an electric battery. In it
he declares that our institutions are not strong enough to stand the
strain of crowded populations and social distress, and that our public
lands furnish the only escape from anarch,v. 'Vith the opening of the
next century, thirteen years hence, they win all be occupied. and at the
:first industrial disturbance which throws large masses of men out of
employment we must meet the prediction of the famous historian. If
racaulay had witne
sed the sublime response of the people to President
Lincoln's call for troops to suppress rebellion and save the Union, it
would have cleared his vision and modified his judgment. Nevertheless,
the exhaustion of the public domain and the disappearance forever of the
unbought homestead present part of
facaulay's problem. The ranks of
anarchy and riot number no A.mericans. The leaders boldly proclaim
that they come here. not to enjoy the blessing;;; of our libert.y and to
sustain our institutions, but to destroy our government and dethrone our
laws, to cut our throats and diviùe our propert.y. Di:3satisfied labor
212
STARR HOYT NICHOLS.
[1861-88
furnishes the opportunity to preach their doctrines and mobs to try their
tactics. Their recruiting officers are active in every city in Europe, and
for once despotic governments give them accord and assistance in secur-
ing and shipping to America the most dangerous elements of their popu-
lations. 'l'he emigrants arriving this year wiIl outnumber the people of
several States and of every city in the country but three, and if some
mighty power should instantly depopulate Maine or Connecticut or
Nebraska or Buffalo, Cleveland. Detroit, and New Haven combined, with
their culture, refinement, and varied professional, mechanical, and indus-
trial excellence and enlightened government, and suddenly substitute
these people, we could quickly estimate the character and value of this
contribution to our institutions and wealth. The emigrants of the past
have been of incalculable benefit to a country which needed settlers for
its lands, and skilled and unskilled labor for its towns, and among them
have been men who bave fined and adorneù the highest positions of
power and trust. The officers of the Government report that there iR a
faIling off of over seventy per cent. of farmers, mechanics, and trained
workers, and their places are occupied by elements which must drift
into and demoralize labor centres already overstocked anù congested, or
fill the highways amI poor-houses. 'Ve do not wish to prohibit immigra-
tion, but our laws should be rigidly revised so that we may at least have
some voice in the selection of our guests. We cannot afford to become
the dumping-ground of the world for its vicious or ignorant or worthless
or diseased. We will welcome, as always, all patriots fleeing from oppres-
sion, all who will contribute to the str
ngtb of our Government and the
development of our resources, and we will freely grant to all who become
citizens equal rights and privileges under tbe laws and in making them
with the soldiers who saved the Republic, but no more. There is room
in this country for only one flag, and" Old Glory" must head tbe pro-
cession or it cannot march.
tatt 'o
t Jaí(1)oIØ.
BORN in Danbury, Conn., 1834.
ST. THEODULE.
[Monte Rosn. The Epic of an Alp.-Rem"sed Edition. 1886,1
B ENEA TH dark Breithorn's glancing helm, 'twixt that
And rearing )latterhorn, St. Theodule
Bends graciously its snow-white neck, as when
The laggard ox stoops low his tranyuil head
1861-88]
STARR HOYT NICHOLS.
To take the yoke; so forms ß crescent pass
In that forbidding wall which otherwise
Imprisons Zermatt the streamy in its guard.
Thence on clear days when noon pours its steep light
On the white wonder of the Rosa's snows,
The Mount displays its royalties at full.
Set like a castle mastered of g-reat drifts,-
Donjon, portcullis, hanquet-hall and moat
All half-submerged heneath them,-while its lords
Are gone. and gone its ladies all, it stands
Corner to a supernal masonry
'Vhose marbled scarps within their crescent hold
The Gorner glacier's smooth arena, thus
Building a matchless amphitheatre-
Of girth to shrink Rome's Colosseum famed
To scarce a feaster's bowl,--with glacier paved,
And terraced through the clouds with shelf and wall
Of crystal glacier,-stairway to high heaven.
Here seems as if the Almighty.s
vrit had run
To build a court for that tremendol1s day
When dead men's souls black with all sins arc haled
1\Iid trumpets' blare, before the an
elic hosts-
Cheruh and seraph, singing, sworded, winged,
And here assembled, crowding coign and cave
'Vith dazzling ranks of Heaven's imperial guard,
That stilI shall not out-hrave the blazonry
Of these broad snow:; beneath this mid-Ilay sun.
Here Brcithorn, Kleine )Iatterhorn, and Twins,
Lyskamm, and many-towered Hosa flanked
By nameless goodly sllmmits,-surpliced choir,
Of deathless ::iingers choral without song,-
In one transcendent foreground meet the eye,
From crown to 1lase, from base to dizzy crown;
'VIU1.t silver !'plendor,-great white throne of God!
How jetty precipice and delicate spire
'Vith every craggy cape and curving bay
Are 110ldly marked amid the measureless snows,
'Vith lustre blinding noon, and putting sun to shame!
'Vhat tirele
s roods of heaven-assaulting stone
Go charging at the zenith, lance in rest,
To pierce the tremhling arch of firmament,
That bends a lover's pace beyond their tips,
And frames their majesty in blue repose!
Their near horizon hides the rest of earth,
And peasant Nature staIlll!' like churl new-crowned
Dazed at imperial glories all her own.
Here one refulgent morning, after days
Of storm when hosts of thoughtless clouds had flung
Discarded snows on every bossy hill,
213
214
HORACE WHITE.
[1861-88
Chanced a good bishop from a western See,
A man athletic for his years and work,
Who held great Nature dear and not too much
Accursed by her Creator's word of haste,
'Vhen Adam "took and ate. ,. Here toiling on
O'er the high level of St. Theodule,
Whose sheeted slope as Indian ivory shone,
The Alpine spectacle immense and pure,
A visual anthem of the universe,
Stirred his grave soul to prophet's ecstasy;
That so he stood quite still and called his guides,
Those hardened veterans in such sceneries,
To check their swinging steps and bare their heads
,nth him in bended re,'erence, while each,
As each had learned at mother's knee, re-said
In his own native speech the Lord's great prayer,
Our Father which in Heaven art (as chanced
A psalm in triple tongue), to testify
Transcendent gratitude to most high God
For such amazing glory at its full.
So stood he with he astounded hill-men there,
Like some prinH'val Druid in his woods,
Head bared and lifted hands outspreall toward heaven,
His white hair floating on the idle breeze,
Adoring ancient Nature-goddess dear
And mother of all worships 'neath the sun-
'Vith deep, ancestral reverence ere he knew
Her gracious cult behind its thin ùisguise;
Stirring the wintry waste wiJ;h such a voice
Of transport as his high cathedral roof
Had seldom echoed from its fretteù vault.
ora'e ffi1)íte.
BORN in Colebrook, N. R., 1834.
THE GREAT CHICAGO FIRE.
[Letter to .J.1f1lrat Halstead, Editor of the Cincinnati Commercial.-Published in that
Newspaper, October, 1871.J
CHICAGO TRIBUNE OFFICE, 14 October, 1871.
A s a slight acknowledgment of your thoughtful kindness in forward-
ing to us, without orders, a complete outfit of type and cases,
when you heard that we had been burned out, I send you a hastily writ-
ten sketch of what I saw at the great fire.
1861-88J
HORACE WHITE.
215
The history of the great fire in Chicago, which rises to the dignity of
a national event. cannot be written until each witness, who makes any
record whatever, shall have told what he saw. Nobody could see it
all-no more than one man could see the whole of the battle of Gettys-
burg. It was too vast, too swift, too full of smoke, too full of danger,
for anybody to see it all.
Iy experience derives its only public impor-
tance from the fact that what I did, substantially, a hundred thousand
others did or attempted-that is. saved or sought to save their lives and
enough of their wearing-apparel to face the sky in. As you have printed
in your columns a map of the burned. district, I will remark that my
starting-point was at my residence, No. 148 Michigan avenue, between
Ionroe and Adams streets.
'Vhat I saw at the great fire embraces nothing more heartrending
than the destruction of property. I saw no human beings burned or
suffocated in flame and smoke, though there were many. .My brother
early in the fray stumbled over the bodies of two dead men near the
corner of La Salle and Adams streets.
Iy wife saw the body of a dead
boy in our own door-yard as she was taking leave of our home. How it
got there we know not. Prpbably it was brought there as to a place of
safety, the bearers leaving and forgetting it. or themselves getting fast
in some inextricable throng of fugitives. I saw no mothers with new-
born babes hurried into the street and carried miles through the night-
air by the ,light of burning houses. I have a friend whose wife gave
birth to a child within one hour of the time when the flames of Sunday
nigh t reddened the sky. Her home was in tbe North Division, which
was swept clean of some ten thousand houses. This suffering lady was
taken down stairs with her infant, and carried one mile to a place of
supposed safety. She bad not been there an hour when she was taken
out a second time and carried a mile and a half westward. Blessed be
God that she still lives and that the young child breathes sweetly on
her bosom!
I had retired to rest, though not to sleep (Sunday, October 8),when the
great ben struck the alarm, but fires had been so frequent of late, and
had been so speedily extinguished, that I did not deem it worth while
to get up and look at it, or even to count the strokes on the bell to learn
where it was. The ben paused for fifteen minutes before giving the
general alarm, which distinguishes a great fire from a small one. ,\Yhen
it sounded tbe general alarm I rose and lookeù out. There was a great
light to the southwest of my residence, but no greater than I bad fre-
quently seen in that quarter, where vast piles of pine lumber have been
stored all the time I have lived in Chicago, some eighteen years. But
it was not pine lumber that was burning this time. It was a row of
wooden tenements in the South Division of the city, in which a few llays
216
HORACE WHITE.
[1861-88
ago were standing whole rows of tbe most costl.y buildings which it
hath entered into the hearts of architects to conceive. I watcbed the
increasing light for a few moments. Red tongues of light began to
shoot upward; my family were all aroused by this time, and I dressed
myself for the purpose of going to the" Tribune" office to write some-
thing about the catastrophe. Once out upon the street, the magnitude
of the fire was suddenly disclosed to me.
The dogs of hell were upon the housetops of La Sane anù Wells
streets, just south of Adams, bounding from one to another. The fire
was moving northward like ocean surf on a sand beach. It had already
travelled an eighth of a mile and was far beyond control. A column of
flame would shoot up from a burning building, catch tbe force of the
wind, and strike the next one, which in turn would perform the same
direful office for its neighbor. It was simply indescribable in its terri-
ble grandeur. Vice and crime had got the first scorching. The district
where the fire got its first firm foothold was the Alsatia of Chicago.
Fleeing before it was a crowd of blear-eyed, drunken, and diseased
wretches, male and female, half naked, ghastly, with painted cheeks,
cursing and uttering ribald jests as they (lrifted along.
I went to the" Tribune" office, ascended to the editorial rooms, took
the only inflammable thing there, a kerosene lamp, and carried it to the
basement, where I emptied the oil into the sewer. This was scarcely
done when I perceived the flames breaking out of the roof of the court-
house, the old nucleus of which, in the centre of tbe edifice, was not
constructed of fire-proof material. as he new wings had been. As tbe
flames had leaped a vacant space of nearly two hundred feet to get at
this roof. it was evident that most of the business portion of the city
must go down, but I did not reflect that the city water-works, with their
four great pumping engines, were in a straight line with the :fire and
wind.
or did I know then that this priceless machinery was covered
by a wooden roof. The flames were driving thither with demon pre-
CiSIon.
Billows of fire were rolling over the Lusiness palaces of the city and
swallowing up their contents. 'Yalls were faning so fast that the quak-
ing of the ground under our feet was scarcely noticed, so continuous
was the reverberation. :::)ober men and women were hurrying through
the streets from the burning quarter, some with bundles of clothes on
their shoulders, others dragging trunks along the sidewalks by means of
strings and ropes fastened to the han(lles, children trudging by their
sides or borne in their arms. Now and then a sick man or woman
would be observed, half concealed in a mattress doubled up and borne
by two men. Droves of horses were in the streets. moving by some sort
of guidance to a place of safety. Vehicles of an descriptions were hur-
1861-88]
HORACE WHITE.
217
r.ring to and fro, some laden with trunks and bundles, others seeking
similar loads and immediately finding them, the drivers making more
money in one hour than they were used to f-1ee in a week or a month.
Everybody in this quarter was hurrying towards the lake shore. All
the streets crossing that part of :Michigan Avenue which fronts on the
lake (on which my own residence stood) were crowded with fugitives,
hastening towards the blessed water.
What bappened at the" Tribune" building has already been told in
your columns. 'Ve saw tbe tall buildings on the opposite sides of the two
streets melt down in a few moments without scorching ours. The heat
broke the plate-glass windows in the lower stories, but not in the upper
ones. After tbe fire in our neigh borhood had spent its force, the edito-
rial and composing rooms did not even smell of smoke. Several of our
brave fellows who had been up all night had gone to sleep on the
lounges, while others were at the sink washing their faces, supposing
that all danger to us had passed. So I supposed, and in this belief went
borne to breakfast. The smoke to the northward was so dense that we
could not see the North Division, where sixty thousand people were fly-
ing in mortal terror before the flames. The immense store of Field,
Leiter & Co. I observed to be under a shower of water from tbeir own
fire-apparatus, and since the First National Bank, a :fire-proof building,
protecteù it on one corl1er, I concluded that the progress of the flames in
that direction was stopped, as the" Tribune" building had stopped it
where we were. Here, at least, I thought was a saving of twenty mill-
ions of property, including the great Central depot and the two
rain-
elevators aLljoining, effected by two or three buildings which-had been
erected with a view to such an emergency. The post-office and custom-
house building (also fire-proof, according to public rumor) bad stopped
the flames a little further to the southwest, although tbe interior of that
structure was burning. ..A. straight line drawn northeast from the post-
office would nearly touch the" Tribune," First National Bank, Field,
Leiter & CO.'s store, and tbe Illinois Central Railroad land department,
another fire-proof. Everything east of that line seemed perfectly safe.
And with this feeling I went borne to breakfast.
There was still a mass of fire to the southwest, in tbe direction
whence it originaIIy came, but as the engines were all down there, and
the buildings small and low, I felt sure that the firemen would manage
it. As soon as I had swallowed a cup of coffee and communicatell to
my family the facts that I had gathered, I started out to see the end of
the hattle. Reaching State street, I glanced down to Field, Leiter & CO.'s
store, and to my surprise noticed that the streams of water 'which had
before been showerillg it, as though it had been a great artificial foun-
tain, had ceased to run. But I did not conjecture the awful reality,
218
HORACE WHITE.
[1861-88
viz., that the great pumping engines had been disabled by a burning
roof falling upon tbem. I thougbt perbaps tbe firemen on the store bad
discontinued their efforts because the ùanger was over. But why were
men carrying out goods from the lower story? This query was soon
answered by a gentleman who asked me if I had heard that the water
had stopped! The awful truth was here! The pumping engines were
disabled, and though we had at our feet a basin sixty miles wide by
tbree bundred and sixty long, and seven bundred feet deep, all full of
clear green water, we could not lift enough to quench a cooking-stove.
Still the direction of tbe wind was such tbat I thought the remaining
fire would not cross State street, nor reach the residences on Wabash
and 1fichigan avenues anù the terrified people on tbe lake shore. I
determined to go down to the black cloud of smoke which was rising
away to the southwest, the course of
'hich could not be discovered on
account of tbe height of the intervening buildings, but tbougbt it most
prudent to go borne again, and tell my wife to get the family wearing-
apparel in readiness for moving. I found that she had already done
so. I then hurried toward tbe black cloud, some ten squares distant,
and tbere found the rows of wooden houses on Third and }1'ourth
avenues falling like ripe wbeat before tbe reaper. At a glance I per-
ceived that all was lost in our part of tbe city, and I conjectured that
the" Tribune" building was doomed, too, for I had noticed with conster-
nation that tbe fire
proof post-office had been completely gutted, not-
witbstanding it was detached from other buildings. The" Tribune" was
fitted into a nicbe, one side of which consisted of a wbolesale stationery
store, and the otber of McVicker's Theatre. But there was now no time
to tbink of property. Life was in danger. Tbe lives of tbose most dear
to me depended upon their getting out of our house, out of our street,
througb an infernal gorge of horses, wagons, men, women, children,
trunks, and plunder.
:My brother was witb me, and we seized tbe first empty wagon we
could find, pinning the horse by the bead. A hasty talk with the
driver disclosed that we could have his establishment for one load for
twenty dollars. I had not expected to get him for less tban a hundred,
unless we sbould take bim by force, and this was a bad time for a fight.
He approved himself a muscular as well as a faitbful fellow, and I shall
always be glad that I avoided a personal difficulty with him. One
peculiarity of the situation was that nobody could get a team without
ready money. I had not thought of tbis when I was revolving in my
mind the offer of one hundred dollars, which was more greenbacks than
our whole family could have put up if our lives bad depended upon tbe
issue. This driver had divined tbat, as all tbe banks were burned,
a check on the Couunercial National would not carry him very far,
1861-88]
HORACE WHITE.
219
although it might carry me to a place of safety. All the drivers had
divined the same. Every man who had anything to sell perceived the
same. "Pay as you go" had become the watcbword of the bour. Never
was there a community so hastily and so completely emancipated from
the evils of the credit system.
'Vith some little difficulty we reached our house, and in less time
than we ever set out on a journey before, we dragged seven trunks,
four bundles, four valises, two baskets, and one bamper of provisions
into the street and piled tbem on the wagon. The fire was still more
than a quarter of a mile distant, and the wind, whicb was increasing in
yiolence, was driving it not exactly in our direction. The low wooden
houses were nearly all gone, and after tbat tbe fire must make progress,
if at all, against brick and stone. Several churcbes of massive archi-
tecture were between us and harm, and the great Palmer House bad not
been reached, and might not be if tbe firemen, who bad now got tbeir
bose into the lake, could work efficiently in the ever-increasing jam of
fugitives.
1Iy wife thougbt we should have time to take another load; my
brother thought so; we an tbought so. 'Ve bad not given due credit
eitber to the savage strength of the fire or the firm pack on Michigan
avenue. Leaving my brotber to get tbe family safely out if I did not
return in time, and to pile the most valuable portion of my library into
the drawers of bureaus and tables ready for moving, I seized a bird-cage
containing a talented green parrot, and mounted the seat with the driver.
For one square southward from tbe corner of :Monroe street we made
pretty fair progress. The dust was so tbick tbat we could not see tbe
distance of a whole square ahead. It came, not in cloud:;;:, but in a
steady storm of :;;:and, the particles impin
ing against our faces like
needle-points. Pretty soon we came to a dead halt. 'Ve could move
neitber forward, nor backward, nor sidewise. Tbe gorge bad caught fast
somewhere. Yet everybody was good-natured and polite. If I should
say I didn't hear an oatb all the way down
lichigan avenue, tbere are
probably some mule-drivers in Cincinnati who would say it was a lie.
But I did not. Tbe only quarrelsome person I saw was a German
laborer (a noted exception to his race), who was protestill
that he had
lost everything, and that he would not get out of the middle of tbe road
although he was on foot. He became obstreperous on this point, and
commenced beating the head of my horse with his fist. 1Iy driver was
preparing to knock him down with the butt-end of Lis wbip! when two
men seized the insolent Teuton and dragged him to the water's edge,
where it is to be hoped he was ducked.
Presently tbe jam began to move, and we got on perhaps twenty paces
and stuck fast again. By accident we had edged over to the east side
220
HORACE WHITE.
[1861-88
of the street, and nothing but a board fence separated us from the lake
park, a strip of ground a little wider than the street itself. A benevo-
lent laborer on the park side of the fence pulled a looðe post from the
ground, and wi th this for a catapult knocked off the board:::; and invited
us to pass through. It was a hazardous undertaking, as we had to drive
diagonally over a raised sidewalk, but we thought it was best to risk it.
Our horse mounted and gave us a jerk which nearly threw us off the
seat, and sent the provision basket and one bundle of clothing wbirling
into the dirt. The eatables were irrecoverable. The bunl1le was res-
cued. with two or three pounds of butter plastered upon it. \Y' e started
again, and here our parrot broke out with great rapidity and sharpness
of utterance, "Get up. get up, get up, hurry up, hurry up, it's eight
o'clock," ending with a shrill whistle. These ejaculations frightened a
pair of carriage-horses, close to u
, on the other side of the fence, but the
jam was so tight they couldn't run.
By getting into the park we succeeded in advancing two squares with-
out impediment, and we might have gone further had we not come upon
an excavation which the public authorities bad recently made. This
drove us back to the avenue, where another battering-ram made a gap
for us at the intersection of Van Buren street, the north end of Michi-
gan Terrace. Here the gorge seemed impassable. The difficulty pro-
ceeded from teams entering ::\Iichigan avenue from cross-streets. Extem-
pore policemen stationed themselves at these crossingR, and helperl as
weB as they. could, but we were half an hour passing the terrace. From
this imposing row of residences the milIionaires were dragging their
trunks and tbeir bundles, and yet there was no panic, no frenzy, no
boisterousness, but only the baste which the situation authorized. There
was real danger to life all along this street, but nobody realized it,
because the park was ample to hold all the people. None of us asked
or thought what would become of those nearest the water if tbe smoke
and cinders should drive the whole crowd down to the shore, or if the
vast bazar of luggage should itself take fire, as some of it afterwards did.
Fortunately for those in tbe street, tbere was a limit to the number of
teams available in that quarter of the city. The contributions from the
cross-streets grew less; and soon we began to move on a \Val k wi tbout
interruption. Arriving at Eldridge Court, I turned into Wahash avenue,
where the crowd was thinner. Arriving at the house of a friend, who
was on the windward side of the fire, I tumbled off my load and started
back to get another. Half way down Michigan avenue, which was now
perceptibly easier to move in, I perceived my family on the sidewalk
with their arms fun of light householù effects. Jfy wife told me that
the bouse was already burned, that the flames burst out ready made in
tbe rear hall before she knew that the roof had been scorched, and tbat
.
1861-88]
HORACE WHITE.
221
one of the sen-ants, who had disobeyed orders in her eagerness to save
some artic1e, had got singed, though not burned, in coming out. }'ly
wife and mother and aU the r&5t were begrimed with dirt and smoke,
like blackamoors; everybody was. The" bloated aristocrats" all along
the streets, who supposed they bad lost both home anù fortune at one
swoop, were a sorry but not despairing congregation. They bad saved
their lives at all events, and they knew that many of their fellow-creat-
ures must have lost theirs. I saw a great many kindly acts done as we
moved along. The poor helped the rich, and the rich helped the poor
if
anybody could be called rich at such a time), to get on with their loads.
I heard of cartmen demanding one hundred and fifty dollars (in hand,
of course) for carrying a single load. Very likely it was so, but those
cases did not come under mv own notice. It did come under mv notice
that some cartmen worked
for whatever the sufferers felt able
to pay,
and one I knew worked with alacrity for nothing. It takes all sorts of
people to make a great fire.
Presently we heard loud detonations, and a rumor went around that
buildings .were being blown up with gunpowder. The ùepot of the
Hazard Powder Company was situated at Brighton, seven or eight miles
from the nearest point of the fire. At what time the effort was first
made to reach this magazine, and bring powder into the service, I have
not learned, but I know that Co1. }.L C. Stearns made heroic efforts with
his great lime-wagons to haul the explosive material to the proper point.
This is no time to blame anybody. but in truth there was no directing
head on the ground. Everybody was asking everybody el
e to pull
down buildings. There were no books, no ropes, no axes. I had met
General Sheridan on the street in front of the post-office two bours
before. He had been trying to save the army recorùs, inc1uding his own
invaluable papers relating to the war of the rebenion. He told me they
were an lost, and then added that " the post-office didn't seem to make
a good fire." This was when we supposed the row of fire-proof build-
ings, already spoken of, had stopped the flames in our quarter. 'Vhere
wa
General Sheridan now? everybody asked. 'Vhy didn't he do some-
thing when everybody else had failed? Presently a rumor went around
that Sheridan was handling tbe gunpowder; then everybody felt relieved.
The reverberations of the powder, whoever was handling it, gave us an
heart again. Think of a people feeling encouraged because somebody
was blowing up houses in the midst of the city, and that a shower of
bricks was very likely to come down on their heads I
I had paid and discharged my driver after extorting his solemn prom-
ise to come back and move me again if the wind should shift to the
north-in which event everybody knew that the whole South Division,
for a distance of four miles, must perish. "\Ve soon arrived at tbe house
222
HORACE WHITE.
[1861-88
of the kind friend on 'Yabash avenue, where our trunks and bundles
bad been deposited. Thi
was south of the line of fire, but this did not
satisfy anybody, since we had all seen how resolutely the flames had
gone transversel.y aCl'OSS the direction of the wind Then came a story
from down the street that Sheridan was going to blow up the \Vabash
avenue l\:fethodist Church on tbe corner of Harrison street. vVe
observed a general scattering away of people from that neighborhood.
I was nearly four squares south of the locality, and thought that the
missiles wouldn't come so far. 'Ve awaited the explosion, but it did
not come. By and by we plucked up courage to go around two or three
blocks and see wbether the church had fallen down of its own accord.
\\ e perceived tbat two or three bouses in tbe rear of tbe edifice had
been levelled to tbe ground, tbat the church itself was standing, and that
the fire was out, in that quarter at least; also, that the line of Harri-
son street marked the southern limits of the devastation. The wind
continued to blow fiercely from the southwest, and has not ceased to
this bour (Saturday, October 14). But it was liable to change. If it
chopped around to the nortb, the burning embers would be blown back
upon the South Division. If it veered to the east, they would be blown
into the West Division, though the river afforded rather better protec-
tion there. rrhen we should have nothing to do but to keep ahead of
the flames and get down as fast as possible to the open prairie, and there
spend the night houseless and supperless-and what of the morrow? A
full hundred thousand of us. And if we were spared, and the 'Vest
Division were driven out upon their prairie (a hundred and fifty tbou-
sand according to the Federal census), bow would the multitude be fed?
If there could be anything more awful than what we had already gone
through, it would be what we would certainly go through if the wind
should change; for with the embers of this great fire flying about, and
no water to fight them, we knew that there was not gunpowder enough
in Illinois to stop the inevitable conflagration. But this was not all.
A well-authenticated rumor came up to the city that the prairie was on
fire south of Hyde Park, the largest of tbe southern suburbs. The
grass was as dryas tinder, and so were the leaves in Cottage Grove, a
piece of timber several miles square, containing hundreds of residences
of tbe better c1ass, some of them of palatial dimensions. A fire on the
prairie, communicating itself to the grove, migbt cut off the retreat of the
one hundred thousand people in tbe South Division; might invade the
South Division itself, and come up under the impulsion of that fierce
wind, and where should we all be then? There were three or four
briJges leading to the 'Vest Division, the only possible avenues of
escape; but what were these among so many? And what if tbe ,. Com-
mune" should go to work and start incendiary fires wbile all was yet in
1861-88]
HORACE WHITE.
223
confusion? These fiends were improving the daylight by plundering
along the street. Before dark the whole male population of the city was
organized b.y spontaneous impulse into a night patrol, with pallid deter-
mination to put every incendiary to instant death.
About five o'clock P. M. I applied to a friend on Wabash avenue for
the use of a team to convey my family and chattels to the soutbern sub-
urbs, about four miles distant, where my brother happened to own a
smaH cottage, which, up to the present time, nobody could be induced
to occupy and pay rent for.
fy friend replied that his work-teams
were engaged hauling water for people to drink. Here was another
thing that I had not thought of-a great city with no water to drink.
Plenty in the lake, to be sure, but none in the city mains or the connect-
ing pipes. Fortunately tbe extreme western limits were provided with
a number of artesian wells, bored for manufacturing establishments.
Then there was the river-the horrible, black, stinking river of a few
weeks ago, which has since become clear enough for fish to live in, by
reason of the deepening of the canal, which draws to the
fississippi a
perpetual flow of pure water from Lake :Micbigan. 'Vith the city pump-
ing-works stopped, tbe sewers would no longer discharge themselves into
the river. So this might be used; and it was. Twenty-four hours had
not passed before tens of thousands of people were drinking the water
of Chicago River, with no unpleasant taste or effects.
The work-teams of my friend being engaged in hauling water for peo-
ple who could not get any from the weIls or tbe river or lake, he placed
at my disposal his carriage, horses and coachman, whom he directed to
take me and the ladies to any place we desired to reach. ',hile we
were talking, he hailed another gentleman on the street, who owned a
large stevedore wagon, and asked him to convey my trunks, etc., to
Cottage Grove avenue, near Forty-third street, to which request an
immediate and most graciom; assent was given. And thus we started
again, our hoste
s pressing a mattress upon us from her store. All the
streets leading southward were yet fined with fugitives. Where they
all found shelter that night, I know not, but every house seemed to be
opened to anybody who desired to enter. Arrived at our new home,
about dusk, we found in it, as we expected, a cold reception, there being
neither stove, nor grate, nor fireplace, nor fuel, nor light therein. But
I will not dwell upon tbese things. \Ve really did not mind them, for
when we thought of tbe thousands of men. women, and tender babes
huddled together in Lincoln Park, seven miles to the north of us, with
no prospect of food, exposed to rain, if it should come, with no canopy
but the driving smoke of their homes, we tbought how little we had suf-
fered and how much we should be thankful for. How one feels at a
particular time ùepenJs much upon how he sees others enjoy them-
2
4
HORACE WHITE.
[1861-88
selves. All the eight-hour strikers are possessed of more comfort and
leisure than we have, but we do not notice anything of it at all. vVe
ha ve secured a stove, and there are plenty of trees around us, and the
axe is mightier than the pen to get one's breakfast ready now.
The prairie fire southwest of Hyde Park we found to have been a
veritable fact, but it had ùeen put out by diligent effort. The ditches
cut for drainage in that region during the last two or three years render
it very diffieult for a fire to spread far. Yet I revolved in my mind a
plan of escape in case the fire should ùreak out afresh, surmount the
ditches, and get into the grove which surrounded us. I judged tbat a
fire could be discerned from our window fully five miles away, and that
before it could reach us we could get upon the new South Park boule-
vard, two hundred feet wide, the western side of which has no timber
to burn. A mere prairie fire coming up to this gravelled driveway
would go out, and we should suffer nothing worse than a little smoke.
I learned the next day that some of the people on the lake shore east
of us constructed rafts, and gathered a few household effects in cunve-
nient places, to be launched whenever the fire should make its appear-
ance on the prairie. It turned out, from the experience of the North
Division groves, tbat tbese oak woods would not have burned in any
case, the timber containing too much moisture. But we did not then
know that. There was 110 sleep for us until we heard the welcome
sound of rain against our windows. How our hearts did rise in thank-
fulness to IIeaven for that rain! 'Ve thought the poor people in Lincoln
Park would rather have the rain on their heads than know that Chicago
was exposed to the horror of total conflagration. The wind blew with
increasing violence, till our frame house trembled in every rafter. We
did not know but it would go over, yet if it would only rain we would
stand our ground. \Ve had no furniture to be broken by an overturned
house, or to break our bones roning about the floor. Now and then we
looked at the red sky to the north, and satisfied ourselves that the rest
of Chicago was Dot burning. This gave us comfort, but not sleep.
Details of what I saw might be spun out to the crack of doom, but
I must draw it to a close. There will, of course, be much curiosity to
know why the fire-proof buildings succumbed.
It is ascertained that no stone ever used in the business part of a
city is worth a farthing in such a fire. Brick is the only thing which
comes out whole, and is ready to try it again. But it is not fair to say
that an absolutely fire-proof building cannot be erected. r think it can
be. At all events, the architects of the world should come here and
stud y.
And what shall I say of the Christ-like" charity that has overwhelmed
us in our misfortune'? An the tears that have been shed in Chicago,
1861-88]
CHARLES HENR Y WEBB.
225
except those which have flowed for the dead and maimed, have been
called to our eyes by reading tbat in this great city and tbat little town,
and yonder hamlet, and across the lakes in Canada, and down among
our late enemies of the South, and beyond the mountains in "Utah and
California, and over the water in England, and on the Continent, God's
people were working and giving to save us out of our affliction. I can-
not even write of it, for my own eyes fill whenever I think of it.
On Wednesday morning the " Tribune" came out with a half sheet,
containing among other things a notice that an inteUigence office had
been opened for lost people to report to, and for those who had lost
their friends to inquire at. On the following morning we printed two
columns of personal items from this intel]igence office. Perhaps you
have copied them, but I send you a few taken at random:
Mrs. Bush is at 40 Arnold Street. She has lost her baby.
Peter Grace lost wife and children; Church, Carpenter and Washing-
ton streets.
:Mrs. Tinney lost little girl six years old, Katie, Harrison House.
James Glass lost little boy, Arthur Glass, 342 Hubbard street.
A little girl, cannot speak her name, at Desplaine's Hotel.
The wife and child of Rev. W. A. Jones are missing.
Henry Schneider, baby, in blue poland waist, red skirt, has white
hair. Inform Thomas llenninghauser, at Centenary Church.
l\fany of these lost babies were doubtless found; many of these sep-
arated families brought together again. What meetings there must have
been! But many others have gone over the river, to be found of God,
and delivered to their mothers' arms in mansions not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.
QtlJarlc
enr1! [[1 ebb.
BORN in Rouse's Point, N, Y., 1834.
ALEC. DUNHAM'S BOAT.
[Vagrom VerBe. 1889.]
THERE she lies at her moorings,
The little two-master,
Answering not now
The call of disaster.
Loose swings the rudder,
L nshipped the tiller i
VOL. Ix.-15
226
OHARLES HENR Y WEBB.
[lB61-88
Crossing the Bar so
One sea would fill her!
Foresail ana mainsail
In loose folds are lying;
Naked the mast-heads-
No pennon flying;
Seaweed and wreck
Alike may drift past her;
There lies the pilot-uoat-
,V here is her master
Lantern at Great Point,
Brightly it burns;
Beacon on Brant Point
The signal returns.
Far out to sea
Sankoty flashes;
White on the shore
The crested wave dashes.
Strident No'th-easter
And smoky Sou'-wester
Can for the pilot-hoat,
Eager to test her.
And a ship on the Bar,
Just where the waves cast her!
:Moored lies the pilot-boat-
Where is her master
Oh, barque driving in,
God send that you lee get,
Past Tuckernnck shoals,
The reefs of )Iuskeget.
There go minute guns;
Now faster and faster-
But no more to their aid
Flies the little two-master.
For the pilot one night
Left his boat as you see her-
Light moored, that at signal
He ready might free her.
But not from her moorings
Came the pilot to cast her,
Though a signal he answered-
One set by the )Iaster.
Gone, say you, and w llither
Do yon ask me which way
Went gooù pilot as ever
Brought ship into bay
1861-88]
CHARLES HENRY WEBB.
Who shall say how he cast off.
If to starboard or larboard
But of one thing I'm sure-
The pilot's safe-harbored!
WITH A NANTUCKET SHELL.
I SEND thee a shell from the ocean beach;
But listen thou well, for my shell hath speech.
Hold to thine ear,
And plain thou'It hear
Tales of ships
Tha.t were lost in the rips,
Or that sank on shoals
Where the bell-buoy tolls,
And ever and ever its iron tongue rolls
In a ceaseless lament for the poor lost souls.
And a song of the sea
Has my shell for thee;
The melody in it
Was hummed at 'Vauwinet,
And caught at Coatue
By the gull that flew
Outside to the ship with its perishing crew.
But the white wings wave
'Vhere none may save,
And there's never a stone to mark a grave.
See, its sad heart bleeds
For the sailors' needs;
But it bleeds again
For more mortal pain,
More sorrow and woe
Than is theirs who go
With shuddering eyes and whitening lips
Down in the sea on their shattered ships.
Thou fearest the sea?
And a tyrant is he,-
A tyrant as cruel as tyrant may be;
But though winds fierce blow,
And the rocks lie low,
And the coast be lee,
This I say to thee:
Of Christian souls more have been wrecked on shore
Than ever were lost at sea!
227
228
OHARLES HENRY WEBB.
[1861-88
THE LAY OF DAN'L DREW.
I T was a long lank Jerseyman,
And he stoppetll one of two:
"I ain't acquaint in these here parts;
I'm a-Iookin' for Dan'l Drew.
" I'm a lab'rer in the Vinnard;
l\ly callin' I pursue
At the Institoot at Madison,
That was built by Dan'l Drew.
"I'm a lab'rer in the Vinnard;
l\ly worldly wants are few;
But I want some pints on these here sheers-
I'm a-Iookin' for Dan'l Drew."
Again I saw that laborer,
Corner of Wall and New;
He was looking for a ferry-boat,
And not for Daniel Drew.
Upon his back he bore a sack
Of stuff that men eschew;
Some yet moist scrip was in bis grip,
A little" 'Vaybosh " too.
He plain was long of old R. I.,
And short of some things "new."
There was never another laborer
Got just such" pints" from Drew.
At the ferry-gate I saw him late,
His white cravat askew,
A-paying his fare with a registered share
Of stock" preferred "-by Drew.
And these worùs came back from the Hackensack,
"If you want to gamhle a few,
Just get in your paw at a game of Draw,
But don't take a hand at DnEw! "
1861-88]
ADAMS SHERMAN HILL.
229
gnam.ø
lJerman $íll.
BORN in Boston, :Mass., 1833.
ENG LISH IN NEWSPAPERS AND NOVELS.
[Our English. 1889. J
I N both novels and newspapers, precision in language and nice dis-
tinctions in thought are rare. Superlatives abound. There is little
gradation, little ligbt and shade, little of the delicate discrimination, the
patient search for truth, and the conscientious effort to express truth
exactly, which characterize the work of a master.
Newspapers and novels alike keep" pet words "-words which, like
other pets, are often in the way, often fill places that belong to their
betters. A good speech is termed" breezy" or " neat"; a good style
"crisp" or "incisive"; an "utterance" or a comely countenance, "clear-
cut" or "clean-cut." Bad features are" accentuated" by sickness. Lec-
tures are" punctuated" with applause. A clergyman "performs" at a
funeral; a musician" officiates" or ,. presides" at tbe piano-forte. :Many
things, from noses to tendencies, are" pronounced" j many things, from a
pO{Jular novel to a pO{Jular nostrum, are ,. unique," and one journal cans
a thing "one of the most unique"; many things, from a circus to a
book, have an "ad vent." Questions are " pi votal," achievements "colos-
sal" or "monumental," books "epoch-making." Every week something
is "inaugurated" or "initiated," and somebody or something is "in
touch with" somebody or something else. \Ve are often asked to
" await developments. ,. A few years ago newspapers were talking of A.
and B. "and others of the same ilk.:! A word just now in vogue is
" weird." We read not only of tbe "weird" beauty of Keats, but also
of the" weirdest" misconstructions of facts, or misstatements of princi-
ples. " Factor" and "feature" appear in the oddest company, and
"environment" has become a weariness to the spirit.
Some novels and most newspapers are prompt to adopt the slang of
the day, whatever its source. We read, for example, of schemes for
" raking in the dimes." One poetical paragraph ends, "It pulls one up
dreadfully in one's reverie to hear," ete. Newspapers" take stock in" a
senator, and "get to the bottom fact" of a discussion. The hero of one
novel is ., padded to the nines"; the heroine of another has a brow,
eyes, and face tbat are all "strung up to the concert-pitch." The jour-
nalist's candidate and the novelist's hero alike "put in an appearance,"
and" pan out wen."
The disposition to obscure the meaning by technical expressions is
30
ADAJlS SHERMA.N HILL.
[1861-88
not unknown in newspapers, but it shows itself chiefly in novels. Even
in "rrhe Heart of Midlothian" we are told that "the acid fermenta-
tion" of a dispute was ., at once neutralized by the powerful alkali
implied in the word secret." Even George Eliot, in her description of
Gwendolen at the beginning of "Daniel Deronda," uses" dynamic " in a
way which cancd forth much criticism when the book was published.
A later novelist talks of "neuralgia of the emotions"; another of the
"effect of the meerschaum's subtle influence upon certain groups of gan-
glionic nerve-cells deep in bis cerebrum." Another cans the hero ., one
of the coefficients of the age"; and st111 another remarks that, "as men
gravitate towards their leading grievance, he went off at a tangent."
We read of fancy's taking "a tangential flight"; of the ,. inspiration
that was to coördinate conflicting data"; of a man's" undergoing molec-
ular moral disintegration"; of life as "being a function of two varia-
bles, money and fashion"; and of deatb as a "common and relentless
factor, getting, as time went on, increasing value in the complicated
equation of being."
One set of faults seems to f:pring from the belief on the part of some
journalists and novelists, anrl of :roung writers who have caught the
malady from them, that there are not enough words in the English lan-
guage to supply their needs, and that, therefore, it is necessary to coin
just a few more, or at least to take them from the mint of some other
writer of the day. Hence, new forms for old words, and new formations
from old words. One journal tells its readers that'" mentalit,y.' though
not in the dictionaries, is a good English word." Another says:
" 'Christmassing'; we ought to have such a word." The hero of one
novel is engaged in "battle-axing" difficulties; the heroine of another
has a terrible "disappoint." A traveller "gondoles" in Amsterdam,
" hotelizes " in London, and is ., recepted " and" dined" on his return to
New York. A popular writer talks of rural mechanics too idle to
"mechanize." "Burglarize" is a newspaper word; "burgled" has been
borrowed for fiction from "The Pirates of Penzance." 'tV e read of
sounds hollow and "echoey"; of ,. mayoral" qualities; of "faddists"
(people with fads); of a bow which "grotesqued" a compliment: of an
"aborigine" (apparently the singular of aborigines); of" caddesses " and
"flirtees "; of the" genius of swellness"; of little fellows who " cheek"
bigger ones; of men whose good looks do not atone for the "lackness "
of their characters, and of desires ,vhich are "wide-borizoned." It
would be easy to extend this list, if either my readers or I had the appe-
tite to go through what a recent writer terms "a menu bristling with
word-coinage." "There's nae living," as
feg Dods, in "St. Ronan's
Well," says-" there's nae living for new words in this new world
neither, and that is another vex to auld folks as me."
1861-88]
ADAMS SHERJfA.N HILL.
231
Another characteristic of both newspapers and novels comes some-
times from tbe ambition to command language that moves in the high-
est circles, and sometimes from the determination to be funny. I refer,
of course, to the practice of using the longest and most high-sounding
words and expressions-words which no one would think of using in
conversation or in familiar correspondence. ., Scribes" of this class, as
they call themselves, "sa VOl''' their wine instead of tasting it, "locate"
men and women instead of placing them, ., imbibe" or "perform the
rites of Bacchus," instead of drinking. In the morning they "unclose"
the eyelids, and "perform the usual operation of a diligent friction of
the organs of vision"; in the evening they uccupy "curule chairs ., until
it is time for them to "withdraw to their apartments." Their spectacles
are "lenses"; their burglar ., reckons up the harvest of his hands";
their facts are" proven," their streets ., paven "01' ., semi-paven ": the
people who dine at their houses are" commensals," and those who ride
in tbeir cabs are "incumbents." 1,Vith them snow becomes "white
crystals" or "fluffed ermine purity," rain ., an effusion of water," crape
"sable insignia of death," potatoes and bread "staple edibles," a dress-
ing-case "travelling arrangements"; "sales-ladies" wait upon "gilded
youth"; names are " retired" from visiting-cards; seats are" resumed ";
souls are ., perused"; prices are "altitudinous"; a politician who bap-
pens to be in town blossoms into a "visiting statesman"; an author
"obligates" instead of binding himself; a visitor "refreshes bis olfac-
tory organ" with a pinch of snuff; a fortune quickly made is said to be
"as stupendously large as phenomenally swift won." The last citation,
which is from a prominent journalist, is perhaps no worse in its way
than "potential liquid refreshment," an expression used by Lord Bea-
consfield and copied many times since; than a later novelist's remark
that I'the footfalls of a little black mare annotated the silence of the
place," while "an isolated stellulated light illumined the snow"; or
than a clever woman's designation of veteran soldiers as II mutilated
pages of bistory." Perhaps, however, the palm may be carrie(l off by
the novelist who speaks of (I the impression she gave from her little slit-
like tacit sources "-that is, apparently, her eyes.
In tbis last characteristic, novels have, perhaps, taken the lead.
Instances of it in it
serious form are to be found even in Scott, when he
is in what he himself calls his ,. big bow-wow" mood; as, "The creak
of the screw-nails presently announced that the Ed of the last mansion of
mortality was in the act of being secured above its tenant"; ".My blood
throbbed to my feverish apprehension, in pulsations which resembled
tbe deep and regular strokes of a distant fulling-mill, and tingled in my
veins like streams of liquid fire." Instances of it in its humorous form
are to be found even in Dickens, when the reporter in him gets the bet-
232
ADAMS SHERMAN HILL.
[1861-88
tel' of the humorist; as, "ligneous sharper," i. e., Wegg with his wooden
leg; he was "accelerated to rest with a poker"; "The celebration is a
breakfast, because a dinner on tbe desired scale of sumptuosity cannot
be acbieved within less limits than tbose of the non-existent palatial
residence of which so many people are madly enyious."
'Vord-pictures, so-called, sometimes bang on newspaper columns; and
tbe.y abound in recent novels. One autbor declares that "God's gold"
was in the beroine's hair, for" it was shot through with sunset spikes of
yellow ligbt." Anotber says of the heroine tbat "the sunligbt made a
rush at her ricb chestnut hair,': and affirms that she had "white teeth
showing like pearls dropped in a rose, and a white throat in a foam of
creamy laces." Another says that "the moon searched out the deep-red
lines" in the beroine's hair, and tbat her lips had "musical curves."
We read of "sultry eyes flashing with the vistas of victory"; of "tbe
amber and crimson lustres of joy"; of a sun "resting on the hill like a
drop of blood on an eyelid"; of a bead "with one little round spot on
the top reminding one of what a bird's-eye view migbt show of Drum-
mond Lake in the Dismal Swamp"; of a landscape which is "a perfect
symphony in brown": of a woman who is "a ravishing sympbony in
white, pale green, and gold"; of anotber wbo "clings to the fringes of
night"; of another whose" small band, which seemed to blush at its
own naked beauties, supported her bead, embedded in tbe volumes of
her bail', like tbe fairest alabaster set in the deepest ebony"; and of
anotber whose" soft, impotent defiance flew like an angry bird, and was
transfixed on the still penetrating gaze of his e.yes."
Such are some of tbe varieties of bad English to be found in news-
papers and novels, bad English to which we are exposed, and by which
our own English will be injured unless we guard it witb tbe utmost
care. For tbe sake of our English, if for no otber reason, we should all
try to like something better than reading of this class, and should persist
in the effort until we succeed.
1861-88]
CHARLES AUGUSTUS YOUNG.
233
Q1:!Jarleø gugttøtuø !@oung.
BORN in Hanover, N. H., 1834.
SOURCE AND DURATION OF THE SOLAR HEAT.
[The Sun. 1881.]
A STRONOMERS generally, while concedmg that a portion, and pos-
sibly a considerable fraction, of the solar beat may be accounted
for by the meteoric hypothesis, are disposed to look further for their
explanation of the principal revenue of solar energy. They finù it in
the probable slow contraction of the sun's diameter, and the gradual
liquefaction and solidification of the gaseous mass. The same total
amount of heat is produced when a body moves against a resistance
which brings it to rest gradually as if it had fallen through the same
distance freely and been suddenly Rtopped. If, then. the sun does con-
tract, heat is necessarily produced by the process, and tbat in enormous
quantity, since the attracting force at the :5olar surface is more than
twenty-seven times as great as gravity at the surface of the earth, and
the contracting mass is so immense.
In this process of contraction, each particle at the surface moves
inward by an amount equal to the whole diminution of the solar radius,
while a particle below the surface moves less, and under a ùirninisbed
gravitating force; but every particle in the whole mass of the sun,
excepting only that at the exact centre of the globe, contributes some-
thing to the evolution of beat. To calculate the precise amount of heat
developed, it would be necessary to know the law of increase of the
sun's density from the surface to the centre; but Helmholtz, wbo first
suggested the hypothesis, in 1853, has shown that, under tbe most
unfavorable suppositions, a contraction in the sun's diameter of about
two hundred and fifty feet a year-a mile in a trifle over twenty-one
years-would account for its whole annual heat-emission, This con-
traction is so slow that it would be quite imperceptible to observation.
It would require nine thousand five bundred years to reduce the diam-
eter a single second of arc (since 1 second equals 450 miles at tbe sun's
distance), and notbing less would be certainly detectable.
Of course, if the contraction is more rapid than this, the mean temper-
ature of the sun must be actuall.v rising, notwithstanding tbe amount of
beat it is losing. Observation alone can determine whetber this is so or
not.
If the sun were wholly gaseous, we could assert positively that it must
be growing hotter; for it is a most curious (and at first sight paradoxi-
234
CHARLES A UG USTUS YO UNG.
[1861-88
cal) fact, first pointed out by Lane in 1870, that the temperature of a
gaseous body continually rises as it contracts from loss of heat. By
losing heat it contracts, but the heat generated by the contraction is
more than sufficient to keep the temperature from falling. A gaseous
mass losing heat by radiation must, therefore, at tbe same time grow
both smaller and hotter, until the density becomes so great that the
ordinary laws of gaseous expansion reach their limit, and condensation
into the liquid form begins. The sun seems to have arrived at this
point, if indeed it were ever wholly gaseous, which is questionable. At
any rate, so far as we can now make out, the exterior portion-the
pbotosphere-appears to be a shell of cloudy matter, precipitated from
the vapors wbich make up the principal mass, and the progressi ve con-
traction, if it is indeed a fact, must result in a continual thickening of
this she1l and the increase of the cloud-like portion of the solar mass.
This cbange from the gaseous to the liquid form must also be accom-
panied by the liberation of an enormous quantity of heat, sufficient to
materially diminish the amount of contraction needed to maintain the
solar radiation.
Of course, if this theory of the source of the solar heat is correct, it
follows that in t.ime it must come to an end; and looking backward we
see tbat there must also have been a beginning. Time was when there
was no such solar heat as now, and tbe time must come when it wi1l
cease.
'Ve ùo not know enough about the amount of solid and liquid matter
at present in the sun, or of the nature of this matter, to calculate the
future duration of the sun with great exactness, though an approximate
estimate can be made. The problem is a little complicated, even on the
simplest hypothesis of purely gaseous contraction, because as the sun
shrinks the force of gravity increases, and the amount of contraction
necessary to generate a given amount of heat becomes less and less; but
tbis difficulty is easily met by a skilful mathematician. According to
Newcomb, if the sun maintains its present radiation it win have sbrunk
to half its present diameter in about five million years at the longest.
As it must, when reduced to tbis size, be eight times as dense as now, it
can hardly then continue to be mainly gaseolls. and its temperature must
have begun to fall. Newcomb's conclusion, therefore, is that it is hardly
likely that the sun can continue to give sufficient heat to support life on
the earth (such life as we now are acquainted with, at least) for ten mil-
lion years from the present time.
It is possible to compute the past of the solar history upon this
hypothesis somewhat more definitely than the future. The present rate
of contraction being known, and the law of variation, it becomes a purely
mathematical problem to compute the dimensions of the sun at any date
1861-88]
CH
lRLES AUGUf5TUS YOUNG.
235
in tbe past, supposing its heat-radiation to have remained unchanged.
Indeed, it is not even necessary to know anything more tban tbe f'resent
amount of radiation', and the ma8S of the sun, to compute bow long the
solar fire can have been maintained, at its present intensity, by the pro,
cess of condensation. No conclusion of geometry is more certain than
tbat the contraction of the sun from a diameter even many times larger
than that of Neptune's orbit to its present dimensions, if such a contrac-
tion has actually taken place, has furnished about eighteen million times
as much heat as the sun now supplies in a year; and therefore that tbe
sun cannot have been emitting heat at the present rate for more than
that length of time, if its heat has really been generated in this manner.
If it could be shown that the sun has been shining as now, for a longer
time than that, the theory would be refuted; but if tbe hypothesis be
true, as it probably is in the main, we are inexorably shut up to the con-
clusion that the total life of the solar system, from its birth to its death,
is included in some such space of time as thirty million years. No
reasonable allowances for the fall of meteoric matter, based on what we
are now able to observe, or for the development of beat by liquefaction,
solidification, and chemical combination of dissociated vapors, could
raise it to sixty million.
At the same time, it is of course impossible to assert that there bas
been no catastrophe in the past-no collision with some wandering star,
endued, as Croll has supposed, like some of those we know of now in the
heavens, with a velocity far surpassing that to be acquired by a fall
even from infinity, producing a sbock which might in a few bours, or
moments even, restore tbe wasted energy of ages. Neither is it wholJy
safe to as
ume that there may not be ways, of which we yet have no con-
ception, by \ybich the energy apparently lost in space may be returned,
and burned-out suns and run-down systems restored; or, if not restored
themselves, be made the germs and material of new ones to replace the
old.
But the whole course and tendency of Nature, so far as science now
makes out, points backward to a beginning and forward to an end. The
present order of tbings seems to be bounded, both in the past and in
the future, by terminal catastropbes, which are veiled in clouds as yet
impenetrable.
236
CHARLES FRANCIS ADA,IIIS. JR.
[1861-88
<ltlJatleø ftatttíø gnamø, jt.
BORN in Boston, _\lass., 1835.
THE ROAD TO A LIBERAL EDUCATION.
[From" A College Petich."-Addre88 Delivered before the CÞ. B. K. of lJa1"Vard. 1883.]
I Al\I no believer in that narrow scientific and technological training
which now and again we hear extolled. A practical, and too often
a mere vulgar, money-making utility seems to be its natural outcome.
On the contrary, the whole experience and observation of my life lead
me to look with greater admiration, and an envy ever increasing, on the
broadened culture which is the true end and ai m of the U ni versity. On
this point I cannot be too explicit; for I should be sorry indeed if any-
thing I might utter were construed into an argument against the most
liberal eùucation. There is a considerable period in every man's life,
when the best thing he can do is to let his mind soak and tan in the
vats of literature. The atmosphere of a university is breathed into the
student's system,-it enters by the very pores. But just as aU roads
lead to Rome, so I hold there may be a modern road as well as the
classic avenue to the goal of a true liberal education. I object to no
man's causing his children to approach that goal by tbe old. the time-
honored entrance. On the contrary, I will admit that, for those who
travel it well, it is the best entrance. But I do ask that the modern
entrance should not be closed. Vested interests always look upon a
claim for simple recognition as a covert attack on their very existence,
and the ad vocates of an exclusively classic coHege-education are quick
to interpret a desire for modern learning as a covert attack on dead
learning. I have no wish to attack it, except in its spirit of selfish exclu-
siveness. I do chaUenge the right of the classicist to longer sa.y that
by his path, and by his path only, shall the University be approached.
I would not narrow the basis of liberal education; I would broaden it.
No longer content with classic sources, I would have tbe University
seek fresh inspiration at the fountains of living thought; for Goethe I
hold to be the equa] of Sophocles, and I prefer the philosophy of 1Ion-
taigne to what seem to me the platitudes of Cicero.
Neither, though venturing on these comparisons, have I any light or
disrespectful word to utter of the study of Latin or of Greek, much less
of the classic literatures. 'Vhile recognizing fully the benefit to be
derived from a severe training in these mother tongues, I fully appre-
ciate the pleasure those must have who enjoy an easy familiarity with the
authors who yet live in them. No one admires-I am not prepared to
1861-88]
CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS, JR.
237
admit that anyone can admire-more than I the subtile, indescribable
fineness, both of thought and diction, which a thorough classical educa-
tion gives to the scholar. :Mr. Gladstone is, as :Macaulay was, a striking
case in point. As much as anyone I note and deplore the absence of
this literary Tower-stamp in the writings and utteranc
s of many of our
own authors and public men. But its absence is not so deplorable as
that display of cheap learning which made the American oration of
thirty and fifty years ago a national humiliation. Even in its best form
it was bedizened with classic tinsel which bespoke the vanit
v of the half-
taught scholar. We no longer admire that sort of thinf!'. But among
men of my own generation I do both admire and envy those who I am
told make it a daily rule to read a little of Horner or Thucydides, of
Horace or Tacitus. I wish J could do the same; and yet I must frankly
say I should not do it if I coulù. Life after all is limited. and I belong
enough to the present to feel satisfied that I could employ that little
time each day both more enjoyably and more profitably if I should
devote it to keeping pace with modern thought, as it finds expression
even in the ephemeral pages of the despised review. Do ,,,hat he will.
no man can keep pace with that wonderful modern thought j and if
I must choose-and choose I must-I would rather learn something
daily from the living who are to perish, than daily muse with the immor-
tal dead. Yet for the purpose of my argument I do not for a moment
dispute the superiority-I am ready to say the hopeless, the unattaina-
ble superiority-of the classic masterpieces. They are sealeù books to
me, as they are to at least nineteen out of twenty of the graduates of our
colleges j and we can neither affirm nor deny that in them, and in them
alone. are to be found the choicest thoughts of the human mind and the
most perfect forms of human speech.
All that has nothing to do with the question. 'Ve are not living in
any ideal worId. "\Ve are living in this world of to-day j and it is the
business of the college to fit men for it. Does she do it? As I have
said, my own experience of thirty years ago tells me that she did not do
it then. The facts being much the same, I do not see how she can do it
now. It seems to me she starts from a radically wrong basis. It is, to
use plain language, a basis of fetich worship, in which the real and prac-
tical is systematically sacrificed to the ideal and theoretical.
To-day, whether I want to or not, I must speak from individual expe-
rience. Indeed, I have no other ground on which to stand. I am not
a scholar; I am not an educator j I am not a philosopher j but I submit
that in educational matters individual, practical experience is entitled to
some weight. Not one man in ten thousand can contribute anything to
this discussion in the way of more profound views or deeper insight. Yet
any concrete, actual experience, if it be only simply and directly toJd,
238
CHARLES FR
1NCIS .AIJA._'ffS. JR.
[1861-88
may prove a contribution of value, and that contribution we all can
bring. An average college graduate, I am here to subject the college
theories to the practical test of an experience in the tussle of life.
Recurring to tbe simile with wbich I began, the wrestler in the games
is back at tLe gymnasium. If he is to talk to any good purpo
e he must
talk of bimself, and how he fareù in tbe struggle. It is be who speaks.
I \\as fitted for college in the usual way. I went to the Latin School;
I learned tbe two grammars by heart; at lengtl) I could even puzzle out
the simpler classic writing:; with tbe aid of a lexicon, and apply more or
less correctly the rules of construction. This, and the other l'udiments
of what we are pleased to ca1l a liberal education, took f1ve years of my
time. I was fortunately fOllll of reading, an(1 so learned English myself,
and with some thoroughnc:->s. I say fortunately, for in our preparatory
curricul urn no place was found for English: being a modern language,
it was thought not worth studying-,-as our examination papers eonclu-
sively showeù. 'Ve turneù Englisb into bad enough Greek, but our
thoughts were expressed in even more abominahle English. I then
went to college,-to Harvard. I have already spoken of the standard
of instruction, so far as thoroughness was concerned. then prevailing
here. Presently I was graduated, and passed f'ome years in the study
of the law. Thus far, as you will see, ll1.v course was thoroughly cor-
rect. It was the course punmed by a large proportion of all graduates
then, and the course pursued by more than a third of them now. Then
the War of the Rebellion came, and swept me out of a lawyer's office
into a cavalry f'addle. Let me say, in passing, that I bave always felt
under deep personal obligation to tbe 'Var of the Rebel1ion. Returning
presently to civil life, and not taking kindly to my profession, I endeav-
ored to strike out a new path, and fastened myself, not, as l\Ir. Emerson
recommends, to a star, but to tbe locomotive-engine. I made for myself
what might perhaps be called a specialty in connection with tbe devel-
opment of the railroad system. I do not hesitate to say tbat I have
been incapacitated from properly developing 111,'- specialty, by the sins of
omission and commission incident to my college training. The mischief
is done, and so far as I am concerned is irreparable. I am only one
more sacrifice to the fetich. But I do not propose to be a
ilent sacri-
fice. I am here to-day to put the responsibility for my failure, so far as
I have failed, where I think it belongs,-at the door of my preparatory
and college education.
Nor ha
tl)at incapacity, and the consequent failure to which I bave
referred, been a mere thing of imagination or sentiment. On the con-
trar.', it has been not only matter-of-fact and real, but to the last degree
humiliating. I have not, in following out my Epecialty, bad at my com-
mand-nor has it been in my power, placed as I was, to acquire-the
1861-88]
JOHN JAMES PIATT.
239
ordinary tools which an educated man must have to enable him to work
to aùvantage on tbe developing problems of modern. scientific life. But
on this point I feel that I can, with few words, safely make my appeal
to the members of this Society.
:MallY of you are scientific men j others are literary men j some are
professional men. I believe, from your own personal experience, you
will bear me out when I say that, with a single exception, there is no
modern scientific study which can be thoroughly pursued in anyone
living language, even with the assistance of aU the dead languages that
mTer were spoken. The researches in the dead languages are indeed
carried on through the medium of several living languages. I have
admitted there is one exception to this rule. That exception is the law.
Lawyers alone, I believe. join with our statesmen in caring nothing for
., abroad." Except in its more elevated and theoretical branches, which
rarely find their way into the courts, the law is a purely local pursuit.
Those who follow it may grow gray in active practice, and Jet never
have occasion to consult a work in any language but their own. It is
not so with medicine or theology or science or art, in any of their numer-
ous branches, or with government. or political economy, or with any
other of the whole long list. "Titb tbe exception of law, I think I might
safely chaUenge anyone of you to name a single modern calling, either
learned or scientific, in which a worker who is unable to read and write
and speak at least German and French, does not stand at a great and
always recurring disadvantage. He is without the essential tools of his
trade.
gJolJtt j1ante
íatt.
BORN in James Mill, now
Iilton, Ind., 1835.
THE MOWER IN OHIO.
[Western 'Windows. 1869.-Poems of DOll,se and Home. 1879.-Idyls and Lyrics of the
Ohio Valley. 1888.]
THE bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay:
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man's breath to-day.
The bees and I are alone in the grass: the air is so very still
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.
Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds I cannot hear-
That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty ear:
240
JOHN JAMES PIATT.
L1861-88
The chime of striking scythes, the fall of the heavy swaths they sweep-
They ring about me, resting, when I waver half asleep;
So still, I am not sure if a cloud, low down, unseen there be,
Or if something brings a rumor home of the cannon so far from me:
.
Far away in Virginia, where Joseph and Grant, I know,
Will tcll them what I meant when first I had my mowers go!
Joseph, he is my eldest one, the only boy of my three
'Vhosc shadow can darken my door again, and lighten my heart for me.
Joseph, he is my eldest-how his scythe was striking ahead!
'Villiam was better at shorter heats, but Jo ill the long-run led.
William, he was my youngest; John, between thcm I somehow see,
When my eyes are shut, with a little board at his head in Tennessee.
But 'William came home one morning carly, from Gettysburg, last July,
(The mowing was over already, although the only mower was I):
William, my captain, came home for good to his mother; and I'll be bound
We were proud and cried to see the flag that wrapt his coffin around;
For a cOlnpany from the town came up ten miles with music and gun:
It seemed his country claimed him then-as well as his mother-her son.
But Joseph. is yonder with Grant to-day, a thousand miles or near,
And only the bees are abroad at work with me in the clover here.
Was it a murmur of thunder I heard that hummed again in the air?
Yet., may be, the cannon are sounding now their Onward to Richmond there.
But under the beech by the orchard, at noon, I sat an hour it would seem-
It may be I slept a minute, too, or wavered into a dream.
For I saw my boys, across the field, hy the flashes as they went,
Tramping a steady tramp as of old, with the strength ill their arms unspent;
Tramping a steady tramp, they moved like soldiers that march to the beat
Of music that seems, a part of themselves, to rise and fall with their feet;
Tramping a steady tramp, they came with flashes of silver that shone,
Every step, from their scythes that rang as if they needed the stone-
(The field is wide and heavy with grass)-aml, coming toward me, they
beamed
With a shine of light in thcil. faces at once, and-surely I must have dreamed!
For I sat alone in the clover-field, the bees werc working ahead.
There were three in my vision-remember, old man: and what if Joseph were
dead!
18(jl-ts
]
JOHN JA
JIES PIA TT.
But I hope that he and Grant (the flag above them both, to boot),
Will go into Richmond together, no matter which is ahead or afoot!
)Ieantime, alone at the mowing here-an old man somewhat gray-
I must stay at home as long as I can, making myself the hay.
Aml so another round-the quail in the orcharrl whistles blithe;-
But first I'll drink at the spring helow, and whet again my scythe.
June, 11'jG4.
THE :\IORNING STREET.
ALONE I walk the morning street,
Filled with the silence vague and sweet:
All seems as strange, as still, as dead,
As if unnumbered years had fled,
Letting the noisy Babel lie
Breathless and dumb against the sky.
The light wind walks with me, alone
Where the hot day, flame-like, was blown;
Where the wheels roared, the dust waH beat:-
The dew is in the morning street.
Where are the restle!'s throngs that pour
Along this mighty corridor
\Vhile the noon shines ?-the hurrying crowd
'Vhose footsteps make the city loud?-
The myriad faces, hearts that beat
No more iu the deserted street?
Those footsteps, in their dreaming maze,
('ross thresholds of forgotten days;
Those faces brighten from t.he years
In rising Suns long set in tears;
Those hearts-far in the Past they beat,
Uuhearll within the morning street.
Some city of the world's gray prime,
Lost in some desert far from Time,
'Vhere noiseless ages, gliding through,
Have only sifted sand and dew,-
Yet a mysterious hand of man
Lying on all the hauntec1 plan,
The passions of the hnman heart
Quickening t.he marhlt' hreast of Art.-
Were not more strange. to one who first
Upon its ghostly silence hurst,
Than this vast quiet, where the tide
Of Life, upheaved on either side.
VOL. 1X.-t6
241
...
242
JOHN JAJIES PIATT.
[1861-88
Hangs trembling, ready soon to bent
'Vitl1 human waves the morning street,
Ay, soon the glowing morning flood
Breaks through the charm
d solitude:
This silent stone, to music won,
Shall murmur to the risiug sun;
The busy plnce, in dust and heat,
Shall roar with wheels and !'warm with feet;-
The
\rachne-thre:Hls of Purpose stream,
Lnsecn, within the morning gleam;
The life shall move, the death he plain;
The bridal throng, the funeral train,
Together, face to face, shall meet
And pas:" within the morning street.
A LOST G RA VEY ARD.
N EAR by, a soundless road is seen, o'ergrown with grass and brier;
Far off, the higll'way's signaltlies-a hurrying dust of fire.
But here among forgotten graves, in June's delicious hreath,
I liuger where the living loved to dream of lovely death.
Worn letters, lit with heavenward thought, these crumbled headstones wear;
Fresh flowers (old epitaphs of Love) are fragrant here and there.
.
Years, years ago, these graves were made-no mourners come to-day:
Their footsteps vanished, one by one, moving the other way.
Through the loud 'worM they walk, or lie-like those here left at rest-
With two long-folded useless arms on each forgotten breast.
APART.
A T sea are to!'sing ships;
On shore are dreaming shells,
And the waiting heart ana the loving lips,
Blossoms and bridal bells.
At sea are sails agleam;
On shore are longing eyes.
And the far horizon's haunting dream
Of ships that sail the skies.
1861-88J
JOHN JAJIES PIATT.
At sea arc mnsts that rise
Like spectrcs from the deep;
On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries
That cross the waves of sleep.
At sea are wrecks astrand;
On shore fire shells that moan,
Old anchors buried in barren sand,
Sea-mist and dreams alone.
IÆA YES AT l\lY WINDOW.
I WATCH the leaves that fluttcr in the wind.
Bathing my eyes with coolness and my heart
Filling with springs of grateful sense finew,
Before my window-in the sun and min,
And now the wind is gone amI now the rain,
And all a motionless moment hrpathe, and now
Playful the wind comes hack-again the shower,
Again the sunshine! Like a golden swarm
Of Imttcrflies the lcaves arc fluttering,
The lea,.cs are dancing, singing-all aliye
(For Fancy gives her breath to e'"ery leaf)
For the hlithc moment. llt'antiful to 1111:'.
Of all inanimate things most beautiful,
.And dear as flowers thcir kinlheLl, are the leaves
In all their summer life; and, when a child.
I loveil to lie through sunny afternoons
With half-shut eyc
(familiar eyes with things
Long unfamiliar, knowing Fairyland
And all the unhid(lcn mJ steries of the Earth)
Using my kinship ill thosc earlier days
.With "Kature and the humhler peoplc, (lear
To her green life, ill every shade 0.1\(1 sun.
The leaves had myriail voices, and their joy
One with the hirds' that sang Hmong them seemed;
And, oftcntimes, I lay i II breezy shade
Till, cret'ping with the loving stealth he takes
In healthy tpmpcranH'nts, the hlcssèd Sleep
(Thrice-blessèd and thrice-hlessing now, because
Of sleepless things that will not give us rest)
Came with his weird processions-dreams that wore
All happy mask:,;-blithe fairies numberless.
Foreyer passing, never more to pass,
The Spirits of the Lcavcs. .\".aking then,
Behold the sun was swimming in my face
Through mists of hi:,; creations, swarming gold,
243
244
JOHN JAMES PIATT.
And all the leaves in sultry languor lay
Above me, for I wakened w hen they droppe(l
Asleep, unmoving. Now, when Time has ceased
His holiday, and I am prisoned close
In his harsh service, mastered by his Hours,
The leaves have not forgotten me: behold.
They play with me like children who, awake,
Find one most dear asleep and waken him
To their own gladness from his sultry dream;
But nothing sweeter do they give to me
Than thoughts of one who, far away, perchance
Watches like me the leaves and thinks of me
'Vhile o'er her window, sunnily the shower
Touches all boughs to music, and the rose
Beneath swings lovingly toward the pane,
And she, whom Nature gave t1w freshest sense
For all her delicate life, rejoices in
The joy of birds that use the sun to sing
'Vith breasts o'erfull of music. "Little Birds,"
She sings, "Sing to my little Bird below! "
And with her child-like fancy, half-belief,
She hears them sing and makes-believe they obey,
And the child, wakening, listens motionless.
THE GRAVE OF ROSE.
I CAME to find her blithe and bright,
Breathing the household full of hloom,
Wreathing the fireside with delight;-
I found her in her tomb!
I came to find her gathering flowers-
Their fragrant souls, so pure and dear,
Haunting her face in lonely hours;-
Her single flower is here!
For, look: the gentle name that shows
Her love, her loveliness, and bloom
(Her only epitaph a rose),
Is growing on her tomb!
[1861-88
1861-88]
PHILLIPS BROOl{S.
245
THE CHILD IN THE STREET.
FOR A BOOK OF TWO.
EVEN as tender parents lovingly
Send a dear child in some true servant's care
Forth on the street, for larger light and air,
Feeling the sun her guardian will be,
And dreaming with a blushful pIide that she
Will earn sweet smiles and glances everywhere,
From loving faces, and that passers fair
Will bend, and hless, and kiss her, when they see,
And ask her name, and if her home is near,
And think, ., 0 gentle child, how blessed are they
'Vhose twofold love bears up a single flower! "
And so with softer musing move away:
We se!)d thee forth, 0 Book, thy little hour-
The world may pardon us to hold thee dear.
1Jíllíp
16rooft
.
Boux in Boston, Mass., 183.'),
THE :\n
ISTRY FOR OUR AGE.
[Lectures on Preaching. DelÚ.t'red before the Divinity Scllool of Yale Oollege. 1877.]
\TTE ministers cannot help noting with interest among the symptoms
V\ of our time the way in which the preacher himself is regarded.
To remark the changed attitude which the people gel1eralIy hold towards
ministers is the mo
t familiar commonplace; to mourn m"er it as a sign
of decadence in the religious spirit is the habit of some people. But the
reasons of it are plain enough and have been often pointed out. The
preacher is no longer tbe manifest superior of other men in wit and
wi
dom. That deference which was once paid to the minister's office,
upon the reasonable presumption that the man who occupied it was
better educated, more ]arge in his ideas. a better reasoner, a more trust-
worthy guide in all the various affair:-3 of life than other men, if it were
paid sti1I would either be the perpetuation of an old habit, or would be
paid to the office purely for itself without an.y presumption at all about
the man. This latter could not be long possible; no dignity of office
can secure men's respect for itself continuously unless it can show a
worthy character in those who IJold it. I am glad that the mere forms
246
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
[1861-88
of reverence for the preacher's office have so far pas
ed away. I am not
making a virtue of necessity. I rejoice at it. Nothing could be worse
for us than for men to keep telling us by deferential forms that we are
the wisest of men when their shelves are full of books with far wiser
words in them than the best that we can preach j or that we are the
most eloquent of men when there are better orators by the score on
e\Tery side; or that we are the best of men when we know of sainthoods
among the most obscure souls before which we stand ashamed. No
manly man is sati::;fied with any ex-officio estimate of his character.
Whether it makes him better or worse than he is, he cares nothing for
it. And gO the nearer that ministers come to heing judged like other
men just for what they are, the more they ought to rejoice, the more I
think they do rejoice. But what then? Is the minister.s sacred office
nothing? Does not his truth gain authority and his example urgency
from the position where he stands? Indeed they do. It seems to me
that the best privilege which can be giyen to any man is a position
which shall stimulate him to his best and which shan make bis best
most effective. And that is just what is gi\Ten to the minister. An
official position which should substitute some other power for the best
powers of the man himself, and should make him seem effective beyond
his real force, would be an injury to him and ultimately would be recog-
nized as an empty sham itself. I quarrel with no man for his conscien-
tious belief about the high and separate commission of the Christian
ministry. I only quarrel with the man who, resting !'.atisfied with what
he holds to be his high commission is not ea
er to match it with a
high character. The more you think yourself different from other men
because you are a minister, the more try to he different from other
men by being more fully what all men ought to be. That is a High
Churchmanship of which we cannot have too much.
I hold then that the Christian ministry lIaS gtill in men's esteem an
that is essentially valuable, and all that it is reany good for it to have.
It has a place of utterance more powerful and f:acred than any other in
the world. Then comes the question, 'Vhat has it to utter? The pedes-
tal is still there. l\Ien will not gather a bout it as they once did perhaps,
without regard to the statue that stands upon it. But if a trul.v good
statue stands there the world can see it as it could if it stood nowhere
else.
There are two great faults of the ministry which come, one of them
from ignorin
, the other from rebelling against, this change in the atti-
tude of the minister and the people towards each other. The first is
the perpetual assertion of the minister.s authority for the truth which he
teaches. To claim that men should believe what we teach them because
we teach it to them and not becam;:e tlH'Y see it to be true is to assume a
1861-88]
PHILLIPS BROOKS.
247
place which God does not give us and men will not acknowledge for us.
)lanya Christian minister needs to be sent back to him whom we call
the heathen Socrates. to read these noble words in the Phædo-which
whole dialogue, by tbe wa:r, is itseH no unworthy pattern of the best
qualities of preaching. " You, if you take my advice, will think little
about Socrates, but a great deal about Truth."
And the other fault is the constant desire to make people hear us who
seem determined to forget us. This is the fault of the sensational preach-
ing. A large part of what is called sensational preaching is simpl:r the
effort of a man who has no faith in his office or in the essential power of
truth to keep himself before people's eyes by some kind of intellectual
fantasticalness. It is a pursuit of brightness and vivacity of thought for
its own sake, which seems to come from a certain almost desperate deter-
mination of the sensational minister that he will not be forgotten. I
think there is a great deal of nervous uneasiness of mind which shows a
shaken confidence in one's position. It struggles for cleverness. It lives
by making points. It is fatal to that justice of thought which alone in
the long run commands confidence and carries weight. The man who is
always trying to attract attention and be brilliant counts the mere sober
effort after absolute truth and justice dull. It is more tempting to be
clever and unjust than to be serious and just. Every preacher has con-
stantly to make his choice which he will be. It does not belong to men,
like angels, to be "ever bright and fair" together. And the anxious
desire for glitter is one of the signs of the dislodgement of tbe clerical
position in our time.
There is a possible life of great nobleness and usefulness for the
preacher who, frankly recognizing and cordially accepting the attitude
towards his office which he finds on the world's part. vreaches truth and
duty on their own intrinsic aüthùrity, and wins personal power and
influence because he does not seek them, but seeks the prevalence of
righteousnes:; and tbe salvation of men's souls.
248
LOUiSE CHAKDLER .JIOULTON.
lLouíør Q:1)annlcr jTloulton.
BORN in Pomfret, Conn., 1835.
A PAINTED FAN.
[Poems. 1878.]
R OSES and butterflies snared on a fan,
All that is left of a summer gone by;
Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun,
And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!
By what subtle spell did you lure them here,
Fixing a beauty that will not change;
Roses whose petals never will fall,
Bright, swift wings that never will range?
Had you owned but the skill to snare as well
The swift-winged hours that came and went,
To prison the words that in music died,
And fix with a spell the heart's content,
Then had you been of magicians the chief;
And loved and lovers should bless your art,
If you could but have painted the soul of the thing,-
Not the rose alone, hut the rose's heart!
Flown are those days with their winged delights,
As the odor is gone from the SUllllllcr rose;
Yet still, whenever I wave my fan,
The soft, south wind of memory blows.
THE HOUSE OF DEATH.
N OT a hand has lifted the latcllf't
Since she went out of the door,-
No footstep shall cross the threshold,
Since she can come in no more.
There is rust upon locks nnd hinges,
And mould and hlight on the walls,
And silence faints in the cham hers,
And darkness wait, in the halIs,-
Wnits as all things have waited
Since she went, that day of spring-,
Borne in her pallid splendor,
To dwell in the Court of the King:
[1861-88
1861-88]
LOUISE CHA1ÇDLER .JIOULTON.
249
With lilies on brow and bosom,
'Vith robes of silken sheen,
And her wonderful frozeu beauty
The lilies aud /Silk uetwcen.
Red roses she left behind her,
But they died long, long ago,-
'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom
That seemed through the dusk to glow.
The garments she left mock the shadows
With hints of womanly grace,
And her image swims in the mirror
That was so used to her face.
The birds make insolent music
'Vhere the sunshine riots outside;
And the win(ls are merry and wanton.
With the summer's pomp and priùe.
But into this desolate mansion,
Where Love has closed the door,
Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,
Since she can come in no more.
WE LAY "LS DOWN TO SLEEP.
'"'\ '{TE lay us down to sleep,
\ \ An<lleave to God the rest.
,nlCther to wake and weep
Or wake no more be best.
1Vhy '-cx our souls with care?
The grave is cool alHI low,-
Have we found life so fair
That we should dread to go ?
'Ve've kissed love's sweet, red lips,
And left them swect Hnd red:
The rose the wilù bee sips
Blooms on when he is dearl.
Some faithful frieHlls we've found,
But they who love us best,
'Vhen we are undcr ground,
'Villlaugh on with the rest.
No ta
k h:n"c we hegun
But other hands can take:
No work beneath the sun
For which we need to wake.
250
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
[1861-88
Then hold us fast, sweet Death,
If so it secmeth best
To Him who gave us breath
That we should go to rest.
'Ve lay us down to sleep,
Our weary eyes we close:
'Vhether to wake and weep
Or wake no more, He knows.
TO KIGHT.
B END low, 0 tlusky Night,
And give my spirit rest.
Hold me to your deep breast,
And put old cares to flight.
Give back the lost delight
That once my soul possest,
'Vhen Love was loveliest.
Bend low, 0 dusky Night!
Ellfohl me in your arms-
The sole embrace I crave
rntH the embracing grave
Shield me from life's alarms.
I dare your subt1('st charms;
Your deepest spell I brave.
0, strong to sla
or save,
Enfold me in your arms!
THE LONDON CABBY.
[Random Rambles. 1881.]
S HALL I ever forget my first solitary experience of tbe tender mer-
k.. cies of a London cabby? I had been there two weeks, perhaps, and
had been driven here and there in friendly company j but at last I was
to venture forth alone. It was a Sunday afternoon,-a lovely J llne day,
which should have produced a melting mood even in tbe hard heart of
a cabby. I had been bidden to an informal five o'clock tea at the house
of a certain poet in a certain quiet "roacl" among the many" roads"
of Kensington. An American friend put me sadly hut hopefully into a
hansom. I asked him bow much I was to pay, and was told eighteen-
pence. I always ask tbis question by way of precaution j but I have
1861-88J
LOUISE CHANDLER .JfOULTON.
251
found since that there is usually a sad discrepancy of opinion between
my friend at the beginning and my driver at the end of the route; how-
ever, I bad not learned this fact at that early epoch.
"Eighteenpence;' said my friend. ., I think you'll be an right; but
if there's any trouble, you know, JOu must ask for his number, and I'll
have him up for you to-morrow."
I thought he was pretty well" up" already. Indeed the upness, if I
may coin a word, of the driver is tbe most extraordinary thing about a
hansom.
I heard my friend announce the street and number of my destination,
and the sweet little cherub that sat up aloft make reply:
"The lady knows where she's a-goin', don't she?" and then we drove
away. To me the drive did not seem long. As I have said, it was a
day in June:
" Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky."
I could not see much of the sky, however, but I caught, when I
strained my eyes upward, glimpses of a great, deep, blue dome, with
white clouds drifting across it now and then, like the wings of gigantic
birds. As we got a little out of the thick of tbe town, the sweet breath
of roses from garùens in bloom filled the air; in the gentle breeze the
tree-boughs waved lazily; there was everywhere a brooding warmth
and peace, which, I pleased my democratic heart by tbinking that cabby
must also enjoy. 'Vas he not grateful to me, I wondered, for taking
him a little off his accustomed track into these pleasant paths? Sud-
denly my revery wm
hroken by his voice. He had opened the trap in
the roof, and was calling down to me from his perch:
"vVhicb 0' them turns, ma'am?"
I had never been in Kensington before. I looked on in front, and
down the cross-street at each side. Instinct failed me; I had not even a
conjecture to hazard. I answered mildly:
"'Vh.v, I don't know, I'm sure."
"Oh, you don't know, don't you? Wen, then, I'm sure I don't. Tbe
gentleman said as you knew where you was a-goin', or I wouldn't a'
took you."
Then I spoke severely. rrhe dignity of a freeborn American asserted
itself. I said:
" I am not driving this cab. I wish to go to 163 Blank Road. but it
is Dot my business to find the way. You can ask the first policeman
vou see."
v But tbe peace of the.J une afternoon was over. It seemed to me that
the very hansom moved sullenly. We kept bringing up with a jerk at
52
LOUISE CHANDLER IfIO
TLTON.
[1861-88
some eorner, while cabby shouted out his inquiry, and then we went
on again. At last we reached Blank Road. I saw the name on a street-
sign, and soon we drew up before 163. I extracted eighteenrence from
my purse, and handed it with sweet serenity to my chariotecr 'V ords
fail me to describe the contempt upon his expressive countenance. He
turned the mone.y over in his hand and lookea at it, as a naturalist
might at a curious in
ect. At length he demanded, in a tone which
implied great self-control on his part:
"'YiII you ten me wbat this 'cre money is fur?"
" It is your fare," I said, with a smile which should have melted his
heart, but didn't.
" ,My fare, is it?" and his voice rose to a wild shriek. "11y fare, is
it? And you take me away, on a Sunday afternoon, from a beat where
I was gettin' a dozen fares an hour, and bring me to this God-forsaken
place, and then offer me one-and-sixpence! l\ly fare! I ought to 'ave a
crown; and a 'alf a crown is the very least as I'll take."
I took out another silver shining, and handed it to him; but I felt
that I had tbe dignity of an American to maintain. I remembered what
my friend had told me, and I said loftil,v :
t. And now I will take your number, if you please."
"Yes, I'll give you my number. Oh, }.es, you shall 'aye my number
and welcome!" and he tore off from somewhere a sort of tin plate with
figures on it. I had bef'n accustomed to the printed slip which every
French cocher hands you without asking; and it occurred to me that
thiH metal card was rather clumsy,
nd tbat if he carried many such
about him the.v must somewhat weigh down his pockets; but I knew
that England was a country where they believell in making things solid
and durable, and I supposed it was quite natural that cabbies should
pres
nt theil' passengers with metal numbers instead of paper ones; so,
holding the thing gingerly in my hand, I marched tranquilly up the
steps of my friend's house.
I have seen in Italy and elsewhere various pictures of the descent of
the fallen and condemne\l, but I think even Michael Angelo might have
caught a new inspiration from the descent of my cabby. He plunged-
I can think of no other word-down from his height, tore the badge
from my trembling fin
ers, and shook his hard and brawny fist within
the eighth of an inch of my tip-tilted nose.
"'Ow dare you," he screamed, .. 'ow dare you be makin' off with illY
hadge? I'll 'ave YO'll up, hif you don't mind your beye."
And, indeeJ, I thought my eye very likely to need minding. But
he mounted his perch again, badge in hand, and poured out impreca-
tions like a flood, while I pulled franticly at bell and knocker. When
at last I was in my friend's drawing-room, I told my troublou:::; tale.
1861-88]
LO rISE CHAXDLER ]ÚO ULl'O_V.
253
"Oh, I hope you have his number," said my host.
"No, he took it away, as I'm telling you."
"Oh, but don't you remember it ? You should have taken it down
with a penciL"
Then I discovered what my mistake had been.
I have never, since that first ad venture with the London cabb,y,
encountered anytLiug quite so formidable and terrifying; but I still
feel that the London Jehu is a being to be dreaded. My second expe-
rience of him was to drive under his auspices to a dinner-party. I gave
him eighteenpence for a distance which I bave since learned only enti-
tled him to a shilling. He was a very polite cabman, quite the politest
cabman I have ever seen. He regarded his one-and-sixpence with a
gentle smile, a little tingell with melancholy. Then he toucbed his bat
and said most respectfuny :
"I begs your pardon, but I thinks bas you don't know the di
t::mces.
No lady has did know would give me less than two shiHings:'
J gave him another sixpence. I should have done so en
n if I had
known better, his courtesy was so begui1ing. He thanked me sweetly;
then he sai(l :
., About what time would my lady be going 'orne? 1 f I'm hin this
neigh borhood I'n come for you."
I told him that I did not know; but he waR evi(lently better- informed
than I was, for at about eleven o'clock a servant came to me and told
me that tbe cabman who brought me was waiting for me; so I submitted
to destiny and went home under his banner.
Since then I lmve made the acquaintance of an sorts of cabmen. One
of my latest adyentures was with one who had committed the slight
but panlonable error of mistaking whiskey for beer, and so was rather
inclined to darken knowledge with want of understanding. It 'was a
four-wheeler which he drove, and he was certainly agile of limb and
anxious to do his duty, for at least once in every five minutes he pre-
sented himself at my window and asked in a most ingratiating manner
if I would tell him just where I wanted to go. I suppose I told him
some twenty times or more before we arrived at our not distant destina-
tion. Faithful to the last, he dismounted again and rang the ben; but
this final politeness had nenrly proved too much for him, for he fell his
length in coming down the steps. He picked himself up, however, and
jauntily handed me from his chariot, took the fare I gave him with
thanks, and parted from me on the kindest terms.
I have often woncIere(1 whether, if J had had the honor to have been
born in London, my experience of cabby would have been just the same,
or whether, even to Lis often b]earel1 but perhaps not undi
crimi
ating
eyes, it is evident that I am a foreigner.
254
LOUISE CHAXDLER :JIOULTON.
AFAR.
""{'"{THERE thou art not, no day holds light for me:
\' V The brightest noontide turns to midnight (leep,
'Vhere no bird sings, anù awsome shadows creep,
Persistent ghosts that hold my memory
And walk where Joy and Hope once walked with thel',
And in thy place their lonesome vigil keep,-
Sad ghosts that haunt the inmost ways of sleep,-
Ghosts whom no kindly morning makes to flee.
Their tireless footsteps never more will cease,-
Like crownless queens they tread their ancient ways,
These phantoms of old dreams and vanished days,
And mock my poor elHlefivors after peace.
Too long this arctic night, too keen its cold,-
Come back, strong sun, anll warm me fiS of old.
IN TIl\IE TO COl\IE.
THE time will come, full soon, I shall be gone,
And you sit silent in the silent place,
'Vith the sad .Autumn sunlight on YOU!' face:
Remembering the loves that were your own,
Haunted, perchance, by some fnmiliar tone,-
You will grow weary then for the dead days,
\nd mindful of their sweet and hitter ways,
Though passion into memory shall have grown.
Then shall I with your other ghosts draw nigh,
And whisper, as I pass, some former word,
Some old endearment known in days gone by,
Some tenderness that once yOlll' pulses stirred,-
'Vhich was it spoke to you, the wind or 1,
I think you, musing, scarcely will have heard.
[1861-88
1861-88]
MOSES GOIT TYLER.
255
jtlo
C
Q:oí t i[ r lct.
BORN in Griswold, Conn., 18.;5.
THE COLO
IAL AMERICAN LITERATURE.
[A History of American Literature.- Vols. I., II. 1879.]
OCR FIRST LITERARY PERIOD.
T HE present race of Americans wbo are of English lineage-that
is, the most numerous and decidedly the dominant portion of the
American people of to-day-are tbe direct de8cendants of tbe crowds of
Englishmen who came to America in the seyenteenth century. Our first
literary period, therefore, fills the larger part of that century in which
American civilization had its planting; even as its training into :--ome
maturity and power bas been the business of the eighteenth and the
nineteenth centuries. Of course, also, tbe most of the men who produced
American literature during that period were immigrant authors of Eng-
lish birth and English cu1ture; while the most of those who bave pro-
duced American literature in tbe subsequent periods have been authors
of American birtb and of American culture. Notwithstanding their
English birth, these first writers in America were Americans: we may
not exclude them from our story of American literature. Tbey founded
that literature; they are its Father8: they f:tamped their spiritual linea-
ments upon it; and we shall never deeply enter into the meanings of
American literature in its latcr forms without tracing it back, affection-
ately, to its beginning with them. At tbe same time, our :first literary
epoch cannot fail to bear traces of tbe fact that nearly all the men who
made it were Englisbmen who had become Americans merely by remov-
ing to America. American life, indeed, at once reacted upon their
minds, and began to give its tone and hue to tbeir words; and for every
reason, what they wrote here, we rightfully claim as a part of American
literature; but England has a right to claim it likewi
e as a part of
English literature. Indeed England and America are joint proprietors
of this first tract of the great literary territory which wc hm-e under-
taken to survey. Ought anyone to wonder, however, if in the Ameri-
can literature of the seventeenth century he shall find the distinctiye
traits, good and bad, which during the same period characterized Eng-
lisb literature? How ('ould it be otherwise? Is it likely that an Enf!-
lishman undergoes a literary revolution by sitting down to write in
America instead of in England; or that he win write either much better
or much worse only for having sailed across a thousand leagues of brine?
256
.JfOSES COIT TYLER.
[1861-88
Undoubtedly literature for its own 8ake was not much thought of, or
Ii ved for, in those days. The men and women of force were putting
their force into the strong and most urgent tasks pertaining to this world
and the next. There was an abundance of intellectual vitality among
them; and the nation grew
"strong thru shifts. an' wants, an' pains,
:Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains."
Literature as a fine art, literature as tbe voice and the mistress of
æsthetic delight, they had perhaps little skill in and little regard for;
but literature as an instrument of humane and immediate utility, they
honored, and at this they wrought with all the earnestness tbat was
born in their blood. They wrote books not because they cared to write
books, but because by writing books they could accomplish certain
other things which they did care for.
And what were those other things? If we can discover them we shall
at once grasp the clue to the right classification and the right interpre-
tation of that still chaotic heap of writings which make up American
literature in the colonial age.
The several groups of writings sprang in considerable meas-
ure from motives looking toward the love, or the interest, or tbe authoritJ
of the people of England, from whom those earliest Americans had but
recently withdrawn themselves. These groups of writings, however, by
no means constitute a moiety of American ]iterature even in our first
period. I By far the larger portion -()f our writings were composed for
our own people alone, an(] with reference to our own interests, inspira-
tions, and needs. These include, first, sermons and other religious
treatises; second, histories; and third, poetry and some examples of
miscellaneous prose.
Since the earliest English colonists up
n these shores began to make
a literature as soon as they arrived here, it follows that we can fix the
exact date of the birth o[ American literature. It is that year 1607,
when Englishmen, by transplanting themselves to America, first began
to be Americans. Thus may the history of our literature be traced back
from the present hour, as it recedes along tbe track of our national life,
through the early days of the republic. through five gener'ations of colo-
nial existence, until, in the first decade of the Reventeenth century, it is
merged in its splendid parentage--the written speech of England. And
the birtb-epoch of American literature was a fortunate one: it was amid.
the full magnificence of tbe Elizabethan period, whose creative vitality,
whose superh fruitage reached forward and cast their glol'.v across the
entire generation succeeding the death of Elizaheth herself. The first lisp-
ing8 of American literature were heard along the sands of the Chesapeake
1861-88]
JIOSES OOIT TYLER.
257
and near the gurgling tides of the James River, at the very time when
the firmament of English literature was all ablaze with the light of her
full-orbed and most wonderful writers, the wits. the dramatists, scholars,
orators, singers, philosophers, who formed that incomparable group of
titanic men gathered in London during the earlier years of the seven-
teenth century; when tbe very air of London must have been electric
with the daily words of those immortals, whose casual talk upon the
pavement by the street-side was a coinage of speech richer, more virile,
more expressive, than bas been knoVill OIl tbis planet since tbe great
days of Athenian poetry, eloquence, and mirth.
THE NEW ENGLAND ""RITERS.
Did tbe people of New England in tbeir earliest age begin to produce
a literature? 'Vho can doubt it? With their incessant activity of
brain, with so much both of common and of uncommon culture among
them, with intellectual interests so lofty and strong, with so many out-
ward occasions to stir their deepest passions into the same great cur-
rents, it would be hard to explain it had they indeed produced no liter-
ature. :Moreover, contrary to what is commonly asserted of them, they
were not without a literary class. In as large a proportion to the whole
population as was then the case in the mother-country, there were in
:N ew England many men trained to the use of books. accllstomed to
express themselves :fluently by voice and pen, and not so immersed in
the physical tasks of life as to be depri,-ed of the leisure for whatever
writing they were prompted to undertake. It was a literary class made
up of men of affairs, country-gentlemen, teachers, above an of clergy-
men; men of letters who did not depend upon letters for their bread,
and who thus did their work under conditions of intellectual inde-
pendence. Nor is it true that all the environments of their lives were
unfriendly to 1iterary action; indeed for a certain class of minds those
environments were extremely wholesome and stimulating. There were
about them many of the tokens and forces of a picturesque, romantic,
and impressive life: the infinite solitudes of the wilderness, its mystery,
its peace; the near presence of nature. vast, potent, unassailed; the
strange problems presented to them by savage character and savage
Jife; their own escape from great cities. from crowds, from mean com-
petitions; the luxury of having room enough; the delight of being free;
the urgent interest of all the Protestant world in their undertaking; the
hopes of humanity already looking thither: the coming to them of schol-
ars, saints, statesmen, philosophers. .Many of these factors in the early
colonial times are such as cannot be reached by statistics, and are apt to
be lost by those who merely grope on the surface of history. If our
VOL. lX,-17
258
MOSES COIT TYLER.
[1861-88
antiquarians have generally missed this view, it may reassure us to know
that our greatest literary artists have not failed to see it. " New Eng-
land," as Hawthorne believed, "was then in a state incomparably more
picturesque than at present, or than it has been witbin the memory of
man." That, indeed. was the beginning of "the old colonial day" wÌÜch
Longfellow has pictured to us,
" \Vhen men liveil in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality."
For the study of literature, tbey turned with eagerness to the ancient
classics j read them freely; quoted them with apt facility. Though
their new borne was but a province, their minds were not pro\-incial:
they had so stalwart and chaste a faith in the ideas which brouf!Lt tbem
to America as to think that wherever those ideas were put into practice,
there was the metropolis. In tbe public expref:
iOll of thought they
limited themselves by restraints whicb, though then prevalent in aU
parts of tbe civilized world. now seem shameful and intolerable: the
printing-press in New England during tbe seventeenth century was in
chains. The fÌrst instrument of the craft and myster.y of printing was
set up at Cambridge in 1639, under the aUf:pices of Harvard CoIlege j
and for the subsequent twenty-three years the president of that ColIege
was in effect responsible for the good behavior of the telTible machine.
His control of it did not prove sufficiently vigilant. The fears of the
clergy were excited by the lenity tbat had permitted the e
cape into the
wodd of certain books which tendes;] "to open the door of heres'y" j
therefore, in 1662 two official licensers were appointed, without wbose
consent notbing was to be printed. Even this did not make the wodd
seem safe; and two years afterward the law was made n
ore stringent.
Other licensers were appointed j excepting the one at Cambridge no
printing-press was to be allowed in the colony j and if from the printing-
press that was a1Jowed, anything should be printed without the permis-
f:ion of the licensers. the peccant engine was to be forfeited to the
government and the printer himself was to be forbidden the exercise of
Lis profession" within this jurisdiction for the time to come." But even
the new licensers were not seyere enough. In IG67, having lem'ned that
tbese officers bad p:iven tlJeir consent to tlle publication of .. The Imita-
tion of Christ," a book written" by a popish minister, wherein is con-
tained some things that are less safe to be infused amongst tlle people of
this place," the authorities rlirectetl that tbe book should hc rpturnerl to
the licen
ers for" a more full revisal," and that in tIJe mean time the
printing-presR slwl1ld sta nd f-:tilL In tbe leading colony of X e\v Eng-
land legal restraints upon printing were not entirely removed until about
twenty-one years before the Declaration of I nclependence.
18 1 31-88]
MOSES COIl' TYLER.
259
The chief literary disadvantages of New England were, that her writers
lived far from the great repositories of books, and far from the central
currents of the world's best thinking; that the lines of their own literary
acti,-ity were few; and that, though theX nourished their minds upon
the Hebrew Scriptures and upon the classics of the Roman and Greek
literatures, they stood aloof, with a sort of horror, from the richest and
1ll0Bt exhilarating types of classic writing in their own tongue. In
many ways their literary development was stunted and stiffened by the
narrowness of Puritanism. Nevertheless, what they lacked in symmetry
of culture and in range of literary movement, was something which the
very integrit}- of their nature8 was sure to compel them, either in them-
selves or in their posterity, to acquire. For the people of Kew England
it must be said that in stock, spiritual and physical, tbey were well
started j and tbat of such a race, unùer such opportunities, almost any-
thing great and bright may be predicted. 'Vitbin their souls at that
time the æsthetic sense was crushed down and almost trampled out by
the fell tyranny of their creed. But the æsthetic sense was still within
them; and in pure and wholesome natures such as theirs, itf' emergence
was only a matter of normal growth. They wbo ha\Te their eyes fixed
in adoration upon the beanty of holiness are not far from the sight of
all beauty. It is not permitted to us to doubt that in music, in paint-
ing, arcbitecture, sculpture, poetry, prose, the highest art will be reacbed,
in some epoch of its growth. by the robust and versatiJe race sprung from
those practical idealists of the seventeenth century-those impassioned
seekers after the invisible truth and beauty amI goodness. Even in
their times, as we shall presently see, SOllie sparkles and prophecies of
the destined splendor coulll not help breaking forth.
PRE.H'HINrr IN NEW F.XrrLAXD.
In his theme, in his audience, in the appointments of each sacred
occasion, the preacher had everything to stimulate him to put into his
sermons his utmost intellectual force. The entire community were pres- \
ent, constituting a congregation hardly to be eq ual1ell now for its high
average (If critical intelligence: trained to acute and rugged thinking
by their habit of grappling day by day with the most difficult problems
in theology; fonf} of subtile metaphysical distinctions; fond of system,
minuteness, and completeness of treatment; not bringing to church any
moods of listlessness or flippancy; not expecting to find there mental
diversion, or mental repose; but going there with their minds arouged
for strenuous and robuf't work, and demanding from the preacher solid
thought, not gushes of
entiment, not torrents of eloquent 8011m1. Then,
too, there was time enough for the prencher to move upon Lis subject
260
MOSES COIT TrLER.
[1861-88
careful1y, and to turn himself about in it, and to develop the resources
of it amply, to his mind's content, hour by hour, in perfect assurance
that his congregation would not desert him either by going out or by
going to sleep. :Moreover, if a single discourse, even on the vast scale
of a Puritan pulpit-performance, were 110t enough to enable him to give
fuB statement to his topic, he was at liberty, according to a favorite
usage in those days, to resume and continue the topic week by week,
and month by month, in orderly sequence; thus, after the manner of a
professor of theology. traversing with minute care and triumphant com-
pleteness tbe several great realms of his science. If the methods of the
preacher resembled those of a theological professor, it may be added that
his congregation likewise had the appearance of an assemblage of theo-
logical students; since it was customary for nearly everyone to bring
his note-book to church, and to write in it diligently as much of the
sermon as he could take down. They had no newspapers, no theatres,
no miscellaneous lectures, no entertainments of secular music or of secu-
lar oratory, none of the genial distractions of our modern life: the place
of all these was filled by tbe sermon. The sermon was without a com-
petitor in the eye or mind of the community. It was the central and
commanding incident in their lives; the one stately spectacle for all men
and all women year after year; the grandest matter of antici pation or of
memory; the theme for hot disputes on which all New England would
take sides, and which would seem sometimes to shake the world to its
centre. Thus were the preachers held to a high standard of intellectual
work. llardly anything was lacking that could incite a strong man to
do his best continually, to the end of his days; and into the function of
preaching, the supreme function at that time in popular homage and
influence, the strongest men were drawn. Their pastorships were usually
for life; and no man could long satisfy such listeners, or fail soon to
talk himself empty in their presence, who did not toil mightily in read-
ing and in tbinking, pouring ideas into his mind even faster than he
poured them out of it.
Without doubt, the sermons produced in New England during the
colonial times, and especially during the seventeenth century, are the
most authentic and characteristic revelations of the mind of New Eng-
land for an that wonderful epoch. They are commonly spoken of
mirthful1y by an age that lacks the faith of that period, its earnestness,
its grip, its mental robustness; a grinning and a flabby age, an age
hating effort, and requiring to be amused. The theological and relig-
ious writings of early New England may not now be readable; but they
are certainly not despicable. They represent an enormous amount of
subtile, sustained, and sturdy brain-power. They are, of course, grave,
dry, abstruse, dreadful; to our debilitated attentions they are hard to
1861-88]
MOSES eOIT TYLER.
261
follow; in style they are often uncouth and ponderous; they are tech-
nical in the extreme; they are devoted to a theology that yet lingers in
the memory of mankind only through certain shells of words long since
emptied of their original meaning. Nevertheless, these writings are
monuments of vast learning, and of a stupendous intellectual energy
both in tbe men who produced them and in the men wbo listened to
them. Of course they can never be recalled to any vital human interest.
They have long since done tbeir work in moving tbe minds of men.
Few of tbem can be cited as literature. In the mass, they can only be
labelled by the antiquarians and laid away upon shelves to be looked at
occasionally as curiosities of verbal expression, and as relics of an intel-
lectual condition gone forever. They were conceived by noble minds;
they are themselves noble. They are superior to our jests. vVe may
deride them, if we win j but they are not derided.
POETRY AND P
RITAXIS
I.
A happy surprise awaits tbose who come to the study of tbe early
literature of New England with tbe expectation of finding it altogether
arid in sentiment, or void of the spirit and aroma of poetry. The N ew-
Englander of the seventeenth century was indeed a typical Puritan j and
it will hardly be said that any typical Puritan of that century was a
poetical personage. In proportion to his devotion to the ideas that won
for him the derisive honor of his name, was he at war with nearly every
form of the beautiful. He himself believed tbat tbere was an inappeas-
able feud between religion and art; and bence, tbe duty of
uppressing
art was bound np in hi
soul with the master-purpose of promoting
religion. He cultivated the grim and the ugl:y. He was afraid of the
approaches of Satan through tbe avenues of wbat is graceful and joyous.
The principal busine
s of men and women in this world seemed to him
to be not to make it as delightful as possible, but to get through it as
safely as possible. By a wbimsical and horrid freak of unconscious
fanichæi
m. he thought that whatever is good here is appropriated to
God. and whatever is pleasant, to the devil. It is not strange if he were
inclined to measure the holiness of a man's life by its disagreeableness.
In tùe logic and fury of bis tremendous faith, he turned away utterly
from music. from sculpture and painting, from architecture, from the
adornments of costume, from tbe pleasures and embeUisbments of society;
because tbese tbings seemed only" the devil's fiippery and seàuction"
to his "ascetic soul, aglow with the gloomy or rapturous mysteries of
his theology." Hence, very naturally, he turned away likewise from
certain great and splendid types of literature,-from the drama, from
the playful and sensuous verse of Chaucer and his innumerable sons,
262
-,-YOSES GOIT TYLER.
[1861-88
from the secular prose writings of his contemporaries, and from all forms
of modern lyric verse except the Calvinistic hymn.
Nevertheless, the Puritan did not succeed in eradicating poetry from
his nature. Of course, poetry was planted there too deep even for his
theological grub-hooks to root it out. Though denied expression in one
way, the poetry that was in him forced itself into utterance in another.
If his theology drove poetry out of many forms in which it had been
used to reside, poetry itself practised a noble revenge by taking up its
abode in his tbeology. His supreme thought was given to theology;
and there he nourished his imagination with the mightiest and sublimest
conceptions that a human being can entertain-conceptions of God and
man, of angels and devils. of Providence and duty and destiny, of
heaven, earth, hell. Though he stamped his foot in honor and scorn
upon many exquisite anù delicious types of literary art; stripped society
of aU its embellishments, life of all its amenities, sacred architecture of
all its grandeur, the public service of divine \,"orship of the hallowed
pomp, the pathos and beauty of its most reverend and stately forms;
though his prayers were often a snuffle, his hymns a dolorous whine,
his extemporized liturgy a bleak ritual of ungainly postures and of
harsh monotonous howls; yet the idea that filled and thrilled his soul
was one in every way sublime, immense, imaginative, poetic-the idea
of the awful omnipotent Jehovah, his inexorable justice, his holiness,
the inconceivable brightness of his majesty, the vastness of his unchang-
ing designs along the entire range of his relations with the hierarchies
of heaven, the principalities and powers of the pit, and the elect and
the reprobate of the sons of Adam. How resplendent and superb was
the poetry that lay at the heart of Puritanism, was seen by tbe sight-
less eyes of John Milton, whose great epic is indeed the epic of Puritan-
Ism.
Turning to Puritanism as it existed in New England, we may perhaps
imagine it as solemnly declining the visits of the Muses of poetry, send-
ing out to them the Llunt but honest message-" Otherwise engaged."
Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course, Thalia, and :Mel-
pomene, and Terpsichore could not under any pretence Lave been admit-
ted j but Polyhymnia-why should not she bave been allowed to come
in? especially if sbe were wil1ing to forsake her deplm'able sisters. give
up bel' pagan habits, and
ubmit to Christian baptism. Indeed, the
:Muse of New England, whosoever that respectable damsel may have
been, was a muse by no means exclusive; such as she was, she cordially
visited everyone who \yould receive her,-and everyone would receive
her. It is an extraordinary fact about these grave and substantial men
of New England, especially during our earliest literary age, that they all
had a lurking propensity to write what they sincerely believed to be
1861-88]
MOSES COlT TYLER.
263
poetry,-and this, in most cases, in unconscious defiance of the edicts of
nature and of a predetermining Proviùence. Lady Mary
[ontagu said
that in England, in her time, verse-making had become as common as
taking snuff: in New England, in the age before that, it IJad become
much more common tban taking snuff-since there were some who did
not take snuff. It is impressive to note, as we inspect our first period,
that neither advanced age, nor high office, nor mental unfitness, nor pre-
vious condition of respectability, was sufficient to protect anyone from
the poetic vice. 'Ye read of venerable men, like Peter Bulkley, con-
tinuing to lapse into it when far beyond the grand climacteric. Gov-
ernor Thomas Dudley was hardly a man to be suspected of such a
thing; yet e\"en against bim the evidence mUf't be pronounced conclu-
sive: some verses in his own handwriting were found upon his person
after his death. Even the sage and serious governor of Plymouth wrote
ostensible poems. The renowned pulpit-orator, John Cotton, did the
same; although, in some instances, he prudently concealed the fact by
inscribing his English verses in Greek characters upon the blank leaves
of his almanac. Here and there, even a town-clerk, placing on record
the deeply prosaic proceedings of the selectmen, would adorn them in
the sacred costume of poetry. Perhaps. indeed, an this was their soli-
tary condescension to human frailty. The earthly element, the passion,
the carnal taint, the vanity, the weariness, or whatever else it be that, in
other men, works itself off in a pleasure-journey, in a flirtation, in going
to tbe play, or in a convivial bout, did in these venerable men exhaust
itself in the sly dissipation of writing verses. Remembering their
unfriendly attitude toward art in general, this universal mania of theirs
for some forms of the poetic art-this unrestrained proclivity toward the
"lust of versification "-mu:::;t seem to us an odd psychological freak.
Or, shall we rather say that it was not a freak at all, but a normal effort
of nature, which, being unduly repressed in one direction, is accustomed
to burst over all barriers in another; and that these grim and godly
personages in the old times fen into the intemperance of rhyming, just
as in later days, excellent ministers of the gospel and gray-haired dea-
cons, recoiling from the sin and
candal of a game at bilIiards, have been
known to manifest an inordinate joy in the orthodox frivolity of cro-
quet? As respects the poetry which was perpetrated by om' ancestors,
it must be mentione(l that a benignant Providence has its own methods
of protecting tIle human family from intolerable misfortune; and that
the most of this poetry has perisbe.1. Enough, however, has survived
to furni
h us with materials for everlasting gratitude, by enabling us in
a measure to realize the nature and extent of the calamity which the
divine intervention has spared us.
264
MOSES GOIT TYLER.
[1861-88
COTTON 'lATHER.
In the intellectual distinction of the :Mather family, 'there seemed to
be, for at least three generations, a certain cumulative felicity. The
general acknowledgment of this fact is recorded in an old epitaph, com-
posed for the founder of the illustrious tri be :
"Under this stone lies Richard l\lather,
Who had a son greater than his father,
And eke a grandson greater than either."
This overtopping grandson was, of course, none other than Cotton
Mather, the literary behemoth of New England in our colonial era; the
man whose fame as a writer surpasses, in later times and especially in
foreign countries, that of any other pre-Revolutionary American, except-
ing Jonathan Edwards and Benjamin Franklin.
The twelfth of February, 1663, was the happy day on which he was
bestowed upon the world,-the eldest of a family of ten children, his
mother being the only daughter of the celebrated pulpit-orator, John
Cotton. In himself, therefore, the forces and graces of two ancestral
lines renowned for force anJ for grace seemed to meet and culminate.
From his earliest childhood, and through all his days, he was gazed
at and belauded by his immediate associates, as a being of almost super-
natural genius, and of quite indescribable godliness, That his nature
early became saturated with self-consciousness, and that he grew to be a
vast literary and religious coxcomb, is a thing not likely to astonish any
one who duly considers, first, the strong original aptitude of the man in
that direction, and, secondly, the manner of his mortal life from the
cradle to the grave,-the idol of a distinguished family, the prodigy both
of school and of college, the oracle of a rich parish, tbe pet and demi-
god of an endless series of sewing-societies.
It may be said of Cotton Mather, that he was born with an enormous
memor
r, an enormous appetite for every species of knowledge, an enor-
mous zeal and power for work, an enormous passion for praise. At his
birth, also, he came into a household of books and of students. The
first breath he drew was air charged with erudition. His toys and his
playmates were books. The dialect of his childhood was the ponderous
phraseology of philosophers and divines. To be a scholar was a part of
the family inberitance. At eleven years of age he was a freshman in
Harvard College; having, however, before tbat time, read Homer and
Isocrates, and many unusual Latin authors, and having likewise entered
upon the congenial employment of exhorting his juvenile friends to lives
of godliness, and even of writing" poems of devotion" for their pri vate
use. At fifteen, on taking his first degree, he hall the pleasure of hear-
1861-88]
MOSES COIl' TYLER.
265
ing the president of the college address to him, by name, in the presence
of the great throng at commencement, a glowing compliment,-admira-
bly constructed to ripen in this precocious and decidedly priggish young
gentleman his already well-developed sense of his own importance. At
eighteen, on taking his second degree, he delivered a learned and per-
suasive thesis, on "the divine origin of the Hebrew points."
One year before the event last mentioned, he began to preach. Being
oppressed by a grievous habit of :stammering, he was on the point of
abandoning the ministry for the medical profession, when "that good
old school-master, :Mr. Codet," told him tbat be could cure himself of
his trouble, if he would but remember always to speak" with a dilated
deliberation." He adopted tbe suggestion, and was cured. At the age
of twenty-two, he was made an associate of his father in the pastorship
of North Church, Boston. There, in the pauseless prosecution of almost
incredible labors, literary, philanthropic, oratorical, and social, he con-
tinued to the end of his days on earth. He departed this life in 1728,
having been permitted to contemplate, for many years and with immense
delight, the progress of his own fame, as it reverberated through Chris-
tendom.
Upon the whole, the picture of Cotton Mather, given to us in his own
writings, and in the writings of tbose who knew him and loved him,
is one of surpassing painfulness. We see a person whose intellectual
endowments were quite remarkable. but inflated and perverted by ego-
tism; himself imposed upon by his own moral affectations; completely
surrendered to spiritual artifice j stretched, every instant of his life, on
the rack of ostentatious exertion, intellectual and religious, and an this
partly for vanity's sake, partly for conscience' sake-in deference to a
dreadful system of ascetic and pharisaic formalism, in which his nature
was hopelessly enmeshed.
At the age of sixteen, be had drawn up for bimself systems of all
the sciences. Besides the ancient languages, Hebrew, Latin, Greek,
which he used with facility. he knew French, Spanish, and even one of
the Indian tongues, and prided himself on having composed and pub-
lished works in most of them. It was bis ambition to be acquainted
with all branches of knowledge, with all spheres of thought; to get
sight of all books. His library was the largest private collection on the
American continent. They who caned upon him in his stud)
were
instructed by this legend written in capitals above the door: ., Be
Short." He had no time to waste. He was always at work. They
who beheld him marvelled at his power of dispatching most books at a
glance, and yet of possessing all that was in them. "IIe would ride
post through an author." "He pencilled as be went along, and at the
end reduced the substance to bis commonplaces, to be reviewed at lei-
266
_1fOSES COIT TYLER.
[1861-88
sure; and all this with wonderful celerity.'. The results of all his om-
nivorous readings were at perfect command; his talk oyerflowed with
learning and wit: "he seemed to bave an inexhaustible source of divine
flame and vigor. How instructi \-e. learned, pious. and engaging
was he in his private converse; superior company for the greatest of
men. How agreeably tempered with a \yarious mixture of wit
and cheerfulnes
." The readers of hls books may. indeed. infer from
them something of his splendid powers of intellect; but they cannot
"imagine that extraordinary lustre of pious and useful literature wbere-
with we were every day entertained, surprised, and satisfied, who dwelt
in the directer rays, in tbe more immediate \-ision." The people in dailr
association with him were, indeed, constantly amazed at "the capacity
of his mind, the readiness of his wit, the vastness of his reading, the
strength of his memory, the tenor of a most entertaining and
profitable conversation."
On his death-bed. he gave to his son, Samuel, this final charge:
"Remember only tbat one word-' Fructuosus.' " It seemed the hered-
itarv motto of the :Mathers. Be himself could have uttered no word
mo;e descriptive of the passion and achievement of his own life. There
is a chronological list of the publications made in .America during the
colonial time; and it is swo]Jen and overlaid by the name of Cotton
:Mather, and by the polyglot and arduous titles of his books. We are
told that in a single year, besides doing all his work as minister of a
great metropolitan parish, and besides keeping sixty fasts and twenty
vigils, he published fourteen books. The whole number of his sepa-
rate writings published during his lifetime exceeds three hundred and
eighty-three. No wonder that his contemporaries took note of such
fecundity. One of them exclaimed:
" Is the blest ::.\Iather necromancer turned Y ..
Another one declared:
" Play is his toil, and work his recreation."
The most famous book produced by him,-the most famous book,
likewisp. produced by any American during the colonial time,-is one
to which. in these pages, we have often gone for curious spoils: ")Iag-
nalia Christi Americana i or, The Ecclesiastical History of New Eng-
land, from its first planting, in the year 1620, unto the year of onr Lord
1698."
Upon tbe whole, as an historian, he was unequal to his high oppor-
tunity. The" :\1:agnalia" has great merits; it has, also, fatal defects.
In its mighty cbaos of fables and blunders and misrepresentations, are
of course lodged many single facts of the utmost value, personal remi-
1861-88]
.1l0SES COIT TYLER.
267
niscences, social gossip, snatches of conversation, touche
of description,
traits of character and life, that can be found nowhere else, and that belp
us to paint for ourselves some living picture of the great men and the
great days of early New England; yet herein, also, history anù fiction are
so jumbled and shuffled together, that it is ne\Ter possible to tell, with-
out other help than tbe author's, just where the fiction ends and the his-
tory begins. On no disputed question of fact is the unaided testimony
of Cotton }'father of much weight; and it is probably true, as a very
acute though very unfriendly modern critic of his has declared, tbat he
has" published more errors of carelessness than any other writer on the
history of New England."'
Thongh the fame of the .. Magnalia " over
hadows that of all the other
writings produced by its allthor, it was the book of a young man-if,
indeed, we are permitted to snppose that Cotton
father ever was a
young man. Of the books he wrote after that, and especially in his
later years, several are more readable, and perhap::; also more valuable,
tban the work on which his literary renown principally rests.
The true place of Cotton }'father in our literary history is indicated
when we say that he was in prose writing exactly what Nicbol:ls Noyes
was in poetry,-tbe last, the mo:-:t vigorous, and, therefore, the most dis-
agreeable representative of the Fãntastic school in literature; and that,
like Nicholas Noyes, he prolonged in New England the metbods of tbat
school even after his most cultivated contemporaries there had outgrown
them and h3.d come to dislike them. The expulsion of the beautiful
from thought, from sentiment, from language; a lawless and a merciless
fury for tbe odd, the disorderly. tbe grotesque, the violent; strained
analogies. nnexpected images, pedantries, indelicacies, freaks of allusion,
monstrositi('s of phrase :-these are the traits of Cotton .Mather's writing,
even as they are the traits common to that per\
erf'e and detestable lite-
rary mood that held sway in different countries of Christendom during
the sixteenth and seventeenth C'enturies. Its birth place was Italy ; New
England was its grave; Cotton
rather was its last great apostle.
His writings, in fact, are an immense re
ervoir of examples in Fantas-
tic prose. Their most salient characteri
tic is peclantr,v,-a pedantry
that is gip.-antic, stark. untempered. rejoicing in itself, nnconscions of
shame, filling all space in his books like an atmosphere. The mind of
Cotton .:\father was so posse8se(1 by the books he had read that his most
common thought had to force its way into uttemnce through dense
hedges and jungles of quotation. Not only ever.v senter-wc, but nearly
every clause, pivots itself on some learned allusion; and Ly inveterate
habit he had come to consider all subject
not directly, but in their
reflections and echoes in books. It is quite evident, too, that, just as
the poet often shapes his idea to his rhymes and is helped to an idea by
268
MOSES COIT TYLER.
[1861-88
his rhyme, so Mather's mind acquired the knack of steering his thought
so as to take in his quotation, from which in turn, perhaps, he reaped
another thought.
That his manner of writing outlived the liking of his contemporaries,
especially his later contemporaries, is plain. The best of them,--Jere-
miah Dummer, Benjamin Colman, John Barnard,
lather Byles, Charles
Chauncy, Jonathan Maybew,-rejected his style, and formed themselves,
instead, upon the temperate and tasteful prose that had already come
into use in England j while, even by his most devoted admirers, the
vices of his literary expression were acknowledged. Thomas Prince,
for example, gently said of him: '" In his style he was something singu-
lar, and not so agreeable to the gust of tbe age." Even his own son,
Samuel Mather, regretted his fault of "straining for far-fetched and dear-
bought hints."
But Cotton :Mather had not formed his style by accident, nor was he
without a philosophy to justify it. In early life he described his com-
positions as ornamented ., by the multiplied references to other and
former concerns, closely couched, for tbe observation of the attentive, in
almost every paragraph"; and declared that this was "the best way of
writing." _'i.nd in his old age, nettled by the many sarcastic criticisms
that were made upon his style by presumptuous persons even in his own
city, he resumed the subject; and in a simple and trenchant passage, of
real worth not only for itself but for its bearing upon tbe literary spirit
of the period, he proudly defended his own literary manner, and even
retorted criticism upon the literary manner of his assailants.
EARLY COLOSIAL ISOLATION.
This notable fact of the isolation of each colony or of each small
group of colonies reflects itself both in tbe form and in the spirit of our
early literature, giving to each colony or to each group its own literary
accent.
The Englisb language that prevailed in an the colonies was, of course,
the English language that had been brought from England in the seven-
teenth century; but, according to a well-established linguistic law. it
had at once suffered here an arrest of development, remaining for some
time in the stage in which it was at the period of the emigration j and
whcn it began to alter, it altered more slowly than it bad done, in the
mean time, in the mother-country, ana it altered in a different direction.
Indeed, even in the nineteenth century, "the speech of the American
English is archaic with respect to that of tLe British English," its pecu-
liarities consisting, in the main, of "seventeenth century survivals as
modified by environment."
1861-88]
..Jf08ES COIT TYLER.
269
:Moreover, just as environment led to many modifications of the Eng-
lish language as between the several colonies ancl the mother-country. so
did it lead to many modifications of the English language as between
the several colonies themselves; and by the year 1752 it was possible
for Benjamin Franklin to say that every colony had ., some peculiar
expressions, familiar to its own people, but strange and unintelligible to
others. ,.
But the separate literary accent of each colony was derived, also, from
dissimilarities cleeper than tho
e relating to verbal forms and verbal
combinations. namely, dissimilarities in personal character. Thus, the
literature of the Churchmen and Oavaliers of Virginia differed from the
literature of the Calvinists and Roundheads of New England, just as
their natures differed: the former being merry, sparkling, with a sensual
anù a worldly vein, having some echoes from the lyric poets and the
dramatists of the se\'enteenth century, and from the wits of the time of
Queen Anne; the latter, sad, devout, theological, analytic, with a con-
stant effort toward the austerities of tbe spirit, looking joylessly upon
this material world as upon a sphere blighted by sin, giving back plain-
tive re\'erberations from the diction of the Bible, of the sermon-writers,
and of the makers of grim and sorrowful verse. Between these two
extremcs- Virginia and New England-there lay the middle regions of
spiritual and literary compromise. New York and Pennsyh'ania; and
there the gravity and immobility of the Dutch Presbyterians, the prim-
ness, the Iiteralness, the art-scorning mysticism of the Pennsylvania
Quakers, were soon tempered and diversified by an infusion of personal
influences that were strongly stimulating and expanding,-many of
them being, indeed, free-minded, light-hearted, aml moved by a con-
scious attraction toward the catholic and the beautifu1. In general, the
characteristic note of American literature in the colonial time is, for
New England, scholarly, logical, speculative, unworldly, rugged, som-
bre; and as one passes southward along the coast, across other spiritual
zones, this literary note changes rapidly toward liglltness anù bright-
ness, until it reaches the sensuous mirth, the frank and jovial worldli-
ness, the satire, the persiflage, the gentlemanly grace, the amenity, the
jocular coarseness. of literature in
Iaryland, Yirginia, and the farther
south.
On the other hand, the fact must not be overlooked that, while the
tendency toward colonial isolation had its way, throughout the entire
colonial age, there was also an opposite tendency-a tendency toward
colonial fellowship-that asserted itself even from the :first, and yet at
the first faintly, but afterward with steadily increasing power as time
went on; until at last, in 1765, aided by a fortunate blunder in tbe
statesmanship of England, this telldency became suddenly dominant,
270
MOSES COlT TYLER.
[1861-88
and led to that united and great national ]ife, without which a united
and great national literature here would have been forever impossible.
This august fact of fellowship between the several English populations
in America,-a fellowship maintained and even strengthened after the
original occasion of it had ceased,-has perhaps saved the English lan-
guage in America from finally breaking up into a multitude of mutually
repellent dialects; it has certainly saved American literature from the
pettiness of permanent local distinctions, from :fitfulness in its develop-
ment, and from disheartening limitations in its audience.
Of the causes that were at work during our colonial age to produce
and strengthen this benign tendency towar<1 colonial fellowship, and to
ripen it for the illustrious opportunity that came in the year 17K>, sev-
eral belong especially to the domain of general histor
r; and it will be
enouFfh for our present purposes merely to name them here. First, it is
evident that, between the English residents in America, blood told; for,
whatever partisan distinctions, religious or political, separated the primi-
tive colonists on their departure from England and d nring their earlier
years here, these distinctions, after a while, grew dim, especially under
the consciousness that they who cherished them werE', after all, mem-
bers of the same great English family, and that the contrasts between
themselves were far less than the contrasts between themsehres and all
other persons on this side of the At1antic,-Frenchmen, Spaniards, and
Indians. Secondly. there were certain religious sympathies that led to
intercolonial acquaintance,-Churchmen in one colony reaching out the
hand of brotherhood to Churchmen i
another colony. Quakers ill Penn-
sylvania greeting QLlakers in New Jersey or Rhode Island. the Congre-
gational Calvinists of Ne\y England reciprocating kind words with the
Presbyterian Cahrinists of the middle colonies and the south. Thirdly,
in the Ülterchange of commodities between the several colonies, com-
merce played its usual part as a missionary of genial acqua
ntance and
coöperation. Fourthly, there were in all the colonies certain proùlems
common to all, growing out of their relation to the supreme authority of
England; and the method of dealing with these problems in anyone
colony was of interest to all the other::::. Final1y, all were aware of a
common peril from the American am bition of France, and from the say-
age allies of France on this continent.
Besides these general causes leading toward colonial union,-kinship,
religion, commerce, dependence upon the same sovereign, peril from the
same enemies,-tbere were th ree other causes tbat may be described as
purely intellectual-the rise of journalism, the founding of colleges, and
the study of pbysical science.
In spite of all these influences working toward colonial fellowship, the
prevailing fact in American life, down to the year 1765, was colonial
1861-88]
HARRIET PRESCOTT 6POFF'ORD.
271
isolation. 'Vith that year came the immense event that suddenly swept
nearly an minds in the several colonies into the same great current of
absorbing thought, and that held them there for nearly twenty years.
From the date of tbat event, we cease to concern ourselves with an
American literature in the east or the south, in this colony or in that.
Henceforward American literature flows in one great common stream,
and not in petty rilJs of geograpbical discrimination.
arríet
reø'ott
poffortJ.
BORN in Calais, Me., 1835.
o SOFT SPRING AIRS!
[Poems. 18S2.]
C O)IE up, come up, 0 soft spring airs,
Come from your silver shining seas,
Where all day long you toss the wave
Aùout the low and palm-plumed keys!
Forsake the spicy lemon groves,
The balms and blisses of the South,
And blow across the longing land
The breath of your delicious mouth.
Come from the almoll(l bough you stir,
The myrtle thicket where you sigh;
Oh, leave the nightingale, for here
The robin whistles far and nigh!
For here the violet in the wood
Thrills with the fulness you shall take,
And wrapped away from life and love
The wild rose dreams, and fain wouhl wake.
For here in reed and rush and grass,
And tiptoe in the dusk and dew,
Each sod of the brown earth aspires
To meet the sun, the sun and you.
Then come, 0 fresh spring airs, once more
Create the old delightful things,
Allli woo the frozen \Vorla again
,nth hints of heaven upon your wings!
272
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
:MAGDALEN.
IF any woman of us all,
If any woman of the street,
Before t.he Lord should pause and fall,
And with her long hair wipe his feet;
He, whom with yearning hearts we love,
And fain would see with human eyes
Around our living pathway move,
And underneath our daily skies;
The Maker of the heavens and earth,
The Lord of life, the Lord of death,
In whom the universe had birth
But breathing of our breath one breath!-
If any woman of the street
Should kneel, and with the lifted mesh
Of her long tresses wipe his feet,
And with her kisses kiss their flcsh,-
How round that woman would we throng!
How willingly would clasp her hands,
Fresh from that touch divine, and long
To gather up the twice-blest strands!
How eagerly with her would change
Our trivial innocence, nor heed
Her shameful memol1ies and strange,
Could we hut also claim that deed!
A SIGH.
IT was nothing but a rose I gave her,-
Nothing hut a rose
Any wind might rob of half its savor,
Any wind that blows.
When she took it from my trembling fingers
'With a hand as chill,-
Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers,
Stays, anù thrills them stiU!
'Vithered. faded, pressed between the pages,
Crumpled fold on fold,-
Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
Cannot make it old!
[1861-88
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1861-81:>]
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
73
CIRCUMSTANCE.
['[he Amber Gods, and Other Stories. 1863.]
S IlE had remained, during all that day, with a sick neighbor,-those
eastern wilds of Maine in that epoch frequently making neighbors
and miles s}Tnonymous,-and so busy had she been with care and sym
pathy that she did not at first observe the approaching nigbt. But
finally the leyel rays. reddening tbe snow. threw their gleam upon the
wall, and, hastily donning cloak and hood, she bade her friends farewell
and sallied forth on her return. Home lay some three miles distant,
across a copse, a meadow, and a piece of woods,-the woods being a
fringe on the skirts of the great forests that stretch far away into the
North. That home was one of a dozen log houses lying a few furlongs
apart from each other, with their half-cleared demesnes separating them
at the rear from a wilderness untrodden save by stealthy native or deaùly
panther tribes.
She was in a nowise exalted frame of spirit,-on the contrary, rather
depressed by the pain she had witnessed and the fatigue she had endtuecl;
but in certain temperaments such a condition throws open the mental
pores, so to speak, and renders one receptive of e\'ery influence. Through
the little copse she walked slowly, with her cloak folded about her,
lingering to imbibe the sense of shelter, tbe sunset filtered in purple
tbrough the mist of woven spray and twig, tbe companionship of growth
not sufficiently dense to band against her, the sweet home-feeling of a
you ng and tender wintry wood. It was therefore JURt on the edge of the
evening that ::;he emerged from the place and began to cross the meadow-
land. At one hand lay the forest to which her p'lth wound; at the other
the evening star hung over a tide of failing orange that slowly slipped
down to the earth's broad side to sadden other hemispheres with sweet
regret. 'Valking rapidly now, and with her eyes wide open, she distinctly
saw in the air before her what was not there a moment ago, a winding-
sbeet,-cold, white, and ghastly, waved by the likeness of four wan
bancls,-that rose with a long inflation. and fe1l in rigit1 folds, while a
voice, shaping itself from the hollowness above. spectral and melancholy.
sighed: "The Lord have mercy on the people I The Lord ha \Te merc.v
on the people! ,. Three times the sheet with its corpse-covering ontline
waved beneath tbe pale hands, and the voice, awful in its solemn and
. mysterious depth, sighed: ., The Lord have mercy on the people!"
Then an was gone, the place was clen,r again, the gray sky was ob-
structed by no deathly blot; she looked about her, shook her shoulders
decidedly, and, pulling on her hood, went forward once more.
She might have been a little frightened by such an apparition, if she
VOL. Ix.-18
2ï-!
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
[18ßl-88
llad led a life of less reality than frontier settlers are apt to lead; but
dealing with hard fact does not engender a flimsy habit of mind, and
this woman was too sincere and earnest in her character, and too happy
in her situation, to be thrown b., antagonism, merely, upon superstitious
fancies and chimeras of the second-sight. She did not even believe her-
self subject to an hallucination. but smiled simply, a little ,'exed that
her thought could have framed
uch a glamour from the day's occur-
rences, and not sorry to lift the hough of the warder of the woods and
enter and disappear in their somhre path. If she had been imaginative.
she would have hesitated at her fir
t step into a region whose dangers
were not visionary; but I suppo
e that the thought of a 1ittle child at
home would conquer that propensity in tbe most hahituated. So, biting
a bit of spicy birch, she went along. :Now and then she came to a gap
where the trees had been partially felled, and here she found that the
lingering twilight was eXplained by tbat peculiar and perhaps electric
film .which sometimes sheathes the sky in diffused light for many hours
hefore a brilJiant aurora. Suddenly, a swift shadow, like the fabulous
flying-dragon, writhed through the air before her, and she felt herself
instantly seized and borne aloft. It was tbat wild beast-the most
sa\rage and serpentine and subtle and fearless of our latitudes-known
by hunters as the Indian De,'il, Dnd he held her in his clutches on the
broad floor of a swinging fir-bough. ilis long sharp claws were caught
in bel' clothing; he worried them sagaciously a little, tben, finding that
ineffectual to free them, he commenced licking her bare arms with his
rasping tongue and pouring over her the wide streams of his hot, fetid
breatb. So quick had this flashing action been that tbe woman had had
DO time fOl' alarm; moreover. she was not of the screaming kind: but
now, as she felt him endeavoring to disentangle his claws, and the horrid
sense of her fate smote her, and she saw instinctively the fierce plunge
of those weapons, the long strips of living flesh torn from her bones, the
agony, the quivering disgust, itself a worse agony,-whi1e by her side,
and holding her in his great lithe embrace, the monster crouched, his
wbite tusks whetting and gnashing, bis eyes glaring tbrough an the
darkness like balls of reù fìre,-a shriek, that rang in every forest hol-
low, that startled every winter-housed thing, that stirred and woke the
least needle of tbe tasselled pines, tore tbrougb her lips. A moment
afterward, the beast left the arm, once white. now crimson, anJ looked
up alertly.
She did not think at this instant to can upon God. She callerl upon
ber husband. It seemed to her that she had but one friend in the
world; tbat was 11e: and again the cry. loud. clear. prolonged, echoed
through the woods. It was not the shriek that disturbed the creature
at his relish; he was not born in the woods to be scared of an owl, you
1861-88]
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
275
know; wbat then? It must bave been the echo, most musical, most
resonant, repeated and yet repeated, dying with long sighs of sweet
sound, vibrated from rock to river and back again from deptb to depth
of cave and cliff. ller thought flew after it; she knew that, even if bel'
husband heard it, he yet ('ould not reach her in time; sbe saw that
wbile the beast listened he would not gnaw,-ancl tbis she felt directly,
when the rough, sharp, and multiplied stings of his tongue retoucbed
her arm. Again bel' lips opened by instinct, but the sound that issued
thence came by reason. She bad beard tbat music cbarmed wild
beasts,-just this point between life and death intensified ever}T faculty,
-and wben she opened her lips the third time, it was not for sbrieking,
but for singing.
A. little thread of melody stole out, a rill of tremulous motion; it was
the cradle-song with which she rocked her baby;-bow could she sing
that? And then she remembered the baby sleeping rosily on the long
settee before the fire,-the father c1eaning his gun, with one foot on the
green wooden rundle,-tbe merry light from the chimney dancing out
and tbrough the room, on the rafters of the ceiling with their tassels of
onions and herbs, on tbe log walls painted witb lichens and festooned
with apples, on the king's-arm slung across the shelf with tbe old pirate's-
cutlass, on the snow-pile of tbe bed, and on tbe great brass clock,-
dancing, too, and lingering on tbe baby, with bis fringed-gentian eyes,
bis chubby fists clinched on tbe pillow, and his nne breezy hair fanning
with the motion of bis father's foot. AU this struck bel' in one, and
made a sob of her breath, and sbe ceased.
Immediately the long red tongue thrust fortb again. Before it
touched, a song sprang to Iter lips, a wild sea-song, such as some sailor
might be singing far out on trackless blue water that night, the shrouds
wbistling with frost and the sheets glued in ice,-a song with the wind
in its burden and tbe spray in its cborus. The monster raised his bead
and flared the fiery eyeballs upon her, then fretted the imprisoned claws
a moment and was quiet; only the breath like the vapor from some hell-
pit still swathed ber. Her voice, at first faint and fearful, gradually lost
its q navel', grew under her control and subject to ber modulation; it rose
on long swel1s, it fell in subtile ca(lences, now and then its tones pealed
out like bells from distant belfries on fresh sonorous mornings. She
ung
the song through, and, wondering lest his name of Indian De\-il were not
his true name, and if he would not detect bel', sbe repeated it. Once or
twice now, indeed, the bea
t stirred uneasily, turned, and made the bough
sway at his movement. As she ended, be snapped his jaws together,
and tore away the fettered member, curling it under him with a snarl,-
when she burst into the gayest reel that ever answered a fiddle-bow.
How many a time she llad heard Ler busband play it on the homely
276
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
[1861-88
fiddle made by bimself from birch and cherry wood! how many a time
sbe bad seen it danced on tbe floor of their one room, to tbe patter of
wooden clogs and tbe rustle of bomespun petticoat! bow many a time
she bad danced it herself I-and did she not remember once, as they
joined clasps for eight-bands round, how it had lent its gay, brigbt
measure to her life? And here sbe was singing it alone, in the forest,
at midnight, to a wild beast! As she sent her voice trilling up [lnd
down its quick oscillations between joy and pain, the creature who
grasped her uncurled his paw and scratched the bark from tbe bough;
she must vary the speU; and her voice spun leaping along the project-
ing points of tune of a hornpipe. Still singing, she felt herself twisted
about with a low growl and a lifting of the red lip from tbe glittering
teeth; she broke the hornpipe's tbread, and commenced unravelling a
lighter, livelier thing, an Irish jig. Up and down and round about her
voice flew, the beast tbrew back his head so that the diabolical face
fronted hers, and the torrent of his breath prepared her for his feast as
the anaconda slimes his prey. Franticly she darted from tune to tune;
his restless movements foUowed her. She tired herself with dancing
and vivid national airs, growing feverish with singing spasmodically as
she felt her borrid tomb yawning wider. Touching in this manner all
the slogan and keen clan cries, the beast moved again, but only to lay
tbe disengaged paw across her with heavy satisfaction. She did not
dare to pause; through the clear cold air, the frosty starlight, she sang.
H there were yet any tremor in the tone, it was not fear,-she bad
learned tbe secret of sound at last; lor could it be cbilI,-far too high
a fever throbbed bel' pulses; it was nothing but the thought of the log
house and of what might be passing within it. She fancied the baby
stirring in bis sleep and moving his pretty lips.-her busband rising and
opening tbe door. looking out after bel', and ,yondering at her absence.
She fancied tbe light pouring through tbe chink and tben shut in again
witb all tbe safety and comfort and joy. her husband taking down the
fiddle and playing ligbtly with his beaJ inclined, playing while
be
sang, while she sang for her life to an Indian Devil. Tben she knew
be was fumbling for and flnding some shining fragment and scoring it
down the yellowing bail', and unconsciom
ly her voice forsook the wild
war-tunes and drifted into the half-gay, half-melancholy II Hosin the Büw."
Suddenly sbe woke pierced with a pang, and the daggered tooth pene-
trating bel' flesh i-dreaming of safety, she had ceased singing and lost
it. The beast had regained the use of aU his limbs, and now, standing
and raising his back, bristling and foaming, with sounds that would
have been like hisses but for their deep and fearful sonority, he with-
drew step by step toward the trunk of tbe tree, still witb his flaming
balls upon her. She was all at once free, on one end of the bough,
1861-88]
HARRIET PRESOOTT SPOFFORD.
77
twenty feet from the ground. She did not measure the distance, but
rose to drop herself down, careless of any death, so that it were not this.
Instantly, as if he scanned her tboughts, the creature bounded forward
with a yell and caught her again in his dreadful hold. It might be that
he was not greatly famished; for, as she suddenly flung up her voice
again, he settled himself composedly on tbe bough, still clasping her
with invincible pressure to his rough, ravenous breast, and listening in
a fascination to tbe sad, strange U-la-lu that now moaned forth in loud,
hollow tones above him. He half closed his eyes, and sleepily reopened
and sbut tbem again.
'Vhat rending pains were close at hand! Death! and what a death!
worse than any other that is to be named! Water, be it cold or warm,
that which buoys up blue ice-fields, or which batbes tropical coasts with
currents of balmy bliss, is yet a gentle conqueror, kisses as it kills. and
draws you down gently through darkening fathoms to its heart. Death
at the sword is the festival of trumpet and bugle and banner, with glory
ringing out around you and distant hearts thrilling through yours. No
gnawing disease can bring such hideous end as this; for that is a fiend
bred of your own flesh, and this-is it a fiend, this living lump of appe-
tites? What dread comes with tbe thought of perishing in flames! but
fire, let it leap and hiss never so hotly, is something too remote, too
alien, to inspire us with such loathly horror as a wild beast; if it have
a life, that life is too utterly beyond our comprehension. Fire is not
half ourselves; as it devours, arouses neither hatred nor disgust; is not
to be known by the strength of our lower natures let loose; does not
drip our blood into our faces from foaming chaps, nor mouth nor slaver
above us with vitality. Let us be ended by fire, and we are ashes, for
the winds to bear, the leaves to cover; let us be ended by wild beasts,
and the base, cursed thing howls with us forever through the forest.
All this she felt as she charmed him, and what force it lent to her song
God knows. If her voice should fail! If the damp and cold should
give her any fatal hoarseness! If all the silent powers of the forest did
not conspire to help her! The dark, hollow night rose indifferently
over her; the wide, cold air breatbed rudely past her, lifted her wet
hair and blew it down again; the great boughs swung with a ponderous
strength, now and then clashed their iron lengths together and shook
off a sparkle of icy spears or some long-lain weight of snow from their
heavy shadows. The green depths were utterly cold and silent and
stern. These beautiful haunts that all tbe summer were bel's and re-
joiced to share witb her their bounty, tbese heavens that had yielded
their largess, these stems that had thrust their blossoms into bel' hands,
all tbese friends of three moons ago forgot her now and knew bel' no
longer.
78
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
[1861-88
Feeling her desolation, wild, melancholy, forsaken songs rose thereon
from that frightful aerie,-weeping, wailing tunes, that sob among the
people from age to age. and overflow with otherwise unexpressed sad-
ness,-all rude, mournful ballads,-old tearful strains. that SlJakespeare
beard the vagrants sing, and that rise and fall like the wind and tide,-
sailor-songs, to he heard only in lone midwatcbes beneath tbe moon and
stars,-ghastly rhyming romances, sucb as that famous one of tbe Lady
:Margaret, when
"She slipped on her gown of green
A piece below the knee,-
And 'twas all a long cold winter's night
A dead corse followed she,"
Still the beast lay with closed eyes, yet never relaxing his gl'a:o:p.
Once a half-whine of enjoyment escaped him,-he fawned his fearful
head upon her; once he scored her cheek with his tongue: savage
caresses that hurt like woundf', How weary she was! and yet how ter-
ribly awake! How fuller and fuller of dismay grew the knowledge that
she was only prolonging her anguish and playing with death! Row
appalling the thought tLat with her voice ceased her existence ! Yet
she could not sing forever: her throat was dry and hard; her ver,v
breath was a pain; her mouth wa
hotter tban any desert-worn pil-
grim's ;-if she coultl but drop upon her burning tongue one atom of
the ice that glittered ahout her I-but both of her arms were pinioned in
the giant's vice. She remembered the winding-sheet, and for the first
time in her life shiyered with spirit\lal fe
r, 'Vas it bel's? She asked
herself, as she sang, what sins she had committed, wbat ]ife she bad
led, to find her punishment so soon and in these pangs.-and then she
sought e
gerly for some reason why her husband was not up and abroad
to find her. He failed her.-IJer one sole hope in life; and without
being aware of it, her voice forsook the songs of suffering antI sorrow
for old Covenanting hymlls,-hymns with which her mother hatllul]ecl
her, which the class-leader pitched in the chimney-corners,-grand and
sweet
leth()dist hymns, hrimming with melody and with all fantastic
involutions of tune to suit that ecstatic wOl'sbip,-hymns fulJ of the
beauty of holiness, steadfast, relying, sanctified by the salvation they bad
lent to those in worse extremit
? than hers,-for they had found them-
selves in the grasp of heU, while she was but in the jaws of death. Out
of this strange music. peculiar to one cbaracter of faith, and than which
there is none more beautiful in its degree nor owning a more potent
sway of sound, her voice soared into the glorinetl chants of churches.
'Vhat to her was tleath by cold or famine or wild beasts? ,. Though
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him," sIle sang. High and clear through
the irore fair night, tbe level moonbeams splintering in the wood, the
1861-88]
IIARRIE1' PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
279
scarce glints of
tars in the shadowy roof of branches, tbese
acred
anthems rose,-rose as a hope from despair, as some snowy spray of
flower-bells from blackest mould. ,Yas she not in God's hand8? Did
not the world swing at his will? If this were in his great plan of provi-
dence. was it not best, and should she not accept it?
.. He is tbe Lord our God; his judgments are in all the eartb."
Oh, sublime faith of our fathers, where utter self-sacrifice alone was
true love, the fragrance of whose unrequired subjection was pleasanter
than that of golden censers swung in purple-vapored cbancels!
Never ceasing in tbe rhythm of her thoughts, articulated in music as
they thronged, the memory of her first communion flasbed over bel'.
Again she was in that distant place on that sweet spring morning.
Again the congregation rustled out, and tbe few remained, and she
trembled to find herself among them. ITow well she remembered tbe
devout, quiet faces, too accustomed to the sacred feast to glow with
tbeir inner joy! how well the snowy linen at the altar, and silver vessels
slO\yly and silently shifting! and as the cup approacbed and passed,
how the sense of delicious perfume stole in and heightened the transport
of ber prayer, and she had seemed, looking up through the windows
where the sky soared blue in constant freshness, to feel all heaven's
balms dripping from the portals, and to scent the lilies of eternal peace I
Perhaps another would not bave felt so much ecstasy as satisfaction on
that occasion; but it is a true, if a later, disciple, who has said, " The
Lorù bestoweth his blessings there, where be :findeth the vessels empty."
" And does it need the wans of a churcb to renew my communion?"
sbe asked. "Does not every moment stand a temple four-
quare to
God? And in tbat morning, witb its buoJ'ant sunlight. was I any
dearer to the Heart of the 'V orIel than now ?-'
Iy heloved is mine, and
I am his.'" she sang over and ovpr again, with an varied inflection and
profuse tune. How gently all the winter-wrapt things bent toward her
then! into what relation with her had they grown! how this common
dependence was the spell of their intimacy! Low at one with Nature
bad she become! how an the night and the silence and the forest
seemed to bold its breath. and to send its soul up to God in her singing!
It was no longer despondency, tbat sill
llJg. It was neitber prayer nor
petition. She had left imploring, ,. How long wilt thou forget me, 0
Lord? Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death! For in
lleath there is no remembrance of thee,"-with countless other such
fragments of supplication. She cried rather. .. Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou
art with me; thy roù and thy staff, tbey comfort me,"-and lingered,
and repeated, and sang again, "I shall be satisfied, when J awake, witb
thy likeness."
80
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
[1861-88
Then she thought of the Great Deliverance, when he drew her up out
of many waters, and the flashing oìd psalm pealed forth triumphantly:
" The Lord descended from above,
and bow'd the heavens hie:
And underneath his feet he cast
the darknc!;;se of the skie,
On cherubs and on chcrubins
full royally he road:
And on the wings of all the winds
came flying all abroaù."
She forgot how recentl!-, and with what a strange pity for her own
shapeless form that was to be, she had quaintly sung:
" 0 lovely appearance of death!
What sight upon earth is so fair?
1\ot all the gay pageants that breathe
Can with a dead body compare!"
She remembered instea(1,-" In thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy
right hand there are pleasures forevermore. God will redeem my 80ul
from the power of the grave: for He shall receive me. He will swallow
up death in victory." Not once now did she say, "Lord, how long wih
thou look on; rescue my soul from their destructions, my darling from
the lions,"-for she knew that the young lions roar after their prey and
seek their meat from God. ., 0 Lord, thou preservest man and beast!"
she said.
She had no comfort or con801atiol1 in this sea
mn, such as sustained
the Chri
tian mart.,-rs in the amphitheatre. She was not dying for her
faith: there were no palms in heaven for her to wave; but how many a
time had she declared.-" I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of
my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness!"
\nd as the broad
rays here and there broke through the dense covert of shade and lay in
rivers of lustre on crystal sheathing and frozen fretting of trunk and
limb and on the great spaces of refraction, they builded up visibly that
house, the shining city on the hill, and
inging, "Beautiful for situation,
tbe joy of the whole eartb, is :Mount Zion, on the sides of the North,
the city of the Great King," her vision c1im bed to that higher picture
where the angel sbows the dazzling thing, the holy Jerusalem descend-
ing out of heaven from God, with its splendirl battlements and gates of
pearls, and its foundations, the elmTcnth a jacinth, tbe twelfth an arne-
thyst,-with its great white throne, and the rainbow round about it, in
sight like unto an emerald: "And there shall be no night tbere,-for
the Lord God giveth them ligbt." sbe 8anp:.
'Vhat wbisper of (lawn now rustled througb the wilderness? IIow
the ni
ht was passing! And still the beast crouched upon tbe bough,
18Gl-88]
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
281
changing only the posture of his head, that again he might commancl
her with those charmed eyes :-half their fire was gone; she coulcl
almost have released herself from his custody; yet, had she stirred, no
one knows what malevolent instinct might have dominated anew. But
of that she did not dream: long ago stripped of any expectation, she
was experiencing in her divine rapture how mystically true it is tbat
" he tbat d welleth in the secret place of the :L\Iost High shall abide under
tbe shadow of the Almighty. "
Slow clarion cries now wound from the distance as tbe cocks caught
the intelligence of day and reëchoed it faintly from farm to farm,-
sleepy sentinels of night, sounding the foe's iuvasion, and translating
that dim intuition to ringing notes of warning. Still she chanted on.
A remote crash of brushwood told of some other beast on his depreda-
tions, or some night-belated traveller :;rroping his way through the nar-
row path. Still she chanted on. The far, faint echoes of the chanti-
cleers died into distance. the crashing of the branches grew nearer. K 0
wild beast that, but a man's step,-a mau's form in the moonlight. stal-
wart and strong,-on one arm
lept a little child. in tbe other hand he
held bis gun. Still she chanted on.
Perhaps, when her husband last looked forth, he was half ashamed to
find what a fear he felt for her. He knew she would never leave the
child so long but for some direst need.-and yet he may hm"e laughed
at himself, as he lifted and wrapped it with awkward care, and, loading
his gUll and strapping on his horn, opened the door again and closed it
behind him, going out and plunging into the darkness and dangers of
the forest. He was more singularly alarmed than 11e would have been
willing to acknowledge: as ne had sat with his bow hovering over the
strings. he had half believed to hear her voice mingling gayly with the
instrument, till he paused and IÍ!;:tenecl if she were not about to lift the
latch and enter. As he drew nearer the heart of the forest. that intima-
tion of melody seemed to grow more actual, to take bor1y and breath, to
come and go on long swells and ebbs of the nig-ht-hreeze. to increase
with tune and words, tin a strange shrill singing grew ever clearer, and
as he stepped into an open space of moonbeams, far up iu the branche:;;,
rocked by the wind, and singing, " Hùw beautiful upon the mountains
are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisbeth peace,"
he saw his wife,-his wife.-but, great God in heaven! how? Some
mad exclamation escaped him. but without diverting her. The ehild
knew the singing voice, though never heard before in that unearthly
key, and turned toward it through the veiling dreams. ''''ith a celerity
almost instantaneous, it lay, in the twinkling of an eye. on the ground
at the father's feet, while his gun was raised to his shoulder and levelled
at the monster covering his wife with shaggy form and flaming gaze,-
28
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
[1861-88
his wife so ghastly white, so rigid, so stained with blood. her eyes so
fixedly bent above, and her lips, tbat had indurated into the chiselled
pallor of marble, parted only with that flood of solemn song.
I do not know if it were tbe mother-instinct that for a moment low-
ered her eyes,-tbose eyes, so lately riveted on heaven, now suddenly
seeing an life-long bliss possible. A thrill of joy pierced and shivered
througb her like a weapon, bel' voice trembled in its course, her glance
lost its steady strengtb, fever-flusbes chase(l each other over her face,
yet she never once ceased chanting. She was quite aware that, if her
husband sbot now, the ball must pierce her bod.y before reacbing any
vital part of the beast,-and yet better tbat death by his hand than tbe
other. But this her husband also knew, and he remained motionless,
just covering the creature with the sight. He dared not fire, lest some
wound not mortal should break the spell exercised by her voice, and
the beast, enraged with pain, should rend her in atoms; moreover, the
light was too uncertain for his aim. So he waited. Now and then he
examined his gun to see if the damp were injuring its cbarge, now and
then he wiped the great drops from his forehead. Again the cocks
crowed with the passing bour,-the last time they were heard on that
night. Cheerful home sound then, bow full of f'afety and an comfort
and rest it seemed! what sweet morning incidents of sparkling fire and
sunshine, of gay housebold bustle, shining dres
er, and cooing baby, of
steaming cattle in the yard, and brimming miik-pails at the door! what
pleasant voices! what laughter! wbat security! and bere-
Now, as she sang on in the slow, endless, infinite moments, the fervent
vision of God's peace was go Il e. Just as the grave bad lost its sting,
she was snatched back again into tbe arms of earthly hope. In vain she
tried to sing, "There remainetll a rest for the people of God,"-her eyes
trembled on her husband's, and she could only think of him, and of the
child, and of happiness that yet wight be, but witb what a dreadful gulf
of doubt between! She shuùderell now in the suspense; all calm for-
sook her; sbe was tortured witb dissolving beats or frozen with icy
blasts; her face contracted, growing small and pinched: bel' voice was
hoarse and sharp,-every tone cut like a knife,-the notes became heavy
to lift,-witbheld by some hostile pressure,-i m possible. One gasp, a
convulsive effort, and tbere was silence,-sbe had lost bel' voice.
The beast made a sluggish 1110vement,-stretcbed and fawned like
one awaking,-then, as if he would have yet more of the enchantment,
stirred her slightly with his muzzle. As he did so, a sidelong hint of
the man standing below with the raised gun smote him; he sprang
round furiously, and, seizing his prey, was about to leap into some
unknown airy den of the topmost branches now waving to the slow
dawn. The late moon bad rounded through the sky so that her gleam
1861-88]
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
283
at last fell fun upon the bough with fairy frosting; the wintry morning
light did not yet penetrate the gloom. The woman, suspended in mid-
air an instant, cast only one agonized glance beneath,-but across and
through it. ere the lids could fa]], sLot a withering sheet of flame,-a
rifle-crack, half-heard, was lo;t in the terrible yen of desperation that
bounded after it and filled her ears with savage echoes, and in the wide
arc of some eternal descent she was falling i-but tbe beast fell under her.
I think that the moment following must bave been too f:acred for us,
and perhaps the three bave no special interest again till they is
ue frOlD
the shadows of the wilderness upon the white hills that skirt their home.
The father carries the child hushed again into slumber, tbe mother fol-
lows with no such feeble step as might be anticipated. It is not time
for reaction,-the tension not yet relaxed, the nerves still vibrant, she
seems to berse1f like some one newly made; the night was a dream; tbe
present, stamped upon her in deep satisfaction. neither weighed nor com-
pared with the past; if sbe has tbe careful tricks of former habit, it is as
an automaton; and as they slowly climb tbe steep under the clear gra,Y
vault and the paling morning star, and as she stops to gather a spray of
the red-rose berries or a featheT\T tuft of dead Q'rasses for the cbimne'
-
piece of the log house, or a handful of brown c;nes for tbe child's pla}T,
-of these quiet, happy folk you would scarcely dream bow lately they
had stolen from under the banner and encampment of the great King
Death. The husband proceeds a step or two in advance; the wife lin-
gers over a singular footprint in the snow, stoops and examines it, then
looks up with a hurried wor(1. Her husband stands alone on tbe hill,
his arms folded across the babe. his (lun fanen,-stands defined as a sil-
houette against the pallid
k
-. "\Vhat is there in their home, lying
below and yellowing in tbe light, to fix him with such a stare? She
springs to his side. There is no home there. The log bou
e, the barns,
the neighboring farms, the fences, are an blotted out anù mingled in one
smoking ruin. Desolation and death were indeed there, and beneficence
and life in the fore
t. Tomahawk and scalping-knife, descenùing dur-
ing that night, had left behind them only this work of their accom-
plished hatred and one subtle footprint in the snow.
For tbe rest,-tbe world was all before them, where to choose.
284
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
)lUSIC IX THE SIGHT.
,-XTHEN stars pursue their solemn flight,
V V Oft in the middle of the night,
A strain of music visits me,
Hushed in a moment sih-erly.-
Such rich and rapturous strains as make
The very soul of silence ache
With longing for the melody.
Or lovers in the distant dusk
Of summer gardens, sweet as musk,
Pouring the blissful hurden out,
The breaking joy, the dying doubt;
Or revellers, all flown with wine,
And in a maùnes:; half divine,
Beating the broken tune :/bout.
Or else the rude and rolling notes
That leave some strolling sailors' throats,
Hoarse with the salt sprays, it may be,
Of many a mile of rushing sea;
Or some high-minded drenmer strays
Late through the solitary ways.
Nor heeùs the listening night nor me.
Or how or whence those tones be heard,
Hearing', the slumbering soul is stirred,
As when a swiftly pnssing light
Startles the shado,,
s into flight:
While one rcmemùrance suddenly
Thrills through the melting me1ody,-
A strain of lllusic in the night.
Out of the darkness bursts the song,
Into the darkness moves along:
Only a chord of memory jars,
Only an old wound burns its scars,
As thc wihl sweetness of the strain
Smites the heart with passionate l)ain,
And vanishe:; alllong thc stars.
[1861-88
1861-88J
HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
B
\.LLAD.
I N the summer even
'Vhile yet the dew was hoar,
I went plucking purple pansies,
Ti1lmy lm'e should come to shore.
The fishing-lights their dances
'V ere keeping out at spa,
And come, I sung, my true love!
Come hasten home to me!
But the sea, it fell a-moaning,
And the white gnUs rockc,} thereon;
And the young moon rlropped from heaven,
And the lights hid one by one.
All silently their glances
Slipped down the cruel sea,
And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,-
\Vait, till I come to thee!
F A
TASIA.
,,",TE'RE all alone, we're all alone!
" V The moon and stars are dead and gone;
The night's at deep, the wind asleep,
Au,1 thou and I are all alone!
What care have we though life there be ?
Tumult and life are not for me!
Silence and sleep about us creep;
Tumult and life are not for thee!
How late it is since such as this
Had topped the height of breathing bliss!
And now we keep an iron sleep,-
In that grave thou, and I in this!
285
286
THOMAS WALLAOE KNOX.
[1861-88
lJolnaø [[Iallace Unor.
BORN in Pembroke, N. H" 1835.
A RUSSIAN WOLF-HUNT.
[Oærland through Asia. 1870.]
T HE best parts of Russia for wolf-hunting are in the western govern-
ments, where there is less game and more population than in Sibe-
ria. It is in these regions that travellers are sometimes pursued by
wolves, but such incidents are not frequent. It is only in the severest
winters, when driven to desperation by hunger, that the wolves dare to
attack men. The horses are the real objects of their pursuit, but when
once a party is overtaken the wolves make no nice distinctions, and
horses and men are alike devoured. Apropos of hunting I heard a story
of a thrilli ng character.
It had been (said the gentleman who narrated the incident) a severe
winter in Vitebsk and Vilna. I had spent se\Teral weeks at the country
residence of a friend in Vitebsk, and we heard, during the latter part of
my stay, rumors of the unusual ferocity of the wolves.
One day Kanchin, my host, proposed a wolf-hunt. "We shall have
capital sport," said he, "for the winter has mane tbe wolves hungry,
and they will be on the alert when they hear our decoy."
V\T e prepared a sledge, one of the commOll kind, made of stout withes,
woven like basket-work, and firmly fastened to the frame and runners.
It was wide enough for both of us and the same height all around, so
that we could shoot in any direction except straight forward. \Ye took
a few furs to keep us warm, and each had a short gun of large bore,
capable of carrying a heavy load of buckshot. R.ifles are not desirable
weapons where one cannot take accurate aim. As a precaution we
stowed two extra guns in the bottom of the slerlge.
The driver, Ivan, on learning the business before him, was evidently
reluctant to go, but as a Russian servant has no choice beyond obeying
his master, the man offered no objection. Three spirited horses were
attached. and I heard Kanchin order that every part of the harness
should be in the best condition.
We had a pig confined in a strong cage of ropes and withes, that he
might last longer than if dragged by the legs. A rope ten feet long was
attached to the cage and roudy to be tied to the sledge.
\, é kept the pig in furs at the bottom of tbe slenge, and drove silently
into the forest. The last order given 1y Kanchin was to open the gates
of the courtyard and hang a 1right lantern in front. I asked the reason
of this, and he replied with a smile:
1861-88]
THOJIAS WALLACE KNOX.
287
" If we should be going at full speed on our return, I don't wish to
stop till we reach the middle of the yard."
As by mutual consent, neither uttered a word as we drove along. "..,.. e
carried no bells, and there was no creaking of any part of the sledge.
Inm did not speak, but held his reins taut and allowed the horses to
take their own pace. In his secure and warm covering the pig was
evidently asleep. The moon and stars were perfectly unclouded, and
there was no motion of anything in the forest. The road was excellent,
but we did not meet or pass a single traveller. I do not believe I ever
felt silence more forcibly than then.
The forest in that region is not dense, and on either side of the road
there is a space of a hundred yards or more entirely open. The snow
lay crisp and sparkling, and as the country was but slightly undulating
we could frequently see long distances. The apparent movement of the
trees as we drove past them caused me to fancy the woods filled with
animate forms to whom the breeze gave voices that mocked us.
About eight versts from the house we reached a cross-road that led
deeper into the forest. " .LYa prava," in a low voice from my companion,
turned us to the right into the road. Eight or ten versts further Kan-
chin, in the same low tone, commanded "Stoi." 'Yithout a word Ivan
drew harder upon his reins, and we came to a halt. At a gesture from
my frienù the team was turned about.
Kanchin stepped carefully from the sledge and asked me to hand him
tbe rope attached to the cage. He tied this to the rear cross-bar, and
removing his cloak told me to do the same. Getting our guns. ammu-
nition. and ourf'elves in readiness, and taking our seats with our hacks
toward the driver, we threw out the pig and his cage and ordered I van
to proceed.
The first cry from the pig awoke an an
wering howl in a rlozen direc-
tions. The horses sprang as if struck with a heavy hand, and I felt my
blood chill at the dismal sound. The driver with great difficulty kept
his team from breaking into a gallop.
Five minutes later, a wolf came galloping from the forest on the left
side where I sat.
H Don't fire till he is quite near," said Kanchin; "we shall have no
occasion to make long shots."
The wolf was distinctly visible on the clean snow, and I allowed him
to approach within twenty yards. I fired, amI he fell. As I turned to
reload Kanchin raised his gun to shoot a wolf approaching the right of
the sledge. His shot was successful, the wolf falling dead upon tbe
snow.
I reloaded very quickly, and when I looked up there were three
wolves running toward me, while as many more were visible on Kan-
288
THOJ.1fAS WALLACE KNOX.
[1861-88
chin's side. :My companion raised his eyes when his gun was ready and
gave a start tbat thrilled me with horror. I van was immovable in his
place, and holding with all his might upon the reins.
,. Pos/wll" shouted Kanchin.
The howling grew more terrific. Whatever way we looked we could
see the wolves emerging from the forest-
"With their Jong gallop, which can tire,
The hound's deep hate, the hunter's fire."
Not only behind and on either side, but away to tbe front, I could see
their dark forms. We fired and loaded and fired again, every shot tell-
ing but not availing to stop the pursuit.
The driyer did not need Kanchin'::; shout of LLposlwll" and the bor
es
exerted every nerve without being urged. But with all our speed we
could not outstrip the wolves that grew every moment more numerous.
If we could only keep up our pace we might escape, but should a horse
stumble, the harness give W2.Y. or the sledge overturn, we were hope-
lessly lo
t. \\ e threw awa.y our furs and cloaks, keeping only our arms
and ammunition. The wolves hardly paused over these things, but
steadily adhered to the pursuit.
Suddenly 1 thought of a new danger that menaced us. I grasped
R
anchin's arm and asked how we could turn the corner into the mam
road. Should we attempt it at full f'peed the sledge would be over-
turned. If we slackened our pace the wolves would be upon us.
I felt my friend trembling ill my grasp, but his voice was firm,
" \Vhen I ::m,v the word," he replied. giving me his bunting-knife,
L'lean over and cut the rope of the decoy. That will detain them a
short time. Soon as you have done so, lie down on the left side of the
sledge nnd cling to the cords acro
s the bottom."
Then turning to Ivan he ordered him to slacken speed a little, but
only a little, at the corner, and keep the horses from running to either
side as he turned. This done, Kanchin clung to the left side of the
sledge prepared to step upon its fender and counteract, if possible, our
centrifugal force.
'Ve approached tbe main road, and just as I discovered the open space
at the cro
sing Kanchin shouted-
" Strike! "
I whipped off the rope in an instant and we left our decoy behind us.
The wolves stopped, gathered densely about the prize, and began quar-
relling over it. Only a few remained to tear the cage asunder. The
rest, after a brief balt, continued the pursuit, but tbe little time tbey
lost was of precious value to us.
We approached the dreaded turning. Kanchin placed his feet upon
1861-88]
THOMAS WALLACE K
YOX.
289
the fender and fastened his hands into the network of the sledge. I lay
down in the place assigned me, and never did drowning man cling to' a
rope more firmly than I clung to the bottom of our vehicle. As we
swept around the corner the slellge was whirled in air, turned upon its
side, and only saved from cO'mplete oversetting by the positiO'll
of Kan.
chin and myself.
Just as the sledge righted, and ran upon both runner
, I heard a
piercing cry. Ivan, O'ccupied with his horses. was not able to cling like
ourselves; he feU from his seat, and hardly struck the
now befO're tbe
wolves were upon him. That O'ne shriek that filled my ears was all he
could utter.
The reins were trailing, hut fortunately where they were not likely to
be entangled. The horses needed no driver; all the whips in the world
could nO't increase their speed. rrwo of our guns were lost as we turned
frO'm the by-rO'ad, but the two that lay under me in tbe sledge were pro-
videntially saved. We fired as fast as pO'ssible intO' the dark mass that
filled the road not twenty yards behind us. Every shO't told, but the
rur
uit did not lag. To-day I shudder as I think O'f that surging mass
O'f gray forms with eyes glistening like fireballs, and the serrated jaws
that opened as if certain O'f a feast.
A stern chase is proverbially a long one. If no accident happened to
sledge or horse
, we felt certain that the wolves which followed could
nO't overtake us.
As we approached home our horses gave signs of lagging, and the
pursuing wolves came nearer. One huge beast sprang at the sledge and
actually fastened his fO're paws upon it. I struck him over the head
with my gun and he released his hold.
A moment later I heard the barking of our dogs at the house, and as
the gleam of tbe lantern caught my eye I feU unconscious to the bottom
of the sledge. I woke an hour later and saw Kanchin pacing the floor
in silence. Repeatedly I spO'ke to' him, but he answered only in mono-
syllables.
The next day, a part.' of peasants went to 10O'k for the remains of
poor I van. A few shreds of clothing, and the cross he wore about his
neck, were an the vestiges that could be found. For three weeks I lay
ill with a fever and returned to St. Petersburg immediately on my recov-
ery. Kanehin has lived in seclusiO'n ever since, and both of us were
gray-haired within six months.
VOL. Ix.-19
290
SAMUEL LANG HORNE CLEMENS
[1861-88
cnrr JL rtti:lcn tla
lJ.
BORN in CincinlJati, Ohio, 1835.
STONEWALL JACKSON.
NOT midst the lightning of the stormy fight,
Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did kingly Death, with his resistless might,
Lay the great leader low.
His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town;
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak
That propped our cause went down.
Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,
Recalling all his grand heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing in the wound,
And all the country bleeds.
He entered not the nation's Promised Land
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth,
But broke the House of Bondage with his hand-
The Moses of the South!
o gracious God! not gainless is the loss:
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown;
And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross,
He rises with the Crown!
10 May, 1863.
antucl lLanglJornc <[lcmcn
.
BORN in Florida, Mo., 1835.
THE NOTORIOUS .TU:\lPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY.
[The Jumping Frog, and Other Sketches. BY.11Iark Tu'ain. 1867.]
I N compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me
from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon
"\Vheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as
requested to do, and I hereunto append tbe result. I have a lurking
suspicion that Leonidas lV
Smiley is a myth; tbat my friend never
knew such a personage; and that be only conjectured tbat, if I asked
JI
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1861-88]
SA.1lUEL LANGHORNE CLEJIE...YS.
291
old vVheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous JÙn
Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me to death with some exas-
perating reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be use-
less to me. If that was the design, it succeeded.
I found Simon "\Vheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove
of the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel's, and
I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of
winning gentleness anù simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He
roused up and gave me good-ùay. I told him a friend of mine had
commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherisbed companion
of his boyhood, named Leorn'das n
Smiley-Rev. Leonidas n
Smiley-
a young minister of the gospel, who he had beard was at one time a
resident of Ange1's Camp. I added that, if
fr. "heeler could tell me
anything about this Rev. Leonidas n
Smiley, I would feel under many
obligations to him.
Simon "\Vheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there
with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off tbe monotonous nan'a-
tive wbich follows this paragraph. IIp never smiled, he never frowned,
he never changed his voice from tbe gentle-flowing key to which he
tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the f'ligLtest suspicion of
enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein
of impressive earnestness and sincerity which showed me plainly that,
so far from his imagining tbat there was anything ridiculous or funny
about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired
its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. I let him go on
in his own way, and never interrupted him once.
"Rev. Leonidas VV. H'm, Reverend Le-well, there was a feller here
once by the name of Jz'm Smiley, in the winter of '49, or maybe it was
the spring of 'óO-I don't recollect exactly. somebow, though what
makes me think it was one or the other, is because I remember the big
flume warn't finished when he first come to the camp: but anyway, he
was the curiousest man about, always betting on anything tbat turned
up yon ever see, if 11.e could get anybody to bet on the other side;
and if he couldn't, he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other
side would suit him-any way, just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied.
But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out
winner. He was always reaùy, and laying for a chance; there coulJn't
be no solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and
take ary side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a
horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find bim busted at the end of
it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd
bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was
two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly
292
SAJfr:EL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.
[1861-88
:first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar to bet
on Parson Walker, w bich he judged to be the best exhorter about here:
and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a straddle-bug start
to go anywheres, he would bet you Low long it would take him to get
to-to wherever he was going to; and if ;you took him up he would
folIeI' that straddle-bug to Mexico, but wllat he would find out where he
was bound for, and how long he was on tbe road. Lots of the boys here
has seen that Smiley, anù can tell you about bim. \Vby, it never made
no differelll'e to him-he'd bet any thing-tbe dangde
t feller. Par
on
,,y alker's ,,'ife laid very sick once for a good while, and it seemed as if
the:r warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley
up and asked him how she was, and he said she was consid'able hetter
-thank the Lord for his inf'nit mercy I-and coming on so smart that,
with the blessing of Prov'dence, she'd get welÎ yet; and Smiley: before
he thought, says, '\Y ell, I'll resk two-and-a-half she don't, anyway.'
"Thish-yer Smiley bad a mare-the boys caIled bel' tbe fifteen-minute
nag, but that was only in fun, JOu know, because of course she was
faster than tbat--and he used to win money on that borse, for all she
was so slow, and alwa.vs had tbe asthma, or the distemper, or the con-
sumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or
three hundred yards' start, and then pass her under way; but alwa,ys at
tbe fag-end of the race sbe'd get excited and desperate-like, and come
cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber,
sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences,
and kicking up moo-roe dust and raising moo-roe racket with her cough-
ing and sneezing and blowing her nose-and always fetch up at the stand
just about a neck ahead. as near as you could cipher it Jown.
" And be had a little-small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd think
he warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a
chance to steal something. But as soon as money wa
up on him he
was a different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle
of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shiue like the furnaces.
And a dog might tackle him and bullyrag him, and bite Lim, and throw
him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson-which
was the name of the pup-Andrew Jackson wOIIId never let on hut what
he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else-and the bets being
doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was
all up; and then all of a suJden he would grab the otber dog jest by
the fint of his hind If'g and freeze to it-not chaw, you underðtand, but
only just grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a
year. Smiley always carne out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a
dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off in
a circular saw, anJ when the thing Lad gone along far enougb, and the
1861-88]
SAJIUEL LANGHORNE CLEJIE
VS.
293
money was a11 up, and be come to make a snatch for his pet bolt, be see
in a minute bow he'd heen imposed on, anJ how the other dog had him
in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked
sorter discouraged-like, and diJn't try no more to win the fight, and so
he got shucked out bad. IIe give Smiley a look, as much as to say his
heart was broke, and it was !tis fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't
no hind legs for him to take bolt of, which was his main dependence in
a fight; and then he limped off a piece and bid down and died. It was
a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name
for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in hiw anù he hall genius-I
know it, because he bad no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand
to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them cir-
cumstances if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when
I think of that last fight of his'n. and the wa.v it turned out.
" 'VeU, this-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, anù chicken-cocks, and tom-
cats and a11 them kind of things, till you couldn't rest. and you couldn't
fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd matcb you. He ketched a frog
one day, and took him bome, and said he cal'lateù to educate him; and
so be never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and
learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd
give him a little punch behind, and tbe next minute you'd see tbat frog
whirling in the air like a doughnut-see him turn one summerset, or
maybe a couple, if he got a good
tart, anJ come down flat-footed and
all right, like a cat. He got him up so in tbe matter of ketching flies,
and kep' him in practice so constant. that he'd nail a fly every time as
fur as be could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education,
anù be could do 'most anything-and I believe him. 'Vhy, I've seen
him set Dan'l Webster down bere on this floor-Dan'} Webster was the
name of the frog-and sing out, 'Flies, Dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you
coulJ wink he'd spring straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter
there. and flop down on the floor ag'in a::: solid as a gob of mud, anJ fall
to scratching the side of his head with his l1inJ foot as indifferent as if
he hadn't no idea he'd bpen doin' any more'n any frog might do. You
ne\"er see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was
so gifted. Ana when it corne to fair and 8quare jumping on a dead
level, he could get over more ground. at one stradJle than any animal of
his hreed you ever see. Jumping on a dead le\'el was his strong suit,
you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up
money on him as long as be bad a rell. Smiley was mon
trous proud of
his frog, and well be might be, for fellers that haJ travelled and been
ever
Twheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.
.. 'V ell , Smiley kep' tl1e beast in a little lattice box. and he u
(ìCl to
fetch him down town sometimes and by for a bet. One l1ay a feller-a
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SAJfUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.
[1861-88
stranger III the camp, he was-come acrost him with his box, and
says:
'" 'Vhat might it be that you've got in the box?'
" And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, 'It might be a parrot, or it
might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't-it's only just a frog.'
"And the feller took it: and looked at it careful, and turned it round
this way and that, and
a.vs, 'H'm-so 'tis. 'Vell, what's he good for?'
" , 'V ell,' Smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for one
thing, I should judge-he can out jump any frog in Calaveras County.'
"The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look,
and give it back to Smiley, and sa:ys, very deliberate, 'VV' ell,' he says,
'I don't see no p'ints ahout that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'
'" 1faybe you don't,' Smiley says. ' :Maybe you understand frogs, and
maybe you don't understanù 'em; maybe you've had experience, and
maybe you ain't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my
opinion, and I'n resk forty dollars that he can Olltjump any frog in Cala-
veras County.'
"And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like,
"VeIl, I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; but if I had a
frog, I'd bet you.'
"And then Smilf'Y says, 'That's all right-that's all right-if you'll
hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog.' And so the feller
took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and set
down to wait.
"So he set there a good while, thtnking and thinking to hisself, and
then he got the frog out anel prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon
and filled him full of quail-shot-filled him pretty near up to his chin-
and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped
around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and
fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:
" 'Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-pa\vs
just even with Dan'1's, and I'll give the word.' Then he says. 'One-
two-three-git!' and him and the feller touched up the frogs from
behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan'l give a heave, and
hysted up his
houlc1ers-so-like a Frenchman, but it warn't no use-
he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn't
no more stir than if he was anchoreJ out. Smiley was a 1!ood deal sur-
prised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what tbe
matter was, of ('our
e.
"The feller took the money and started away; and when he was
going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder-so
-attDan'l, and says again, very deliberate, 'W elI,' he Rays, 'I don't see
no p'ints about tbat frog that's any better'n any other frog.'
1861-88]
SAXUEL LANGHORNE CLE..lfENS.
295
"Smiley he stood scratching hi'3 head and looking down at Dan'l a
long time, and at last he says, 'I do wonder what in the nation that frog
throw'd. off for-I wonder if there ain't something the matter with him
-he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.' And he ketched Dan'l by
the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, '\Vby, blame my cats if
he don't weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down, and he
belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and
he was the maddest man-he set the frog down and took out after the
feller, but he never ketcbed him. And-."
[Here Simon "\V'heeler heard bis name called from the front yard, and
got up to see what was wanted.] A turning to me as be moved away,
he said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy-I ain't going
to be gone a second."
But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history
of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to afford me
much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas n
Smiley, and so I
started away.
..J..
t tbe door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he button-
holed me and recommenced:
""\Vell, this-yer Smiley had a yaner one-eyed cow that didn't have no
tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and-"
However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear
about the afflicted cow, but took my leave.
HO\Y THEY BL'RNED WOJIE:N AT THE STAKE I:N :\'IERRIE E:NGLAXD.
[The Prince and the Paupel.. A Tale, for Young Peuple of all age8. By,Jlark Twain.
1882.]
THIS news struck his majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged
him into so deep and dismal a revery that he heard no more of the
old man's gossip. He wondered if the "little urchin" was the beggar-
boy whom he left dressed in his own garments in tbe palace. It did not
seem possible t.hat this could be, for surely his manners and speech
would betray him if he pretended to be the Prince of "\Vales-then he
would be driven out, and search made for the true prince. Could it be
that the Court ha(l set up some sprig of the nobility in his place ? No,
for his uncle' would not aIIow' that-he was all-powerful and could and
would crush snch a movement, of course. The boy's musings profited
him nothing; the more he tried to unriddle the mystery the more per-
plexed he became, the more his head ached, and the worse he slept.
296
SA.lúUEL LANGHORlfE CLE.I.WENS.
[1861-88
His impatience to get to London grew hourly, and his captivity became
almost unendurable.
Hendon's arts all failed witb tbe king-be could not be comforted;
but a couple of women who were chained near him, succeeded better.
D nder their gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a degree
of patience. He was very grateful, anù came to love them dearly and
to delight in the sweet and soothing influence of their presence. He
asked them why they were in prison, and when they saiù they were
Baptists, he smiled, and inquired:
"Is tbat a crime to be shut up for, in a prison? Now I grieve, for I
shall lose ye-they will not keep ye long for such a little thing."
They did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy.
He said, eagerly:
" You do not speak-be good to me, and tell me-there win be no
other punishment? Prithee tell me there is no fear of that:'
They tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he
pursued it:
"'\Vill they scourge thee? No, no, they would not be so cruell Say
they would not. Come, they wt'll not, win they?"
The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no avoid-
ing an answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with emotion-
"0, tbou'Jt break our bea1'1:8, thou gentle spirit !-God win help us
to bear our "-
'I It is a confession!" the king broke in. "Tben tbey will scourge
thee, the stonyhearted wretches! Buj; 0, thou must not weep, I cannot
bear it. Keep up thy courage-I shall come to my own in time to save
tbee from this bitter thing, and I \yi11 do it! "
'\Vhen the king awoke in the morning, tbe women were gone.
" They are saved!" he said, joyfully; then addeù, despondently, "but
woe is me !-for they were my comforters."
Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in
token of remembrance. lIe said he would keep these things always;
and tbat soon he would seek out these dear good friends of his and take
them under his protection.
Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates and commanded
that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard. The king was over-
joyed-it would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and breathe the
fresh air once more. He fretted and chafed at the slowness of tbe offi-
cers, but his turn came at last and he was released from his staple and
ordered to follow the other prisoners, with Hendon.
The court or quadrangle was stone-paved and open to the sky. The
prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and were
placed in file, f:tanding, with their backs against the wall. .i'i. rope was
1861-88]
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SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEJfENS.
297
stretched in :front of them, and they were also guarded by their officers.
It was a chill and lowering morning, and a light snow which had fallen
during tbe night whitened the great empty space and added to the gen-
eral dismalness of its aspect. )row and then a wintry wind shivered
through the place and sent the snow eddying hither and thither.
In the centre of the court stood two women, chained to posts. ....\.
glance showed tbe king that thest" \yere his gooll friend;.;. He shud-
dered, and said to himself: .. Alack they are not gone free, as I had
thought. To think that such as these should know the lash !-,-in Eng-
land! Ay, there's the shame of it-not in Heathenesse, hut Chris6an
England! They will be scourged; and I, whom they have comforted
and kindly entreated, must look on and see the great wrong 'done j it is
strange, so strange! that I, the very source of power in this broad realm,
am helpless to protect them. But let these mi
creant8 look well to them-
selves, for there is a day coming when I win require of thet1l a heavy
reckoning for this work. For every blow they strike no\", they shall
feel a hunùred, then."
A great gate swung open and a' crowcl of citizen
poured in. They
flocked around the Ì\'ro women, and hid them from the king'f; view. A
clergyman entered and passed through the crowd, and be also was bid-
den. The king now heard talking, back and forth, as if questions were
being asked and answered, but he could not make out what was said.
Kext there was a deal of bustle and preparation, and much passing and
repaf'sing of officials through that part of the crowd th3.t stood on the
further side of the women j and whilst this proceeded a deep hush grad-
ually fell upon the people.
Kow, by comrnallll, the masses parted and fell aside, and tbe king
saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones. Fagots had been
piled about the two women. anll a kneeling man was lighting them!
The women bowed their healls, and covered their faces with their
hands j tbe yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping
and crackling fagots, and wreaths of Llue smoke to stream away on the
wind; the clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer-just tben
two young girls came flying through the great gate, uttering piercing
screams, and tbrew tbemselyes upon the women at the stake. Instantly
tbey were torn away by tbe officers, and one of them was kept in a tigl
t
grip, but the other broke loose, fiaying she would die with her mother;
and before sbe could be stopped she had flung her arms abont her
mother's neck again. Sbe was torn away once more, alii I with ber gown
on fire. Two or three men held her, and the burning portion of her
gown was snatcbed off and thrO\vn flaming aside, she
truggling all the
while to free herself, and saying she would be alone in tbe worlJ, now,
and begging to be alIowed to die with her motber. Both the girls
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SAMUEL LA.NGHORNE CLEJIE_YS.
[1861-88
screamed continually, and fought for freedom; but suddenly this tumult
was drowned under a volley of heart-piercing shrieks of mort.al agony,-
the king glanced from the frantic girls to the stake, then turned away
and leaned his ashen face against the wall, and looked no more. He
said: "That which I have seen, in that one little moment, will ne\Ter go
out from my memory, but will abide there; and I shaH see it all the
days, and dream of it aU the nights, till I die. ,,-.- ould Goll I had been
blind! "
Hendon was watching the king. He said to himse1f, with satisfac-
tion: .. IIis disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth gentler.
If he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at these varlets,
and said he was king, and commanded that the women be turned loose
unscathed. Soon his delusion will pass away and be forgotten, and his
poor mind will be whole again. God speed the day I"
That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain over
night, who were being conveyed, under guard, to yarious places in tbe
kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes committed. The king con-
versed with these,-he had made it a point, from the beginning, to
instruct himself for the kingly office by questioning prisoners whenever
the opportunity offered,-and the tale of tbeir woes wrung his heart.
One of t.hem was a poor half-witted woman wbo had stolen a yard or
two of cloth from a weaver-she was to be hanged for it. Another was
a man who had heen accused of stealing a horse; be said the proof had
failed, and he had imagined that he was safe from the halter; but no-
be was hardly free before he was m-raigned for killing a deer in tbe
king's park; this was proved against him, and now he was on his way
to the gallows. There was a tradesman's apprentice whose case particu-
larly distressed the king; this youth
aid he found a IJawk, one evening,
that had escaped fro
its owner, and he took it home with him, imagin-
ing himself entitled to it; but tbe court convicted bim of stealing it, and
sentenced him to death.
The king ,vas furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon
to break jail and fly with him to 'Vestminster, so that he could mount
his throne and bold out his sceptre in mercy over these unfortunate peo-
ple and save their lives. "Poor child," sigbed Hendon, "these wofu]
tales ha
Te brought Lis malady upon him again-alack, but for this evil
bap, he would have been well in a litt1e time."
Among these prisoners was an old lawyer--a man with a strong face
and a dauntless mien. Three years past, be bad written a pamphlet
against the Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been
punished for it by tbe loss of his ears in the pillory, and degradation
from the bar, and in addition had been fined Æ.3,OOO and sentenced to
imprisonment for life. Lately be had repeated Lis offence; and in con-
1861-88]
SA.lllUEL LANGHORNE CLE.JIE
S.
299
sequence was now under sentence to lose what remained of his ears, pay a
fine of Æ5,OOO, be branded on both cheeks, and l'emain in prison for life.
, "These be honorable scars," he said, and turnp.d back his gray bail'
and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears.
The king's eye burned with passion. He said:
., None believe in me-neither wilt thou. But no matter-within the
compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that have
dishonored tbee, and shamed the Eng]ish name, sha11 be swept from the
statute books. The world is made wrong; kings should go to school to
their own laws, at times, and so learn mercy."
THE FEFD.
[Adventw'es of Huckleberry Finn. By,JIark Twain. 1885.]
O OL. G RAKG ERFORD was a gentleman, you Bee. He was a gentle-
man an over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the
saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the
Widow Douglass said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first
aristocracy in our town; and pal' he always said it, too, though he
warn't no more quality than a mudcat, himself. CoL Grangerford was
very taU and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign
of red in it anywheres; he was clean-shaved every morning, all over his
thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of
nostrils, and a high nose, and heayy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of
eyes, sunk
o deep that they seemed like they was looking out of cav-
erns at you, as you may f:ay. His forehead was high, and his hair was
black and straight, and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long
and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit
from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look
at it; and on Sunday::; he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it.
Re carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no
frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. lIe was as
kind as he couhl be-you could feel that, you know, and
o you had
confidence. Sometime
he smiled, and it was good to see; but when be
straightened 11Ïmse1f up like a libert.\
-pole, and the lightning begun to
flicker out from under his e.'Tebrows you wanted to climb a tree first,
and find out what the matter was afterwards. TIe didn't ever have to
teII anybody to mind their mannel's-everybod,v was always good man-
nered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; he
was sunshine most alwaYH-I mean he made it seem like good weather.
300
SA
}[UEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.
[1861-88
When he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for a half a minute,
and that was enough j there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a
week.
'Vhen him and the old lady come down in the morning, aU the fam-
ily got TIp OTIt of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set
down again ti11 they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the
sideboard where the decanters was, and mixed a glass of bitters and
handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and
Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said: "Our duty to you,
sir, and madam" j and they bowed the least bit in the world and said:
" Thank you"; and
o they drank, aU three, and Bob and Tom poured
a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whiskey or apple
brandy in tbe bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck,
and we drank to the old people too.
Bob was the oldest, and Tom next. Tall, beautiful men with very
broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black bail' and black eyes.
They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman,
and wore broad Panama hat
.
Then there was :Miss Charlotte, she was twenty-five, and tall and
proud and grand, but as good as she could be, when she warn't stirred
up; but when she was. she had a look that would make 'you wilt in
your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful.
So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was
gentle and sweet, like a Jove, and she was only twenty.
Each person had their own nigger tt> wait on them-Buck too.
fy
nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having any-
body ùo anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.
This was all there was of the family, now j but there used to be more
-three sons j they got killed; and Emmeline that died.
The old gentleman owned a lot of farms, ant} over a hunclred niggers.
Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or
fifteen miles around. and stay five or six days. and have such junket-
ings rounù about and on the river, ,and dances and picnics in the woods,
day-times, and balls at the house: nights. These people was mostly kin-
folks of the family. The men brought their gUllS with them, It was a
handsome lot of quality, I tell you.
There was another clan of arjstocracy around there-five or six fami-
1ies-mostl,Y of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned,
and well born, anù rich and grand, as the tribe of Grangerfords. The
Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing,
which was about two mile above our house j so sometimes when I went
up there with a lot of our folh.s I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons
there: on their fine horf"es.
1861-88]
SAJfUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.
301
One day Buck and me was away out in the woods, hunt.ing, and
heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says:
"Quick! Jump for the woods!"
We done it, amI then peeped down the wooJs through the leaves.
Pretty soon a splendid young man came galloping down the road, set-
ting his horse easy and looking like a suldier. lIe ha.1 his gun across
his pomme1. I had seen him before. It was young IIarney Shepherd-
son. I heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's bat tumbled
off fl'OlIl his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place
where we was hid. But we didn't wait. \\T e started through the woods
on a run. The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder, to
dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun j
and then he rode away the way he come-to get his hat, I reckon, but I
couldn't see. 'Ye never stopped running till we got home. The old
gentleman's eyes blazed a minute-'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged-
then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kina of gentle:
"I don't like that shooting from behinJ a bush. '\Vhy didn't you
step into the road, my hoy? "
"The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage."
:Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was
telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two
young men looked clark, but never said nothing.
iiss Sophia she turned
pale, but the color came back when she found the man warn't hurt.
Soon as I could get Buck down by tbe corn-cribs under the trees by
ourselves, I says:
"Did you want to kill him, Buck?"
I. 'V ell, I bet I did."
" What did he ùo to you? .,
" Him? lie never done nothing to me."
II 'VeIl, then, what did you want to kill him for?"
"'Vh.y nothing-only it's on af'count of the feud."
'I \Vhat's a feud? "
"'Vhy, where was you raised? J:ìon't you know what a feud is? "
"Never heard of it before-tell me about it."
"'VelJ," says Buck. "a feud is this way. ..A.. man has a quarrel with
another man, and kills him j then that other man's brother kills h
.m,-
then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another j then the
cousins chip in-and by-and-by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no
more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time."
" nas this one been going on long, Buck? .,
" Well, I should reckon I it started thirty year ago, or som'ers along
there. There wa:-; troub1e 'bout something and then a lawsuit to settle
it j and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the
302
SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLE.J.YENS.
[1861-88
man that won the suit-which he would naturally do, of course. Any-
body would."
" 'Vhat was the trouble about, Buck ?-lan<.1 ? "
"I reckon maybe-I don't know."
" 'V ell, who done the shooting ?-was it a Grangerford or a Shepherd-
son ? " .
"Laws, how do Iknow? it was so long ago."
,. Don't an.rbody know? "
"Oh, .P's, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old folks; but
they don't know. now, what the row was about in the first place."
"Has there been many killed, Buck? "
" Yes-right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill.
Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz be don't
weigh much anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and
Tom's been hurt once or twice."
" Has anybodJ been killed this year, Buck?"
" Yes, we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago, my
cousin Bud, fourteen year olù, was riding through the woods, on t'other
side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was
blame' foolishness, and in a 10nesOlne place he hears a horse a-coming
behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with
his gun iR his hand anù his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead
of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bnd 'lowed he could outrun
him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man
a-gaining all the time; so at last Bltd seen it warn't any nse, so he
stopped and faceù around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you
know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't
git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid
him out."
"I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck."
"I reckon he warn't a coward. Not by a blame'
igbt. There ain't a
coward amongst them Shepherdsons-not a one. And there ain't no cow-
ards amongst the Grangerfords, either. 'Vhy, that old man kep' up his
end in a fight one day, for a half an hour, against three Grangerfords, and
come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and
got behind a little wood-pile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the
bullets; but the Grangerfords staid on their horses and capered around
the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered a.way a.t them.
Him and his horse both went borne pretty leak}? and crippled, but the
Grangerfords had to be fetched home-and one of 'em was dead anù
another died the next Jay. No, sir, if a body's ont bunting for cowards,
he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz
they don't breed any of that kÙ
d."
1861-88]
SAJIUEL LANGHORNE CLE,lfIENS.
303
X ext Sunday we aU went to church, about three mile, everybody
a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept
them between their knees or stood them bandy against tbe wall. The
Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching-aB
about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it
was a good sermon, and tliey an talked it over going home, and had
such a pow'erfullot to say about faith, and good works, and free grace,
and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem
to me to be one of tbe roughest Sundays I had run across 'yet.
About an hour after dinner everybody was Jozing around, some in
their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck
and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun, sound asleep. I
went up to our room. and judged I would take a nap myse1f. I found
that sweet
Iiss Sophia standing in her door. which was next to ours,
and she took me in her room and shut tlJe door very soft, and asked me
if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would do some-
thing for bel' and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said
she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church, between
two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go tbere and fetch it to
bel', and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and
slipped off up tbe road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except
maybe a bog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs
likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. If 'you notice,
most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is
different.
Says I to myself, something's up-it ain't natural for a girl to be in
such a sweat about a Testament; so I give it a shake, and out drops a
little piece of paper with "Half-past tu;o 77 wrote on it with a pencil. I
ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't make any-
thing out of that, so I put the paper in the book again. and wben I got
home and up stairs, tbere was
Iiss Sophia in her door waiting for me.
She pul1ed me in and shut tbe door: then she looked in the Te
tament
till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and
before a body could think, she 12Tabbed me
nd give me a squeeze, and
S:1id I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She was
mighf.'- red in the face, for a minute, and bel' eyes lighted up and it
made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I
got my breatb I asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me
jf I bad read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could read writing.
and I told her" no, only coarse-band," and then she said the paper warn't
anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and I might go and play
uow.
I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon
304
SA1'úUEL LAhGHORNE CLE.lffENS
l18Gl-88
I noticed that my nigger was followi ng along behind. 'Vhen we was
out of sight of the house, he looked back and around a second, and then
comes a-running. and says:
., '11ars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp, I'll sLow you a
whole stack 0' water-moccasins."
Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he saiù that yesterda,V. He oughter
know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting
for them. 'Vhat is he up to anyway? So I says:
,. All right, trot ahead."
I fol1owed a nalf a mile, then he struck out m,'er the swamp and
waded ankle deep as much as another half mile. 'Ve come to a little
flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes
and vines, and he says:
" You sbove right in dan, jist a few steps, Mars Jawge, dah's whah
dey is. 1's seed 'm befo', I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."
Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees
hid him. I poked into the place a-ways, and come to a little open patch
as big as a bedroom, all hung around with vines, and found a man lay-
ing there asleep-and by jings it \Vas my olel Jim!
I don't want to talk much about the next clay. I reckon 1'11 cut it
pretty short. I waked up about dawn. and was agoing to turn over and
go to sleep again, when I noticed bow still it was-didn't seem to be
anybody stirring. rrhat warn't usua1. Next I noticed tnat Buck was
up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs--
nobody around; everything as still a
a mouse. Just the same outside;
thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes across
my Jack, and says:
,. 'Vhat's it all about? "
Says be:
"Don't you know, Mars Jawge? "
"No," says I, ., I don't."
""\Vell, den. :Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed sbe has. She run off in de
night, sometime-nohody don't know jis' when-run off to git married
to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you kno\v-leastways, so dey 'spec.
De fambly foun' it out, 'bout half an hour ago-may be a little mo'-en
I tell you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en
hosses you never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up de rela-
tions, en ole ,Mars Sanl en de Loys tuck <ley guns en rode up de river
road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost
de river wid :Miss Sophia. I reck'n c1ey's gwine to be mighty rough
ti mes."
"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."
" 'V ell I reck'n he did! Dey warn't gWllle to mIX you up In it.
1861-88]
K4JfUEL LANGlIORSE CLEJIEX8.
305
Iarð Buck he loaded up his gun en "lowed he's gwine to fetch home a
Shepherdson or bust. Wen, dey"ll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en
you bet you he'n fetch one ef he gits a cbanst."
I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By-and-by I begin to
hear guns a good ways off. "\Vhen I come in sight of tbe log store and
the wood-pile where the steamùoats lands, I worked along under the
trees and brush tiJ] I got tu a goo(l place, and then I clumb up into
the forks of a cotton-wood that was out of reach, and watched. There
was a wood-rank four foot high, a little ways in front of the tree, and
first I was going to hidc behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn't.
There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the
open place before the log store, cUð
ing and yel1ing, and tJ'
-ing to get at
a couple of young chaps that was 'hehind the wood-rank alongside of
tbe steamboat landing-but they couldn't come it. E\'ery time one of
them showed himself on the river side of the wooel-pile he got sbot at.
The two boys w:ts squatting back to back behind the pile, so they
could watch both ways.
By-and-by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They
started riding towards the
tore; then up gets one of the boys, draws a
steaùy bead over the wooù-rank, anù ùrops one of them out of his sad-
dle. All the men jumped off of their horses anù grabbed the hurt one
and started to carry him to the store; and tlwt minute the two boys
started on the run. They got half-way tu the tree I was in before the
men noticed. rrhen the men see them, amI jumped on their horses and
took out after them. They gaine(l on the boys, but it didn't do no
guod. tbe boys had too go('\cl a start; they got to the wood-pile that was
in front of rn,y tree,
md slipped in behind it, and so they bad the bulge
on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, anù the other was a
slim young chap about nineteen years old.
The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as
they was out of Right, I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't
know what to make of my ,"oice coming ont of the tree. at first. He
was awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know
when tbe men come in sight again; said they was np to some de\Yi1ment
or other-wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I
dasn't come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him
and his cousin Joe (tlwt was the other young chap) would make up for
this day, yet. lIe said his father and his two bl'Otbers was killed, and
two or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherd
lms laid for them, in
ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their
relations-the Shepherdsons was too strung for them. I asked him
what was become of young Harney and
[is.s Sophia. He said they'd
got across the river and was safe. I wa::; glad of that; but the way
VOL. IX.-20
306
SAJfUEL LA,XGHORNE CLEJ.1fE}{S.
[1861-88
Buck did take on because he didn't manage to kin Harney that day he
shot at him-I hain't ever heard anything like it.
All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns-the
men bad slipped around through the woods and come in from behind
without their horses! The boys jumped for the river-both of them
hurt-and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank
shooting at them and singing ont, '- Kill t11em, kill them!" It made
me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't agoing to tell all that hap-
pened-it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I
hadn't ever come ashore that night, to see such thing-
. I ain't ever
going to get shut of them-lots of times I dream about them.
I staid in tbe tree till it begun to get clark, afraid to come down.
Sometimes I heard guns away off in the 'woods; and twice I seen little
gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the
trouble was still agoing on. I was mighty down-heartell; so I made up
my minll I woulùn't ever go anear that house again, because I reckoned
I was to blame, somehow. I jurlged that that piece of paper meant that
:Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two and rnn
off; and I judged I ought to toll 1 her father about that paper and the
curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up and
thi
awful mess wouldn't ever happeneJ.
'Yhen I got down out of the tree, I crept along down the river bank
a piece. and found the two boùies laying in the edge of the water, and
tugged at them till I got them ashore: then I covered up their faces,
and got away as quick as I could. I.cried a little when I was covering
up Buck's face. for he was mighty good to me.
It 'was just dark, now. I never went near the houfo;e, but struck
through the woods anù made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his islanrl,
so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and cro\,:deù through the wil-
lows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country-the
raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath
for most a minute. Then I raised a yen. A voice not twenty-five foot
from me, says:
"Good Jan'! is dat you, hone,y? Doan' make no noise."
It 'wa
Jim's voice-nothing ever sounded so good before. I run
along the bank a piece and got aboarù, and Jim he grabbed me and
hugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says:
"Laws hless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin. Jack's
been heah, he say he reck'n you's hen shot, kase you didn' come home
no mo'; so 1's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards lle mouf er
de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack
comes agin en tens me for certain you 1.8 dead Lawsy, 1's mighty glaù
to git you back agin, honey."
1861-88]
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
301
I says:
,. All right-that's mighty good: they won't find me, and the.y'll
think I've been kil1ed, and floated down the river-there's something up
there that'l1 help them to think so-so don.t you lose no time, Jim, but
just shove off for the big water as fa
t as ever you can."
I never felt easy ti11 the raft "vas two mi1e below there and out in the
middle of the
fississippi.
2ugu
ta <fban
ITI íl
on.
BORN near Columbus, Ga.. 1885.
THE :\IASTERFUL STYLE OF PROPOSAL.
[Beulah. A .Not'el. 1859.]
T HE day was duB, misty, and gusty. .AJI the morning there had
been a driving
outheasterly rain; but toward noon there was a
lull. The afternoon was heavy and threatening, while armies of dense
clouds drifted bpfore the wind. Dr. Asbury had not yet returned from
his round uf evening visits; Mrs. Asbury had gone to the Asylum to
see a sick cbild, and Georgia was dining with her husband's mother.
Beulah came borne from school more than usually fatigued: one of the
as
istant teachers was indisposed, and sbe bad done double work to
relieve ber. She sat before her desk, writing industriously on an article
she bad promised to complete before tbe end of the week. Her head
ached; the lines grew dim, and
he laid aside her manuscript and leaned
her face on her palms. The heautiful lashes lay agaiust her brow, for
the eyes were raised to tbe portrait above her desk, and she gazed up at
the faultless features with an expression of sad bopelessness. Years
bad not filled the void in bel' heart with other treasures. At this bour
it aeh'ed with its own de::;olation, and extending her anns imploringly
toward the picture, sbe exclaimed
orrowfull.v :
., 0 lIlY God, how long m Ul5t I wait? Oh. how long!"
She opened the desk, and taking out a key, left her room, and slowly
ascended to the third stm',v. Charon crept up the steps after LeI'. She
unlocked the apartment which
[rs. Asbury had given into bel' charge
some time before, and raising one of tbe windows, looped baek the beavy
blue curtains which gave a sombre hue to all within. From this ele-
vated position she could sce the
tormy, sullen waters of the bay break-
ing against the wharves, and bear their hoarse muttering as they ro('ked
308
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSO
V,
[1861-88
themselves to rest after the scourging of the tempest. Gray douds hung
low, and scudded northward; everything looked ùuJl and gloomy. She
turned from the window and glanced around the room. It was at an
times a painful pleasure to come here, and now, particularly, the interior
impressed her sadly. Here were the paintings and statues she had long
been so familiar with, and here, too, the melodeon which at rare inter-
vals she opened. The house was very quiet; not a sound came up from
below; she raised the lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prel-
ude. Echoes, seven or eight years old, suddenly fen on her ears; she
had not heard one note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It
was a favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught bel', and
now after seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and as her
trembling voice rolled through the bouse, she seemed to l1ve the old
da.ys over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had over-
estimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images
around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her grief.
She could not weep; her eyes were dry, anù there was an intolera-
ble weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe, rigid and
woful; she put her hands over her eyes, and drooped her face on the
melodeon. Gloom and despair crouchE'd at her side, their gaunt hands
tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and bowled round the
corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless seas, driving
lonely barks down to ruin, and strewing the main with ghastly upturned
faces. She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark hour of trial, and
she struggled desperately with the p11antoms that clustered ahout her.
Then there came other sounds: Charon's shrill, frantic bark and whine
of delight. For years she had not heard that peculiar bark, and started
up in wonder. On the threshold stood a tall form, with a straw hat
drawn down over the features, but Chamn's paws were on the shoulders,
and his whine of delight ceased not. lie fell down at his master's feet
and caressed them. Beulah looked an instant, and sprang into the door
way, bolding out her arms, with a wild, joyful cry:
"Come at last! Oh. thank God! Come at last!" Her face was
radiant, her eyes burned, her glowing lips parted.
Leaning against the door, with his arms crossed over his broad chest,
Dr. Hartwell stood, silently regarding her. She came close to him, and
her extended arms trembled: still be did not move, did not speak.
"Ob, I knew you would come j and, thank God, now you are here.
Come home at last! "
She looked up at him so eagerly; but he said nothing. She stood an
instant irresolute, then threw her arms around his neck, and laid her
head on his bosom, clinging closely to him. He did not return the
embrace, but looked down at the beaming face, and sighed; then he put
1861-88]
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
309
his hand softly on her head, and smoothed tbe rippling bail'. A bril-
liant smile broke oyer her features, as she felt the remembered touch of
his fingers on her forehead, and she repeated in the low tones of deep
gladness:
"I knew you would come; ób, sir, I knew JOu would come back to
me ! "
"How did you know it, child?" he said, for the first time.
Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of tbe loved voice she had 80
longed to hear, and she answered, tremblingly:
"Because for weary 'years I have prayed for your return. Oh, only
God knows how fen"ently I prayed; and He has heard me."
She felt his strong frame quiver: he folded his arms about her, clasped
her to his heart with a force tbat almost suffocated her, and bending his
head, kissed her passionately. Suddenly his arms relaxed their c1asp;
holding her off, he looked at her keenly, and said:
"Beulah Benton, do you belong to the tyrant Ambition, or do you
belong to that tyrant, Guy Hartwell? Quick, child, decide."
" I have decided," said she. Her cheeks burned; her lashes drooped.
" 'Veil ! "
" 'V ell , if I am to have a t.yrant, I believe I prefer belonging to you."
TIe frowned. She smiled and looked up at him.
" Beulah, I don't want a grateful wife. Do you understand me?"
" Yes, sir."
Just then his eyes rested on the portrait of Creola, which hung oppo-
site. He drew back a
te
anù she saw the blood leave his lips, as he
gazed upon it. Lifting hi
hand, he said sternly:
" Ah, what pale spectres that face cans up from the grim, gray ruins
of memory! Doubtless you know my miserable history. I married
her thinking I had won her love. She soon undeceived me. ".,. e sep-
arated. I once asked JOU to be my wife, and you told me you would
rather die. Child, ,yearf: have not dealt lightly with me since then. I
am no longer a young man. Look here." lIe threw off hi
hat, and
passing his fingers through bis curling bail', she saw, here and there,
streaks of sih.er. He watched her as she noted it. She saw, too, how
haggard he looked, now that the light fen full on his pale face. The
splendid, dark eyes were unalterpd, and as they 100ke(1 down into hers,
tears gathered on her lashes, her 1ip8 trembled, and throwing bel' arms
again rounù his neck, she laid her face on his shoulder.
"Beulah, do you cling to me because you love me? or because you
pity me? or because you are grateful to me for past love and kindness?
Answer me, Beulah."
"Because you are my alL"
" How long have I been your all ? "
310
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
[1861-88
"Ob, longer than I knew myself!" was the evasive reply.
He tried to look at her, but sbe pressed her face close to his shoulder,
and would not suffer it.
" Beulah. "
" Sir. "
'.Oh, don't' sir' me, child! I want to know the truth, and you will
not satisfy me."
" I have told you the truth."
"Have you learned that fame is an icy shadow? that gratified ambi-
tion cannot make you happy? Do you love me? "
" Yes."
"Better than teaching school, and writing learned articles '? "
" Rather better, I believe, sir."
" Beulah."
" 'V ell, sir."
"Y ou have changed in many things, SlDce we parted, nearly SIX
years ago."
"Yes, I thank God, I am changed. :\fy infidelity was a source of
many sorrows; but tbe clouds have passed from my mind; I bave
found the truth in Holy \Vrit." Now she raised her head, and looked
at him very earnestly.
"Child, does your faith make you happy?"
" Yes, the universe could not purchase it," she answered solemnly.
There was a brief silence. He put both hanùs on bel' shoulders, and
stooping down, kissed her brow.. ,
" And JOU prayed for me, Beulah?"
" Yes, evening and morning. Prayed that you might be shielded from
all dangers, and brought safely home. And there was one other thing
'which I prayed for not less fervently than for your return: that God
would melt your hard, bitter heart, and gi ve you a knowledge of tbe truth
of the Christian religion. Oh, sir, I thought sometimes that pOSE-ibly you
might die in a far-off land, and then I shouhl see you no more, ill time
or eternity! and oh, tbe thought nearly drove me wild! My guardian,
my all, let me not have prayed in vain." Sbe clasped his hand in hers,
and looked up pleadingly into the loved face; and, for the first time in
her life, sbe saw tears glistening in the burning eyes. He said nothing,
howe\Ter; took her face in his hands, and scanned it earnestly, as if read-
ing all that had passed during his long absence. Presently he asked:
"So you would not marry Lindsay, and go to Congress. Why not?"
"Who told you anything about him?"
" No matter. 'Vh,v did not you marry him? "
"Because I did not love him."
'I He is a noble-hearted, generous man."
1861-88]
THEODORE TILTON.
311
" Yes, very; I do not know his superior."
" What? "
" I mean what I say," said she, firmly.
He smiled, one of his genial, irresistible
miles; and she smiled also,
despite herself. .. Give me your hand, Beulah."
She did so very quietly.
"There-is it mine? "
" Y e
, sir, if you want it."
" And may I claim it as soon as I choose?"
" Yes, sir."
She bad never seen him look as he did then. His face kindled, as if
in a broad flash of light; the eyes dazzled her, and she turned her face
away, as he drew her once more to his bosom, and exclaimed:
" At last, tben, after years of sorrow, and pain, and bitterness, I shall
be bappy in my own home; shan have a wife, a companion, who loves
me for myself alone. Ah, Beulah, my idol, I win make you happy! "
'Qtl)cotJorc (tíltott.
BORN in New York, N. Y., 1s'3.5.
GOD S
\. VE THE NATION.
[The Sexton's Tale, and Other Poems. 1867.-Thou and L 1880.]
THOt:' who ordainest, for the land's salvation.
Famine, and fire, and sword, and lamentation,
ow unto Thee we Jift our supplication-
God save the Kation!
By the great sign foretold of Thy appearing,
Coming in clouds. while mortal men stand fearing,
Show us, amici the smoke of battle, clearing,
Thy chariot nearing.
By the brave blood that floweth like a river,
Hurl Thou a thunderbolt from out Thy quiver!
Break Thou the strong gates! every fetter shiver!
Smite and deliyer!
Slay Thou our foes, or turn them to derision!
Then, in the blood-red Vallcy of Decision,
Clothe Thou the fields, as in the prophet's vision,
With peace Elysian!
312
THEODORE TILTOK.
THE FLIGHT FROM THE CONVENT.
I SEE the star-lights quiver,
Like jewels in the river;
The bank is hill with sedge;
'Vhat if I slip the edge?
I thought I knew the way
By night as well as day:
How soon a lover goes astray!
The place is F-omewhat lonely-
I mean, for just one only,
I brought the boat ashore
An hour ago, or more.
'Veil, I will F-it and wait;
She fixed the hour at eight:
Good angels! bring her not too late!
To-morrow's tongues that name her
Will hardly dare to blame her:
A lily still is white
Through aU the dark of night:
The morning sun shall show
A bride as pure as snow,
Whose wedding all the world shall know.
o Gorl! that I should gain her!
But what can so detain her?
Hist, yelping cur! thy bark
.Will fright her in the dark.
'Vlmt! striking nine? that's fast!
Is some one walking past?
Oho! so thou art come at last!
Now, why thy long delaying?
Alack! thy heads and praying!
If thou, a saint, dost hope
To kneel auel kiss the Pope,
Then I, a sinner. know
"\Vhere sw('eter kisses grow-
Nay, now, just once before we go!
Nay, twice. and by St. Peter
The second was the sweeter!
Quick, now. and in the boat!
Good-by. old tower and moat!
)Iay mildew from the sky
Drop blindness on the eye
That lurks to watch our going by!
o saintly maid! I told thee
No convent walls should hold thee.
[1861-88
1861-88]
THEODORE TILTON.
313
Look! yonder comes the moon!
We started not too soon.
See how we pass that mill!
'What! is the night too chill ?
Then I must fold thee closer still!
.
SIR
IARXA.DUKE'S )IUSINGS.
I WON a noble fame;
But, with a sudden frown,
The people snatched my crown,
And, in the mire, trod down
:My lofty name.
I bore a bounteous pnrse;
And beggars by the way
Then blessed me, day by day;
But I. grown 1)001' as they,
Have now their curse.
I gained what men cal1 friends;
But now their love is hate,
And I have learned, too late,
How mated minds unmate,
And friendship ends.
I claspen a woman's breast,-
As if her heart, I knew,
Or fancied, would be true,-
'Yho proved, alas! she too!
False like the rest.
I now am all bereft,-
As when some tower cloth fal1.
'Yith battlement, and wall,
And gate. and bIidge, and all.-
And nothing left.
But I account it worth
All pangs of fair hopes crossed-
All loves and honors 10st,-
To gain the heavcns, at cost
Of losing earth.
So. lest I he inclined
To relllh'r ill for ill,-
Henceforth in mc instil,
o God. a sweet good-will
To all mankind.
314
JVILLIA.M HA YES JV ARD.
[1861-88
ffiíllíal1t l
arcø [[{arll.
BORY in Abington, )Iass., 18:55.
ELEl\IE
TS OF TRUE POETRY.
[Literature and Religion.-Addres8 before the N. I: Congregational Club. 1886.]
\,THAT, then, is poetry? It is the verbal expression of thought
V V under the paramount control of the principle of beauty. The
thought must be as beautiful as possible; the expression must be as
beautiful as possible. Essential beauty and formal beauty must be
wedded, and the union is poetry. Other principles than beauty may
govern a literary production. The purpose may be, first, ab8ol11te clear-
ness. rrhat will not make poetry. It may make a good mathematical
demonstration; it may make a good news item; but not poetry. The
predominant sentiment may be ethical. That may give us a sermon,
but it will not give a poem. A, poem is :first of all beautiful, beautiful
in its content of thought, and beautiful in it
expression through words.
A writer fails of producing a poem if he puts anything before beauty in
the thought, or anything before beauty in its expression. The beauty
of thought is :first anJ most important; in it rests the chief genius. But
the beauty of expression, being formal, is more quickly grasped anel
ea:;ily analyzed, and is, to the popular notion, the chief element in a
poem. It is essential, but it is not the chief essential. ..A, prose poem
is no poem, but a prosy poem is neittler poetry nor prose.
The first and chief element in a poem is beauty of thought, and that
beauty may relate to any department, material, mental. or spiritual, in
which beauty can reside. Bucll poetry may describe a misty desert., a
flower.'
mead, a feminine form, a ruddy sky, a rhythmic waterfall, a
blue-bird's flutings. receding thunder, a violet'R scent, the spicy tang of
apples, the thrill of clasped arms and a lover's kiss. Or it ma.y rise
higber, and rest in the relations of thing
, in similes and metaphors; it
ma:,- infuse longing and love and passion; it may descant fair reason
and meditative musing. Or. in highest flight, beauty may range over
tbe summits of lofty purpo:-:.e, inspiring patriotism, devotion, sacrifice,
till it becomes one with the love of man and the love of God, even as
the fading outline of a mountain melts into the LIne sky which envelops
it. All this will make tbe substance of poetry.
Not tbat the thought of a poem, in all its parts, must be beautiful.
It must be beautiful as far as possible in its parts, and unfailingly beau-
tiful in its total effect. There may be level plains between the moun-
tains. There may even be ugly crags. But all this is only the foil to
1861-88J
WILLIAJ[ HAYES WARD.
315
the jewels, the discord which enhances the harmony. The symphony is
beautiful notwithstanding the discord; the poem is beautiful, for the
Ilily is whiter and sweeter if we catch a glimpse of the dirt at its roots;
a coarse face hints there is something higher than human in tbe beauty
of fair women; and we must catch a glimpse of the blood of horrid war
if we wish to know how dear is peace. and how sweet is home, and how
grand it is to die for liberty and native land.
But this must be remembered, tbat beauty does not always lie along
a single level. In f'eeking one beauty the poet must not contradict
another. He must not pursue his beauty when it flies into a sandy
waste or a noisome fen. Physical beaut.y embraced in the arms of vapid
thought or sickly sentiment. or evil purpose, becomes ugly and adulter-
ate. Dominant oyer an other beauty is moral beauty. An highest
flights of poetry must range in the empyrean. Gud is king everJywhere,
and his laws are supreme in beauty as in duty. You can no more con-
tradict God's law in the construction of a poem than in the course of a
planet.
The principles I have enunciated throw out not a few so-caned poems.
Cædmon's verse is not poetry, but a sermon of versified Scripture. Its
object was not beauty, hut memorized instruction. Pope's" Essay on
lan " is not a poem. To be sure it is in rhyme and couplets, all meas-
ured and hewed tù a gi,"en length. But its prime object is not to
express beauty, but wisdom--not wisdom as beauty-for wisdom is
beautiful; but wisdom as wisdom, keen, experienced. put into sharp,
epigmmmatic form. I hardly venture to say that Swinburne's "Do-
lores" or "Before Dawn ., is not poetry. for it does seek a certain kiud
of beauty. It runs purposely athwart an ethic beauty. The school led
by him haye given us a lesson in form, but they cannot be remembered
long. Their reed has a short gamut. It plays but two note;::"
lors and
Eros. There is nothing but hopeless death and the love of harlots.
The chief beauty of a poem is in its thought. On that I do not dwell.
But the beauty of expression, its formal beauty, is more obtrusi\-e, and
many imagine tbat it is this alone which makes a poem. Let it scan
and rhyme. or scan alone, and they incontinently imagine it to have
been breathed from Parnassus. But rhyme ane] scansion are not even
all tbe formal elements in poetry. The books do not tell us, and few
suspect, what are the other fine recurrences of consonant or vowel, in tbe
beginning or the middle of words, that make a line sweet to the ear and
delicious to the tongue.
316
WILLIAJI HAYES WARD
THE KEW CASTALIA.
[An Invocation. 1888.]
H AVE I not loved, dear Verse, the tinkling dance
Of thy sweet feet
'What master taught thy steps?
'Twas the free winds, the liberty of the clouds,
The balance of successive day and night,
The patter of the rain, the gay brook's rush,
The waxing and the waning of the llloon.
Thy feet are steady as the stately stars,
The pulsing tides have timed thy solemn rhythm;
Anon, thy steps, inwove with <<leftest art,
Trip the quick graces of the intricate dance;
Thou wallllerest in and out the vagrant ode,
:l\Iingling in lllcasured motion, swift or slow,
Th' alternate step pings of a double star,
The triple cadence of a flower-de-Iuce.
Out of a cavern on Parnas,>us' side,
Flows Castaly; and with the floo<<l out1>lown
From its deep heart of ice, the mountain's breath
Tempers the ardor of the Delphian ,'ale.
Beside the stream from the black mould upspringf::
Narcissus, robed in snow, with ruby crowne<<l.
Long ranks of crocus, humhle servitors,
But clad in purple. mark his downcast face.
The sward, moist from the flood, is pied with flowers,
Lily and vetch, lupine andm
lilot,
The hyacinth, cowslip, anel gay marigold,
"-hile on the border of the copse, sweet herbs,
Anise and thyme, breathe incense to the hay
And myrtle. Here thy home, fair :\Iuse! How soft
Thy step falls on the grass whose morning drops
Bedew thy feet! The blossoms hend but break
Kot, and thy fingers pluck the eglantine,
The privet and the bil1H'rry; or frame
A rustic whistle from a fresh-cut reed.
Here is thy home, dear :\[use, fed on these airs;
The hills, the founts, the woods. the sky are thine
But who are these? _\. company of youth
"['pon a tesselerl pavement in a court,
Under a marble statue of a muse.
Strew hot-house flowers before a mimic fount
Drawn from a faucet in a rockery.
,yith mutual admiration they repeat
Their bric-a-brackery of rococo verse,
Their versicles and icicles of song!
[1861-88
1861-88]
L YJlA.N ABBOTT.
317
'What know ye, verse-wrights, of the Poet's art?
"hat noble passion or what holy hcnt
Is stirred to frenzy whcn your eyes admire
The peacock feathers on a frescoed wall,
Or painted }Josie::; on a lady's fan?
Are thesc thinc only hards, young age, whose eyes
Are blind to He
wen and heart of man: whose blood
Is water, and not wine; unskilled in notes
Of liherty, and holy love of land,
.\.nd man, and all things beautiful; deep skilled
To Illlrnish wit in measured feet, to winù
A weary lalJyrinth of labored rhymes,
Anù cipher verses on an abacus 1
f., fl1\a n
bbott.
BOH
in Roxbury, )lass., 1
.
THE BOOK OF PRO:\IISE.
[Ill Aid of Faith. 1886.]
T HE Bible is not a book, hut a library: perhaps I should rather say
a literature. It is composed of sixty-six different books, written
by between fort,\' and fifty different authors; written centuries apart. in
different languages, to different peoples, for different purposes, in differ-
ent literary forms. It is the selected literature of fifteen centuries: it
includes law, history, poetry, fiction, biograpby, and philosophy. It is
to be read as a literature, interpreted as a literature, judged as a litera-
ture. One may therefore reject a book from tbis collection of literature
and yet believe in the literature. It is not like a painting, which either
is or is not the work of one master; it is a gallery of paintings, in which
some works may be originals and others copie
. To believe in the Bible
is one thing, to believe in the canonicity of e\"ery book in the Bible is
a very different thing. Luther belie\"ed in the Bible, though he rejected
the Epistle of James, and Dr. Adam Clarke believed in the Bible, though
he rejected Solomon's Song. .
But although tbe Bible is not a book, yet this literature possesses a
unity other than that given to it by binder's board
. It is not a mere
aggregation of books. A common spirit animate
. a common character
belongs to it. If it were not so, it would never have borne the sem-
blance of a book for so Inany years and in so many minds. These literary
318
LYMAN ABBOTT.
[1861-88
remains of fifteen centuries of Jewish history were not collected together
by an ecclesiastical council, nor by one authorized editor. Indeed, no
one knows how either the collection of Old Testament books or that of
the New Testament books was made. Each cullection may almost be
said to have made itself. The books came together by a proces::; of nat-
ural affinity. There was, there is, something in commOll in the books
of law and poetry, of history and fiction, of biography awl philosoph."
,
wbich unites them j there is in this literature a principle of attraction,
of cohesion, which is moral, not mechanical or ecclesiastical. The writ-
ings of
loses, of Isaiah, of David, of Pan], of the unknown author of
the books of Kings and of the unknown author of the book of Hebrews,
have certain characteristics in common, a certain spirit which unifies
them in one book. I llaye said that the Bible is not a book, but a liter-
ature j I will now say that this literature is a book: not merely because
its various writings are bound together in one volume, but because they
are animated with one and the same life. It is this life which makes
the literature sacred, and the sacredness of the different parts of this
literature is exactly proportioned to the measure of this life which they
respectively contain. It is least in such a chapter as the 21st chapter
of Josbua: it is greatest in such a chapter as the l03d Psalm.
Following this line of thonght a little further, I think we can see, if
we reflect a little. that the characteristic which unites all this literature
in one homogeneous book is promise. It is all a literature of promise.
Promise is the golùen thread w 11 ich binds aU these books together in
one common book. This is the natuml affinit.,
which selected and com-
bined in one library these literary remain::; of fifteen centuries. The
Bible i:..;, at least it claims to be, tbe promise of God to his children,
whereby TIe bestows upon them what otherwise they never could have
possessed, for want of knowledge that it was theirs to possess.
This claim is indicated in the titles Old Testament and New Testa-
ment. A testament is a covenant or agreement. The Bible is composed
of two covenants or agreements, by which God confers upon man tbat
of which otherwise he would know nothing. It is the will and testa-
ment b,v which a Father bequeaths an inheritance to his children. This
claim is indicated by its structure. Its first five books are books of
law; but all its commandments are commandments with promise, and
to every' one is attacbed the condition, If ye he willing and obedient, ye
shall eat the goad of the land. This. characteristic of the law is empha-
sized in the closing chapter of Deuteronomy: "I have set before you
life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that thon and
thy seed may live." Its historical books are not the record of great
national achievements; they are n0t the story of the building and the
life of a nation j tbey are the record of God's fulfilment of his promises
1861-88]
LYMA
V ABBOTT.
319
to the people of promise and of their failure to fulfil their promises, and
of the disastrous results in their national life. The poetical books are
also prophetical books, for Hebrew poetry is prophecy j the song of the
prophet, whether he is an haiah mounting like the lark above the storm
into the clear sunlight abO\-e, or a Jeremiah singing like the nightingale
a song in the night, is always a song of promise.
The life of Christ is the story of the beginning of the fulfilment of
promises which had cheered the faithful in the darkest hours of J udea's
apostasy and ruin: the letters of Paul are tbe unfolding of that fulfil-
ment in spiritual experience, e\Ter pointing to a richer and yet richer
fulfilment in the ever increasing crescendo movement of the future; and
the literature of promise ends with an apocalyptic vision of the perfect-
ing but ne\'er perfected fulfilment in the latter days. If we turn from
the structure to the contents of this literature, this promise character is
even more apparent. The Bible is like a symphony, weaving endless
variations around one simple theme, which, obscure at first, grows
stronger and clearer, until finally the whole orchestra takes it up in one
magnificent choral, conquering all obstacles and breaking through all
hidings. .Abraham is beckoned out of the land of idolatry by the finger
of promise j Joseph is cheered in danger and in prison by the memory
of a dream of promise;
loses is called by promise from his herding in
the wilderness to lead a nation of promise out of bondage into a prom-
ised land; Joshua is called to his captaincy with reiterated promises;
Gideon is inspired for his campaigning by repeated promises; David is
sustained in the cave of Adullam, and strengthened in the palace in
Jerusalem by promise j from Isaiah to ,Malachi the note of promise.
before broken and fragmentary, sounds without a pause; the shepherds
are brought to the Christ by an angelic message of promise j he begins
his ministry by a sermon at Nazareth, which is a promise of glad tidings
to the poor. and ends it in his ascension with a promise of his return;
Paul lives on promise as on manna heaven-descended, declaring, in the
midst of great tribulations, " We are saved by hope j for what a man
seeth why doth he yet bope for?" and John closes the canon with a
book whose glory is like the glory of a setting sun, which promises a
clear to-morrow.
320
AMANDA THEODOSIA JONES.
lnantJa
IJcotJo
ía 1oncø.
BORS in Bloomfield, Ontario Co" Y. Y., 1835.
PRAIRIE ::;Ul\DIER.
rFrom "A Prairie Idyl, and Otller Poems." 1882.]
B EGAN a crazy wind to blow;
Loomed up a black and massy cloud;
Fell down the volumeò floods that flow
With volleying thunders near anrlloud,
With lightnings bronù anù blinding.
A week of flying lights and darks,
Then all was clear; from copse and corn
Flew grosbeaks, red-birds. whistling larks.
And thrushes voiced like peris lorn,
Themselves of Heaven reminding.
Deep trails my hasty hands had torn,
Where, under fairy-tasselled rues,
Low vines their scarlet fruits had borne,
That neither men nor gods refuse,-
Delicious, spicy, sating.
As there through meadow red-tops sere
I toiled. my fragile friends to greet,
Out sang the hil'ds: "Good cheer! good cheer!"-
"This way! "_" Pure purity! "-" So sweet I "-
" See! see! a-waiting-waiting!"
I saw: Each way the rolling wheat,
The wild-flower wilderness between,
Therein the sun-emblazoning sheet,
Four ways the thickets darkly green,
The vaporous drifts and dazzles;
Swift lace-wings flittering high and low,
Sheen. gauzy scarves a-sag with dew,
Blown phloxes flakcrl like faIling snow,
Wide spiderworts in umbels blue,
'Vild bergamots and basils;
And oh, the lilies I melted through
With ocherous pigments of the sun r
Translucent flowers of marvellous hue,
Red, amber. orange, all in one,-
Their brown-black anthers hursting
To scatter out their powdere,l gold:
One half with upward looks attent,
As holy secrets might be tohl,
[1861-88
1861-88]
AMANDA TilEODOSIA JONES.
321
One half with turbans earthward bent,
For Eden's rivers thirsting.
And now the winds a-tiptoe went,
As loath to trouble Summer calms;
The air was dense with sifted scent,
Dispersed from fervid mints and balms
'Vhose pungent fumes betrayed them.
The brooks, on yielding sedgf's flung,
Half-slept-habe-soft their pulses heat;
Wee bumming-birds, green-burnished, swung
Now here, now there, to find the sweet,
As if a billow swayed thcm.
Loud-whirring hawk-moths, large and :fleet,
Went honey-nmd; the dipters small
Caught wiugs, they bathed in airy heat;
I saw the mottled minnows aU,-
So had the pool diminished.
No Sybarite ever bauqneted
As those bird-rioters young and old:
The red-wing's story, while he fed,
A thousand times he partly told,
But never fairly finished.
Some catch the reeling oriole trolled,
Broke off his black an(l gold to trim;
Quarrelled the blue-jay fiery-bold,-
Or feast or fight all one to him,
True knight at drink or duel;
New wine of berries black aud red
The noisy cat-bird sipped and sipped;
The king-bird bragged of battles dread,
How he the stealthy hawk had whipped-
That armed marauder cruel.
While so they sallied, è1arted, dippe(l,
Slow feathered seeds began to sail;
Gray milk-weed pods their :flosses slipped,-
l\Iore blithely blew the buoying gale,
And sent them whitely flying.
Rose up new creatures every hour
From hrittie-walled chrysalides;
The yellow wings on every flower
'With ringèd wasps and lJUmble-bees
Shone, Danae's gold outvying.
VOL. IX. -21
322
EDWARD GREEY.
[1861-88
<lêlJ\uartJ <J5rcCr.
BORN in Sandwich, Kent, England, 1835. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1888.
LEGEND OF THE GOLDEN LOTUS.
[The Golden Lotus, and Other Legends of Japan. 1883.]
REA VY drops of rain were plasbing upon the dusty surface of the
broad avenue of Shiba, Tokio. The pilgrims, who but a few
moments before thronged tbe place, bad vanished like" water in
and"
into the adjoining restaurants; and the seners of nondescript trifles,
located beneath the magnificent trees, were anxiously glancing skywarèi,
and hurriedly covering their wares with ::;heets of oiled paper.
11y companion, a charming old Japanese gentleman, knitted his bushy
eyebrows, bowed, smiled, and said in a gentle tone: "A hundred thou-
sand pardons! I believe we are about to have a down-pour. I regret
very much this inhospitable weather. 'V ould you like to partake of a
cup of tea? "
While be was speaking the rain began to descend in a torrent; where-
upon we sought refuge in the nearest chaya, which was crowded with
men and women in white robes.
'Ve seated ourselves in a retired corner, and as we sipped our tea, lis-
tened to the babel of conversation around us. Presently a young bozu
(priest) entered, and after shaking the.moisture from his robes, said:
"It is almost time for the ho-dan (sermon) j
rou, good people, ought
not to miss such a great benefit."
He was a plump, mild-featured lad, and his head was so closely
shaven tbat it almost pained one to look at it.
The pilgrims, who, upon his entrance, had bowed their foreheads to
the mats, murmured respectful replies, .and rising, awaited his departure.
To my surprise he turned to my companion, and said: "An men
ought to know of Buddba. It would be a benevolent act for you to
induce tbat foreign gentleman to listen to the golden words. Who
knows but that he might be led into the true path? "
My friend, who blushed to the tips of his ears, made a respectful gest-
ure of caution, and whispered behind bis fan: ,. Reverend sir, this gentle-
man understands what }TOU say."
The bozu, not at an disconcerted, bowed politely and invited me to
accompany him, remarking: "'\V e have many of your preachers in our
country: surely you win not object to listen to one of ours."
I replied that I bad long wished to have such an opportunity. and
that I should be most happy to accept his invitation.
1861-88]
EDWARD GREEY.
323
While we were waiting for the shower to pass over, we had quite an
interesting conversation; and when I hinted that his class had neglected
to teach tbe masses the pure doctrines of Buddhism, and had allowed
the people to remain in a shocking state of idolatry, he såid: "I think
you have been misinformed, or do not quite understand the movement
that is taking place in our religious circles. It is true, before the arrival
of you foreign gentlemen, there was great laxity among some of our
sects; now all of us are doing our best to instruct our people in the
Great Truth": adding, "The rain has ceased, honorable sir from afar;
win you please accompany me and listen to the imperfect teaching of a
humble follower of Shaka? "
It was a novel sensation to find myself one of a procession of pilgrims,
while the conversation of our devout companions severely taxed my
gra vi ty.
" IIa
' [yes]," said a weather-beaten dame, "those dark-eyed to-jin [for-
eigners] are always more amenable to reason than the oni [imps] with
blue eyes. In fact, they are more human" (utterly disregarding the
cautioning signals of my friend). " I am one of those who speak my
mind. Nobody frightens me by scowling."
"Pray excuse ber," whi
pered the worthy old gentleman. "Some
people are so religious that they have enough faith for half a dozen.
Such persons have very little sense"; adding Botto voce, "but then, she
is only a woman."
After a short walk we reached a shed-like building connected with
one of the temples. Our guide ushered us in and saw us seated com-
fortably on the clean matted floor, then retired behind a screen at the
upper end of the apartment.
The pilgrims behaved very much like our country folks at a church
meeting. Some prayed, others stared about them, and a few yawned as
though they considered the affair a bore.
After a brief interval an ascetic-visaged bozu glided from behind the
screen, and advancing to a platform slightly raised above the level of
the floor, knelt, bowed, and murmured the Buddhist prayer; then sit-
ting up on his heels, glanced round at the cong-regation until he discov-
ered me. This action reminded me of an incident I had once witnessed
in a place of worship in far-off ,Mas
achu
etts, and I smiled.
The bozu regarded me sorrowfuIIy, after which he began bis discourse
in a low, musical voice, saying:
"
Ian is born without a knowledge of Amida [Buddha], therefore it
is the teacher's duty to instruct everybody, not only in the true doc-
trine, but also to enlighten people concernin
the life of tbe Lord Shaka-
ni-yorai.
"I will not insult your intelIigence by teIIing you who Shaka was.
324
EDWARD GREEY.
[1861-88
Every child knows that " (glancing slyly at me). "Tbe wonderful
story of bis life has been translated into all the languages of the world.
Everybody knows how the king gave up his title and became a beggar,
that he might give the true light to the world.
"Of late years we bave bad strange teachers coming from various for-
eign countries, offering us tbeir religion" (slyly) "and their merchan-
dise. 'Vhat can they give you more precious and delightful than the
Golden Lotos?" (In a chatty tone.)
,. A few days ago I met a pilgrim who said to me: 'Holy Father, tell
me about tbe Golden Lotos. I do not understand why the Lorù Shaka
is seated upon that beautiful flower.'
"This ignorance amazed me; however, after I had told him the
truth, I thought, 'Possibly there may be many in our land as ignorant
as he,' therefore I made up my mind. the next time I spoke to the peo-
ple, to explain this portion of the life of Shaka-ni-yorai." (Very sol-
emnly, with balf-closed eyes.)
"The merciful Lord Shak-a had. concluded his meditations on the
mountain of Dan-dokll, and waR descending the rocky path on his way
toward the city. Night was approaching, the shadows were deepening,
and no sound disturbed the stillness of the bour.
"As he reached a plateau at the crest of the last turn in the road, he
heard some one exclaim in a loud voice: 'Sla:o-giyo mu-jiyo! [The out-
ward manner is not always an index to the natural disposition.] ,
" The Lord Shaka was amazed and delighted. thinking, "Vhat man-
ner of being is this? I mURt queRtion him and learn more.'
"IIe then approached the edge of the precipice, still bearing the
voice repeating tbe wonderful sentence. Un glancing down into the
valley he beheld a horrible tat.<
11, [dragon], which regarded bim threaten-
ingly. .,
The bozu" changed his tone into a confidential one, and glancing at me,
said:
" I will now explain tbe meaning of the dragon's words.
"
fan is naturally disposed to sin, and if he were left without teach-
ing would descend to the lowest depths oÍ degradation. The Lorù
Sbaka came into the world to teach humility, gentlene
s, forbearance,
and patience. Those wbo listen to his words will graduall.v lose their
natural disposition to sin, and approach one step nearer to the Golden
Lotos. This is the true explanation of 'lShio-.'liyo mu-jiyo.' "
(Resuming his solemn manner.) "The Lord Shaka seated himself
upon the edge of the rock, anù addressing the monster, said: ' How came
you to learn one of the higher mysteries of Buddhism? Altbough I
have been studying ten years, I have never heard this sentence. I
think you must know others. Please tell them to me.'
1861-88]
EÐ1VARD GREEY.
325
"Tbe dragon coiled itse1f tigbtly round tbe base of tbe rock, then said
in a thunderous tone: 'Ze-shio met.sll-po ! [AU living things are antago-
nistic to the law of Buddha.] ",
(Resuming his confidential manner.) ,. This truth is eterna1. How
sad it is to know that every year millions of people die ignorant of the
teachings of the Lord Shaka! I heBeecb you to keep the laws of
Bnddba, and to c10se your ears to tbe words of false priests who come
from outside the civilized world to encourage the worst inc1ination of
human nature,-that is, the ,-iolatiun of the Buddhistic law."
This covert allusion to our missionaries was much relished by the
old woman who had spoken her mind so freely. "IIai [yes]," she
exc1aimed, glancing fixedly at me, "yes, yes, yes, that is so! "
The preacher again resumed his earnest mannel', saying:
.. 'Ze-shio metsu-po!' roared dIe dragon, regarding the sacred one.
Then it held it
peace for a space, whereupon the Lord Shaka said:
'That is very good; now pray te11 me the next sentence.'
" , Slzio-metsu metsu-i! [All living things must die.] ,
" The Lord Shaka bowed and ans\yered: 'That sentence is better tban
the last; I would very much like to hear the next.'
., The dragon looked up at him wit.h a bungry expression, and said:
'The next truth is the last and most precious, but I cannot speak it
until my hunger is appeased. I have not eaten since daybreak, and am
very weak. Give me some food. and I will tell you the last of the four
. ,
precIOus sentences.
'" I will give you anytbing you wish,' replied the Lord Sbaka. ' You
have such great wisdom that I will deny you notbing. '\Vhat do you
demand? '
" , Human flesb,' was the response.
"The Lord Shaka regarded the dragon pityingly, and said, ':My reli-
gion forbids me to destroy life; but as I must, for tbe sake of the peo-
ple, hear the final sentence, I will give myself to you. Now tell me an
you know.'
"The mon
ter opened its enormous moutb, and as it did so, said:
'Jaku-meisu I-raku! [The greatest happiness is experienced after the
soul has left tbe body.] ,
" The Lord Shaka listened. then bowed bis
acred head and ::;prang
into the gaping mouth of the tatsu.
,. \Vhen he touched the dragon's jaws the}7 split into eight parts, and
changed into the eight petals of the Golden Lotos."
(Earnestly and solemnly.) "A
the Lord Shaka trusted himself to
tbe horrible monster, so YOll must trust to His teachings. If you do so,
and earnestly strive to attain perfection, yon will, most assuredly, some
day, learn the full meaning of the sentence, 'Jaku-metsu l-raku I' "
326
:MAR Y E.ld1L Y BRADLEY.
[1861-88
A collection was made for the benefit of the preacher, after which the
congregation silently dispersed.
When we reached the avenue, my companion remarked: "Although I
am only an ignorant man. I cannot help making comparisons. After
all, there is not much difference between our religions. You hope for a
crown of glory, and I to some day take my place upon a Golden Lotos."
larl' (11;tníll' 1!3ranlcr.
BORN in Easton, Md., 1835,
THE OLD STORY.
" M E1N kleines miidchen! tell me, tell me true-
What was that the wind said awhile ago to you?
What was that the daisies told, whispering, to the grass
And the yellow butterflies, when they saw you pass?"
Answered then the maiden, blushing rosy red:
" Mutter mein! Ich liehe dicit, was all the wind said;
Ich liehe dich, I tell you true, was every single word
The daisies or the butterflies could possibly have heard."
'" Wherefore spake the wind so," the mother asked, I I to you?
l\Iein kleines mädchen, tell nre, tell me true. ,.
Then the daughter's eyelids (lrooped; lnw the head was hung:
"The wind was but a messenger," quoth she with faltering tongue.
'" And ùore a message back from you 1 " "Ah, mot.hcr darling, yes!
You would not have your daughter rude, so what could I do less?
But this I told the wind indeed: to breathe it in his ear
So low and soft that only he in all the world should hear."
Tenderly the mother's hand smoothed the maiden's hail':
"Tell me, sweet, the message that you sent with so much care."
Redder grew the pretty cheek, but bravely answered she:
'" Mutter mein! 'twas only what the wind had said to me! "
"Only tllflt!" The mother smilcd through her suddcn tears,
Knowing well what love costs-the pain, the bliss, the fears;
Must it find its way so soon to hcr licbling.s hcart,
'Vith its passionate delight and its cruel smart
All day long her own heart was aching for her child;
All day long the maiden rlreamed, and in her dreaming smiled;
For every wind that shook the leaves was still a messenger
From her lover, whispering I, Ic/, liebe dich!" to her.
1861-88]
MA.R Y EJIIL Y BRADLEY.
327
THE KEY-NOTE.
M ANY are Nature's voices;
Each wind has a different tone;
One carries an echo of laughter,
Another a sigh. or a moan;
Trees as they whisper together,
'Vaters that run to the sea,
Have speech of their own, hut never
A voice that replies to me.
Once of a summer morning.
'Vhen summer was at her best,
Roses crowning her forehead,
Pearls of dew at her hreast,
I fell on my knees hefore her,
I kissed her beautiful feet;
" Speak to me, l\Iother Nature!
Teach me your wisdom sweet."
Babble of brooks responded,
Bees went murmuring by;
Trill of a lark rang faintly
Down from the distant sky;
They mocked my fouù desire-
I longed for a vital word,
Not for a leaflet's rustle,
Or the far-off song of a hird!
And baffled and di
appointed.
I said-I will seek no more,
I will stand anù knock no longer,
o Nature, at your door:
Entreating, you would not answer,
Calling, you would not come;
And this is the hopeless reaSOll-
Nature is deaf and dumb!
Then from my aimlcss yearning
That could not attain its goal,
I went as the blind go, groping,
AlHl found out a living soul;
Found out a soul responsive,
That hrought. to me unaware,
Oil of joy for my mourning,
'Vine of life for ùespair.
Now-oh, Leautiful wonder!
The mystery has grown clear,
The inarticulate voices
Have meaning for my ear;
328
ANDREW CARNEGIE.
[1861-88
Love is the magic key-note,
And by its subtle art
All that I sought of Nature
I find in a woman's heart.
gnnrc\1) C2rarncgíc.
BORY in Dunfermline, Scotland, 1835. Came to the United States, 1845.
THE GREAT REPCBLIC.
[Triumphant Democracy, or, Fifty Years' March of the Republic. 1886.]
H ERE is the record of one century's harvf.st of Democracy:
1. The majority of the English-speaking race under one repub-
lican flag, at peace.
2. The nation which is pledged by act of both parties to offer amica-
ble arbitration for the settlement of international disputes.
3. The nation which contains the smallest proportion of illiterates,
the largest proportion of those who read anù write.
4. The nation which spends least on war, and most upon education;
which has the smallest army and navYt in proportion to its population
and wealth, of any maritime power in the world.
5. The nation which provides most. generously during their lives for
every soldier and sailor injured in its cause, and for their widows and
orphans.
6. rrhe nation in which the rights of the minority and of property are
most secure.
7. The nation whose flag, wherever it floats over sea and land, is the
symbol and guarantor of the equality of the citizen.
8. The nation in whose Constitution no man suggests improvement;
whose laws as they stand are satisfactory to all citizens.
9. The nation which has the ideal Second Chamber, the most august
assembly in the world-the American Senate.
10. The nation whose Supreme Court is the envy of the ex-Prime
:Minister of the parent land.
11. The nation whose Constitution is "the most perfect piece of work
ever struck off at one time by the mind and purpose of man," according
to the present Prime :Minister of the parent land.
12. The nation most profoundly conservative of what is good, yet
based upon the political equality of the citizen.
13. The wealthiest nation in the worlJ.
1861-8"]
A.J.YDREW CARNEGIE.
329
14. The nation first in public credit, and in payment of debt.
15. The greatest agricultural nation in the world.
16. The greatest manufacturing nation in the world.
17. The greatest mining nation in the world.
:Many of these laurels bave hitherto adorned the brow of Britain, but
her chUd has wrested them from her.
But please do not be so presumptuous, my triumphant republican: I
do not believe the people of Britain can be beaten in the paths of peace-
ful triumphs e\'en hy their precocious child. Just wait tin you measure
yourself with them after they are equally well equipped. There are
signs that the masses are about to burst their bonds and be free men.
The BritÜ:l} race, all equal citizens from birth, wi]} be a 1'ery different
antagonist to the semi-serfs you have so far easily excelled. Look about
you and note that transplanted here and enjoying for a few years
similar conditions to yours the Briton does not fail to hold bis own
and keep abreast of you in tbe race. Nor do his children fail either
to come to the front. Assuredly the
tutf is in these Island mastiffs.
It is only improper training and lack of suitable stimulating nour-
ishment to which their statesmen have subjected them, that renders
them feeble. The strain is all right, and the training will soon be all
right too.
1fuch has been written upon the relations existing between Old Eng-
land and New England. It is with deep gratefulness that I can state
that never in my day was the regard, the reverence of the child lanel for
the parent land so warm, so sincere. 80 heartfelt. This was ineyitable
whenever the pangs of separation ceased to hurt, and the more recent
wouncls excited by the unfortunate position taken by the :Mother during
the slave-holders' rebellion were duly healed. It was inevitable as soon
as the American became acquainted with the past history of the race
from which he had sprung, and learned the total sum of that great
debt which he owed to hiR progenitor. It is most gratifying to see that
the admiration, the love of the American for Britain is in exact propor-
tion to his knowledge and power. It is not the uncultivated man of
the gulch who returns from a visit to the old home filled with pride of
ancestry, and duly grateful to tbe pioneer land which in its bloody
march toward civil and religious liberty
" Through the long gorge to the far light bath won
Its path upward and prevailed."
It is the 'Vashington lrvings, the K athaniel IIawthorne
, the Rus
ell
Lowells. the Adamses. the Durlley \Yarners, tbe \\ entworth Riggin-
sons, tlJe Eflward ,Atkin
ons-the men of whom we are proudest at
home. rrlJU
, in order that the republican may love Britain it is only
330
ANDREW CARNEGIE.
[1861-88
necessary that he should know her. As this knowledge is yearly
becoming more general, affection spreads and deepens.
So much for the younger land's share of the question.
And now, what are we to testify as to the feelings of the older land
toward its forward child? My experience in this matter covers twenty
veal's. in few of which I have failed to visit mv native land. I had a
hard time of it for the first years, and often' had occasion to sa.v to
myself, and not a few times to intimate to others, that "it was pro-
digious what these English did not know:' I fought the cause of the
Union year after year during the Rebellion. Only a few of the John
Bright class among prominent men, ever and ever our stanchest friends,
believed, what I often repeated, tbat ,. there was not enough of air on
the North American continent to float two flags," and that the Democ-
racy was firm and true. '\Vhen the end came, and one riag was aU tbe
air did float, these doubters declared that the immense armies would
never disband and retire to the peaceful avocations of life. How little
these ignorant people knew of the men who fought for their country!
They were soon surprised upon this point. I had to combat upon sub-
sequent visits the general belief in financial circles that it was absurd to
hope tbat a government of the masses would ever think of p3ying the
national debt. It would be repudiated, of course. The danger passed,
like the first. Then fo11owed prophecies that the "greenback dodge"
would be sanctioned by the people. That passed too. But well do I
remember the difference with which I was received and listened to after
these questions had been safely passed and the Republic bad emerged
from the struggle, a nation about to assume the front rank among those
who had disparaged her.
I fear the governing classes at home never thoroughly respected the
Republic, and hence could not respect its citizens, until it had shown
Dot only its ahility to overwhelm it
own enem}y, but to turn round
upon France, and with a word drive the monarchical idea out of 'Mexico.
And then it will be remembered that it calle(l to account its own dear
parent, who in her official capacity had acteJ abominably when bel' own
child was in a death struggle with slavery, and asked bel' to please settle
for the injury she had inflicted. This wa
for a time quite a staggering
piece of presumption in the estimation of the haughty old monarchy,
but, nevertheless, it was all settled by an act which marks an epoch in
the 11istory of the race, and gives to the two diviRions of the Anglo-
Saxon the proud position of having Ret the best example of tbe settle-
ment of "international disputes by peaceful arbitration" which the
world has yet seen. From this time forth it became extremely difficult
for the privileged classes of Britain to hold up the Republic to the peo-
ple as a mournful example of the fony of attempting to build up a State
1861-88]
NA'J.'HANIEL GRAHAM SHEPHERD.
331
without privileged classes. rrheir hitherto broad charges now necessa-
rily took on the phase of carping criticism.
America had not civil service; it turned out aU its officials at the
beginning of every administration. WeH, America got civil service,
and that subject was at an end. Then the best people did not enter into
political life, and American politicians were corrupt; but the explana-
tion of the first part of the charge, which is quite true as a general
proposition, is, as I have shown, that where the laws of a country are
perfect in the opinion of a people, and all is going on about to their
liking, able and earnest men believe they can serve their fellow-men
better in more useful fields than politics, which, after all, are but means
to an end. "Oh, how dreadful, don't you know," said a young would-be
swell to a young American lady-" how dreadful. you know, to be gov-
erned by people you would not visit, you know." "Probably," was the
reply, "and how delightful, don't you know, to be governed by people
who wouldn't visit you." All of the indictments against the Republic
have about disappeared except one, and that will soon go as the cause is
understood, for international copyright must soon be settled.
ßatlJanícl <IðralJant
lJeplJcrn.
BORN in :New York, N. Y., 1835. DIED there, 1869.
ROLL-CALL.
.
" O ORPORAL GREEN!" the Orderly cried;
" Here! " was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near,-
And "Here!" was the word the next replied.
" Cyrus Drew! "-then a silence fell;
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear-man had seen him fall:
Killed or woul1l1eJ-he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
'Vhile slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,
Anù ùown in the corn, where the poppies grew,
'Vere re(lder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson-d)'e{l was the river's flood.
332
WILLIAJI TORREY HARRIS.
[1
li1-88
For the foe had crossed from the other side,
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
" Herbert Cline! "-At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them tbis Heruert Cline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
"Ezra Kerr! "-and a voice answered '.Here!"
,. Hiram Kerr! "-but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed, mm
And a shudder crept through the corn-field near.
"Ephraim Deane! "-then a soldier spoke:
.. Deane carried Oul' regimcnt's colors," he said,
., 'Vhcn our ensign was shot: I left him dead
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.
" Close to the roadside his body lies;
I paused a moment and ga ,'e him to drink;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
'Twas a victory-yes; but it cost us dear:
For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Kumhered hut twenty that answered" Here!"
Harper's New ...Vontltlu .illagazine. 1862.
[[lílUant '\!torter $arríø.
BORN in South KilIingly, CODD., 1835.
THE PERSO
ALITY OF GOD.
[The North American Rel'ieu'. 1880.1
I N tbe idea of God, man defines for hirnse1f his theory of the origin
and destiny of tl1e world. The wbence and tbe whither of nature
and of man are involved in this idea, and through it, therefore, are
determined his theoretical views and his practical activities. If be
believes that this supreme principle is hlind fate, unconscious force, or
something devoid of intelligence and will, this belief will constantly
modify all his thoughts and deeds, and ultimately shape them into bar-
1861-88]
WILLIAJI TORREY HARRiS.
333
mony with his faith. If, on the other hand, he regards this supreme
principle as a conscious personality, as absolute intelligence and will,
this ,-iew will likewise shape his thoughts and deeds, but with a raLli-
cally different result from that of the other just stated. The former
theory is unfriendly to the persistence and triumph of human beings, or
of any rational beings whatever. either as a principle of explanation or
as a ground of hope. It will not aceount for the origin of conscious
beings, showing bow conscious reason is involved in unC'on
cious being,
as one among its potentialities j still le
:o; can it permit the persistent
existence of conscious individualities, for that would admit conscious-
ness to be the higher principle, and not a mere phase or potentiality of
unconscious being. Even if conscious individuals could emanate from
an unconscious first principle, they would be finite and transitolo.V
phases, mere bubbles rising to the surface and breaking into nothing.
The activity of the first principle-and all conceptions of the first prin-
ciple must regard it as active-must be in accordance with its own
nature, must tenù to shape all things so as to correspond to that nature.
For activity is expresgioH: that which acts utters itself on that upon
which it acts. It give
rise to new modifications, and these are its own
expression j it again modifies, tbrOlI,!!"h its continued action upon tbe
object, the modification whicb it had previously caused, and thus
ecures a more perfect expression of itself.
An unconscious absolute would continually express itself in uncon-
scious individualities, or, if there were conscious individualities upon
which it could act, its moùifications woulù be continually in the (lirec-
tion of an obliteration of the element of consciousnes:::l. On the other
hand, tbe activity of a con:"cious absolute would tend continually to the
elevation of all unconscious beings, if tbere were any, toward conscious-
ness. For its acti vity would tend to establisb an expression of itself-
the counterpart of its own being-in the object. Arrived at conscious-
ne
s, its creations would be sustained there by the activity of the abgo-
lute, and not allowed to Japse.
An unconscious absolute cannot possegs any features objectionable to
unconscious heings. It may create them and destroy them without ces-
sation-what is that to tbem'? But to human beings, or to any other
rational beings, such a blind fate is utterly ho:,tile and repugnant in its
every aspect. rrheir gtruggle for existence is a conscious one, and it
strives toward a more complete consciousnes:; and a larger sphere of
directive will-power over the worl(l in the interest of conscious, rational
purposes. But an unconscious first principle is an absolute bar to the
triumph of any such struggle. The greater the success of man's strug-
gle for self-consciousness and freedom, the more unstable would become
his existence. It wou ld result in his being further removed from har-
334
WILLIAM TORREY HARRIS.
[1861-88
mony with the activity of the unconscious absolute substance, and that
activity would be more directly hostile and subversive of man's activity,
the more the latter was realized. Hence, with a belief in an uncon-
scious absolute, rational beings :find themselves in the worst possible
situation in this world. Pessimism is their inevitable creed. Any sort
of culture, development, or education, of the so-called faculties of the
mind, an deeds having for their object the elevation of the race into
knowledge and goodness-whatever, in short. is calculated to produce
and foster human individuality, must have only one net result-the
increase of pain. For the destruction of conscious individuality is
attended with pain; and the more developed and highly organized the
indiyiduality, the greater the pain attending upon its inevitable dissolu-
tion. N or is the pain balanced by the pleasure of the exercise of the
human activity, for tbe negation and consequent pain is twofold while
the pleasure of creative activity is only single. The conscious struggle,
being in direct opposition to the activity of blind fate, achieves its tem-
porary victory of existence step by step, contending against an activity
whose entire reaction against the conscious being is expressed as so
much pain. Again, the ultimate victory of fate removes one by one
every trace and result of human victory, and obliterates each conquest
with an accompanying series of greater pangs.
SHAKESPEARE'S HISTORICAL PLAYS.
[The Western. 1874.]
I HAVE often thought on a saying quoted from Pitt, to the effect
that he learned what he knew of English history from Shakespeare.
A statef-'man so wise as Pitt-one who looked quite throrrgh the shifting
surfaces of human affairs, and intuitively grasped the weak and the
strong sides of his nation's character-must have had some truly vital
knowledge of human history, and especially of British history.
Whenever I have read one of Shakespeare's historical plays in latter
year
, I bave strained my attention to catch the secret of Pitt's remark.
A poet so careless of the externals of history, violating geography and
chronology with evident contempt for the same-how could he convey a
true knowledge of history? rro make Ulysses quote Aristotle-is not
that to render impossible any true national soul-painting in his sketch
of heroic times as given in "Troilus and Cressida"? vVhat sort of Dane
could Hamlet be if he is taken so far out of his epoch as to attend the
University of 'Vittenberg? '
1861-88]
WILLL-LY TORREY HARRIS.
335
It appeared that Shakespeare played with the forms of time and space,
as Prospero did before he buried his magic wand, and that historical
"veritv to him was of the least account. Hence, he would seem at first
to b; the most misleading of all guides in history.
Such thoughts prevailed until one day when Ire-read" King John ";
then came to me a new insight into Shakespeare's art. For, not being
able to find distinct utterance of philosophy or science in his works
before, it had been doubtful whether the bigh place accorded to him by
modern Germans, and by such cri tics as Carlyle and Coleridge, was not
extravagant.
I now saw that Shakespeare transcended other poets in the complete-
ness of his pictures. Exhaustiveness of expression was his forte; and
by this I mean that he let every other circumstance that had a deter-
mining effect on the deed which formed the nucleus of his drama ex-
press itself-make itself apparent. "\Vhile other authors portrayed their
themes with only such accessories as were directly necessary to develop
tbe plot, Sbakespeare had probed to the bottom of human experience,
and discovered, one by one, all of the presuppositions of the deed and
collected tbem for the spectator. In order to present trutb he found it
necessary to present all the presuppositions of a deed. Inasmuch as
there is no isolated man, but eacb one is a member of society, it is requi-
site to portray tbe status of society in eXplaining the particular deed of
tbe individual. The common man acts in accordance with use and wont,
and follows without deviation the beaten track marked out for him by
his fellows-bis immediate kinsmen and neighbors. The heroic charac-
ter, with an eccentric orbit, collides with society and makes a theme for
tragedy. 'Vhile it satisfies the ordinary story-teller to relate the direct
particulars of the collisions of his hero, nothing win do for Shakespeare
but a complete presentation of aU the accessories. Given to Shakespeare
a "beggarly scrap of history" from some Geoffre.v of
fonmoutb, or from
Saxo-Gramrnaticus. and forthwith he penetrates into a world of presup-
positions that are demanded to make that scrap a li,oing reality. Given
the smaIl arc, and he com pute!" the total circle;
i ven the abstract state-
ment of )facbeth's deed, and forthwith he conjures up all the concrete
relations, the family, society, and 8-tate; the moral tone of the individ-
ual, and his ethical interaction with the social condition in which he
Ii ves, and the subtle casuistry by which he justifies his course. Anach-
ronism will be found to be superficial and seeming. Nay, more than
this, it will be discovered to be a conscious ruse on the part of Shake-
speare, in order to bring more closely to his audience the essential threads
of his drama. It has been pointed out that the 'Yittenberg University
suggested Luther to the English: Cranmer's important connection with
Luther, and with the Cburch of England, bad made '\Vittenberg familiar.
336
WILLIAM TORREY HARRIS.
[1861-88
Through the anachronism he made the portrayal of Hamlet truer to tbe
English people-connecting Hamlet with that locality where indepen-
dent thin king was done.
In short the ùiscovery of Shakespeare's method- his manner of por-
trayal-led me to see his eminent merit as a historian, and to realize
the statement of Aristotle, that poetry is more philosophical and more
important than history. Here was a man who clotbed in flesh and blooù
the skeletons of the past. He reaù Plutarch, anù saw the lIlasterl.f out-
lines there given, enough to enable him to construct the living reality.
No deed is isolated, all things are interdependent; onlytbe totality of
conditions enables us to comprehend the puniest act. See the part in the
whole, and then you are able to see the reflection of the whole in the part.
Of course the true poet must portray a deed in its relations ill order
to exhibit this reflection. The fewer relations, the less reflection and
the lesR truth. The more relations, the more reflection and the more
truth. Shakespeare excels all poets in the portrayal of this reflection of
the deed II pon the doer.
If anyone at this point should be inclined to accuse me of forcing
my own ideas upon Shakespeare and attrihuting to him something which
he did not consciously do, I would say that conscious intention is not
expected of a poet. It is the instinct of his art that we expect. It will
lead him to adopt a method of some sort. Shakespeare instinctively
adopted the method of exhaustive portrayal, and felt that this or that
accessory must be uttered or expressed, because it stood out in his crea-
tive imagination as essentially belonging to the representatÙm of the deed.
.
THE ETERNITY OF ROME.
[The AndOl:er Revie?(). 1886.]
A FTER the process of assimilating Roman law had been completed
new centres arose outside of Rome and the unit:,? of the Roman
Empire was broken. This process is usually called the "llec1ine and
fall" of Rome. But instead of a retrogressive metamorphosis it is rather
a progressive one,-a moving forward of tbe empire into a sxstem of
empires, a multiplication of the eternal city into a system of cities, all of
which were copies of Home in municipal organization. For the new
retained what was essential in the old. London and Paris, Cologne and
Vienna, 1\ aples and Alexandria,-these and a hundred other cities were
indestructible centres of Roman laws and usages. 'Vhen an inundation
of barbarism moved out of the Teutonic woods and swept over 'Vestcrn
1861-88]
. WILLIAJ.ll TORREY HARRIS.
337
or Southern Europe, the cities were left standing out above the floods
like islands. The conquerors were prevailed upon by means of heavy
ram-oms to spare the cities, and even to confirm their municipal self-
government by charters. A city with a Roman organization was a com-
plete personality, and could deliberate and act, petition and bargain, with
the utmost facility. A city is a giant individuality which can in one
way or another defend itself against a conqueror; sometimes by success-
ful war, but oftener by purchasing its peace from him. For the city haR
the wealth of the land and the power to dazzle with its gifts the eyes of
the invader. No matter how much it gives him in money, it can soon
recover it all, b.y way of trade. An the commerce of the land passes
through the cities. They can levy toll on all that is collected and on an
that is distributed. Any article of luxury that the conqueror needs
must be had from the city. After he has received the heavy ransom
from the city and confirmed its charter, he must return thither to expend
his wealth and furnish himself with luxury. rrhe city has the power,
therefore, to peaceably recover all that has paid for its preservation.
It is soon as rich as before; and besides, its liberty of self-government is
confirmed. But the most important circumstance is to be found in the
fact that the city is a perennial fountain of law, civil and criminal, as
wen as a model on which newly arising centres of population may form
their local self-govprnment. Indeed, no sooner is the new conqueror
firmly seated in the province than martial law begins to yield place to
the civil code. He di\Tides the land among his followers, but the cities
retain their self-government, although they pay heavy subsidies. The
new property-holders in the rural districts begin to need the aid of law
in settling their disputes and in protecting their newly acquired rights.
Accordingly laws are borrowed and courts are set up to administer them.
Thus it happens that tbe sacred Vesta -fires of Roman law left burning
in the cities lend of their flame to light the torches of justice throughout
all the land, and civilization, only partiàlly quenched by the inundation,
is all relighted again.
Thus it is that Rome, in furnishing the forms of municipal govern-
ment and the lawH that govern the rights of private property, never
has declined or fallen, but has only multiplied and spread. Every new
town rising upon the far-off borders of European or American civiliza-
tion to-day lights its torch of self-government and jurisprudence at the
Roman flame. It borrows the forms of older cities that have received
them from Rome through a long line of descent.
VOL. IX.-22
338
WILLIAM OöBORN STODDARD.
t'tlíllíaU1 g)
born
tonnatn.
BORN in Homer, Cortland Co" N. Y., 1835,
THE PRAIRIE PLOVER.
[Verses of Jfany Days. 1875.]
THE dim mists heavily the prairies cover,
And, through the gra},
The long-drawn, mournful whistle of the plover
Sounds, far away.
Slowly and faintly now the sun is rising,
Fog-blind and grim,
To find the chill world 'neath him sympathizing
Bluely with him.
"Cpon the tall grass where the deer are lying
His pale light falls,
'Yhile, wailing like some lost wind that is dying,
The plover calls.
Ever the same disconsolate whistle only,
Ko loftier strains;-
To me it simply means, "Alas, rill lonely
Upon these plains."
No wonder that these endless, dull dominions
Of roll and knoll
Cause him to pour forth thus, with poised pinions,
His weary soul.
Could I the secret of his note discover,-
Sad, dreary strain,-
I'd sit and whistle, all day, like the plover,
And mean the same.
THE SENTINEL YEAR.
THE hells are tolling in the towers of time
Solemnly, now, for midnight and for morn.
Another sentinel year has paced his rounds,
And, weary of his watch, now grounds his firms,
Gives up his post to the new sentinel,
And gathers him to rest and to his dreams-
Dreams of the strange things that his watch hath seen.
[1861-88
1861-88J
.A UG UST.A L.ARNED.
339
gugu
ta Larnct1.
Bomo in Rutland, Jefferson Co., N. Y., 1835.
A DOMESTIC TYRANT.
[Village Photographs. 1887.]
T HERE is a drive called the Roundabout Road, which makes a cir-
cuit of exactly seven miles, and takes in some of the pleasantest
bits of scenery in this region. The hills are nowhere very steep, and
there are many old horses in the vil1age that know the Roundabout
Road as wen as their own stans. It crosses several brawling trout
streamR and rustic bridges, and passes tbe prettiest watering-troughs,
wnere the gushing mountain springs. bright and mobile as quicksilver,
run through channels made in mossy logs. N ear one of these grows a
bed of the wild forget-me-not with its eyes of heavenly blue. The are.
tbusa is now to be found on the river meadows. It is of a purple such
as is only seen in evening and morning clouds. Before many weeks
have pas:,ed the fringed gentian will open along tbe drive, in such places
as it has chosen for its habitat.
At Dexter's chair-factory the Roundabout enters a little glen fringed
to the very top of its walls with the light foliage of young birches,
beecbes, chestnuts, and ash trees. Late in the season tbi
place wears
the aspect of early spring; and in the cool crevices of its rocks ice is
found until July. The hermit thrush builds and sings here, and may
be beard at some moment of !'are good fortune. Autumn comes first to
this spot and runs like fire in the low undergrowth. The sumac bushes
turn the most brilliant dyes. The young maple shoots are red like
blood. 'The ash shrubs seem to clrip with gold.
:Many people drive over the Roundabout Road every fair day. It is
a road that never wearies, for the hills are continually changing under
the varying influences of light and shade, heat and cold, wind and fair
weather. Several retired clergymen and college professors 11 ve in the
village, having come here to pass their last years. Nearly all of them
kpep ::;low, ambling, sure-footed nags, who possess all the equine virtues
except speed and the power to raise their noses more than three or four
inches above tbe dURt. They amble along, never varying their gait
except to stop
tock still. In the retired clerical set it is considered a
sin to use a check-rein or a whip. They are mostly mild, quiet, old
ladies and gentlemen who belong to the past, but have lingered along
into the present with the understanding that they are practically laid
upon the shelf. Though they have once doubtless been important and
340
.AUGUSTA LARNED.
[1861-88
celebrated, it is conceded that their day is over, and they are just biding
their time and trying to make themselves as comfortable as circum-
stances and small incomes may permit.
Chief among the superannuated cJericals is the Rev. Elkanah Stack-
pole. He occasionally preaches in the village church, when most of the
congregation scatters, some to visit their friends in the country, others
to go blueberrying or nutting on the sly. rrhe few who do attend
church from conscientious motives generally fall asleep in the pews. It
is thought that if 1\11'. Stackpole were to preach three consecutive SUD-
days every soul would desert the church except old Amen Anderson,
who is as deaf as a post anù who says he always goes to meeting, who-
ever preaches, for "innerd edification. " You win know Amen by his
standing up in his corner and singing the hymns on a plan of his own.
He pays no heed to anybody or anything except long and short meter.
The Rev. 1\11'. Stackpole halts in bis walk from chr0nic rheumatism,
and Mrs. Stackpole is a nervous invalid. They Jive in an old-fashioned
gambrel-roofed house, where perpetual quietude and twilight formerly
reigned, a green twilight thrown from tbe thick trees growing close to
the windows, and from the prevailing tone of the furnishing. Every-
body in the village knew the Stackpole's maid. Araminta Sophronia,
called "Minty for short, and the Stackpole's horse, Spicer. Spicer used
to trot over Roundabout Road every fine day in summer. He came to
the door about nine in the morning from tbe stable where he was kept.
1\finty bustled out with two air-cushions for the excellent couple to sit
on. She was also provided with an armful of wraps and umbrellas and
a hassock for 1frs. Stackpole's feet. The operation of loading the Stack-
poles into tbe chaise was a difficult one, but Minty was always equal to
it. When she had once tucked them in under the lap-blanket, and the
Rev. Elkanah had feebly grasped the reins, she then turned her atten-
tion to Spicer.
If Spicer was in tbe mood, he would start off promptly, and keep up
a slow trot for a certain length of time. If Spicer was not in the mood,
he would lay back his ears, and shake his head positively. Then began
a coaxing process on the part of 1vlint}T. She patted bim, whispered in
his ear, and generally administered one or two lumps of white sugar,
when Spicer, being placated, would dart off so suddenly as to throw Mr.
and
Irs, Stackpole against the back of the chaise. But
Iinty knew
that, if she once succeeded in starting Spicer, he might be trusted to
bring the old couple home in perfect safety. There were places on the
roaù where he persisted in walking, and he had e\Ten been known to
stop in shady spots, spite of all the Rev. Elkanah could do, to crop a
little tender herbage. When he had swung partly round the circle, he
began to smell tbe stable, and generally came borne in fine style.
1861-88]
1 UG rST.A LARNED.
341
:Minty ruled for many years in the Stackpole house. She was an
admirable housekeeper, but having usurped supreme power, the vice of
power, a tyrannical and overbearing spirit, grew upon her. Few great
minds can resist the temptation of power, and
Iinty was not a great
mind. The old people came to feel that :Minty \vas indispensable to
their comfort and well-being, and the ability to govern themselves grad-
ually slipped through their fingers. No one in that house attempted to
oppose :Minty except Fielding Stackpole. the only son. who was a civil
engineer, li\-ing in another state. "\Vben Fielding came home on a
visit, as he did several times a year, he brushed aside all
finty's rules
anll regulations. He smoked where he pleased, carried the parlor chairs
out on the lawn and left them there, tumbled the book-cases, came down
late to breakfast and ordered fresh coffee and hot buttered toast, exactly
as if he were the master in his father's house and not at all subject to
the rule of Queeu Araminta Sophronia.
The conflict of wills between Fielding and the maid put a very sharp
edge on
Iinty's temper, while Fielding always came up more and more
bland and smiling, with the conviction that he should win in the end.
Iinty had carried it so far as once or twice to refuse Fielding admission
to his father's house when he arrived unexpectedly late at night, on the
ground that she was house-cleaning and the rooms were an in disorder.
But Fielding calmly climbed in at a pantry window and established
himself without ceremony in his own room. After Fielding's visits the
old people were always more insubordinate, and it gave her a little
trouble to break them in again to rules and regulations.
1vlinty, in spite of her name, did not come from Burnt Pigeon, but
from a place down the river, called Salt Lick. She was always talking
about the Lick in a most misleading way, as if it were something to eat.
The Lick hung like the sword of Damocles over the head of poor
frs.
Stackpole, especially after the old people came to feel that in their help-
less state they could live neither with nor without their domestic tyrant,
for :Minty often threatened to leave her at a moment's notice, and return
to the home of her infanc.\.
It was understood that :Minty had married a Salt Lick man in bel'
girlhood who bad not proved a brilliant ornament to society. She soon
rid herself of the encumbrance. Sbe never mentioned thiR part of her
experience, but the asperity with which she spoke of mankind in gen-
eral, and of Fielding Stackpole in particular. was supposed to have
sprung from a tborough acquaintance with the sex. She was of a thin,
wiry type, not very large, but with muscles of steel. Her face came to
a sbarp hatchet edge, and bel' gray eyes. mottled with yellow, saw every-
thing. She was confessedly the smartest servant in the village, and sbe
haò a standing of bel' own.
342
AUGUSTA LARNED.
[1861-88
Her neatness, of the inflexible, cast-iron kind, was a terror to the
neighborhood. Even particular housekeepers trembled under her dread-
ful cat's eyes. Her house-cleaning waR thought to be as bad as the con-
centrated three movings which equal a fire. But the excellences of
:Minty were as pronounced as her foiblcf:. A tea-invitation to the Stack-
poles was something to date from. The ladies seldom took much din-
ner on those days, in order to save their appetites for Minty's dainties.
If the invaluable servant did not sit (lown in the parlor with the guests,
or preside at tbe tea-table, she still carried off the bonors of tbe occasion.
Everybody praised her cookery to tbe'skies, and it was a great point to
ask for 1\finty's recei pts. wbich she gave or not, just as tbe whim seized her.
Her tea-table was a work of art, and she adorned it with a tasteful
arrangement of flowers from the garden. The old-fashioned Stackpole
china, glass, and silver, were burnished to exquisite brightness. The
napery was ironed only as ::\Iinty knew how to iron. Her tea-biscuits
melted in the mouth. Her cake was always something new and orig-
inal. She knew all about potted tongue. veal loaf, boned turkey, and
brandied peaches. Such coffee, whipped cream, and sherbet as she
made were never founel elsewhere. So it was in every department of
housekeeping. A favorite subject of debate among the village ladies
was whether it would be possilJle to endure Minty's tyranny for the
sake of her culinary virtues. The shameful subjection of the old cler-
gyman and his wife to this strong-willed domestic was a stanlling topic
of discussion among the village gossips. Every fresh usurpation on the
part of ::\1inty was commented on wid! exclamation points. She knew
she was talked about, and it made her proud. 8he fully expected to be
buried in the Stackpole family lot, and to have a coffin-plate equal to
her master and mistress. It was reported that poor 111's. Stackpole said
one day to :\linty: ., I have asked my sister Jane and her daughter to
come and pass the day with me on rrhursday next." To which 1Iinty
immediately replied: "I can't think of having them on Thursday,
ma'am. There's the sweet pickles to make, and I must clean out the
cellar. I never can have company days when 1 am cleaning out the
celIaI'. It's unreasonahle to think of it." 'Minty always planned to
clean out the cellar when the idea of company was obnoxious to her.
Mrs. Stackpole was therefore obliged to telegraph to "Sister Jane" that
she must not come. And f:he found herself more and more the bond-
slave of her incomparable domestic.
The ex-professor had made a brave effort to secure some portion of
his own house for his exclusi,'e use and benefit, which should not be
too ruthlessly invaded by tbe broom and duster. He wished to set
apart a small closet where he might think his own thoughts, ar:fl doubt-
less pray, where he might occasionally indite a sermon or a report of the
1861-88]
.A lIG lIST A LARNED.
343
missionary society for carrying the Gospel to the Zulu
, of which he
was secretary. But all in vain. Araminta Sophronia did not believe
the best of men could think holy thoughts in any place from which her
cleaning hand was excluded. If she could have taken out the con-
science of poor old Stackpole from his bosom, she would doubtless have
washed and scoured it. For years he was forced to see his desk, his
pens. hi
papers arranged in an order foreign to his sou1. But no one
had ever done up his fine shirts and white neckcloths like :\finty; and
when he was ill her broth
and gruels were deliciou
. :l\linty always
attended family prayers and sometimes read devotional books, not
because she had a taste for them, but for the reason that sl)e lived in a
minister's family, and was bound to keep up the character of tbe bouse-
hold. It looked well to have a volume of dry sermons on tbe kitchen
shelf and inuminated Bible texts hung about on the wall.
When )Iinty first went to live with tbe Stackpoles, she made up her
mind that she would not allow them to harbor poor ministers. religious
book-pedlers, or itinerant missionarie
. They were accordingly sent
on to Deacon Hildreth's, to the old Tavern House, or to the doctor's.
And the old couple, as they could not belp themselve
, were rather
grateful for the protection they enjoyed. Occasionally guests from a
distance came to stay at the house unannounced and before :Minty's fiat
could reach tbem. As there was no hotel in the village at that time,
1finty could not turn them out of doors. But she always discriminated
against city visitors. She forced them to unpack their trunks in the
barn. She tbought country folk much the cleaner.
Iinty knew how
to make herself very disagreeable to g-uests without letting the old peo-
ple know anything about it. She bad been sometimes approached with
"tips" in the hope of placating her dragonship. but she repelled all
attempts at bribery and corruption \vith scorn. Xo one except Fielding
Stackpole ever stayed more than five days in the old minister's house.
The neighbors kept close watch to
ee if the rule were infringed.
There comes a clay of reckoning for all tyrants. The standing quar-
rel between
linty and Fieldin
had never been healeJ. The best tbey
could do was to proclaim a truce. Though the warfare often broke out
afresh, still the,v could manage to exist togetber under the same roof a
few weeks each Year. It wa
a terrible blow to
Iintv, therefore, when
the marriage of Fielding Stackpole wa
announced, a
d of all things to
one of those "hit.v-tity, good-for-nothing- city jades." Another great
blow was the fact that Fielc1ing and his bride were coming home to paRs
the summer. Old
Ir
. Stackpole did not even ask
Iinty's permifo:sion
to have them come. Reënforcecl by a strong letter from Fielding, she
simply said it would be a great pity if her children could not corne to
their father's house whenever it suited their convenience. This sounded
344
A UG USTA.. EARNED.
[1861-88
like the tocsin of open rebellion, and Minty's soul was troubled within
her. She saw that the old lady had already taken the bride into her
heart. But that night 1\frs. Stackpole had a nervous attack, and Minty
rubbed her and worked over her for several hours. She was alwa.\'s
good in illness; and the old woman tacitly asked her pardon. Things
were in this unsatisfactory state when :1fr. and
rrs. Fielding Stackpole
arrived. As a :first act of resistance, Fielding refused to ha,-e his wife's
trousseau inspected and fumigated in the barn by the domestic customs
officer. :Minty, though she bad to yield this point, felt strong in her
intrenched position, for she was certain tl]e Stack poles could not live
without her. Fielding felt f:'trong in his position of son, especially when
supported by a young, bright-eyed woman who looked upon him as a
great moral hero, although he had never done anything to merit hero-
worship. He, however, felt it would be a noteworthy thing to deliver
his aged parents from domestic servitude. The bride was now the great
centre of attraction. The old people petted her and received her pet-
tings in a way )1inty thought perfectly silly. Eyerybod,r admired bel'
pretty costumes, her piano-playing, and the fact tbat she spoke French
like a native. The neighbors were rnnning in at a11 hours. Meals were
irregular. The lights were no longer put out in the house exactly at
half-past nine. The window screens were left out, and flies buzzed
through the rooms.
:Minty endured it as long as she could, until, like Spicer, she felt that
her time had come to baUL Mrs. Fielding Stackpole's star was in the
ascendant; bel's was on the wane. Bel' main hope lay in the old lady's
nervous attacks, which no one could allay but herself. The time had
come to try her strength with Fiehling. It was at a moment when the
minister was absent from horne, and
fr8. Stackpole was in her own
room with her daughter-in-law. There was a terrible scene, but in the
end )finty packed her trunk, took an angry leave of the household. and
departed for Salt Lick-departed expecting perfect submission on the
part of the old people as soon as the loss was felt, anù to return in triumph
at the end of a few days, to the total routing of Fielding and hif' wife.
She found herself ill at ease at Salt Lick. She was a persòn of not
tbe least moment to the Salt Lickers. Day by da5T she expected her
recall to the Stackpole kitcben. and when a week, a fortnight, a month
passed without the
ummons, she could restrain her anxious curiosity
no longer. Old :11rs. Stackpole might hm'e died, anything might have
happened in the absence of the grand vizier. She therefore took the
train one morning and unsummoned returned to the yillage. Thp old
people were going out for a drive on the Roundabout. Spicer stood at
the door. Presently they came forth, attended by the daughter-in-law
in a charming white morning costume. They mounted the chaise with-
1861-88]
CLARA FLORIDA GUERNSEY.
345
out assistance, and
Iinty remarked that they seemed unusually young
and spry. E,-en Spicer moved off briskly with nothing more than a
pat from
frs. Fielding's fair hane1. Minty reconnoitred the house in a
state of mental collapse. All looked calm and peaceful. No domestic
earthq uake had shaken the foundations because of her absence. She
stole round to the kitchen. Phemy Jones, a young thing she knew
quite we]], was standing in the door. Phemy Jones to come after her!
The thought of the course of bad cooking the Stackpoles had gone
through gave Araminta Sophronia a feeling of exultation. Phemy met
her with no outward sign of deference, and she walked into the kitchen
and lookeù about with lynx eyes.
"And do JOU do the cooking for the family. Phem.y Jones?" she
asked sotto voce. " I'm a learner," responded Phemy, evasivel}'. " And
pray, who is teaching you, Phemy Jones? " "Young :1\.1rs. Stackpole.
She is a splendid cook, and the old people are just in love with her.
Everybody says they are growing young again." )Iinty arose in a
daze.] way, shook her skirts. and went out of the door. The first ppr-
son she encountered on the gart1en path was Fieldi ng Stackpole, with a
satirical smile on his face, as he looked into the eyes of his old enemy.
"I hope you are satisfied now," she blurted out, with a feeling of hot
tears in her eyes.
"Oh, yes;' returned Fielding, ., perfectly satisfied, Minty. I married
the head scholar in the Boston Cooking School; and I knew I was safe."
:Minty has taken another situation in the village, but her glory has
departed. She no longer hopes to be buried in the Stackpole lot and to
have a coffin-plate equal to that of her old master.
([lata flotína <15uctnøer.
BORN in Pittsford, :\Ionroe Co., N. Y., 1836.
THE
ILYER BULLET.
[The Last 'Witch -Old and XeU'. 1873.]
IT was late in November, and time to expect rough weather and ship-
wreck all along the will] New England coast, from where the break-
ers on the Isles of Shoals howl and rage like so many white bears for
their prey. to where Nantucket sands crawl out into the sea and lie
in wait for what the.v may ùevour; but nevertheless the Colony was
going to N ew York with a cargo on which Càptain Ezra expected large
profits. Keturah was uneasy in her mind, and LeI' annoyance was Ly
346
CLARA FLORIDA GUERNSEY.
[1861-88
no means diminished when. on coming ashore from the schooner where
she had been to carry a warm blanket, she saw old Lyddy Russell
standing on the wharf with her eyes steadfastly fixed on the Colony.
"Ho! ho!" said old Lyddy to Keturah as she drew near; "it is you,
i:::; it? "
" Yes," said Keturah, gathering up her will, and all the combined
forces of her Puritan and Indian blood, to resist the sort of chill that
was creeping over her.
"Keturah," said Lyddy, "you have goo(l blood in your \
eins,-too
good to be serving such people as the Coffins. I knew your great-
grandfather, at least, I knew about him, and if you choose I could put
you in a way of business that his granddaughter need not be ashamed
to foHow. \Ve have a great deal in common, you and I. Corne! Shall
we strike up a bargain? "
Now Keturah understood perfectly well that the bargain in question
was nothing less than an alliance with the evil one, and though she was
startled, if the truth must be told she could not at that moment help
feeling a sort of regard for him as an old friend of her family, and a
little flattered that this agent of his, or perhaps himself in person, should
think it worth while to make overtures to her.
Lyddy saw her advantage. and began to whisper in the old womau's
ear words of wild and wicked import, which were I suppose the mere
ravings of the unhappy old body's distorted mind, but which neverthe-
less had a horribly real sound.
"Ah, Keturah ! " she said, "just think how delightful it would be to
fly through the air and ride the wind instead of hearing it howl round
the old chimney. And if there were those 'Yhom you hated, how
delightful it would be to give yourself up to the wickedness in yon and
let it have fun swing, and come out honestly on the devil's side, instead
of being his only half-way, as you are now.-and ten to one he will ha\
e
you in the end, for you do hate people, Ketllrah, you knm,y you do,
with the real fine old savage hatred that cries out for hlood, and will
not be satisfied with les
. You know you wanted to kill Peter Stur-
gess when he cheated you about your yarn, and were glad when he
was brought before tbe church for taking advantage of Widow
Iacy.
You know that .you'd have been dreadfully disappointed if be'd turned
out innocent after all,,-and that's the real, genuine fiend, Keturah.
He's made lodgment in your soul in spite of you, and you might as
wen have the comfort of giving yourself up to bim and be done with it."
., Lyddy, you let me alone," said Keturah, shaking herself free from
the influence that was beginning to steal over her. "I'm part Indian,
and the Lord won't expect' any more of that side of me than he knows
it's capable of; and then "-she added with a queer sort of regret she
1861-88]
CLARA FLORIDA G UER.1YSEY.
347
could not wholly subdue-" I expect there's too much of the Indian in
me to give me much power with your wbite Satan. He's stronger than
ours, that my great-grandfather used to talk to" ; for some-way Keturah
had it firmly fixed in bel' mind, tbat even in the realms of darkness
there was a distinction in color. "And besides aU tbat," she said, sud-
denl,v bethinking herself of her religion, "I'm a Christian woman, and
I've listed on tbe Lord's side, and I've got too much of the old Coffin
stock in me to desert my colors, though I may grumble and fret about
tbe way things go on in the world now and then. Go your ways, Lyddy
Russell, or Lucifer, whichever you are, and let me and mine alone."
" Ah-r-r you! " cried Lyddy, with a fierce sort of snarl, like an angry
cat that dares not strike. .. It was you put up Ezra Coffin. But wait,
wait! The Powers of the Air! The Powers of the Air! " And mut-
tering to herself she vanished in tbe gathering dusk.
The next morning the Colony sailed with a fair wind for New York.
She pursued her way prosperously until she entered the sound wbich
divides Nantucket from the Cape.
November as it was, the sky and sea were calm, and the sun had just
gone down in a clear golden sky, while all along the east lay a pale rose
flush, passing into soft gray at the horizon. The schooner was slipping
softly through the wat.er with all bel' sails spread to catch tbe light
though favoring breeze. In all air or ocean was no sign of danger.
Suddenly, out of the sea, as it seemed, grew up a darkne:::s that
gatbered from moment to moment,-a darkness that could be felt.
The captain was not on deck, but the mate tbundered out his orders
to take in sail; but he was not obeyed, for, struck breathless, the men
stood with blanched faces, gazing at something that came sweeping
towards them down the wind from the northward.
'Vas it the wbirlwind bearing the thunder-storm on its wings, was it
a gathering water-spout, or was it something more dread and terrible
still, that taU column that came rushing onward over the sea towards
the doomed ship. seeming as it drew near to take human shape,-a shape
with wil(lly to
sing hair and vengeful hands uplifted in act to strike?
'Vas it only tbe wind that howled and laughed?
Captain Ezra Coffin had rushed on deck at the first sign of danger.
To tbe mate's surprise he gave no orders, but flying back to tbe cabin
reappeared with his gun in his hand.
The old Berserker strain which lurks somewhere in manv of us who
have Northern blood in our veins was up in Captain comn, Land tbough
he made no doubt that he was fighting the devil in person, be was
reckless of the awful odds, and was conscious of no feeling but hatred
and defiance. There came a flash; the sbarp report echoed and re-
echoed. and rolled away over the sea j but before it bad died came a
348
WILLIAM WINTER.
[1861-b8
sound like a scream of anguish, as a sudden, furious gust of wind rent
into ribbons the schooner's topsail.
The next instant the sky was clear, and the ship was steadily gliding
through the long bars of gold and rose that yet lay upon the sunset sea.
"The twenty-fifth of November, at twenty minutes to six P.M.," said
Captain Coffin as he made an entry in the log; "I wonder what has
come to pas8 at home."
"'Vel1, Keturah, what's happened?" asked Captain Coffin, when a
month later he stood by the kitchen fire, Bafe returned from a prosperous
voyage.
"Nothing particular," said Keturah, "only old Lyddy Ru
sell is dead."
" When? "
" Her borly was washed ashore on the morning of the twenty-sixth of
Novembel'. Folks thought she'd been out fishing and got drowned.
She had a long torn rag of canva
, a bit of a sail, clutched in her hand."
,. Drowned was she?" said Captain Coffin, turning away; and then
he asked the curious question, "'Vho laid her out? "
"I ùid," s3-id Keturah, with a strange look. "No hands but mine
touched her. You're a good shot, Ezra Coffin, and a brave one. Ah!
wl1en the devil comes in bodily shape you've got to resist him with
hands as well as heart, and teach your hanùs to war and your fingers to
fight, in spite of the Quakers going round ag
ravating folks with their
peace principles till tbey'd provohe a saint to hox their ears. Ah! the
silver bullet did its work."
When the Captain had gone, Keturah hid something carefuIIyaway
in the farthest corner of her iron box, but I cannot say whether tbe sil-
ver bullet ever came down to young Tristam Coffin, or whether it was
buried with its owner in the lonesome, wind-swept graveyard where
Keturah's bones have lain for more than seventy year
.
[[ttlHam [[líntct.
BORN in Gloucester, Mass" 1836.
IN "THE WORLD OF DREAMS."
[The ..Yew York Trtõ1lne. lS87-89.-The Jeffersons. It;81.]
THE ":AIEPHISTOPHELES" OF IRVING.
H ENRY IRVING, in his emboJiment of :Mephistopheles has ful-
filled the conception of the poet in one essential respect and has
á
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1861-88]
WILLIAM WINTER.
349
fa.r transcended it in another. His performance, su verb in ideal and
perfect in execution, is a great work-and precisely here is the greatneRs
of it. Mephistopheles as delineated by Goethe is magnificently intel-
lectual and sardonic, but nowhere does he convey even tile faintest sug-
gestion of tbe godhead of glory from which he Las lapsed. His own
frank and clear avowal of Limself leaves no room for doubt as to the
limitation intended to be establisbed for him by the poet. I am, he
declares, the spirit that perpetually denies. I am a part of that part
which once was all-a part of that darkness out of which came the
light. I repudiate all things-because everything that has been made
is unworthy to exist and ought to be destroyed, and therefore it is bet-
ter that notbing should ever have been made. God dwells in splendor,
alone and eternal, but his Spirits he thrusts into darkness. and l\lan, a
poor creature fashioned to poke his nose into filth, he sportively dowers
with day and night. :My province is Evil; my existence is mockery; my
pleasure and my purpose are destruction. In a worù, tbis Fiend, tower-
ing to tbe loftiest summit of cold intellect, is the embodiment of cruelty,
malice and scorn, pervaded and interspersed with grim humor. That
ideal
lr. Irving 11as made actual. The omniscient craft and deadly
nlalignity of his impersonation, swathed as they are in a most specious
humor, at some moments (as, for example, in
fargaret's bed-room, in
the garden scene with Martha, and in tbe duel scene with Valentine)
make the blood creep anù curdle with horror, even while they impress
the sense of intellectual power anll stir the springs of laughter. But
if you rightly read his face in the fantastic, symbolical scene of the
Witch's Kitchen; in that lurid moment of sunset over the quaint gables
and haunted spires of
urem berg, when the sinister presence of the
arch-fiend deepens the red glare of tbe setting sun and seems to bathe
this world in the ominous splendor of hell; and, above a]], if you per-
ceive the soul that shines through his eyes in that supremely awful
moment of bis predominance over the hellish revel npon the Brocken,
when all the hideous malignities of natUl'e and all those baleful ., spirits
which tend on mortal consequence" are loosed into tbe aërial abyss, and
only tbis imperial horror can curb anù subdue them, JOU will know
that tbis :Mepbistopheles is a sufferer not less than a mocker: that his
colossal malignity is the delineation of an angelic spirit, thwarted, baf-
fled, shattered, but still defiant; never to he vanquished; never through
all eternity to be at peace with itself. The infinite sadness of tbat face,
the pathos, beyond words, of that isolated and lonely figure-these are
the qualities which irradiate all its diversified attriLutes of mind. humor,
duplicity, sarcasm, force, horror, and infernal Leauty, and invc
t it with
the authentic quality of greatness. There is no warrant for this treat-
ment of the part to be deriveù from Goethe's poem. Tbere is ev<'rY
350
WILLIA.ltl WINTER.
[1861-88
warrant for it in the apprehension of this tremendous subject by the
imagination of a great actor. You cannot mount above the earth, JOu
cannot transcend the ordinar.v line of the commonplace, as a mere sar-
donic image (:f self-satisfied anù chuckling obliquity.
Ir. Irving has
embodied :Mephistopheles not as a man but as a spirit, with an that
the word implies, and in doing this he has not only heeded the fine
instinct of the true actor but the splendid teaching of tbe highest poetry
-the ray of supernal light that flashes from the old Bible; the blaze
that streams from the" Paradise Lost"; the awful glory through which,
in the pages of Byron, the typical figure of agonized but unconquerable
revolt towers over a realm of ruin.
" On his brow
The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye
Glares forth the immortality of hell."
"GREAT THOUHRTS IN GREAT LAXGCAGE."
W IIATEVER else ma,V be said as to the drift of the tragedy of
"Antony anù Cleopatra," this certainly may with truth be said.
that to strong natures that sicken under the weight of con,.ention and
are weary with looking upon the littleness of human nature in its
ordinary forms, it affords a great and splendid, howsoever temporary,
relief and refreshment. The winds of power blow through it; the
strong meridian sunshine blazes over it; the colors of morning burn
around it; the trumpet blares in its music, and its fragrance is the
scent of a wilderness of roses. Shakespeare's vast imagination was here
loosed upon colossal images and imperial splendors. The passions that
clash or mingle in this piece are like the ocean surges-fierce, glittering,
terrible and glorious. The theme is the ruin of a demigod. The
adjuncts are empire
. WeaIth of every sort is poured forth with regal
and limitless profusion. 'rhe very language glows with a prodigal emo-
tion and towers to a superb height of eloquence. It does not signi(v, as
modifying the effect of an this tumult and glory, that the stern truth of
mortal evanescence is quietly su
gested all the way, and simply dis-
closed at la,st in a tragical wreck of honor, love, and life. "\Vhile the
pageant endures it elldures in diamond light, and when it fades and
crumbles the change is instantaneous to darkness and death.
" The odd
is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon."
There is no need to inquire whether Shakespeare-who c10sely fol-
lowed Plutarch in telling this Roman and Egyptian story-has been
1861-88J
WILLIAJf WINTER.
351
true to the historical fact. His characters dec1are themselves with abso-
lute precision, and they are not to be mistaken. Antony and Cleopatra
are in middle life and the only possible or admissible ideal of them is
that which separates tbem at once and forever from the gentle, puny,
experimental emotions of youth, and invests them with the developed
powers and fearless and exu1tant passions of men and women to whom
the world andEfe are a fact and not a dream. They do not palter. For
them there is but one hour, which is the present, and one life, \yhich
they will entirely and absolutely fulfil. They have passed out of the
mere instinctive life of the senses, into that more intense and thrilIing
life wherein the senses are fed and governed by the imagination.
Shakespeare has filled this wonderful play with lines that ten most
unerringly his grand meaning in this respect-lines that, to Shake-
spearean scholars. are in the very alphabet of memory:
" There's beg-gar
' in the love that can be reckoned "
" There's not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now."
" Let Rome in Tiber melt and the wide arch
Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space! ,.
" 0, thou day 0' the world,
Chain mine armed neck! Leap thou. attire and all.
Through proof of harness. to my heart and there
Ride on the pants triumphing."
" Fal] not a tear. I say ! one of them rates
All that is won am110st. Give me a kiss,
Even this repa) s me."
Here is no Orsino, sighing for the music tbat is the food of love: no
Romeo, takinf! the measure of an unmade graye; no Hamlet lover, bid-
ding his mistre8'3 go to a nunner.v. You may indeed. if you posses:'i the
subtle poetic sense, discern, all through this voluptuous story, the faint,
far-off rustle of the garments of the coming Nemesis; the low moan of
the funeral music that will sing these imperial lovers to their rest-for
nothing is more inevitably doomerl than mortal delight in mortal love,
and no moralist ever taught his lesson of truth with more inexorable
purpose than Shakespeare uses here. But in the mean time it is the
'present vitalit.y and not the moral implication of the subject that actors
must be concerned to Rhow. anù observers to recognize and comprehend,
upon the stage, if this tragedy is to be properly acted anù properly scene
In other words, a reference to wbat tbe characters are mu
t precede a
reference to what they become, as now represented. Antony and Cleo-
patra are lovers, but not loveri only. It is the splendid stature and
352
WILLIAM WINTER.
[1861-88
infinite variety of character in them that render them puissant in fascina-
tion. Each of them speaks great thoughts in great language. Each
displays lioble imagination. Each becomes majestic in the hour of dan-
ger and pathetically heroic in the hour of death. The dying speeches of
Antony are in the highest vein that Shakespeare ever reached, and when
you consider what is implied as well as what is said there is nowhere in
him a more lofty line than Cleopatra's-
" Give me my robe. put on my crown, I have
Immortal longings in me ! "
AN ARf'ADIAX YAGAROKD.
l\. ;rOST persons work so hard, are so full of care and trouble, so
JJl weighed down with the sense of duty, so anxious to regulate the
world and put everything to rights, that contact with a nature which
does not care for tbe stress and din of toil but dwells in an atmosphere
of sunshiny idleness and is the embodiment of goodness, innocence, and
careless mirth, brings a positive relief. This is the feeling that Jeffer-
son's acting inspires. The halo of genius is all around it. Sincerity.
humor, pathos, vivid imagination, and a gentleness that is akin with
wild flowers and woodland brooks, slumberous, slow-drifting summer-
clouds, and soft music heard upon the waters in starlit nights of June
-these are the springs of the actor's art. There are a hundred beauties
of method in it which satisfy tbe judgment and fascinate the sense of
symmetry; but underlTing these beauties there is a magical sweetness of
temperament-a delicate blending of humor, pathos. gentleness, quaint-
ness, and dream-like repose-which awaken::; the most affectionate sym-
pathy. This subtle spirit is the potent charm of the impersonation.
All possible labor (and Jefferson sums up in this performance the cuI.
ture acquired in many years of professional toil) could not supply that
charm. It is a celestial gift. It is the divine fire. It is what the phil-
osophic poet Emerson, with fine and far-reaching significance, calls
" The untaught strain
That sheùs beauty on the rose."
In depicting Rip Van 'Vinkle Jefferson reaches the perfection of the
actor's art; which is to delineate a distinctly individual character,
through successiye stages of growth, till the story of a life is completely
told. If the student of acting would feelingly appreciate the fineness
and force of the dramatic art that is displayed in this work let him, in
either of the pivotal passages, consider the complexity and depth of the
effect as contrasted with the simplicity of tbe means tbat are used to
11:;61-88]
WILLIAJ.1f TJTNl'ER.
353
produce it. There is no trickery in the charm. The sense of beauty is
satisfied, because the object that it apprehends is beautiful. The beart
is deeply and surely touched, for the simple and sufficient reason that
the character and experience revealed to it are lovely anll pathetic. For
Hip Van Winkle's goodness exists as an oak exists, and i
110t dependent
on principle, precept, or resolution. Howsoe\'er he may drift he cannot
ùrift away from human affection. 'V eakne
s was never punished with
more sorrowful misfortune than hi
. Dear to us for what he is. be
becomes dearer sti11 for what he f'uffers, and (in the acting of Jefferson)
for the manner in which he suffers it. That manner, arising out of
complete identification with the part, informed by intuitive and liberal
knowledge of human nature and guided by an unerring instinct of
taste, is the crown of Jefferson's art. It is unrestrained j it is graceful;
it is free from effort j it is equal to every situation; and it shows, with
the precision and delicacy of the finest miniature-painting, tbe gradual,
natural changes of the character, as wrought by the pressure of expe-
rience. Its result is the perfect embodiment of a rare type of human nat-
ure and mystical experience, embellished by the appliances of romance
and exalted by the atmospbere of poetry; and no perf'on of imagination
and sensibility can see it witbout being charmed by its humor, tbrilled
by its manifold suggestion;;;; of beaut.v, and made more and more sensi-
ble that life is utterly worthless, howsoever brilliantly its ambitions may
happen to be rewarded, unless it is hallowed by love and soothed by
kindness.
There will be, as tbere have 'heen, many Rip Van 'Vinkles: there is
but one Jefferson. For him it was reserved to idealize the entire sub-
ject; to elevate a prosaic type of good-natured indolence into an ideal
emblem of poetical freedom j to construct and translate, in the \\ orIel of
fact, the Arcadian vagabond of the world of dreams. In the presence of
his wonderful embodiment of this droll, gentle, drifting human creature
-to whom trees and brooks and flowprs. are fami1iar companions, to
wbom spirits appe3.r, and fOl'-whom the mysterious voices of the lonely
midnight forest have a meaning and a eharm-tbe o'hsel'ver feels tbat
poetry is no lOllger restricted to canvas amI marble and rapt reverie
over the printed page, but walks forth crystallized in a human form,
spangled with the freshness of the diamomI dewf' of morning, mysterious
with hints of woodland secrets, lovely with the simplicity and joy of
rustic freedom, and fragrant with the incense of tbe pines.
The world does not love Rip Van \Vinkle because he drinks schnapps,
nor because he is unthrifty, nor because he banters his wife, nor because
he neglects his duties as a parent. All these arc faults, and he is lo\-ed
in spite of them. Underneath all hi::; defects the human nature of tbe
Ulan is as sound and bright as the finest gold; and it is out of this inte-
VOL.IX.-23
,
354
WILLIA,M WI.1YTER.
[1861-88
rioI' beauty that the charm of Jefferson's personation arises. The con-
duct of Rip Yan Winkle is the result of his character and not of his
drams. At the sacrifice of some slight comicality here and there, the
element of intoxication might be left out of his experience altogether,
and he would still act in the same way and possess the same fascination.
Jefferson's Rip, of course, is meant, and not Irving's. The latter was
"a thirsty
oul," accustomed to frequent the tavern; and thirsty souls
who often seek taverns neither go there to practise total abstinence nor
come thence with poetical attributes of nature. No such idea of Rip
Van Winkle can be derived from Irving's sketch as is given in Jeffer-
son's acting. Irving seems to have written the sketch for the sake of
the ghostly legend it em bodies; but he made no attempt to elaborate
the character of its hero or to present it as a poetic one. Jefferson bas
exalted the conception. In his embodiment the drink is merely an expe-
dient, to plunge the hero into domestic strife and open the way for his
ghostly adventure and his pathetic resuscitation. The machinery may
be clumsy; but that does not invalidate either the beauty of the charac-
ter or the supernatural thrill and mortal anguish of the experience. In
these abides the soul of this great work, which while it captivates the
heart also enthralls the imagination-taking us away from the region
of the commonplace, away also from the region of the passions, lifting
us above the storms of life, its sorrows, its losses, and its fret, tin we rest
at last on Nature's bosom, children once more, and once more happy.
.
MY QUEEN.
[Wanderers. 1889.]
H E loves not well whose love is hold!
I would not have thee come too nigh:
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold
Unless the sun were in the !';ky:
To take him thence and chain him near
Would make his ueauty disappear.
He keeps his state,-do thou keep thine,
And shine upon me from afar!
So shall I uask in light divine.
That falls from love's own guiding star;
So shall thy eminence be high,
And so my passion shall 110t die.
But all my life will reach its hands
Of lofty longing toward thy face,
1861-88]
WILLL4Jf WL.Yl'ER.
And be as one who speechless stands
In rapture at SOlue perfect grace!
:My love, my Lope, my all will be
To look to heaven and look to thee!
Thy eyes will be the heavenly lights;
Thy voice the gentle summer hreeze,
'Vhat time it sways, on moonlit nights,
The murmuring tops of leafy trees;
And I will touch thy bea.uteous form
In .June's red roses, rich and warm.
But thou thyself shall come not down
From that pure region far above;
But keep thy throne and wear thy crown,
Queen of my heart and queen of love!
A monarch in thy realm complete,
And I a monarch-at thy feet!
CONSl'A
CE.
"'{
TITH diamond dew the grass was wet,-
\' V 'Twas in the spring and gentlest weather,-
And all the birds of morning met,
And carolled in her heart together.
The wind blew softly o'er the land,
And softly kissed the joyous ocean:
He walked beside her on the sand,
And gave and won a heart's devotion.
The thistledown was in the breeze,
'Vith birds of passage homeward flying;
His fortune lured him o'er the seas,
And on the shore he left her, sighing.
She saw his barque glide down the bay,
Through tears
mrl fears she could not banish;
She saw his white sails melt away-
She saw them fade, she saw them vanish.
And" Go," she said, "for winds are fau,
And }O\"e and blessing round you hover;
When you sail backward through the air,
Then I will trust the word of lover."
Still ebbed, still flowed, the tide of years,
Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses,
355
356
WILLIA.J.Y WINTER.
[1861-88
And many smiles were turned to tears,
And sombre morns to radiant closes.
And many ships came sailing oy,
With many a golden promise freighted;
But nevermore from sea or !;ky
Came love, to bless her heart that waited.
Yet on, by tel1l1er patience led,
Her sacred footsteps walked, unhidr1en,
Wherever sonow bowed its head,
Or want, and care, and shame were hidden.
And they who saw her snow-white hair,
And dark, sad eyes, so deep with feeling,
Breathed all at once the chancel air,
And seemeù to hear the organ pealing.
Till once, at shut of autumn day,
In marble ('hill she paused and hearkened,
1Vith startled gaze where far away
The wastes of sky and ocean darkened.
There for a moment, faint and wan,
High up in air, and landward striving,
Stern-fore a spectral barque came on,
Across the purple sunset driving.
Then something out of night she knew,
Some whisper heard, from heaven descended,
And peacefully, as falls the dew,
Her long and lonely-vigil ended.
The violet and the bramble-rose
Make glad the g-rass that dreams above herj
And, freed from time and all its woes,
She trusts again the word of lover.
AN E:\IPTY HEART.
[LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL LADY, SENT WITH A HEART-SHAPED JEWEL-BOX.]
"";YELL, since our lot must be to part mm
" (These lots-how they do push and pull one!)
I send you here an empty heart,
But send it from a very full one.
My little hour of joy is done,
But every vain regret I smother,
With murm'ring, "\Vhen you see the one,
Think kindly sometimes of the other."
1861-8
]
WILLIA.LV WINTER.
357
This heart must always do your will,
This heart your maid can fetch and carry,
This heart will faithful be, and still
.Will not importune you to marry.
That other, craving hosts of things,
"
ould throb and flutter, every minutej
But this, except it hold your rings,
"ill mutely wait with nothing in it.
Oh, happy heart r that finds its bliss
In pure affection consecrated!
But happier far the heart, like this,
That heeds not whether lone or mated;
That stands unnlOyec1 in beauty's eyes,
That knows not if you leave or take it,
That is not hurt though you despise,
And quite unconscious when you break it.
That other heart would burn, and freeze,
And plague, and hamper, and perplex you,
But this will always stand at ease,
And never pet and never vex you.
Go, empty heart! and if she lift
Your little lid this prayer c1elinr:
"Ah, look with kindness on the gift,
And think with kindness on the giver."
SHAKESPEARE'S GR4\ VE.
[Shakespeare's England. 1886.]
I T is the everlasting glory of Stratford-upon-Avon that it was the
birthplace of ShakeRpeare. Situated in tbe heart of Warwickshire,
which has been called the" garden of England," it nestles cosily in an
atmosphere of tranqnilloveliness, and is surroundf'd, indeed, with every-
thing that soft and gentle rural scenery can afford to soothe the mind
and to nurture contentment. It stands upon a level plain, almost in tbe
centre of the island, through which, between the low green hills tbat roll
away on eitber side, the Avon flows downward to the Severn. The
country in its neighborhood is under perfect cultivation, and for many
miles around presf'nts the appearance of a superbly appointed park.
Portions of the land are devoted to crops and pasture; other portions
are thickly wooded with oak, elm, willow, and chestnut j the meadows
are intersected by hedges of the fragrnut hawthorn, and the whole
region smiles with flowers. Old manor-houses, half-hidden among the
358
WILLIAltl WINTER.
[1861-88
trees, and thatched cottages embowered with roses, are sprinkled through
the surrounding landscape; and all the roads which converge upon this
point-from "\Varwick, Banbury, Bidford" Alcester, Evesham, VV orcester,
and many other contiguous towns-wind, in sun and shadow, through
a sod of green velvet, swept by the cool, sweet winds of the English
summer. Such felicities of situation and such accessories of beauty,
however, are not unusual in England; and Stratford, were it not hal-
lowed by association, though it might always hold a place among the
pleasant memories of the traveller, would not have become a shrine for
the homage of the world. To Shakespeare it owes its renown; from
Shake
peare it derives the bulk of its prosperity. To visit Stratford is
to tread with affectionate veneration in the footsteps of the poet. To
write about Stratford is to write about Shakespeare.
l\fore than three hundred years have passed since the birth of that
colossal genius, and many changes must have
ccurrecl in his native
town within that period. The Stratford of Shakespeare's time was built
principally of timber-as, indeed, it is now-and contained about four-
teen hundred inhabitants. To-clay its population numbers upwards of
eight thousand. New dwellings have arisen where once were :fields of
wheat, glorious with the shimmering lustre of the scarlet poppy. The
other buildings, for the most part, have been demolished or altered.
Manufacture, chiefly of beer, and of Shakespearean relics, has been stimu-
lated into prosperous activity. The Avon has been spanned by a Hew
bridge, of iron. The village streets have been levelled, swept, roIled and
garnished till they look like a Flel.l1Ïsh drawing of the :Middle Ages.
Even the Shakespeare cottage, the ancient Tudor house in High Street,
and the two old churches-authentic and splendid memorials of a dis-
tant and storied past-have been" restored." If the poet could walk
again through his accustomed haunts. though he would see the same
smiling country round about, and hear, as of old, the ripple of the Avon
murmuring in its summer sleep, his eyes would rest on but few objects
that once he knew. Yet there are tbe paths that Shakespeare often
trod; there stands the house in which he was born; there is the school
in which be was taught; there is the cottage in which he wooed his
sweetheart: there are the traces and relics of the mansion in which he
died; and there is the church that keeps his dust, so consecrated by the
reverence of mankind
" That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."
J
A modern house now stands on a part of the site of what was once
Shakespeare's home, and here has been established another museum of
Shakespearean relics. None of these relics is of imposing authenticity
1861-88]
WILLLLlf WINTER.
359
or of remarkable interest. Among them is a stone mullion, dug up on
the site, which may have belonged to a window of the original mansion.
This entire estate, bought from different owners and restored to its
Shakespearean condition, became in 1875 the propertr of the corporation
of Stratford. The tract of land is not large. The visitor may traverse
the whole of it in a few minutes, although if he obey his inclination he
will linger there for hours. The enclosure is about three hundred feet
square, possibly larger. The lawn is in beautiful condition. The line
of the walls tbat once separated this from the two gardens of vegetables
and of flowers is traced in the turf. The mulberry is large and flourish-
ing, and wears its honors in contented vigor. Other trees give grateful
shade to the grounds, and tbe voluptuous red roses, growing all around
in profuse richness, load the air with bewildering fragrance. Eastward,
at a little distance, flows the Avon. Not far away rises the graceful
spire of the I-Ioly Trinity. A few rooks, hovering in the air and wisely
bent on some facetious mischief. send down through the silvery haze of
the summer morning their sagacious yet melancholy caw. The windows
of the gray chapel across the street twinkle, and keep their solemn secret.
On this spot was first waved the mystic wand of Prospero. Here Ariel
sang of dead men's bones turned into pearl and coral in the deep caverns
of the sea. Here arose into everlasting life Hermione, ,. as tender as
infancy and grace." Here were created
firanda and Perdita, twins of
hea ven's own radiant goodness-
" Daffodils
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of l\1arch with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
Or Cytherea's breath."
To endeavor to touch upon the larger and more august aspect of
Shakespeare's life-when, as his wonderful sonnets betray, his great
heart had felt the devastating blast of cruel passions and the deepest
knowledge of the good and evil of the universe had been borne in upon
his soul-would be impious presumption. Happily, to the stroller in
Stratford, ever.v association connected with him is gentle and tender. His
image, as it rises there, is of smiling hoyhood, or sedate and benignant
maturity; always either joyous or serene, never passionate, or turbulent,
or dark. The pilgrim thinks of him as a happy child at his father's
fireside; as a wandering school-boy in the quiet, venerable close of the
old Guild Chapel, where still the only sound that breaks the silence is
the chirp of birds or the creaking of the church vane; as a handBome,
dauntless youth, sporting by his beloved river or roaming through field
and forest many miles about; as the bold, adventurous spirit, bent on
frolic and mischief, and not averse to danger, leading, perhaps, the wild
360
WILLIAM TVI.l.YTER.
[1861-88
lads of his village in tbeir poaching depredations on tbe park of Charl-
cote; as the lover, strolling through the green lanes of Shottery, hand
in band with the darling of his first love, while round them the honey-
suckle breathed out its fragrant heart upon tbe winds of night, and over-
head the moonlight, streaming through rifts of elm and poplar, fell on
tbeir patbway in showers of shimmering silver; and, last of an, as tbe
illustrious poet, rooted and secure in his massive and shining fame,
loved by many, and venerated and mourned by all, borne slowly through
Stratford churchyard, while the golden bells were tolled in sorrow, and
the mourning lime-trees dropped their blossoms on his bier, to the place
of bis eternal rest.
POE.
[From Stanzas read at the Dedication of the Actors' Monument to Edgar Allan Poe.-
J'he New York Tribune. 1885.]
F RO:\I earliest youth his spirit kept its throne
By the sea's marge, or on the mountain height,
Or in the forest deeps, or meadow lone,
'Vhere the long shadows fall, as comes the night,
And spectral shapes gleam on the Rtartled sight
And vanish with low sighs. The darkling caves
That line the murmurous shore were his delight,
Where the defeated billow chafes and raves,
And much he loved the stars hat shine on lonely graves.
By night he roamed along the haunted shore,
And on the vacant summit of the hills
Held converse with the vast; while evermore
The awful mystery with which Nature thrills,-
'Vhispering the poet's heart, and thence distils
The essence of her beanty,-wrapt his soul,
Buoyant and glorion,;, with such power as fiUs
The drena expanse where sky and ocean roll,
Thought measureless, supreme, and feeling past controL
Among the haunts of men a wanderer stilL
He walked a dusky pathway, all his own;
For men were not his mates-their good, their ill
Were things by him unfe1t. to him unknown-
An empty laughter or an idle moan;
And they that saw him passed him coldly by,
And thus he roved his shadowy world alone,-
A world of haunting shapes and phantasy,
And life a dream that longed yet drea(le<l more to die.
1861-88]
lVILLIAM WINTER.
361
His o'er-fraught bosom and his haunted brain
Gave out their music and then ceased to be-
A strange, a weird, a melancholy strain.
Like the low moaning of the distant sea!
And when death harshly set his
pÍl'it free
From frenzied days and penury and Llight,
At least 'twas tender mercy's kind decree,-
Shrining his name in memory's living light,
With thoughts that gild the day and charm the lingering night.
He was the voice of beauty and of woe,
Passion and mystery and the dread unknown;
Pure as the mountains of perpetual snow,
Cold as the icy winds that round them moan,
Dark as the caves wherein earth's thunders groan,
'Wild as the tempests of the upper sky,
Sweet us the faint, far-off, celestial tone
Of angel whispers, fluttering from on high,
And tender as love's tear when youth and beauty die.
His music dies not-nor call ever die-
Blown round the world by every wandering wind;
The comet, lessening in the midnight sky,
Still leaves its trail of glory far behind.
Death cannot quench the lustre of the minll,
Nor hush the seraph song that Beauty sings;
Still in the Poet's SoullllUst Nature find
Her voice for every secret that she brings,
To all that dwell beneath the brooding of her wings.
RELATIOKS OF THE PRESS AND THE STAGE.
[From an Addrcss before the New York Gopthe Club. 1
89.]
H AVE you eyer considered the spectacle that is prpsented by the
press of this country whenever the approach of a new actor is
announced? If I may lightly employ the sublime
(iltonic figure, "far
off his coming shine
." Fir:"t there is a rumor that he has been en:raged.
Then a regretful rloubt is cast upon tbe rumor. Then the expeditious
cable flashes oyer a scornful repudiation of tbe doubt, coupled with the
cordial assurance that the engagement is really made. Then comes the
sketch of his illustrious life, wherein are set forth all the glowinp- details
of his great successes beyond the sea. A little later the opinions of the
foreign press begin to mingle witb the stream of local news. A few
anecdotes,
entimental or humorous, illustrative of his fascinating char-
302
WILLIAJI WINTER.
[1861-88
acter come next and do not come amiss. Presently our diligent journals
apprise us that he has eaten his farewell dinner and uttered with deep
emotion his farewell speech, and that his bark is now actually upon the
sea. The list of his tbeatrical company, tbe catalogue of his scenery,
and the names of his plays and characters are next in order, and are duly
supplied. The interval of the vOj-age is devoted to recapitulation and
to a sympathetic portrayal of the views of his manager as to the expedi-
encyof raising the prices, and of the 1ivel.v excitement with which the
ticket-seners await his approach. No sooner does his ship cast anchor
in our bay than a. tug-boat streaming with banners and filled with news-
paper reporters arrives at Quarantine to U meet him and receive him,"
while not improbably a committee from the Lotos Club or the Lambs
awaits him on the steamship pier to ask him to dinner. For several
ensuing days the newspapers teem with wbat are calle,} interviews-
frigbtful compounds of platitude and triviality, through which tbeir
writer
loom forth as prodigies of impertinent cu,"iosity and vulgar
insolence, while tbe bonored stranger is indeed fortunate if, with all the
laborious courtesy of his patient and wary replies, he escape
emblazon-
ment as a preposterous ass. At length, sustained and cheered by the
acclamation of a great multitude, he steps npon the scene and plays his
part, and the next day every considerable newspaper in the land gives a
column to bis exploit. From that time onward his advance through the
continent is a triumpbant progress. The luxurious Pullman car whirls
him from city to city. The stateliest mansions throw wide their doors
for his reception. The brightest spirits of the club, the studio, and the
boudoir throng around him with every proffer of hospitality tbat kind-
ness can suggest or liberal prodigality provide. Statesmen are his com-
panions. Fair ladies crown him with laurel. Poets embalm his great
name in the amber of their verse. The boys buy his picture and" make
up" on his model. The girls cannot live without his autograph.
Nothing is left undone that by any po::;:
ibility of chance can make him
happy j and as he thus speeds onwarcl in the glittering track of the occi-
dental star the vigilant newspaper-the sleepless eye, the tireless band,
tbe cea::;eless voice-faithful to the last, "yhether he buys a cravat, or
plants a tree, or restores a monument, or endows a college, or loses a
pocket-hanclkercbief, still follows bis renowned footsteps and still keeps
amply fun the daily chronicle of his illustrious {leeds.
It is my desire neither to exaggerate nor to depreciate the influence of
dramatic criticism, but I have never been able quite to understand the
superlative practical value of it, as proclaimed by many persons. To
my mind the newspaper article on tbe stage never settles anything. If
well written it may interest tbe reader's thoughts, excite his curiosity,
increase or rectify his knowledge, and possibly suggest to him a benefi-
1861-88]
WILLIAJI TITNTEll.
363
cial }ine of reflection or study. That is all. Newspaper commendation
may accelerate the success of a play already recognized as good, and
newspaper ridicule may hasten the obsequies of a play already so bad
that its failure is inevitable. But criticism establishes no man's rank,
fixes no man's opinion, dissuades no man from the bent of his humor.
The actor whom it praises may nevertheless pass away and no place be
found for him. The actor 'whom it ., slates" does not expire, neither
does he repair to the woods. Far more likely he goes to Boston and
writes a Reply. In the early days of .. The Black Crook," when it had
become known to me, from the police, tbat one form of vice had been
much increased, through the influence of that spectacle, in the neigh bor-
hood of Niblo's Theatre, I thougbt it was my duty (as the dramatic
reviewer for the " New York Tribune") to denounce that exhibition; and
I did denounce it "in good set terms:- The consequence was an imme-
diate and enormous increase in the public attendance, and my friend
Henry D. Palmer, one of the managers of the" Crook," addressed to me
these grateful and expressive words: "Go on, my boy; this is exactly
what we want." Since then I lm\-e been reticent with fulminations in
tbe presumed interest of public morality. At the present moment two
amiable and band
ome :,-oung people are disporting at a neigbboring
theatre as Shakespeare's .Antony and Cleopatra. A more futile perform-
ance, in every possible point of view. probably was never given: and I
believe the critical tribunals of the town have mostly stated this truth-
in some cases with considerable yirulence. Yet this performance draws
crowded houses, and, no doubt, it will continue to draw tbem, here
and a11 O\Ter the country. l\Iany other elements enter into this subject
aside from the question of dramatic art, The critic of the stage should
do his duty, but be will be wise not to magnify his office, and he cer-
tainly becomes comical wben he plumes himself as to the practical
results of his ministration. I know that he exists in the miùst of tribu-
lations. He must pass aImo
t every night of his life in a hot theatre,
breathing the bad air aUfI commingling with a miscellaneous multitude
ennobled by tbe
:mcred mnniment of liberty hut largely unaccustomed
to the 11se of soap. He must frf'quently and resignedly contemplate red
and green and yellow nightmares of scenery that would cause the patient
omnibus-horse to lie clown in his tracks and expire. lie must often and
calmly listen to the voice of the natiunal catarrh, in comparison with
whicb thc aquatic fog-born ur the ear-piercing fife is a soothing sound of
peace. He must blandly respond to the patent-leather smile of the effu-
sive tbeatrical agent, who hopes that he is yery WE'll hut inwarùly wi
hé::;
him in Tophet. He must clasp the clammy Land and hear the balE'ful
question of the gibberinfr "first-night" lunatic, who exists for the sole
purpose of inquiring" 'Vhat do you tbink of this? ,- lie must preserve
364
WILLIAM WINTER.
[1861-88
the coolness and composure of a marble statue, when every nerve in his
system is tingling with the anxious sense of responsibility, haste, and
doubt; and he must perform the delicate and difficult duty of critical
comment upon the personality of the most sensitive people in the world
under a pressure of adverse conditions such as would paralyze any intel-
lect not speciany trained to the task. And when he has done his work,
and done it to the best of his abilit,Y and conscience, he must be able
placidly to reflect that his moti,'es are impugned, that his integrity is
flouted, that his character is traduced, and that his name is bemired by
every filthy scribbler in the blackguard section of the press and of the
stage, with as little compunction as though he were the" common cry of
curs." These trials, however, need not turn his brain. He should not
suppose, as he often does, that an attentive univerRe waits trembling on
his nod. He should not flatter himself with the delusion that he can
make or unmake the reputation of other men. It often bappens that his
articles are not read at all j and when they are read it is quite as likely
that they will incite antipathy as it is that they win win assent. He
should not imagine that he is Apono standi.ng by a tripod, or Brutus
sending his son to the block He is, in reality, firing a pop-gun. He is
writing a newspaper article about a theatrical performance, but both the
performance and the article wiH be forgotten on the day after to-morrow.
He should not forget that an actor whom he dislikes may nevertheless
be a good actor, and that an actor whom he admires may neveTtheless be
a bad one. Human judgment is finite, and it ought always to be chari-
table j and the stage, which is the mirr l' of human life, affords ample
room for an bonest difference of opi nion. There is no reason in the
worlJ., furthermore, why the dramatic critic, merely becam
e he happens
to bold that office, should strai
htway imbibe a hideous hatred of all
other unfortunate beings who chance to labor in the Salne field. He
would be much better employed in writing those wise and true and
beautiful dramatic criticisms which he think
ought to be written than
he is when uttering querulous and bitter and nasty complaint and invec-
tive because they are not. as he considers, written b.v his contemporaries
in his own line. Let him improve his own opportunity and leave others
to their devices. All the good that he can really accomplish is done
when he sets the passing aspects of the stnge instructively, agreeably,
and suggestively before the public mimI, and keeps them there. He is
not required to manage the theatres or to regulate the people who are
trying to earn a living by means of the stage. "To be useful to as many
as possible," says the wise thinker 'V alter Savage Landor, "is tbe espe-
cial duty of the critic, and his utility can only be attained by rectitude
and precision." The newspaper article accomp1isbes all that should be
expected of it when it arouses and pleases and benefits the reader, clarify-
1861-88J
CELIA TIIAXTER.
365
ing bis views, and helping him to look with a sympathetic and serene
vision upon the pleasures and pains, the joys and sorrows, the ennobling
splendors and tbe solemn admonitions of tbe re:llm of art.
([clía '\t:lJartcr.
BOR
in Portsmouth, K. II., 1836.
TilE SANDPIPER.
[Poems. 1874. Eleventh Edition. 1883.-Dl'ift. Weed. 187
.-The Cruise of the .111ys-
tery, and Other Poems. 1886. J
A CROSS the narrow beach we flit,
.L:ì. One little sandpiper and I,
Ana fast I gather, bit hy hit,
The scattered driftwood bleached ana dry.
The wild waves reach their han(1s for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we tlit,-
One little f'andpiper and I.
Ahove our heads the sullen clouds
Scud blaek and swift across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in mist
. sh rouds
Stand out the white light-houses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,-
One little sandpiper and 1.
I watch him as he skims along
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.
IIe,starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong;
lIe scans me with a fcarless eye.
Stanch fricnds are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpipcr :md I.
Comrade, where wilt thou he to-night
1Vlu'll the looscd storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fcar for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky:
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I ?
366
OELIA THAXTER.
[18ü1-S8
THE WATCH OF BOON ISLAND.
THEY cros!'\cd the lonely and lamenting sea;
Its moaning seemed but singing. " 'Vilt thou dare,"
He asked her, "brave the loneliness with me?"
", "\Vhat loneli ness, " she said, "if thou art there?"
Afar and cold on the horizon's rim
Loomed the tall light-house, like a ghostly sign;
They sighed not as the shore behind grew dim,
A rose of joy they bore across the brine.
They gained the barren rock, and made their home
Among the wild waves and the sea-birds wild;
The wintry wilHls blew fierce across the foam,
But in each other's eyes they looked and smiled.
Aloft the light-house sent its warnings wiùe,
Fed by their faithful hands, and ships in sight
With joy beheld it, and on land men cried,
"Look, clear and steady burns Boon Island light! "
And, while they trimmed the lamp with busy hands,
" Shine far and through the dark, sweet light," they cried;
" Bring safely 1Jack the sailors from all lands
To waiting love,-wife, mother, sister, bride!"
No tempest shook their calm, though many a storm
Tore the vexed ocean into furious spray;
No chill could find them in -their Eden warm,
And gently Time lapsed onward day by day.
Said I no chill could find them? There is one
'Vhose awful footfalls everywhere are known,
With echoing sobs, who chills the summer sun,
And turns the happy heart of youth to stone;
Inexorable Death, a silcnt guest
At every hearth, before whose footsteps flee
All joys, who rules the earth, and, without rest,
Roams the vast shuddering spaces of the sea;
Death found them; turned his face and passed her by,
But laid a finger on her lover's lips,
And there was silence. Then the storm ran high,
And tossed and troubled sore the distant ships.
Nay, who shall speak the terrors of the night,
The speechless sorrow, the supreme despair?
Still like a ghost she trimmed the waning light,
Dragging her slow weight up the winding stair.
....
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==- -===--
1861-88]
OELIA THAXTER.
With more than oil the saving lamp she fed,
'Yhile lashed to madness the wild sea she heard
She kept her awful vigil with the dead,
And God's sweet pity still she ministered.
o sailors, hailing loud the cheerful beam,
Piercing so far the tumult of the dark,
A radiant star of hope, you could not dream
.What misery there sat cherishing that spark!
Three times the night, too terrible to bear,
Descended, shrouded in the storm. At last
The sun rose clear and still on her despair,
And all her striving to the winds she cast,
And bowed her head and let the light die out,
For the wide sea lay calm as her dead love.
When evening fell, from the far land, in doubt,
Vainly to find that faithful star men strove.
Sailors and landsmen look, and women's eyes,
For pity ready, search in vain the night,
And wondering neighbor unto neig-hhor cries,
"Now what, think you, can ail Boon Island light?"
Out from the coast toward her high tower they sailed;
They found her watching, silent, by her dead,
A shadowy woman, who nor wept, nor waile(l,
But answered what they sp
ke, till all was said.
They bore the dead and living both away.
With anguish time seemed powerless to destroy
She turned, and backward gazed across the bny,-
Lost in the sad sea lay her rose of joy,
SONG.
W E sail toward evening's lonely star
That trembles in the tender blue;
One single cloud, a dusky bar,
Burnt with dull carmine through and through,
Slow smouldering in the summer sky,
Lies low along the fading west.
How sweet to watch its splendors die,
Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed!
The soft breeze freshens, leaps the spray
To kiss our cheeks, with sudden cheer;
Upon the dark edge of the hay
Light-houses kindle, far and near,
367
-
368
OELIA TH
lXTER.
And through the warm deeps of the sky
Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest
In deep refreshment, thou and I,
,V ave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.
How like a dream are earth and heaven,
Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea;
Thy face. pale in the shadowy even,
Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me!
o realize the moment"s charm,
Thou dearest! we are at life's best,
Folded in God's encircling arm,
'Vave-cradled thus and wind-caressed.
A MUSSEL SHELL.
'XTHY art thou colored like the evening sky
l \ Sorrowing for sunset? Lovely dost thou lie,
Bared by the washing of the eager brine,
At the snow's motionless and wind-carved line.
Cold stretch the snows, cold throng the waves, the win.l
Stings sharp,-an icy fire. a touch unkiud,-
And sighs as if with passion of regret,
The while I mark thy tints of violet.
o beauty strange! 0 shape of perfect grace,
'V hereon the lovely waves of color trace
The history of the years that passed thee by,
And touched thee with the pathos of the sky!
The sea shall crush thee; yea, the ponderous wave
Up the loose beach shall grind, and scoop thy grave,
Thou thought of God! What more than thou and I ?
Both transient as the sad wind's passing sigh.
SCHUMANN'S SONATA IN A MINOR.
T HE quiet room, the flowers, the perfumed calm,
The slender crystal vase, where all aflame
The scarlet poppies stand erect and tall,
Color that hurns as if no frost could tame,
The shaded lamplight glowing ovel' all, .
The summer night a dream of warmth and balm.
[1861-88
1861-88]
JOLLY ROSE GREE
VE HASSARD.
369
Outbreaks at once the golden melody,
"'Vith passionate expression!" Ah, from whence
Comes the enchantment of this potent spell,
This charm that takes us captive, soul and sense?
The sacred power of music, who shall tell,
'VllO find the secret of its mastery?
Lo, in the keen vibration of the air
Pierced by the sweetness of the violin.
Shaken hy thrilling chords and searching notes
That flood the ivory keys, the flowers begin
To tremble; 'tis as if some spirit floats
And breathes upon their beauty unaware.
The stately poppies, proud in stillness, stand
In silken splendor of superb attire:
Stricken with arrows uf melodious sound,
TheÜ" loo:.>ened petals fall like flakes of fire;
With waves of music overwhelmed and drowned,
Solemnly drop their flames on either hand.
So the rich moment dies, and what is left?
Only a memory sweet, to shut between
Somc poem's silent leaves, to find again,
Perhaps, when winter blasts are howling keen,
And summer's loveliness is spoiled and slain,
And aU the world of light and hloom bereft.
But winter cannot rob the music so!
JS'or time nor fate its subtle power destroy
To bring again the summer's dear caress,
To wake the heart to youth's unreasoning joy,-
Sound, color, perfume, love, to warm and bless,
And airs of balm from Paradise that blow.
îol)tt 1l\o
c <t5rcene ti)a
artJ.
BORN in New York, N, Y., 1836. DIED there, 1888.
"SIEGFRIED" AT BA YREUTII.
[The Ring of the Nibelungs. A IJesc1'iption of its First Performance in August, 1876.]
B AYREUTH, Aug. 16.-The third performance of the Nibelung
series was to have taken place yesterday, but Herr Betz was so
hoarRe tbat a postponement was unavoidable. To-ùay Betz is
VOL. IX, -24
370
JOH.N ROSE GREENE HA SSA RD.
(1861-8t1
himself again, and the performance of "Siegfried" was the most succef:S-
ful so far of the series. The work is very different from the two preced-
ing. It is less romantic than "Das Rheingold," less heroic than "Die
'Yalküre," more ethereally poetical than either.
Siegfried is the hero born of the union of Siegmund and Sieglinde,
and destined to be the agent in repairing the wrong done in the theft of
the Ring and at the same time of bringing the reign of the divinitie:-; of
".,. alha11 a to an encl Sieglinde died in giying hirth to him, and the
child was brought up by the dwarf
[illle, who hoped to use him in
recovering the Ring and the Tarn helmet. The instrumental introduc-
tion made use of the anvil moti \'e, and when the curtain drew back we
saw the dim interior of a great cay ern in a wood. On the left was a
smithy, with a glowing fire and an anvil, where )Iime sat hammering at
a sword-blade. On the right a few steps led up to the opening of this
rocky retreat, and beyond we saw a beautiful yista of forest, with golden
light bathing the foliage. It was not a scene to astonish and bewilder
tbe spectator. like that of the d
pths of the Rhine, hut it was a picture
whose tone and composition delighted the artistic ta::-:te and pleased us
better and better the more we looked at it. There wað less of decOl'a-
tioll and mechanism employed in ,. Siegfried," and fewer characters
appeared upon the stage than in any of the other divisions of the work,
and yet the effects, musical and dramatic alike, far surpassed those of
the previous evenings.
Iime was a personage of inferior importance in
" Rheingold "; here he became one of the chief actors in the story, and
the remarkable ability of which the l'epresentative of the part gave
proof on Sunday evening was now illustrated with much greater full-
ness. Herr Schlosser of l\Iunich, to whom this 1'(jle was allotted, is
highly e
teemed as a delineator of "character parts," and in :\lime he
seemed to find a congenial opportunity. The dwarf was malevolent
and hypocritical. In the opening scene he sat scO\yling ana complain-
ing over his work. He could not make a weapon stroll,!! enough for the
volsung. Brands that the :ziants might have wielded Siegfried f:hat-
tered with a single blow. Only the sword of Siegmund. broken against
'V otan's spear, would fit his hand, but all the art of the dwarf could not
mend that terrihle blade. l\fime was still hammering and lamenting. in
a song of p:reat vigor and a certain rhythmic regularity, when the merry
notes of a horn were heard in the wood, and Siegfried came hounding
in, driving a bear by a rope. Georg Unger, who personated the hero. is
a tall, handsome, well-built fellow, with a robust, half-trained tenor
voice of good quality, and a free and dashing manner. Dressed in a
short coat of skins, with bare arms, flowing yellow hair, short beard, and
a silver born slung at his belt, be was at any rate in appearance an ideal
hero of the Northern race. Be amused bimself a while with l\fime's
1861-b8]
JOHN ROSE' GREE
YE HA SSA RD.
371
fear of the bear; he tried the sword just made for him, and broke it at
the first trial; he threw himself in anger on a couch of skins; he
repulsed the dwarfs advances, and dashed from his hand the proffered
food and drink. "Then Siegfried came into the cayern, it was as if a
high wind fresh from the fir-clad mountains swept tbrough tbose dark
recesses. Tbere was a wonùerful scene when the ùVi'ad drew close and
began to tell wbat he bad done for hiru, bow he had found him as a
helpless child, and fed and clotbeù hilU-
" Als zullendes Kind
Zog icb dieh auf,
Warmte mit Kleiden
Den kleinen \Vurm,"-
and how he got no thanks for his pains. And Siegfried frankly replied
that he did not love the dwarf, and could not love him. In this scene
an exquisite melody. of which great use is made afterward, is given to
the violincello. The psycbological distinction between tbe two charac-
ters was preserved in the music and strongly marked by the actors also.
Siegfried, impatient of :Mime's hypocrisy, at last insisted upon knowing
the secret of his birth. He extorted from tbe dwarf the stor,V of his
mother's death and of the broken sworù, the narrative being interrupted
by tbe constant attempt of Mime to recur to the catalogue of his bene-
factions. "Als zullendes Kind zog ich dich auf," which Siegfried
cbecked with angry impetuosity. "That;' he cried, ,. shall be my sword.
vVeld the pieces for me this very day. and I will go forth into the
world free as the fish in the stream and the bird in the air." So, with a
melody of characteristic strength and freshness-
" Wie del' Fisch froh
In del' Fluth schwimmt,
Wie del' Fink frei
Sich davon schwingt"-
he dashed into the sunlight and disappeared.
The whole bad been vivid, dramatic, and elevated even above tbe
common level of this work. Now we were to have another equally
impressive, but in a very different style. Close upon the departure of
Siegfried entered 'V otan, in the disguise of the "T"anderer, a character
\vhich he presen'es throughout this ùivision of the play. A hroad hat
half concealed his features. A dark-blue mantle hill his figure. A red-
dish beard fell over his breast. Ilis spear with the potent runes served
for a staff. A glow of light, so artfully thrown that it seemed to radi-
ate from his face, indicated to the spectator the presence of a supernatu-
ral being. lie a
ked for hospitality anJ was rudely repulsed, but seat-
ing himself by the cavern fire he staked his head upon his ability to
372
JOHN ROSE GREENE HA8SARD.
[1861-88
answer any three questions the dwarf might choose to put him. Noth-
ing could have been more dramatic than the ensuing dialogue. The
majestic utterances of the god were clothed in music of the most ele-
vated and imposing character. The craft of the dwarf found expression
in strangely contrasted strains, while the figure of the actor, as he
crouched ungainly b
T his an\Til, questioning, musing, losing himself in
perplexity over his strange visitor, was a bit of realistic personation
which I shall not soon forget. An this time, of course, the orchestra
continued its great work of illustration and suggestion. "What race
lives in the bowels of the earth? "-here we heard the same motive
which accompanied our introduction to the caves of Nibelheim in "The
Rhinegold." "What race works on the earth's back? "-here came
again the tramp of the giants as it fen upon our ears when they went to
fetch away Freia. "Who dweIls in the cloudy heights? "-the oft-
repeated motive, which s.vmbolizes the power and glory of the gods,
came to us with the answer.
fime in his turn was able to reply when
the \Vanderer asked him about the volsungs and tbe \Tirtuès of the
hroken sword Nothung; but who might mend that sword he could not
tell. "Only be who has never known fear shan weld Kothung anew,"
exclaimed the god, and so saying he went forth again into the forest,
and as he went a mighty music, as of rushing winds and the tossing
boughs of great forests, rose out of the orchestra, and lightning flashed
in the sky. Mime, remembering that Siegfried knew not fear, sank
trembling to the ground. There was a short, impressive scene in which
:Mime portrayed his terror, while the .bass tuba, to which 'Yagner bas
given such great power of expression, uttered underneath the orchestral
accompaniment a suggestive passage of its own. The dwarf cowered
behind his anvil. Suddenly the music changed; we heard in the forest
the voice of Siegfried; the breezy song which fol1owed him when be
rushed forth in tbe earlier part of the act recurred afrain, and he burst
into the cave, caning loudly for the sword.
Iime, still agitateJ and
bewildered, repeated only the worùs of \V otan :
" N ur wer das Fürcbten nie erfuhr
Schmiedet Nothung neu."
Roused at last, he tried to teach Siegfried fear. He told bim of Faf-
ner, who in the form of a dragon kept guard over tbe treasure of the
Nibelungs, in a lonely region called Neidhole. But Siegfried's spirits
only rose the higher at the tale. He longed to attack the dragon. lIe
demanded to be led to the spot. IIe called for the pieces of his father's
sword, and welded them himself by the dwarf's forge. As be stood
with his hand on the bellows-rope, and tbe flames glowed about the iron,
he sang the great Song of the Smithy:
1861-88]
JOHN ROSE GREENE HA SSA RD.
373
II Nothung, Nothung-
Neid1iches Schwert r
Was musstest du zerspringen ?"
-a song to be given with full chest and head erect and a bold and
manly voice, a song that breathes of heróism in ever\' note, and rouses
the coldest listener to a passionate delight. It is difficult to write of
this long scene in
Iime's cavern without an appearance of exaggerated
enthusiasm. but the strongest possible praise would not be too strong
for such an extraordinary creation of genius, and I am sure that there
was hardly an inteIligent man in tbe theatre who did not fee1 his pulses
beating quicker and quicker as the act developed itself. The blade
was drawn red from the fire, hammered and tempered and fitted to the
hilt (let me remark here that the forge and fire were real, and they were
real sparks which flew from tbe iron when it was beaten on the anvil).
Siegfried's exultation rose as he drew near the end of his task; with
every repetition of the song, ":K othung, N othung, bo-ho! ha-hei! bo-ho!
ha-bei !" the excitement increased, till the sworù was finished, and he
tested it by striking a terrible blow upon the anvil, cleaving tbe iron
block in twain. Then the curtain fen.
In the second act, after a portentous V orspiel, we saw the exterior of
Fafner's cave, a huge pile of rocks filling the background, a forest open-
ing on the left, beautiful spreading trees and clumps of reeds extending
toward the front. It was ùark night, and we dimly discernpd the figure
of a man leaning against the rocks. It was Alberich, who haunted the
spot where his stolen treasures lay hid. There was a fine scene between
him and the "r anderer, 'V otan, over which, as it was somewhat epi-
sodical in a dramatic sense, I may paS8 briefly, on1y remarking tbat
according to his custom ''''agner gives tbe god bere a sort of solemn
declamation, while the meloù,v, which is of the most exquisite kind. is
as::;igned almost entirely to the orchestra. The noise of a storm-wind
anù a sudden gleam of light fo}]o\verl 'V otan as he disappeared from the
stage. Then day began to dawn. The faint twilight was fonowed by
the rosy blush, and in the growing light the beauty of the foliage
revealed itself. :Mime led Siegfried upon the scene and showed him tbe
cave of the dragon which he was to kill. For the ùwarf, since he bad
not been able to prevent the young ,-oisung from getting ros:-;cs
ion of
the terriblp sword which was to conquer the ùragon, had re
olved first to
aid him in hÜ:; enterprise and then to kill him anJ secure the treasures.
Here again, as in tbe first act, the characters and purposes of the <lwarf
and tbe hero were wonderfuUy discriminateù in the music. 'Yhen
Mime bad gone away, Siegfried threw himself upon a grassy bank at the
foot of a tree. And now began a pastoral scene of delicious delicacy
and elegance. The orchestral part of what followed has been called
374
JOHN ROSE GREENE HASSARD.
[1861-88
almost s.ymphonic in its character, as it certainly is in its beauty and
richness. As Siegfried in a charming strain of tenderness, such as he
had not hitherto shown, mused on the history of his birth, and gave
voice to the half-defined aspirations which drove him into the world, the
orchestra fined the scene with tbe music of nature. The still woods
woke to life with the rising of the sun. The murmur of rustling lea\Tes,
tbe sighing of the wa
lÌng branclH's, the whir of myriads of insects, the
morning greeting of the birds, rose and fell upon tbe air. It was the
birds at last that drew Siegfried from his reverie. "Ah," he cried,
"how often have I tried to understand their song! Let me imitate it,
and perhaps I sball know what it says:' He made a pipe from a reed
which he cut with his sword. The futile attempt to reproduce the
music of the feathered trihes on this rude instrument is treated by \Vag-
ner with considerable humor. Siqrfried tbrew away his whistle, and
seating himself at the foot of a tree took up his sih'er horn. " Tbis at
least," said be, "I can play." He 'Wound upon it an exceedingly pretty
and merry tune, the effect of tbe scene being greatly helped by the fact
that the horn passage was played not in the orehestra, as is usual in
such cases, but by a performer concealed behind the tree.
The horn aroused the p:iant Fafner. and we saw him in dragon's guise
(the German text calls him a ,. great \YOI'm ") roll out of the cave. The
machine was big enùugh fOl' a man to stand upright inside its head, and
tbe voice of the Fafner of tbe first evening issued from its chasm of a
throat. The battle that ensued was short and, to tell the plain truth,
rather absurd. In drawing his sword from the body of the slain dragon
Rome of the blood fell upon Siegfried's hand; it burned like fire, and he
put his hand to his mouth. Instantly the understanding of the lan-
guage of birds came to him. From the branches overhead we heard a
light soprano voice, in phrases which most inf!eniously wedded articulate
speech to bird.like tones, direct Siegfried to enter the cavern and secure
the helmet and tbe ring. We heard it again warn him against tbe
treacbery of Alberich, and behold the dwarf, when he approached, was
made t.o utter not the false professions that were framed on his lips, but
the malice and murdprous purposp that lurked in his heart. He offered
a poisoned drink, and Siegfried fì;lew him, threw his body into the cave,
and blocked up the entrance with the carcass of the dragon. It would
be useless to try to describe the music of this animated scene, or rather
I sbould say this succession of sC'enc
all crowded with incident. Every
action had its appropriate accompaniment. every word fitted exactly its
musical expression. There is no such thing as analyzing music which
changes as rapidly and freely as tbe shapes in the evening sky. At
one moment tbe orchestra told us of quarrel and conflict. The next, it
brought back the music of tbe woods, as Siegfried stretched himEelf
1861-88]
JOH.LY ROSE GR'BE,iVE HAö8ARIJ.
375
beneath the trees, and in gentle accents, lamenting his desolate condition,
asked council of his friends tbe birds. Again the pretty voice came
from tbe tree-tops. It told him of Brünnhilde, and bade him penetrate
the barrier of fire, and win the most glorious of women for his bride.
Siegfried starteù to bis feet. .A new passion burned in his veins, and
with the first experience of love his music took a changed character.
He was no longer tbe rosy and bare-limbed young savage, rejoicing in
his freedom and strength; higher aims and deeper feelings than he had
yet known made him another man. At his call a bird fluttered clown
from the trees to show him his way, and lell by this strange guide he set
forth for the rock of fire.
The third act was introduced hy an orchestral passage of a sombre
and m.v
terious character. with sustained harmonies of marked impor-
tance for the trumpets anù trombones. Again tbe curtain rose upon
night and a wild landscape.
teep rocks stretched across the back-
ground, and over them lowered an angry sky. Thunder rolled and
lightning flashed from the clouùs. Hither came Wotan, the Wanderer,
to call up Erda for counsel and prophecy. At bis summons a faint
bluish light began slowly to appear in a hollow of the rocks. and we
8mv dimly the figure of a woman clothed in black robes and a silvery
yeil rise half into view. Little by little, while the solemn music went
on, the form became more distinct and radiated a stronger light. But
En1n would gi\-e no advice in the coming crisis of the di\Tinities of \\'al-
halla. She ha(l parted with her wisdom to Brünnhilde. and when
Wotan told how be llad imprisoned the Walküre in sleep and fire, Erda
veiled her bead in dismay and ,,'as silent. The god foresaw the down-
fall of his race throngh the triumph of human free will in the person of
Siegfried, but in accent
of inimitable dignity and sadness he a\-owed
that he did not regret it. and after a scene of great power, pervarlerl by
a dignified pathos, he commanrled Erda to sink again to her e\TerJasting
sleep: the light faded away, and the "
andereI' was left alone. The
storm had now ceased, and dawn began to show in tbe sky. \Yith the
morning light came Siegfried following his bird. which fluttered a
moment upon the
cene and then disappeared among the rocks. Here
then was the path to Brünnhildp's prison; but when Siegfried attempted
to pursue the way, 'V otan withstooc1 him
and barred tbe approach witb
his spear. A blow 'with the sword Nothung cut the spear in two. Tbe
power of the goJs was foreyer broken. 'Vhile the ponderous motive in
the bass. so often cited, was thundered forth-this time, however, with
halting and disturbed rhythm, to indicate that the law was at last ful-
fined-lightning flashed. flames began to p-Ieam among the rocks, and
\V otan di
appeared. Siep:fried bailed the outbreak of the flames with
cries of joy, and as they gradually overspread the rocks bis exultation
376
JOHN ROSE GREE.LVE HASSARD.
[1861-88
rose. He plunged into the midst of them. "\Ve saw him for a few
moments pushing fonyard, and then the clouds of red steam rising from
below and the ruddy vapors droppi ng from abO\Te enveloped the whole
scene. In a moment a curtain of gauze had fallen across the stage, and
behind it the whole theatre seemed to be wrapped in flame and curling
smoke. The orchestra meanwhile continued an interlude in which there
was a marvellous combination of the two characteristic melodies of Sieg-
fried with one of the motives of "\V otan's Farewell in the last scene of
"Die W alkÜre."
"\Vhen the flames died down we looked upon the other side of tbe bar-
rier of fìre--the summit of BrÜnnhilde's rock, as in the third act of "Die
W a1küre." Brünnhi1de lay as "\V otan left her, the helm over her face,
the long shield covering her body. In the background the glow of
advancing day struggled with the fading light of the flames, when Sieg-
fried mounted the rocks and came upon tbe scene. lie raised the shield
and helmet, he cut the fastening8 of the armor, and Brünnhilde, waking
from her sleep, recognized in the young vo1sung her appointed deliverer.
The whole of this last scene was virtually a 10\Te duet of the most impas-
sioned character, its 8pirit changing as Brünnhilùe, no more a goddess
but now in heart and impulse a woman, was swayed in turn by fear, by
trust, hy modest tenderness and burning love, and Siegfried gave loose
rein to feelings which seemed to engross his whole nature. Love duets
alike of the tender and the fiery sort are common enough in operatic
music, hut no one has ever written a scene like this, which startles the
listener with the dramatic truth of every phrase and the evidences of
such deep insight into the human heart. It has all the characteristic elo-
quence and clearness of "\Vagner's peculiar form of melodic declamation
and a great deal of what the least cultivated ear recognizes as suave and
well-defined melody. Tbe composer resorts in it to a common device of
the Q1der schools which he seldom allows himself, employing the two
voices in concert instead of alternately. and the rapturous finale reminds
one somewhat of tbe Italian stretta. Here Fl'au :Materna, the only
woman living, I am sure, who could sing Brünnhilc1e. was superb.
Unger was not a bad Siegfried. Wagner chose him mainly for his fine
figure and bearing, and when be began to study his part he was a musi-
cian of very ordinary abilities. He has still a great deal to learn; above
all he has to learn how to avoid shouting and to keep his voice clear and
true through a long and difficult performance. But minor defects of
interpretation were lost sight of in the effect of a scene which roused the
whole audience to extraordinary excitement, and brought the evening to
a glorious close.
1861-88]
THOJLAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
lJontaø 1J3aílc1! 21nrítlJ.
BOR
in Portsmouth, N. H" l
Bß.
FLOWER AXD THORX.
[The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 185
:).-Hou8ehold Edition. 1885.]
TAKE t11em and keep them,
Silvery thorn and flower,
Plucked just at rm1ilom
In the rosy. weather-
Snowdrops and pansies,
Sprigs of wayside heather,
And five-leaved wild-rose
Dead within an hour.
Take them Imd ke('p them:
Who can tell? some day, dear,
(Though they be withered.
Flower and thorn and blossom,)
Held for an instant
Up against thy hosom,
They might make December
Seem to thee like May, dear:
P ALA BRAS CARIÑ O:SAS.
G OOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
Good-night unto the fragile hand
All queenly with its weight of rings;
Good-night to fond, uplifterl eyes,
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair,
Good-night unto the perfect mouth.
And all the sweetness nestled there-
The snowy hand detains me, then
I'll have to say Good-night again!
But there win come a time, my love,
When, if I read onr stars aright,
I shall not linger Ly this porch
.With my adiens. Till then, goo,l-night!
You wish the time were now? A\nd I.
You do not hlush to wish it so ?
Yon woulll have hlushcll yonrself to death
To own so much a year ago-
What, both these snowy hands! ah, then
I'll have to say Good-night again!
377
378
THO.JIAS BAILEY ALDRIOH.
AN UNTIMELY THOUGHT.
I 'VONDER what day of the week-
I wonder what month of the year-
'Vill it be midnight, or morning,
And who will bend over my bier
-What a hideous fancy to come
As I wait, at the foot of the stair,
"-'-hile Lilian gives the last touch
To Iter robe, or the rose in her hair.
Do I like your new dress-pompadour
And do I like you? On my life,
You are eighteen, and not a day more,
And have not been six years my wifc.
Those two rosy hoys in the crib
rp-stairs are not ours, to be sure 1-
You are just a sweet hride in her bloom,
All sunshine, and snowy, and pure.
As the carriage 1'olls down the dark street
The little wife laughs and makes cheer-
But. . I wonder what day of the week,
I wonder what month of the year.
AN OL
CASTLE.
T HE gray arch crumble!!,
And totters and tumbles;
The hat has built in the banquet hall
In the (lonjon-keep
Sly mosses creep;
The ivy has scaled the southern wall:
No man-at-arms
Sounds quick alarms
A-top of the cracked martello tower:
TIle drawbridge-chain
Is broken in twain-
The hridge will neither rise nor lower.
Kot any manner
Of hroidered hanner
Flaunts at a blazon cd hernl(]'s call.
Lilies float
In the stagnant moat;
And fair they are, and tall.
Here, in the old
. Forgotten springs,
[1861-88
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1861-88]
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
1Vas wassail held by queens and kings j
Here at the hoard
Sat clown anll lord,
Maiden fair and lover bold,
Baron fat ana minstrel lean,
The prince with his stars,
The knight with his scars,
The priest in his gabardine.
1Vhere is she
Of the fleur-de-lys,
And that true knight who wore her gages?
.Where are the glances
That hred wild fancies
In cnrly heads of my lady's pages?
'Vhere are those
'Vho, in steel or hose,
Held revel here, and made them gay?
Where is the laughter
That shook the rafter-
1Vhere is the rafter, by the way?
Gone is the roof,
And perched aloof
I
an owl, like a friar of Orders Gray.
(Perhaps 'tis the priest
Come hack to feast-
He had ever a tooth for capon, he!
But the capon'8 cold,
And the steward's old,
And the 1m tIer's lost the larder key!)
The doughty lords
Sleep the sleep of swords.
Dead are the dames and dllmozcls.
The King in his crown
Hath laid him down,
And the Jester with his Lells.
All is dead here:
Poppies are red here,
Vines ill my ]ally's chamber grow-
If 'twas hpr chamber
'Vhere they clamber
Up fl"Om the poisonous weeds below.
All is dead here,
Joy is fled here;
Let us hence. 'Tis the end of all-
The gray arch crumbles.
And totters, and tumùles,
And Silence sits in the ùanquet hall.
379
380
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1
61-88
OUR NEW NEIGHBORS AT PONKAPOG.
[Marjorie Daw and Other Stories. 1885.]
W HEN I saw the little house building, an eighth of a mile beyond
my own, on the Old Bay Road, I wondered who were to be the
tenants. The modest structure was set well back from the road. among
the trees, as if the inmates were to care nothing whatever for a yiew of
the stylish equipages which sweep by during the summer season. For
m,v part, I like to see the passing, in town or country; but each has his
own unaccountaùle taste. The proprietor, who seemed to he also the
architect of the new house, superintended the various details of the work
with an assiduity that gave me a high opinion of his intel1igence and
executive ahility, and I congratulated myself on the prospect of having
some very a
reeable neighbors.
It was quite early in tbe spring, if I remember, when they moved into
the cottage-a newly married couple, evidently: the wife very young,
pretty, and with the air of a lady; the husband somewhat older, but
still in the first flush of manhood. It was understood in the village that
they came from Baltimore; but no one knew them personally, and they
brought no letters of introduction. (For obvious reasons I refrain from
mentioning names.) It was clear that. for the present at least, their
own company was entirely sufficient for them. They made no advances
toward the acquaintance of any of the families in the neighborhood, and
consequently were left to themselves. That. apparently, was what they
desired, and why they carne to Ponkapog. For after its black ba
s and
wild duck and teal. solitude is the chief staple of Ponkapog. Perhaps
its perfect rum.! loveliness should be included. Lying high up under
the wing of the Blue Hills. and in the odorous breath of pines and
cedars, it chanees to be the most enchanting bit of unlaced dishevplled
country within fifty miles of Boston, which, moreover, can be reached
in half an hour's ride by railway. But the nearest railway station
(Heaven be praised!) is two miles distant, and the seclusion is without
a flaw. Ponkapog has one mail a day; two mails a day would render
the place uninhabitable.
The village-it looks like a compact viHage at a distance, but unravels
and disappears the moment you drive into it-has quite a large floating
population. I do not allude to the perch and pickerel in Ponkapog
Pond. Along the Old Bay Road, a highway even in the Colonial days,
there are a number of attractive villas and cottages straggling off toward
Milton, which are occupied for the summer by people from the city.
These birds of passage are a distinct class from the permanent inhabi-
tants, and tbe two seldom closely assimilate unless there bas been some
1861-88]
THOJL4S BAILEY ALDRICH.
381
previous connection. It seemed to me that our new neighbors were to
come under the head of permanent inhabitants; they bad built their own
house, and had the air of intending to live in it an the year round.
" .A,re you not going to call on them?" I asked my wife one morning.
"'Vhen they call on us," she replied lightly.
" But it is our place to call first, they being strangers."
This was said as seriously as the circumstance demanded; but my
wife turned it off with a laugh, and I said no more, always trusting to
bel' intuitions in these matters.
She was right. She would not have been received, and a cool" Not
at home " wo
ld have been a bitter social pill to us if we had gone out
of our wav to be courteous.
I saw; great deal of our neighbors, nevertheless. Their cottage lay
between us and the post-office-where he was never to be met with by
any chance-and I caught frequpnt glimpses of the two working in the
garden. Floriculture did not appear
o much an object as exercise.
Possibly it was neither; maybe they were engaged in digging for spe-
cimens of those arrowheads and flint hatchets which are continually
coming to the surface Qereabouts. There is scarcely an acre in which
the ploughsbare has not turned up some primitive stone weapon or
domestic utensil, disdainful1:r left to us by the red men who once held
this domain-an ancient tribe called the Punkypoags. a forlorn descend-
ant of which, one Polly Crowd. figures in the annual Blue Book, down
to the close of the Southern war, as a state pensioner. At that period
she appears to have
truck a trail to the Happy Hunting Grounds. I
quote from the local historiographer.
'Vhether they were developing a kitchen-garden, or emulating Pro-
fessor Schliemann at l\Iycenæ. the new-comers were evidently persons
of refined musical taste: the lady had a contralto voice of remarkable
sweetness, although of no great compass, anù I used oftcn to linger of a
morning by the high gate ancllisten to her executing an arietta, conjec-
turally at some window up-stairs, for the house was not visible from the
turnpike. The husband, somewhere about the grounds, would occa-
sionally respond with two or three bars. It was all quite an ideal, Arca-
dian business. Tbey seemed very happy together, these two persons,
who asked no odds whatever of the community in which they had settled
themselYe
.
There was a queerness, a sort of myster.y, about this couple which I
admit piqued my curiosit}'r, though as a rule I have no morhid interest
in the affairs of my neighbors. rrhey behaved like a pair of lovers who
had run off and got married clandestinely. I willingly acquitted them,
however, of having done anything unlawful; for, to cbange a word in
the lines of the poet,
382
THOJ,IAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
" It is a joy to think the best
We may of human kind,"
Admitting the hypothesis of elopement, there was no mystery in their
neither sending nor receiving letters. But where did they get their
groceries? I do not mean the money to pay for them-that is an enigma
apart-but the groceries themselves. No express wagon, no butcher's
cart, no vehicle of any description, was ever oh
erved to
top at their
domicile. Yet they dill not order family stores at the sole establish-
ment in the village-an inexhaustible little bottle of a shop wbich, I
advertise it gratis, can turn out anything in tbe wa
T of groceries, from
a handsaw to a pocket-handkerchief. I COl1feSR that I allowed thiR unim-
portant detail of their ml!ltúge to occupy more of my speculation than
was creditable to IllC'.
In several respects our neighbors reminíled me of those inexplicable
per
ons we sometimes COBle across in great cities, though seldom or
never in suburban places, where the field may be supposed too re
tricted
for their operation
-persons who have no perceptible means of subsist-
ence, and manage to live royally on nothing a year. They hold no gov-
ernment bonds, they possess no real estate (our neighbors dill own their
house), they toil not, neither do they spin; yet they reap all the numer-
ous soft advantages that usually result from honest toil and skilful
spinning. IIow do the,y do it? Bllt this is a digression, and I am quite
of the opinion of the old lady in "David Copperfield," who says, "Let
us have no meandering!.'
Though my wife had declined to risk a ceremonious call on our
neighbors as a family, I saw no reason why I should not spe:lk to the
hu
band as an individual, when I happened to encounter him by the
wayside. I made several approaches to do so, when it occurred to my
penetration that my neighbor hnrl the air of trying to avoid me. I
resol ved to put tbe suspicion to the test. and one forenoon, when he was
sauntering along on the opposite side of the roa(l, in the vicinity of
Fisher's sawmi]], I de]iberately crossed over to [1(l(lress him. The brusque
manner in which he hurried away was not to be misunllerstood. Of
course I was not going to force myself upon him.
It was at this time that I began to formulate uncharitahle suppositions
touching our neighbors. and \Vou
ll have heen as well pleased if some of
mv choicest fruit-trees had not overhung their wan. I determined to
k
ep my eyes open later in the season, when the fruit sbould be ripe to
pluck. In some folks, a sense of the delicate shades of difference be-
tween meum and tuum does not seem to be very strongly developed in
the
roon of Cherries, to use the old Indian phrase.
I was sufficiently magnanimous not to impart any of these sinister
impressions to the families with whom we were on visiting terms j for
1861-88]
THO,ltlAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
383
I despise a gossip. I would say nothing against tbe persons up the road
until I bad something definite to say.
fy interest in them was-well,
not exactly extinguished, but burning low. I met the gentleman at
inteITals, anù passed bim without recognition j at rarer intervals I saw
the lady.
After a while I not only mi
sed my occasional glimpses of her pretty,
slim figure, always draped in some soft black stuff with a bit of scarlet
at the throat, but I inferred tbat she did not go about the house singing
in her light-hearted manner, as formerly. 'Vhat bad happened? Had
the honeymoon suffered eclipse already? vVas she in? I fancied she
was ill, and that I detected a certain anxiety in the husband, who spent
the mornings digging solitarily in the garden, and seemed to ba ve relin-
quished those long jaunts to the brow of Blue Bill, where tbere is a
superb view of all Norfolk County combined with sundry venerable
rattlesnakes with twelve rattles.
As the days went by it became certain that the lady was confined to
the bouse, perbaps seriously ill, possibly a confirmed invalid. ' "\Vhëther
she was attendeù by a physician from Canton or from Milton, I was unable
to say; but neither the gig with tbe large white allopathic horse, nor
the gig with the homæopathic sorrel mare, wa::: ever seen hitched at the
gate during the day. If a ph}
sician had charge of the case, be visited
his patient only at night. All this moved my s
ympathy, and I reproached
myself with having had hard thoughts of our neighbors. Trouble had
come to them early. I would bave liked to offer tbem such small,
friendly services as lay in my power j but the memory of the repulse I
had sustained still rankled in me. So I hesitated.
One morning my two boys burst into the library with their eyes
sparkling.
" You know the old elm down the road?" cried one.
" Yes."
"The elm with the bang-bird's nest?" shrieked the other.
" Yes, yes! "
" "\Vell, we both just climbed up. and there's three young ones in it! "
Then I smiled to think that our new neighbors had got such a prom-
ising little family.
PRESCJE
CE.
THE new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west,
And my betrothed and I in the church-yard paused to rest-
Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old dream over:
The light winds wandered hy, and roLius chirped from the nest.
384
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
And 10 ! in the meadow-sweet was the graye of a little child,
With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild-
Tangled ivy anù clover folding it over and over:
Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mounù up-piled.
Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me,
And her eyes were filled with tears for a surrow I did not see:
Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing-
Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be 1
IDENTITY.
S O)IEWHERE-in desolate wina-swept space-
In Twilight-land-in No-man's-land-
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And hade each other stand.
" And who are you?" cried one a-gape,
Shuddering in the gloaming light.
" I know not," said the second Shape,
,. I only died last night! "
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF
IlNERVA.
B ENEA TH the warrior's helm, behold
The tIowing tresses of the woman !
Minerva, Pallas, what JOU will-
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
:Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx
In cousin's helmet masquerading;
If not-then 'Visdom was a dame
For sonnets and for serenading!
I thought the goddc::!8 cold, austere,
Not made for love's despairs and blisses:
Did Pallas wear her hair like that?
'Vas Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?
The Nightingale should be her bin},
And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn:
How very fresh she looks, anù yet
She's older far than Trajan's Colullln!
The magic hand that carved this face,
And set this vine-work rounò it running,
Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought
Had lost its subtle skill anll cunning.
[1861-88
1861-881
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
Who was he? "
as he glad or sad,
.Who knew to carve in such a fashion?
Perchancc he grayed the dainty head
For some brown girl that scorned his passion.
Perchance, in some still garden-place,
"There neithcr fount nor tree to-day is,
He flung the jewel at the feet
Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais.
But he is dust; wc may not know
His happy or unhappy story:
N amcles
, and dead these centuries,
His work outlives him-therc's his glory!
Both Bum and jewel lay in earth
Beneath a lava-buried city;
The countless summers came amI went
"Tith neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.
Years blotted out the man, but left
The jewel fresh as any blossom,
Till some Visconti dug it up-
To rise and fall on )Iabel"s hosom !
o nameless brother! see how Time
Your gracious handiwork has guarded:
See how your 10YÏng, patient art
Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
"Tho would not suffer slights of men,
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone
On such a bosom rise and fall so !
ENA:\IOURED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHY:\IE.
E :NA:\IOt"RED architect of airy rhyme,
Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says.
Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways,
'Yill come, and marvel why thou wastest time;
Others, bcholding how thy turrets climb
'Twixt thcirs and heaven, will hate thee all their days:
But most bcware of those who come to praise.
o ,,? ondcrsmith, 0 worker in sublime
And heaven-sent dreams, lct art bc all in all ;
Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame,
Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given:
Thcn, if at last the airy structure fall,
Dissolve, and vanish-take thyself no shame.
They fail, and they alonc, who have not striven.
VOL. 1X.-25
385
386
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
A VILLAGE SUNRISE.
[The Stillwater Tragedy. It;80.]
I T is dose upon daybreak. The great wall of pines and hemlocks that
keep off the east wind from Stillwater stretches black and indetermi-
nate against the sky. At intervals a dull, metallic sound, like the gut-
tural twang of a violin string, rises from the frog-invested swamp skirt-
ing the highway. Suddenly the birds stir in their nests oyer there in
the woodland, anù break into that wild jargoning chorus with which
they herald the advent of a new day. In the apple-orchards and among
the plum-trees of the few gardens in Stillwater, the wrens and the robins
and the blue-jays catch up the crystal crescendo, and what a meloùious
racket they make of it with their fifes and flutes and flageolets!
The village lies in a trance like death. Possibly not a soul hears this
music, unless it is the watchers at the bedside of )11'. Leonard 'rapple-
ton, the richest man in town, who has lain dying these three days, and
cannot last till sunrise. Or perhaps some mother, drowsily hushing her
wakeful baby, pauses a moment and listens vacantly to the birlls sing-
ing. But who else?
The hubbub suddenly cea
es,-ceases as
u<ldenly as it began,-and
all is still again in the woodland. But it is not so dark as before. A
faint glow of white light is discernible behind the ragged line of the tree-
tops. The deluge of darkness is receding from the face of the earth, as
the mighty waters receded of old. ·
The roofs and tall factory chimneys of StilIwater are slowly taking
shape in the gloom. Is that a cemeter.v coming into view yonder, with
its ghostly architecture of obelisks and broken columns and huddled
headstones
No, that is only Slocum's :\1arble Yard, with the finisbed
and unfinished work beaped up like snowdrifts,-a cemetery in embryo.
Here and there in an outlying farm a lantern glimmers in the barn-.yarù:
the cattle are baying their fodder betimes. Scarlet-capped cbanticleer
gets himself on the nearest rail-fence and lifts up his rancorous voice
like some irate old cardinal launching the curse of Rome. Something
crawls swiftly along the gray of the serpentine turnpike,-a cart, with
the driver lashing a jaded horse. A quick wind goes shivering by, and
is lost in the forest.
Now a narrow strip of two-colored gold stretches along the horizon.
Stillwater is gradually coming to its senses, The sun has begun to
twinkle on the gilt cross of the Catbolic chapf>l and make itself known
to the doves in tbe stone belfry of the South Church, The patches of
cobweb that here and there cling tremulously to the coarse
rass of the
inundated meadows have turned into silver nets, and the mill-pond-it
1861-88]
THOMASBAUEYALDRER
:J87
will be steel-blue later-is as smooth and white as if it had been paved
with one vast unbroken slab out of Slocum's ,Marble Yard. Through a
I'OW of buttonwoods on the northern skirt of the village is seen a square,
lap-streaked building, painted a llisagreeable brown. and surrounded on
three sides by a platform,-one of seven or eight similar stations strung
like Indian beads on a branch thread of the Great
agamore Railway.
Listen! That is the jingle of the bells on the baker's cart m; it
begins its rounds. From innumerable chimneys the curled smoke gives
evidence that the thrifty housewife-or, what is rarer in Stillwater, the
hired girl-has lighted the kitchen fire.
The chimney-stack of one house at the end of a small court-the last
house on the easterly edge of the village, and standing quite alone-sends
up no smoke. Yet the carefully trained ivy o\'er the porch, and the
lemon verbena in a tub at the foot of the steps, intimate that the place is
not unoccupied. Moreover, the little schooner which acts as weather-cock
on one of the gables, and is now heading due west, has a new top-sail.
It is a story-and-a-half cottage, with a large expanse .of roof, which, cov-
ered with porous, unpainted shingles,
eems to repel the sunshine that
now strikes full upon it. The upper and lower blinds on the main building,
as well as those on the extensions, are tightly closed. The sun appears
to beat in vain at the casements of this silent house, which has a curi-
ously sullen and defiant air, as if it had desperately and successfully
barricaded itself against the approach of morning j yet if one were stand-
ing in the room that leads from the bed-chamber on the ground-floor-
the room with the latticed window-one would see a ray of light thrust
tbrough a chink of the shutters, and pointing like a human finger at an
object which lies by the hearth.
This finger, gleaming, motionless, and awful in its precision, points to
the body of old :\11'. Lemuel Shackford, who lies there dead in his night-
dress, wi th a gash acro
s his forehead.
In the darkness of that summer night a deed darker tban the night
itself bad been done in StiJIwater.
LENDING A nAND.
[From the Same.]
IT was a Saturday afternoon. :\largaret had come into the workshop
with her sewing, as usual. The papers on tbe round table had been
neatly cleared away, and Richard was standing by the window, indolently
drumming on the glass with a palette-knife.
388
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
"Not at work this afternoon?"
" I was waiting for you."
"That is no excuse at an," said }Iargaret, Rweeping across tbe room
with a curious air of self-consciousness, and arranging her drapery with
infinite pains as sbe seated herself.
Richard looked puzzled for a moment, and then exclaimed, " Margaret,
you have got on a long dress! "
" Yes," said
fal'garet, with dignity. " Do you like it,-the train?"
"That's a train?"
" Yes," said :Margaret, standing up and glancing- over her left shoul-
der at tbe soft folds of maroon-colored stuff, which, with a mysterious
feminine movement of the foot, she caused to untwist itself and flow out
gracefully behind her. There ,yaR really something very pretty in the
hesitating lines of the tan, slender figure, as sbe leaneù back tbat way.
Certain unsuspected points emphasized themselves so cunningly.
" I never saw anything finer," declared Richard. "It was worth wait-
ing for."
"But you shouldn't have waited," said
fargaret, with a gratified
flush, settling herself into the chair again. "It was understood that
you were never to let me interfere with your work."
"Y ou see you have, by being twenty minutes late. I've finished tbat
acorn border for Stevens's capitals, and there's nothing more to do for
the yard. r am going to make something for myself, and I want you to
lend me a hand."
"How can I help you, Richard?"
largaret asked, promptly stopping
the needle in the hem.
" I need a paper-weight to keep my sketches from being blown about,
and I wish you literally to lend me a hand,-a band to take a cast ot"
,. Really? " .
,. I think that little white claw would make a very neat paper-weigbt,'
said Ricbard.
:Margaret gravely rolled up her sleeve to the elbow, and contemplated
the hand and wrist critically.
"It is like a claw, isn't it? I think you can find something better
than that."
" No j that is what I want, and nothing else. That, or no paper-
weight for me."
" Very wen, just as you choose. It will be a fright."
" Tbe other band, please."
" I gave you the left because I've a ring on this one."
" You can take off tbe ring, I suppose."
"Of course I can take it off."
" \Vell, then, do."
1861-88]
THOltfA8 BAILEY ALDRICH.
389
"Richard," said :Margaret severely, "I hope you are not a :fidget."
" A what? "
"A fuss, then,-a person who always wants everything some other
way, and makes just twice as much trouble as anybody else."
" No, :Margaret, I am not that. I prefer your right hand because the
left is next to the heart, and the evaporation of the water in tbe plaster
turns it as cold as snow. Your arm will be chil1ed to the shoulder.
'\Ve don't want to do anything to hurt the good little heart, you know."
" Certainly not," said
Iargaret. ,e There!" and she rested her rigbt
arm on the table, while Richard placed the hand in the desired position
on a fresh napkin which he had folded for the purpose.
" Let your hand lie flexible, please. Hold it naturally. Why do you
stiffen the fingers so? "
"I don't; they stiffen themselves, Richard. They know they are
going to have their photograph taken, and can't look naturaL ,\Yho
ever does? "
After a minute the fingers relaxed, and settled of their own accord
into an easy pose. Richard laid his hand softly on her wrist.
" Don't move now. .,
"I'll be as quiet as a mouse," said :Margaret, giving a sudden queer
little glance at his face.
Richard emptied a paper of white powder into a great yellow bowl
half :fined with w.lter, anù fen to stirring it vigorously, like a pastry-cook
heating eggs. 'Yhen the plaster was of the proper consistency be began
building it up around the hand, pouring on a spoonful at a time, here
and there, carefu]]y. In a minute or two the inert white fingers were
completely buried. )f3,rgaret made a comical grimace.
" Is it cold? "
"Ice," said )'Iargaret, shutting her eyes involuntarily.
"If it is too disagreeable we can give it up," suggested Richard.
" No, don't touch it! " she cried, waving him back with her free arm.
" I don't mind; but it's as cold as so much snow. How curious! ,\Yhat
does it ? "
"I suppo
e a scientific feHow could explain the matter to .'011 easily
enough. When the water evaporates a kind of congealing process sets
in,-a sort of atmospherical change, don't you know? The sudden
precipitation of the-the-"
" You're as good as Tyndall on IIeat," said
Iargaret demurely.
"Oh, Tyndall is Wf'll enough in bis way," returned Richard, "but of
course he doesn't go into things so deeply as I do."
.. The idea of telling me that' a congealing process sets in,' when I
am nearly frozen to death! " cried Margaret, bowing her bead over the
imprisoned arm.
390
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
" Your unseemly levity, Margaret, makes it necessary for me to defer
my remarks on natural phenomena until some more fitting occasion."
" Oh, Richard, don't let an atmospherical change come over you! "
""\Vhen you knocked at my door, months ago," said Richard, ., I didn't
dream you were such a satirical little piece, or maybe you wouldn't have
got in. You stood there as meek as
loses, with your frock reaching
only to the tops of your boots. You were a deception, Margaret."
,. I was ùreadful1y afraid of you, Richard."
" You are not afraid of me nowadays."
" Not a bit."
" You are showing your true color
. That long dress, too! I believe
the train has turneù your head."
"But just now you said you admired it."
. "So I did and do. It makes you look quite like a woman, though."
"I want to be a woman. I would ]ike to be as old-as old as ,Mrs.
Meth uselah. "\Vas there a .:\1rs. .:\Ieth uselah '? "
"I really forget," replied Richard, considering. ,. But there must have
been. Tbe old gentleman bad time enough to have several. I believe,
however, that history is rather silent about his domestic affairs."
""\Vell, then," saiù :Margaret, after thinking it over, "I would like to
be as olù as the youngest Mrs. :Metbuselah."
"That was probably the last one," remarked Richard with great pro-
fundity. " She was probably some giddy young thing of seventy or
eighty. Those old widowers never take a wife of their own age. I
shouldn't want you to be seventy, .:\Ift,rgaret,-or even eighty."
"On the \V hole, perhap
, I shouldn't fancy it myself. Do you approve
of persons marrying twice? "
" N -0, not at the same time."
" Of course I didn't mean that," said 'Margaret, with asperity. "How
provoking you can be!"
"But they used to,-in the olden time, don't you know?"
"No, I don't."
Richal'll burst out laughing. "Imagine him," be cried,-" imag-ine
:Methuselah in his eight or nine hundredth year, dressed in his custom-
ary bridal suit, with a sprig of century-plant stuck in his button-
hole! "
" Richard," said
1argaret solemnly, " you shouldn't speak jestingly of
a scriptural character."
At this Richard broke out again. "But gracious me ! " he exclaimed,
suddenly checkil1g himself. " I am forgetting you all this while!"
Ricbard hurriedly reversed the ma
of plaster on tbe table, and
released Margaret's half-petrified fingers. They were shrivelled and col-
ode:'3s with the cold.
1861-88]
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
391
"There isn't any feeling in it whatever," said Marg&ret, holding up
her hand helple
sly, like a wounded wing.
Richard took the fingers between his palms, and chafed them smartly
for a moment or two to restore the suspended circulation.
,. There, that will do," said :I\1argaret, withdrawing her hand.
" Are you all right now? "
" Yes, thanks j ., and then she added, smiling, "I suppose a scientific
fellow could explain why my fingers seem to be full of hot pins and
needles shooting in every direction."
"Tyndall's your man-Tyndall on Heat," answered Hichard, with a
laugh, turning to examine the result of his work. " The mould is per-
fect,
Iargaret. You were a good girl to keep so still."
Richard then proceeded to make tbe cast, which was soon placeJ on
the window-ledge to harden in the sun. 'Vhen the plaster was set, he
cautiously chipped off the shell with a chisel, :Margaret Jeaning over his
shoulder to watch the operation,-and there was the little white claw,
which ever after took such dainty care of his papers, and ultimately
became so precious to him as a part of 11argaret's very self that he
woulù not have exchanged it for the Venus of Milo.
But as yet Richard was far enough from all that.
ODD STICKS, AND CERTAIN REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THEM.
[An Old Town by the Sea. 18I)U.]
THE running of the first train over the Eastern Road from Boston
to Portsmouth-it took place somewhat more than forty years ago
-was attended by a serious accident. The accident occurred in the
crowded station at the Portsmouth terminus, and was unobserved at the
time. The catastrophe was followed, though not immediately, by death,
and that also, curiously enough, was unobserved. N evertbeless, this
initial train, freighted with so many hopes and the Directors of the
Road, ran over and killed-LoCAL CHARACTER.
Up to that clay Portsmouth had been a very secluded little commu-
nity, and Lad had the courage of its seclusion. From time to time it
had calmly produced an individual built on plans and specifications of
its own, without regard to the prejudices and conventionalities of outly-
ing district
. This individual was purely indigenous. He was born in
the town, he lived to a good old age in the town, and never went out of
the place, until he was finally laid under it. To bim. Boston, tbough
only fifty-six miles away, was virtually an unknown quantity-only
392
THOJfAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
fifty-six miles by brutal geographical measurement, but thousands of
miles distant in effect. In those days, in orùer to reach Boston, you
were obliged to take a great, yellow, clumsy stage-coach, resembling a
three-story mud-turtle-if the zot,logist will, for the sake of the simile,
tolerate so daring an invention; you were obliged to take it very early
in the morning, you dined at noon at Ipswich, and clattered into the
great city with the golden dome just as the twilight wa
falling, pro-
vided always the coach bad not shed a wheel by the roadside or one
of the leaders had not gone lame. To many .worthy and well-to-do per-
sons in Portsmouth this journey was an event which occurred only
twice or thrice during life. To the typical individual with whom I am
for the moment dealing, it nm-er occurred at alL The town was his
entire world; he was as parochial as a Parisian; :Market street was his
Boulevard des Italiens, and the N ortb End his Bois de Boulogne.
Of course there were varieties of local characters without his limita-
tions: yenerable merchants retired from the East India trade; elderly
gentlewomen, with family jewels and personal peculiarities; one or two
scholarly recluses in by-gone cut of coat, haunting the Atheneum reall-
ing-room; ex-sea-captains, with rings on their finger::;, like Simon Danz's
visitors in Longfellow's poem-men who had played busy parts in the
bustling world, and had drifted back to Old Strawberry Bank in the
tranquil sunset of their careerf:. I may say, in passing, that tl)ese
ancient mariners, after battling with terrific hurricanes and typhoons
on every known sea. not infrequently drowned themselves in pleasant
weather in small sail-boats on the Piscataqua River. OM sE'a-dogs who
had commanded ships of six or s;ven hundred tOll
had naturally
slight respect for the potentialities of sail-boats twelve feet long. But
there was to be no further increase of these Odd Sticks-if I may call
them so, in no irreverent mood-after those innocent looking parallel
bars in<lissolubly linked Port
mouth with the capital of the Common-
wealth of Massachusetts. All the conditions were to be changed, the
old angles to be pared off, new horizons to be regarded. The individ-
ual, as an eccentric individual, was to under
o great modifications. If
he were not to become extinct-a thing little likely-he was at least to
lose his prominence.
llowever, as I have said, local character, in the sense in which the
term is here used, was not instantly killed: it died a lingering death,
and passed away so peacefully and silently as not to attract general, or
perhaps any. notice. This period of gradual dissolution fell during my
boyhood. The last of the cocked-hats had gone out, and tbe railway
had come in, long before my time; but certain bits of color, certain ha1f
obsolete customs and scraps of the past were still left over. I was not
too late, for example, to catch the last Town Crier-one Nicholas New-
1861-88]
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
393
man, whom I used to contemplate with awe, and now recall with a sort
of affection.
Nicholas Newman-Nicholas was a sobriquet, his real name being
Edward-was a most estimable person, very short
cross-eyed, somewhat
bow-legged, and with a bell out of all proportion to his stature. I have
never since seen a bell of that size disconnected with a church-steeple.
The only thing about him that matched the instrumcnt of his office was
his voice. His" Hear All!" still deafens memory's ear. I remember
that he had a queer way of sideling up to one, as if nature had originally
intended a crab, but thought better of it, and made a town crier. Of
the crustacean intention only a moist thumb remained, which served
:Mr. Newman in good stead in the delivery of the Boston evening
papers, for be was incidentally news-dealer. His proper duties were to
cry auctions, funerals, mislaid children, travelling theatricals, public
meetings, and articles lost or found. He was especially strong Ü1
announcing the loss of reticules, usually the property of elderly maiùen
ladies. The unction with which he lletailed the several contents, when
funy confided to him, would have seemed satirical in another person,
but on his part was pure conscientiousnes::5. He would not let so much
as a thimble or a piece of wax, or a portable tooth, or any amiable van-
ity in the way of tonsorial device, escape him. I have heard :nIl'. N ew-
man spoken of as U that horrid man." He was a picturesque figure.
Peace to his manes I
Possibly it is because of his bell that I connect the Town Crier with
those dolorous sounds which I useù to hear rolling out of the steeple of
the Old North every night at nine o'clock-the vocal remains of the
Colonial curfew. Nicholas Newman has passed on, perhaps crying his
losses elsewhere, but this nightly toning is, I believe, still a custom. I
can more satisfactorily explain why I associate with it a vastly different
personality, that of Sol Holmes, the barber, for every night at nine
o'clock his little shop on Congress street was in full blast. :Many a
time at that hour I have flattened my nose on his window-glass. It was
a gay little shop (he caned it "an Emporium '"), as barber-shopR gener-
ally are, decorated with circus-bills, tinted prints, and gaudy fly-catch-
ers of tissue and gold paper. Sol Holmes-whose antecedents to us
boys were wrapped in thrilling mystery-we imagined him to h
IYe been
a prince in his native land-was a colored man, not too dark "for
human nature's daily food," and enjoyed marked distinction as one of
tbe few exotics in town. At this juncture the foreign element wus at
its minimum, and we haù Home Rule. Every official, from selectman
down to the Dogberry of the watch, bore a name that had been familiar
for a hundred years or so. Holmes was a hanùsome man, six feet or
more in height, anù as straight as a pine. He possessed bis race's sweet
394
THOMAS BAiLEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
temper, simplicity, and vanity. His martial bearing was a positive fac-
tor in the effectivene
s of the Portsmouth Greys, whenever those blood-
less warriors paraded. As he brought up the rear of the last platoon,
with his infantry cap stuck jauntily on the left side of his head and a
bright silver cup slung on a belt at his hip, he seemed to youthful eyes
one of tbe most imposing things in the displa.y. To himself he was
pretty much U aU the company." He used to say, with a drollness
which did not strike me until years afterward, H Boys, I and Cap'n
Towle is goin' to trot out I the Greys' to-morroh." Sol Holmes's tragic
end was in singular contrast with his sunny temperament. One night,
long ago, he threw bimself from the deck of a Sound steamer, some-
where between Stonington and N ew York. Wbat led or drove him to
the act never transpired.
In this Arcadian era it was possible, in provincial places, for an under-
taker to assume the dimensions of a personage. There was a sexton in
Portsmouth, his name escapes me, but his attributes do not, whose
impressiveness made him O\vn brother to the massive architecture of the
Stone Church. On every solemn occasion he was the striking figure,
even to the eclipsing of the involuntary object of tbe ceremony. His
occasions, happily, were not exclusively solemn: he added to his other
public services that of furnishing ice-cream for evening parties. I always
thought, perhaps it was the working of an unchastened imagination, that
he managed to tbrow into his ,ice-creams a peculiar chi1l not attained by
either Dunyon or Peduzzi-arcades ambo-the rival confectioner
.
Perhaps I 8l1Ould not say rival, WI'
fr. Dunyon kept a species of
restaurant, and Mr. Peduzzi limited himself to preparing confections to
be discussed else\\' here than on his premises. Both gentlemen achieved
great popularity in their respective lines, but neither offered to the juve-
nile population quite the charm of those prim, white-capped old ladies
who presided over certain snuffy little shops, occurring unexpectedly in
silent side-streets where the footfall of commerce
eemed an incongru-
ous thing. These shops were never intended in nature. They had an
impromptu and abnormal air about them. I do not recall one that was
not located in a private residence and was not evidently' the despairing
expedient of some pathetic financial crisis, similar to that which overtook
Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon in II The House of tbe
eYen Gables." The
horizontally divided street door-the upper section left open in 8umrner
-ushered you, with a sudden jangle of beJ1 that turned your heart over,
into a strictly private hall baunted by tbe delayed aroma of thousands
of family dinners. Thence, through another door, you passed into what
had fornwrly been the front parlor, but was now a shop, with a narrow
brown wooclen counter, and several rows of little drawers built up
against the picture-papered wall behind it. Through much use the
1861-88]
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
395
paint on these drawers was worn off in circles rou!ìd the polished brass
knobs. Here was stored almost every slllaIl article required by human-
ity, from an inflamed emery cushion to a peppennint Gibraltar-the
latter a kind of adamantine confectionery which. when I reflect upon it,
raises in me the wonder that any Portsmouth boy or girl ever reached
the age of fifteen with a single tooth left unbroken. The proprietors of
these little nick-nack establishments were the nicest creatures, somehow
suggesting venerable doves. They were always aged ladies, sometimes
spinsters, sometimes relicts of daring mariners, beached long before.
They always wore crisp muslin caps and steel-rimmed spectacles; they
were not always amiable, and no wonder, for even doves may have their
rheumatism; but, such as they were, they were cherished in young
hearts, and are, I take it, impossible to-da.y.
\Vhen I look back to Portsmouth as I knew it, it occurs to me that
it must bave been in some respects unique among New England towns.
There were, for instance. no really poor people in tbe place: everyone
had some sufficient calling or an income to render it unnecessary:
vagrants and paupers were instantly snapped up and provided for at
"the Farm." There was, however, in a gambrel-roofed house here and
there, a decayed old gentlewoman, occupying a scrupulously neat room
with just a suspicion of maccoboy snuff in the air, who had her meals
sent in to her by the neighborhood-as a matter of course, and invoh'ing
no sense of dependency on her side. It is wonderful what an extension
of life is given to an olci gentlewoman in this condition!
I would like to write about several of those ancient Dames, as they
were affectionately caned, and to materialize others of the sbadows that
stir in my recollection. But the two or three I have limned, inade-
quately, though I trust not ungently. must serve. The temptation to
deal with some of the queer characters that flourished in this seaport
just previous to the Revolution is very strong. I could set in motion
an almost endless procession; but this would be to go outside the lines
of my purpose, which is simply to indicate one of the various sorts of
changes that have come over the 'l),Ù
inl'Ùne of formerly secluded places
like Portsmouth-the obliteration of odd personalities, or. if not the
obliteration, the disregard of them. Everywhere in Kew England the
impress of the past is fading out. The few old-fashioned men and women
-quaint, shrewd, and racy of the soil-who linger in pleasant mouse-
colored old homesteads strung along the New England roads and by-
ways, will shortly cease to exist as a class, except in tbe recorù of some
such charming chronicler as Sarah Jewett, on whose sympathetic page
they have already taken to themselves a remote air, an atmosphere of
long-kept lavender and pennyroyal.
Peculiarity in any kind requires encouragement in order to reach
396
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
:flower. The increased facilities of communication between points once
isolated, the interchange of customs and modes of thought make this
encouragement more and more difficult each decade. The naturally
inclined eccentric finds bis sharp outlines rubbed off by unavoidable
contact with a larger world than owns him. Insensibly he lends him-
self to the shaping hand of new idea
. He gets his reversible cuffs and
pap
r collars from Cambridge, the scarabæus in his scarf-pin from l\Iexico,
and his ulster from everywhere. lIe has pa
seù out of the chrysalis
state of Odd Stich. j he has ceased to be parochial j he is no longer dis-
tinct; be is simply the Average Man.
THE LA
T CÆSAR.
1851-1870.
I.
N ow there was one who came in later days
To play at Emperor: in the dead of night
Stole crown and sceptre, and stood forth to light
In sudden purple. The dawn's straggling rays
Showed Paris fettered, murmuring in amaze,
'Vith red hands at her throat-a piteous sight.
Then the new Cæsar, stricken with affright
At his own daring, shrun
from public gaze
In the Elysée, and had lost the day
But that around him flocked his hirrls of prey,
Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the deed.
'Twixt hope ana fear behold grcat Cæsar hang!
Meanwhile, lllcthinks, a ghostly laughter rang
Through the rotunda of the Invalides.
II.
'Vhat if the boulevards, at set of sun,
Reddcned, but not with sunset's kindly glow
What if from quai and squarc the murmured woe
Swept heavenward, plead ingly? The prize was won,
A kingling made and Liberty undone.
No Emperor, this, like him awhile ago,
But his Same's shadow
that one struck the blow
Himself, and sighted the street-sweeping gun.
This was a lllall of tortuous heart and brain,
So warped he kncw not his own point of view-
The master of a dark, mysterious smile.
1861-88]
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
And there he plotted, hy the storied Seine
And in the fairy gardens of St. Cloud,
The Sphinx that puzzled Europe, for awhile.
III.
I see him as men saw him Ollce-a face
Of true Kapoleon pallor; round the eyes
The wrinkled care; mustache spread pinion-wise,
Pointing his smile with odd sardonic grace
As wearily he turns him in his place,
And hcn(ls hefore the hoarse Parisian cries-
Then vanishes, with glitter of gold-lace
And trumpets blaring to the patient skies.
Not thus he vanished litter! On his path
The Furies waite(l rOl' the hour and man,
Foreknowing that they waited not in vnin.
Then fell the day, 0 d,lY of rlrea<lful wrath!
Bow down in shame, 0 crimson-girt Sedan!
'Veep, fair
\Jsa('e ! weep, loveliest Lorraine!
397
So mused I, sitting underneath the trf>es
In that ola garden of the Tuileries,
'Vatching the dust of twilight sifting- down
Through chestnut boughs just touched with autumn's brown-
Not twilight yet, but that ineffable hloom
,rhich holds before the deep-etched shndows come;
For still the gnrden stood in gol<len mist,
Still, like a river of molten amethyst,
The Seine slipt through its :;}>ans of fretted stone,
And, near the grille that once fenced in a throne,
The fountains still unbraide(l to the day
The unsubstantial silver of their spray.
A spot to dream in, lo\'e in, waste one's hours!
Temples and palaces, and gilded towers,
And fairy terraces !-and yet, and yet
Here in her woe came )[arie-
\ntoinette,
Came sweet Corday, Du Barry with shrill cry,
Not learning from her hetters how to die!
Here, while the Nations watched with hate(l breath,
'Vas held the saturnalia of Rell Death!
For where that slim Egyptian shaft uplifts
Its point to catch the dawn's and sunset's drifts
Of various gold, tlw Imsy Headsman stOOIl.
Place de la Concol"(le-no, the Place of mood!
And all so peaceful now ! One cannot bring
Imagination to accept the thing.
Lies, all of it ! some dreamer's wild romance-
High-hearted, witty, laughter-loving France!
,
398
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
[1861-88
In whose brain was it that the legend grew
Of )Iællads shrieking in this avenue,
Of watch-fires burning, Famine standing guard.
Of long-speared Uhlalls in that palace-yard!
"\Vhat ruder sound this soft air ever smote
Than a bird's twitter or a bugle's note?
"\Vlwt darker crimson ever splashed these walks
Than that of rose-leaves dropping from the stalks?
And yet-what means that charred and broken wall,
That sculptured marble, splintered, like to fall,
Looming among the trees there? And you say
This happened, as it were, hut yesterday?
Awl here the Commune stretched a barricade,
And there the final desperate stand was malIc?
Such things have heen? How all things change and fade!
How little lasts in this brave worM below!
Love dies; hate cools; the Cæsars come and go;
Gaunt Hunger fattens, and the weak grow strong.
Even Repuhlics are not here for long!
Ah, who can tell what hour may bring the doom,
The lighted torch, the tocsin's heavy Loom!
QUATRAINS,
MASKS.
.
B LACK Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise
And shows you laughing lips and roguish eyes;
But w hen, unmasked, gay Comedy appears,
'Tis ten to one you find the girl in tears.
}IE:
IORIES.
T WO things there are with )Iemory will abide-
Whatever else befall-while life flows by:
That soft cold hand-touch at the altar side;
The thrill that shook you at your child's first cry.
SLEEP.
,-XTHEN to soft Sleep we give ourselves away.
\ V And in a dream as in a fairy bark
Drift on and on through the enchanted dark
To purple dayhreak-little thought we pay
1861-88]
HENRY MILLS ALDEN.
399
To that sweet bitter world we know by day.
We are clean quit of it, as is a lark
So high in heaven no human eye can mm'k
The thin swift pinion cleaving through the gray.
Till we awake ill fate can do no ill,
The resting heart shall not take up again
The heavy load that yet must make it bleed;
For this brief space the loud world's voice is still,
No faintest echo of it brings us pain.
How will it be when we shall sleep indeed
t
cntr jRíll
QtltJeu.
Bom. in }It. Tabor, Vt., 1836,
THE CHILDHOOD OF DE QUINCEY.
[Thomos De Quincey.-The .Atlantic Monthly, 1863.]
E VEN in inexperienced childhood do the scales of the individual
destiny begin, favorably or unfavorably, to determine their future
preponderations, by reason of influences merely material, and before,
indeed, any sovereignty save a corporeal one (in conjunction with heav-
enly powers) is at all recognized in life. For, in this period, with which
above aU others we associate influences the most divine, "with trailing
clouds of glory," those influences which are purely material are the most
efficiently operative. Against tbe former, adult man, in whom reason is
developed, may battle, though ignobly, and, for himself, ruinously; and
against the latter oftentimes be must struggle, to escape ignominious ship-
wreck. But the child, helpless alike for both these conflicts, is, through
the very ignorance which shields him from all conscious guilt, bound
over in the most impotent (though, because impotent and unconscious,
the least humiliating) slavery to material circumstance,-a slavery which
he cannot escape, and which, during the period of its absolutism, absorbs
his very blooJ, bone, and nerve. To poverty, which the strong man
resists, the child succumbs; on tbe other band, tbat affluence of comfort,
from which philosophy often weans the adult, wraps childhood about
with a sheltering care; and fortunate indeed it is, if tbe mastery of
Nature over us during our first years is thus a gentle dealing with us,
fertilizing our powers with the rich juices of an earth1y prosperity. And
in this respect De Quincey was eminent1y fortunate. The powers of
heaven and of earth and-if we side with :Milton and other pagan mythol-
ogists in attributing the gift of wealth to some Plutonian dynasty-the
400
HENRY MILLS ALDEN.
[1861-88
dark powers under the earth seem to have conjointly arrayed themselves
in his behalf. Whatever storms were in the book of :Fate written
against his name they postponed till a far-off future, in the mean time
granting him the bappiest of all childhoods. Really of gentle blood,
and thus gaining whatever substantial benefits in constitutional tem-
perament and susceptibilities could be tbence derived, although lacking,
as Pope also had lacked, the factitious circumstance and airy beralding
of this distinction, he was, in addition to tbis, surrounded by elements
of aristocratic refinement and luxury, and thus hedged in not merely
against the assault, in any form, of pinching poverty (as would be any
one in tolerably comfortable circumstances), but even against the most
trivial hint of possible want-again
t all necessity of limitation or
retrenchment in any norrnalline of expenditure.
The time did come at length when the full epos of a remarkable pros-
perity was closed up and sealed for De Quince}'. But that was in the
unseen future. To tbe child it was not permitted to look beyond the
hazv lines that bounded his oasis of flowers into the fruitless waste
abr
ad. Poverty, want, at least so great as to compel tbe daily exercise
of his mind for mercenary ends, was stealthily advancing from the rear;
but the sound of its stern steppings was wholly muffled by intervening
years of luxurious opulence and ease.
I dwell thus at length upon the aristocratic elegance of De Qnincey's
earliest surroundings (which, coming at a later period, I should notice
merely as an accident), because, although not a potentz'al element, capa-
ble of producing or of adding one si:ð.gle iota to the essential character
of geniu:-:, it is yet a negative cOlldition-a sine qua non-to the displays
of genius in certain directions and under certain aspect
. By misfort-
une it is true that power may be intensified. So may it by the baptism
of malice. But, given a certain de
ree of power, there still remains a
question as to its kind. So deep is the sky: but of what hue, of what
aspect? Wine is strong, and so is the crude alcohol: but what the
mellowness? And the blood in our veins, it is an infinite force: but of
what temper? Is it warm, or is it cold? Does it minister to Moloch,
or to Apollo? 'Vill it shape the Madonna face, or the :\Iedusa? 'Yhy,
the simple fact tbat the rich blue sky overarches this earth of ours, or
that it is warm blood which flows in our veins, is sufficient to prove that
no malignant ,A.hriman made the world. Just here the question is not,
. what increment or what momentum genius may rcceive from outward
circumstances, but what coloring, what mood. IIere it is that a Mozart
differs from a }Iendelssohn. rrbe important difference which obtains in
this respect between great powers in literature, otherwise coördinate,
will receive illustration from a comparison between De Quincey and
Byron, For both these writers were capable, in a degree rarely equalled
18Gl
8]
HE
VR Y JIILLS ALDE-,--Y.
401
in any literature, of reproducing, or rather, we should sa
'. of recon-
structing, the pomp of
ature anù of human life. In this general office
the.v stand together: both wear. in our eyes. the regal purple; both have
caused to rise between earth and heaven miracles of grandeur, such as
never Cheops wrought through his myriad slaves, or Solomon with his
fabled ring. But in the final re
ult, as in tbe whole modus operandi, of
their architecture, they stand apart toto cælo. Byron builds a structure
that repeats certain elements in Kature or humanity; but they are those
elements only which are aJIied to gloom, for he builds in suspicion and
di
trust, and upon the basis of a cynicism that has been nurtured in his
very flesh and blood from birth; be erects a Pisa-like tower which O\"er-
bangs and threatens all human hopes and all that is beautiful in human
love. 'Vbo else, save this archangelic intellect, shut out by a mighty
shadow of eclipse from the bright hopes and warm affections of all sunny
hearts, could have originated such a Pandelllonian monster as the poem
on .. Darkness "? The most striking specimen of Byron's imaginative
power, and nearly the most striking that has ever been produced, is the
apostrophe to the sea, in "Cbilùe Harold." But what is it in the sea
which affects Lord Byron's susceptibilities to grandeur? Its destruc-
tiveness alone. And how? Is it through any high moral purpose or
meaning that seems to sway the movements of destruction? No; it is
only through the gloomy mystery of the ruin itself,-ruin revealed upon
a scale so vast and under conditions of terror tbe most appalling,-ruin
wrought under the semblance of an almighty pas
ion for revenge directed
against the human race.
De Quincey, on the other hand, in whose heart there was laid no
such hoHow basis for infidelity toward the master-passions of humanity,
repeated the pomps of joy or of sorrow, as evolved out of universal
human nature, and as, through sunshine anù tempest, typified in the
outside world,-but never for one instant did be seek alliance, on the
one side, with the shallow enthusiasm of the raving Bacchante, or, on
the other, with the overshadowing despotism of gloom: nor can there-
be foun
l on a single page of all his writings thc slightest hint inùicat-
ing e\-en a latent f:ympathy with the power which builds only to crush,
or with the intellect that denies, and that against tbe dearest objects of
human faith fulminates its denials and shocking recantations :5olely for
the purposes of scorn.
"hence this marked difference? To account for it, we must neeJs
trace back to the first haunts of childhood the steps of these two fugi-
tives, each of whom has passed thence, the one into a desert mirage,
teeming with processions of the gloomiest falsities in life, and the other
-also into tbe desert, but where he is yet refreshe(l and sulaced by an
unshaken faith in tbe genial verities of life, though
eparated from them
VOL. IX.-26
402
HENRY MILLS ALDEN.
[1861-88
by irrecoverable miles of trackless wastes, and w here, however appa-
rentlyabandoned and desolate, he is yet ministered unto by angels, and
no mimic fantasies are suffered to exercise upon bis heart their over-
mastering seductions to
" Allure, or terrify, or unJermine."
'Vhether the days of childhood be our happiest days, is a question all
by itself. But there can be no question as to the inevitable certainty
with which the conditions of childhood, fortunate or unfortunate, deter-
mine the main temper and dispositions of our lives. For it is under-
neath the multitude of fleeting proposals and conscious efforts, born of
reason, and which, to one looking upon life from any superficial stand-
point, seem to have all to do with its conduct, that there run:; the under-
current of disposition, which is born of Nature, which is cradled and
nurtured with us in our infancy, which is itself a general choice, brancb-
ing out into our specific choices of certain directions and aims among all
opposite directions and aims, and which, although we rarely recognize its
important functions, is in all cases the arbiter of our destiny. And in
tbe very wOl'd disposition is indicated tbe finality of its arbitraments as
contrasted with all proposition.
Now, with respect to this disposition: Nature furnishes its basis; but
it is tbe external structure of circumstance, built up or building about
childhood,-to shelter or imprison,-which, more than aU else, gives it
its determinate character; and though this outward structure may in
after-life be thorougbly obliterated, Of" replaced by its opposite,-por-
celain by clay, or clay by porcelain,-yet will the tendencies original1y
developed remain and hold a sway almost uninterrupted over life.
And, generally, the happy influences that preside over the child may
be reduced under three beads: first, a genial tempemment,-one that
naturally, and of its own motion, inclines toward a centre of peace and
rest rather than toward the opposite centre of strife; secondly, profound
domestic affections; and, thirdly, affluence, which, although of all three
it is the most negative, the most material condition, is yet practically
the most important, because of the degree in which it is necessary to the
full and unlimited prosperity of the other two. For how frequent are
the cases in which the happiest of temperaments are perverted by the
necessities of toil, so burdensome to tender years, or in which corroding
anxieties, weighing upon parents' hearts, check the free play of domes-
tic love I-and in all cases wherc such limitations are present, even in
the gentlest form, there must be a cramping up of the human organiza-
tion and individuality somewhere; and everywhere, and under all cir-
cumstances, there must be sensibly felt the absence of that leisure which
crowns and glorifies the affections of home, making them seem the most
1861-88]
HE-LYR Y JIILLS ALDE1Y.
403
like summer sunsbine, or rather like a sunsbine which knows no season,
which is an eternal presence in the soul.
As regards aU these three elements, De Quincey's childhood was
prbsperous j afterward, vicissitudes came,-mighty changes capable of
affecting all other transmutations, but tboroughly impotent to annul
the inwrought grace of a preëstablished beauty. On the other hand,
Byron's childhood was, in an these elements. unfortunate. The sting
left in his mother's heart by the faithless desertion of her busband, after
the desolation of her fortunes, was forever inflicted upon him, and inten-
sified by her fitful temper j and notwitbstanding the change in his out-
ward prospects whicb occurred afterward, he was never able to lift
himself out of tbe Tropbonian cave into which his infancy bad been
thrust, any more than Vulcan could bave cured that crooked gait of his,
wbich dated from some vague infantile remembrances of having been
rudely kicked out of heaven over its brazen battlements, one summer's
day,-for that it was a summer's day we are certain from a line of
"Paradise Lost," commemorating the tragic circumstance:
" From morn till noon he fell, from noon tilJ dewy eve,-
A summer's day."
And this al1usion to Vulcan reminds us that Byron, in addition to all
his other early mishaps, had also the identical club-foot of the Lemnian
god. Among the guardians over Byron's childhood was a demon, that,
receiving an ample place in his victim's heart, stood demoniacally bis
ground through life, transmuting love to hate. and wbat might bave
been benefits to fatal snares. Over De Qllincey's childhood, on the con-
trary. a strong angel guarded to withstand and thwart all threatened
ruin, teaching him the gentle whisperings of faitb and love in the dark-
est bours of bis life: an angel that built bappy palaces, the beautiful
images of wbich, and tbeir echoed festivals, far outlasted the splendor
of their material substance.
A CHILD SHA 1..1.. LEAD THE)!.
(OK A PAIXTIKG BY F. :0;. CHl-Rf'H.)
THOU (,hild-Soul, sister of the Loving One!':
'Vholl1 Dante saw circling in choral dance
Above the stars; thou who in charmèò trance
Dost bine1 these earthly to those heavenly zones,
So that Love's spcll all lower life attones
To that far song; behold, thy ll1illistrants-
All things that livc-in loving train advance,
404
SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT.
[1861-88
Thee following. Even as the Sea, that moans
'Vith wildness, followeth the
Ioon's white dream.
His rage suppressed-so, by thy heavenly mood
The fiercest beasts that in the jungle brood
Assuagèd are; and thou, sweet maid, shalt even
Thy triumph join unto the pomp supreme-
God's kingdom come on Earth as 'tis in Heaven.
Harper's New .,llIonthl.1J Jlagazine. 1887.
aralJ ßr10rgau 13rraU 19íatt.
BORN in Lexington, Ky., U:i36.
WHY SHOULD WE CARE?
(.A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles. 1874.-Poems in Company with Children. 1877.-Dra.
matic Persons and J1Ioods. 1880.-The Witch in the Glass, etc. 1889.].
\"XTELL, if the bee should sting the flower to death,
VV With just one drop of honey for the stinging;
If the high bird shoul<l break its airy breath,
And lose the song forever with the singing,
Why should we care?
If in our magic-books no charm is found
To call hack last night' moon from last night's distance;
If violpts cannot stay the whole year rOUlHl,
Spite of their odor and the dew's resistance,
Why should we care?
If hands nor hearts like ours have strength to hoM
Fierce shining toys, nor treasures sweet and simple;
If nothing can be ours for love or gold;
If kisses cannot keep a haby's dimple,
'Vhy shouhl we care?
If sand is in the South, frost in the North,
And sorrow ever
.where, and passionate yearning;
If stars fa(le from t he
kies; if men go forth
From their own thresholds anrl make no returning,
'Vhy should we care?
If this same world can never he thp same
After this instant, but grows gra
'er, older,
And nearer to the silence whence it came;
If faith itself is fainter. stiller, colder,
'Vhy should we care?
1861-88]
SARAH .JfORGAY BRYA...Y PIATT.
If the soft grass is but a pretty veil
Spread on our graves to hide them when we enter;
And, after we are gone, if light shoulrl fail,
And fires should eat the green worlel to its centre,
1Yhy should we care?
If tears were dry and laughter should seem strange;
And if the soul should doubt itself and falter:
Since God is God, and He can never change,
The fashions of the earth and Heaven may alter,
Why shoul.l we care?
HIS SHARE AND MINE.
H E went from me so softly and so soon.
His sweet hands rest at morning and at noon j
The only task God gave them was to hold
A few faint rose-buds-and be white and cold.
His share of flowers he took with him away;
No more will blossom here so fair as they.
His share of thorns he left-and if they tear
}Iy hands instead of his, I do not care.
His sweet eyes were so clear and Im"ely, but
To look into the world's wild light and shut:
Down in the dust they have their share of sleep j
Their share of tears is left for me to weep.
His sweet mouth had its share of kisses-Oh I
"What love, what anguish, will he ever know?
Its share of thirst and murmuring and moan
And cries unsatisfied shall be my own.
He had his share of Rummer, Bird and dew
Were here with him-'with him they vanished too.
His share of dying leaves and rains and frost
I take, with every dreary thing he lost.
The phantom of the cloud he did not see
Forevermore shall overshadow me.
He, in return, with small, still, snowy feet
Touched the Dim Path and made its Twilight sweet.
405
406
R1RAH MORG.J,LY BRYAN PIATT.
TRADITION OP CONQUEST.
H IS Grace of Marlborough, legends say,
Though battle-lightnings proved his worth,
Was scathed like others, in his day,
By fiercer fil"es at his own hearth.
The patient chief, thus sadly tried-
Madam, the Duchess, was so fair-
In Blenheim's honors felt less pride
Than in the lady's lovely hair.
Once (shorn, she had coiled it there to wound
Her lord when he should pass, 'tis said),
Shining across his path he found
The glory of the woman's head.
No sudden 'Wonl, nor sullen look,
In all his after days, confessed
He missed the charm whose absence took
A scar's pale shape within his breast.
I think she longed to have him blame,
And soothe him with imperious tears:-
As if her ùeauty were the same,
He praised her through his courteous years.
But, when the soldier's arm was dust,
Among the dead man's treasures, where
He laW it as from möth and rust,
They foulld his wayward wife's sweet h8:ir.
AFTER WINGS.
T HIS was your butterfly, you see.
His fine wings made him vain
-
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain
-
.My pretty boy says: "Let him be
Only a worm again
"
Oh, child, when things have learned to wear
.Wings once, they must he fain
To keep them always high and fair.
Think of the creeping pain
Which even a butterfly must bear
To be a worm aga.in!
[1861-88
1861-88]
SARAH ,JfORGAN BRYAN PIATT.
TRANSFIGURED.
A L)IOST afraid they led her in
(A dwarf more piteous none could find);
.Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,
The woman was-and wan and blind.
Into his mirror with a smile-
:Kot vain to be so fair, but glad-
The South-born painter looked the while,
'Yith eyes than Christ's alone less sad.
":Mother of God," in pale surprise
He whispered, "'Vhat am I to paint!"
A voice, that sounded from the skies,
Said to him: "Raphael, a saint. "
She sat before him in the sun:
He scarce could look at her, and she
.Was still and silent. " It is done,"
He said,-" Oh, call the world to see! "
Ah, this was Rhe in veriest truth-
Transcemlent face and haloed hair.
The beauty of divinest youth,
Divinely beautiful, was there.
Herself into her picture passed-
Herself and not her poor disguise,
Made up of time and dust. At last
One saw her with the l\laster's eyes.
THE WITCH I
THE GLASS.
"MY mother says I must. not pass
..L Too near that glass;
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With a red, red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know! "
" Alack for all your mother's care!
A bird of the air,
A wistful wind, or (I suppose
Sent by some hapless boy) a rose,
'Vith breath too sweet, will whisper low
The very thing you should not know!"
407
408
FITZ Hean LUDLOW.
[1861-88
fít!
ug1J JLunlo\\1.
BORN in New York,
, Y.. 1836. DIED in Geneva, Switzerland, 1870.
THE HOUR AND THE POWER OF DARKNESS.
[The Hasheesh Eater: being Passages from the Life of a Pythagorean. 1857.]
IT was perhaps eight o'clock in the evening when I took the dose of
fifty grains. I did not retire until near midnight, and as no effects
had then manifested themselves, I supposed that the preparation was
even weaker than my ratio gave it credit for being, and, without any
expectation of result, lay down to sleep. Previously, however, I extin-
guished my light. To say this may seem trivial, but it is as important
a matter as any which it is possible to notice. The most direful sugges-
tions of tbe bottomless pit may flow in upon the basheesh-eater through
tbe very medium of darkness. The blowing out of a candle can set an
unfathomed barathrum wide agape beneath the flower-wreatbed table of
his feast, and convert his palace of sorcery into a Golgotha. Light is a
nece
sity to him, eyeD when sleeping; it must tinge his visions, or they
assume a hue as sombre as the banks of Styx.
I do not know how long a time had passed since midnight, when I
awoke suddenly to finel myself in a realm of the most perfect clarity of
view, yet terrible with an infinitude of demoniac shadows. Perhaps, I
tbought, I am still dreaming; but na. effort could arouse me from my
vision, and I realized that r was wide awake. Yet it was an awaking
which, for torture, had no parallel in aU the stupendous domain of sleep-
ing incubus. Beside my bed in the centre of the ]'oom
tood a bier,
from whose corners drooped the folds of a hea\TY pall j outstretched
upon it lay in state a most fearful corpse, whose livid face was distorted
witb tbe pangs of assassination. The traces of a great agony were
frozen into fixedness in the tense position of every musèle, and the nails
of the dead man's fingers pierced his palms with the desperate clinch of
one who has yielded not without agonizing resistance. Two tapers at
his bead, two at his feet, with their tall and unsnuffed wick
, made tbe
ghastliness of tbe bier more luminously unearthly, and a smothered
laugh of derision from Borne invisible watcher ever and anon mocked
the corpse, as if triumphant demons were exulting over their prey. I
pre8
ed my hands upon my eyeballs till they ached, in intensity of
desire to shut out the spectacle j I buried my head in the pillow, that I
migbt not hear that awful laugh of diabolic sarcasm.
But-oh horror immeasurable! I beheld the wal1s of the room slowly
gliding together, the ceiling coming down, the floor ascending, as of old
1861-88]
FITZ HUGH LUDLOW
409
the lonely captive saw them, whose cell was doomed to be his coffin.
Kearer and nearer am I borne toward the corpse. I shrunk back from
the eùge of the bed; I cowered in mo=,t abject fear. I tried to cry out,
but speech was paralyzed. The walls came closer and clo
er together.
Presently my hand lay on tbe dead man's forehead. I made my arm as
straight and rigid as a bar of iron; but of what avail was human
strength against the contraction of that cruel masonry? S
owly my
elbow bent with the ponderous pressure; nearer grew the ceilillg-I fell
into the fearful embrace of death. I was pent, I was stifled in the
breatbless nicbe, which was all of space still left to me. The stony eyes
stared up into my o\Yll, and again tbe maddening peal of fiendish laugh-
ter rang close beside my ear. K ow I was touch('d on all sides by the
walls of tbe terrible press; there came a heavy crush, and I felt all
sense blotted out in darknes
.
I awaked at last; the corpse was gone, but I had taken his place upon
the bier. In the same attitude which he had kept I lay motionless, con-
scious, although in darkne
s. that I wore upon my face the counterpart
of his look of agony. The room had grown into a gigantic hall, whose
roof was framed of iron arches; the pavement. the walls, tbe cornice
were an of iron. The spiritual es
ence of the metal seemed to be a com-
bination of cruelty and despair. Its ma
ive hardness spoke a language
which it is impossible to embody in words, but anyone who has watched
the relentless sweep of some great engine crank, and realized its capacity
for murder, will catch a glimp
e. e,-en in the memory, of the thrill which
seemed to say, "This iron is a tearless fiend." of the unutterable mean-
ing I saw in those colossal beams and buttresses. I suffered from the
vision of that iron as from the presence of a giant assassin.
But my senses opened slowly to the perception of still \yorse pre
ences.
By my side there gradually emerged from the sulphurous twilight
which bathed the room the most horrible form which the soul could
look upon unshatterecl-a fiend also of iron, white-hot and dazzling
with the glory of the nether penetralia. A face that was the ferreous
incarnation of all imaginations of malice and irony looked on me with a
glare, withering from its intense heat, but still more from the uncon-
ceived degree of inner wickedness which it symbolized. I realized
whose laughter I had beard, and instantly I heard it again. Beside him
another demon, his very twin, was rocking a tremendous cradle framed
of bars of iron like all things else, and candescent with as fierce a heat
as the fiend's.
And now, in a chant of the most terrific blasphemy which it is possi-
ble to imagine, or rather of blasphemy so fearful that no human thought
has ever conceived of it, both the demons broke forth. until I grew
intensely wicked merely by hearing it. I still remember the meaning
410
FITZ HUGH LUDL01V.
[1861-88
of tbe song they sang, although there is no language yet coined which
will convey it, and far be it from me even to suggest its nature, lest I
should seem to perpetuate in any degree such profanity as beyond the
abodes of tbe lost no lips are capable of uttering, Every note of. tbe
music itself accorded with tbe thought as symbol represents essence, and
with its clangor mixed tbe maddening creak of the forever-oscillating
cradle, until I felt driven into a ferocious despair. Suddenly the near-
est fiend, snatching up a pitcbfork (also of white-hot iron), thrust it into
my writhing side, and hurled me sbrieking into the fiery cradle. I
ougbt in my torture to scale the bars; the,y slipped from my grasp and
under my feet like the smoothest icicles. Througb increasing grades of
agony I lay unconsumed, tossing from side to side with tlle rocking of
the dreadful engine, and still above me pealed the chant of blaspbemy,
and the eyes of demoniac sarcasm smiled at me in mockery of a moth-
er's gaze upon bel' child.
"Let us sing him," said one of the fiends to the other, ., the lullaby of
Hell" The blasphemy now changed into an awful word-picturing of
eternity, unveiling wbat it was, and dwelling with raptures of malice
upon its infinitude, its sublimity of growing pain, and its privation of
all fixed points which might mark it into divisions. By emblems com-
mon to all language rather than by any vocal words, did they sing tbis
frightful apocalypse, yet the very emblems had a sound as distinct as
tongue could give them. This was one, and the only one of their rep-
resentatives that I can remember. Slowly they began, "To-day is
father of to-morrow, to-morrow hath. a 80n that shall beget the day suc-
ceeding." \Vith increasing rapidity they sang in this way, day by day,
the genealogy of a tbousand years, and I traced on the successive gen-
erations, without a break in one link, until the rush of their procession
reached a rapidity so awful as fully to typify eternity itself; and still I
fled on tbrough that burning genesis of cycles. I feel that I do not con-
vey my meaning, but may no one else ever understand it better!
\Vithered like a leaf in the breath of an oven, after millions of years I
felt myself tossed upon the iron floor. The fiends had departed, the
cradle was gone. I stood alone, staring into immense and empty spaces.
Present1y I found that I was in a colossal square, as of some European
city, alone at the time of evening twilight, and surrounded by houses
hundreds of stories high. I was bitterly athirst. I ran to the middle
of tbe square, and reached it after an infinity of travel. There was a
fountain carved in iron, every jet inimitably sculptured in mockery of
water, yet dryas tbe ashes of a furnace. " I shall perish witb thirst,"
I cried. " Yet one more trial. Tbere must be people in all tbese
immense houses. Doubtless they love the dying traveller, and will give
him to drink. Good friends! water! water!" A horribly deafening
1861-88]
FIl'Z HUGH LUDLOW".
411
din poured down on me from the four sides of tbe square. Every saRb
of all tbe bundred stories of every bouse in tbat colossal quadrangle
flew up as by one spring. A wakened by my call, at every window
stood a terrific maniac. Sublimely in the air above me, in front, beside
me, on either band, and behind my back, a wilderness of insane faces
gnasheù at me, glared, gibbered. howled, laughed horribly, hissed,
and cursed. At tbe unbearable sight I myself became insane, and,
leaping up and down, mimicked them all, and drank their demented
spiri t.
A band seized my arm-a voice called my name. The square grew
lighter-it changed-it slowly took a familiar aspect, and gradually I
became aware that my room-mate was standing before me with a lighted
lamp. I
ank back into his arms, crying "'Vater! water, Robert!
For the love of beaven, water!" He passed across tbe room to the
wash-stand, leaving me upon the bed, wbere I afterward found he had
replaced me on being awakened by bearing me leap frantically up and
down upon the floor. In going for the water, he seemed to be travelling
over a desert plain to some far-off spring, and I hailed him on bis return
witb the pitcher and the glass as one greets his friend restored after a
long journey. No glass for me! I snatcbed tbe pitcher, and drank a
Niagara of refresbment with every draugbt. I revelled in the ecstasy of
a drinker of the rivers of Al Ferdoos.
Hasheesb always brings with it an awakening of perception whicb
magnifies tbe smallest sensation till it occupies immense boundaries.
The basbeesh-eater who drinkR duri ng bis highest state of exaltation
almost invariably supposes that he is swallowing interminable floods,
and imagines his throat an abyss which is becoming gorged by the sea.
Repeatedly, as in an agony of thirst I have clutched some smal1 vessel of
water and tipped it at my lips. I have felt such a realization of all over-
whelming torrent tbat, with my throat still charred. I have put the
water away, lest I should be drowned by the flow.
'Vitb the relighting of the lamp my terrors ceased. The room was still
immense, yet theÏron of its structure, in the alembic of tbat heavenly
light, had been transmuted into silver and gold. Beamy spars, chased
by some unearthly graycr,
upported the roof above me, and a mellow
glory transfused me, shed from sunny panels tbat covered tbe walls.
Out of this han of gramarye I suddenly passed through a crystal gate,
and found myself again in the world outside. Through a vaney car-
peted with roses I marched proudly at the hearl of a grand army, and
tbe most triumphant music pealed from all my legions. In the sym-
pbony joined many an unutterable instrument, bugles and ophicIeides,
barps and cymbals, whose wondrous peals seemed to say, " 'Ye are self-
conscious j we exult like buman souls." There were roses everywbere--
412
FITZ HUGH LUDLOW.
[1861-88
roses under foot, roses festooning the lattices at our sides, roses shower-
ing a prodigal flush of beauty from the arches of an arbor overhead.
Down the valley I gained glimpses of dream,\T lawns basking in a Claude
Lorraine sunlight. Over them multitudes of rosy children came leap-
ing to throw garlands on my victorious road, and singing pæans to me
with the voices of cberubs. Nations that my sword had saved ran
bounding througb the flowery walls of my avenue to cr
., Our hero-
our saviour," and prostrate themselves at my feet. I grew colossal in a
delirium of pride. I felt myself the centre of all the world's immortal
glory. As once before the ecstasy of music had borne me from the
bod.V, so now I floatecl out of it in the intensity of my triumph. As the
last chord was dissolved, I sawall the attendant splendors of my march
fade away, and became once more conscious of my room restored to its
natural state.
Not a single hallucination remained. Surrounding objects resumed
tbeir wonted look, yet a wonderful surprise broke in upon me. In
the course of my delirium, the soul, I plainly discovered, had indeed
departed from the body. I was that soul utterly divorced from the cor-
poreal nature, disjoined, clarified, purified. From the air in which I
hovered I looked down upon my former receptacle. Animal life, with
all its processes, still continued to go on; the cbest heaved with the
regular rise and fall of breathing, the temples throbbed, and the cheek
flusbed. I scrutinize<Ì. the body with wonderment; it seemed no more
to concern me than that of another being. I do not remember, in the
course of the whole experience I have-had of hasheesh, a more sin
ular
emotion than I felt at tbat moment. The spirit discerned itself as pos-
sessed of an the human capacities, inte]]ect, susceptibility, and wil1-
saw itself complete in every respect; yet, like a grand motor, it had
abandoned the machine which it once energized, and in perfect indepen-
dence stood apart. In the prerogative of my spiritual nature I was
restrained b.y no objects of a dell
er class. To myself I was visible and
tangible, yet I knew that no material eyes could see me. Through the
walls of tbe room I was able to pass and repass, and through the ceiling
to behold the stars unobscured.
This was neither hallucination nor dream. The sight of In}' reason
was preternaturally intense, and I rem em bered that this was one of the
states which frequently occur to men immediately before their death
has become apparent to lookers-on, and also in the more remarkable
conditions of trance. r-rhat such a state is possible is incontestably
proved by many cases on record in which it has fallen under tbe obser-
vation of students most eminent in physico-psychical science.
A voice of command called on me to return into the body, saying in
the midst of my exultation over what I tbought was my final disenfran-
1861-88]
WILLLLlI HESRY VENABLE.
413
chisement from the corporeal, ,; The time is not yet." I returned, and
again felt the animal nature joined to me by it
mysterious threads of
conduction. Once more soul and body were one.
ITUllíau\ l
cnrp DCnablc.
BOR
near 'Vaynesville, 'Yal'ren Co., Ohio. 18S6.
THE TUXES DA
HARRISON rSED TO PLAY.
[]1elodies of the Heart. 1885.]
O FTTDIES when recollections throng
Serenely back from childhooù's years.
Awaking thoughts that slumbered long,
Compelling smiles or starting tears,
The music of a violin
Seems through my willllow floating in;
I think I hear from far away
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
Dan Harrison-I see him plain,
Beside the roaring, winter hearth,
Playing away with lllight and main,
His honest face aglow with mirth;
And when he laid his bow aside,
" 'Vell done! well done! " he gayly cried;
'VeIl done! well done! indeed were they,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
I do not know what tunes he played,
I cannot name one melody;
His instrument was never made
In old Cremona o'er the sea;
And yet I sadly, sa(lly fear
Such tunes I neyer more may hear,
Some were so mournful, some so gay,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
I have heen witness to the skill
Of lllany a master of the how,
But none hm; had the power to thrill
Like him I celebrate; and so
I sit and strive, not all in vain,
To hear his minstrelsy again;
And fwm the past I call to-(lay
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
414
WILLIL1Jf HEli
R Y VENABLE.
And with the music, as it floats,
Scraphic harping faintly blends;
I catch amid the mingling notes
Familiar voices of old friends;
And all my pensive soul within
Is mclted by the violin,
That yields, at fancy's magic sway,
The tunes Dan Harrison used to play.
SUl\DIER LOVE.
I KNO'V 'tis late, but lct me stay,
For night is tenderer than day;
Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
The birds are in the grove asleep,
The katydids shrill concert keep,
The woodbinc hreathes a fragrance rare,
To pleasc the dewy, languid air,
The fire-flies twinkle in the vale,
The ri,"cr shines in moonlight pale:
See yon bright star! choose it for thine,
And call its near companion mine;
Yon air-spun lace above the moon,-
'Twill vcil her radiant beauty soon; ,
And look! a meteor's drcamy light
Streams mystic through the solemn night.
Ah, life glidcs swift, like that still fire
How soon our gleams of joy expire.
'Vho can be sure the present kiss
Is not his last
::\Iake all of this.
I know 'tis late,-òear love, I know;
Dcar love, swcet love, I love thee so.
It cannot be the stealthy day
That turns the orient c1arkness gray;
Hcardst thou
I thought or feared I heard
Vague twittprs of some wakeful bird.
Nay, 'twas but summer in her sleep
Low murmuring from the leafy deep.
Fantastic mist obscurely fins
Thc hollows of Kentucky hills.
Thc wings of night arc swift indeed!
"\Vhy makcs thc jealous morn such speed?
This rose thou wcar'st may I not take
For passionate rcmembrance' sake
Press with thy lips its crimson heart.
Yes, hlushing rose, we must depart.
[1861-88
1861-88]
ROBERT HENRY NEWELL.
A rose cannot return a kiss-
I pay its due with this, and this.
The stars grow faint, they soon will die,
But love fades not nor fails. Good-bye!
Unhappy joy-delicious pain-
We part in love, we meet again.
Good-bye!-the morning dawns-I go;
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
1lìobert 'Øenrr ßcwcll.
BORN in New York, N. Y., 1
6.
" PICCIOLA."
[The Palace Beautiful, and Othe'J' Poems. By Orpheus C. Kerr. 1865.]
I T was a Sergeant old and gray,
'V ell singed and uron7.ed from siege and pillage,
Went tramping in an army's 'wake
Along the turnpike of the village.
For days and nights the winding host
Had through the little place been marching,
And ever loud the rustics cheered,
Till every throat was hoarse and parching.
The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.
They only saw a gallant show
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
"Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.
The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs.
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But glallcin
down beside the road
He saw a little maid sit weeping.
" And how is this?" he gruffly said.
A moment pausing to regard her;-
" 'Yhy weepest thou, my little chit? "
And then she only cried the hurlIer.
"And how is this, my little chit? "
The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
415
416
ROBERT HEXRY NEWELL.
[1861-88
"1Vhen all the village cheers us on,
That :you, in tears, apart are seated?
" \Ve march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier's ùuty."
"It's very, very grand, I know, "
The little maid gave soft replying;
" And Father, :ì\Iother, Brother too,
All say' Hurrah' while I am crying;
"Rnt think-O )[1'. Soldier, think,
How many little sisters' brothers
Are going all away to fight
_\.nd may be killed, as well as others! "
" \Vhy, bless thee, child, " the Sergeant said,
His hrawny hand her curls caressing,
"'Tis left for little oneS like th('e
To finù that 'Var's not all a blessing..'
And "Bless thee! " once again he cried;
Then cleared his throat and looked indignant,
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the struggling tear benignant.
And still the ringing shouts went up
From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
The pall bchind tht! standard seen
By one alone of all the village.
The oak and cedar bend and writhe
When roars the wind through gap and brakell;
But 'tis the tenderest recd of all
That tremhles first when Earth is shaken.
TilE CAL
lEST OP HER SEX.
[The Orpheus O. Ken' Papers. 1871.]
T HERE was a female millinery establishment on the third floor of a
building composed principally of stairs, fed with frequent
mall
rooms, and the expatriated French comte
:::;e, wbo realized fashionable
bonnets there, used one of her windows to display her wares. At this
window she always kept a young woman of much bloom and symmetry,
with the latest Style on her head, and an expression of unutterable smile
1861-88]
ROBERT HE:NRY NE'WELL.
417
on her face. A young chap carrying a trumpet in the Fire Department
happened to notice that this angel of fashion was always at the window
wben he went by; and as the thought that she particularly admired his
personal charms crept over him, he at once adopted the plan of passing
by every day, attired in the garments best calculated to render fire-
going manhood most beautiful to the eye. He donned a vest represent-
ing in detail the Sydenham flower-show on a yellow ground. wore inex-
pressibles representing innumerable black serpents ascending white
columns, as
umed a neck-tie concentrating all the highest glories of the
Aurora Borealis, mounted two breast-pins and three studs torn from
some gla
:-;-house, and wore a hat that slanted on his head in an engag-
ing and intelligent manner. Day after day he passed before the milli-
nery establif:hment, still beholding the beloved object at the ,,,indow, and
occasionally placing his band upon his heart in such a way as to show a
large and gorgeous seal-ring containing the hair of a fellow-fireman wbo
bad caught such a cold at a great fire that he died some years after.
" How cam she is ! " says he to himself, ,. and sbe'
as pretty as ninety's
new hose-carriage. It seems to me," says the young chap to himself,
stooping down to roll up the other leg of his pants-" it seems to me
that I never see anything so cam. She ob
erves my daily agoillg, and
yet she don't so much as send somebody down to see if there's any over-
coats in the front entry."
One day a venerable Irish gentleman, keeping a boarding-house and
ice-cream saloon in the basement of tbe establishment, bappened to go
to sleep on the stairs with a lighted camphene lamp in his hand, and
pretty soon tlle bells were ringing for a conflagration in that district.
Immediately our gallant firemen were on their way to the spot; and
baving first gone through forty-two streets on the otber side of the city
to wake the people up there and apprise them of their great danger,
reached the dreadful scene. and instantly began to extinguish the flames
by bringing all the furniture out of a house not more than three blocks
below. In tbe midst of these self-sacrificing efforts, a form was seen to
dart into the burning building like a spectre. It was the enamoured
young chap who carried a trumpet in the department. He had seen the
beloved object sitting at the window, as usual, and was bent upon 8av-
ing her, even though he missed the exciting fight around tbe corner.
Reaching' the millinery-room door, he could see the object standing
there in the midst of a sea of fire. " How cam she is," says be. "
1iss
:Mil1iner," says be, "don't YOU see vou're all in a blaze?" But still she
stood at th
window in
n her
almnes
. The devoted young chap
turned to a fellow-fireman who was just then selecting two spring bon-
nets and some ribbon for his wife, in order to save tbem from the flames,
anù says be: "Jakey, what shall I do?" But Jakey was at that time
VOL. IX.-27
418
BENJAMIN EDTVARD 'WOOLF.
[1861-88
picking out some artificial flowers for his youngest daughter, and made
no answer. Unable to reach tbe devoted maid, and rendered desperate
by tbe thought that she must be asleep in tbe midst of her danger, the
frantic young chap madly burled bis trumpet at bel'. It struck bel', and
actual1y knocked her head off I Horrified at what he bad done. the excited
chap called himself a miserable wretcb, and was led out by tbe collar.
It was Jakey who did this deed of kindness, and says he: "What's the
matter with you, my covey?" The poor 'youn
chap wrung his hands,
and says be: "I've kil1ed bel', Jakey, rye killed her-and she so earn! "
.Jakey took some tobacco, and then says he: "\Vby, that was only a
pasteboard gal, you poor devil." And so it was, my boy-so it was;
but tbe affair had such an effect upon the young chap that be at once
took to drinking, and wben delirium tremens marked him for its own,
bis last words were: "I've killed bel', Jakey, I've killed her-and she
so earn! "
1!3cnjantín <ft1\\1art1 [[Ioolf.
BOR
in London, England, 1836. Came to America, 1839.
DIAI.JOGUE FROM "THE MIGHTY DOLLAR."
[The Jlig7dy Dollar. An American Comed
/. Written for William J. F101'ence, and
first performed, with Jlr. and ..lIrs. Florence in the leading parts, at the Park Thea-
tre,
Kew York, 6 September, 1875.-From the manuscript Text, by permission of
..Jb-. Florence, owner of this unpublished PlllY.]
SCE
E.-Representing Co1. Dart's residence on t}w heights near Wasbington. Ball in
progress j music, etc. j the place illuminated for a fête.
Guests, offirers, coupl('s, entn r1"ght and left, and occupy the pavilions and ,
'lm1mer-
houses, or group themselves aùout. Enter 1\lRs. GEN. GILFLORY 'lvith LORD CAIRX-
GO IDlE.
L ORD c..:.unXGOR)IE. 'VeIl, madam, to resume our conver!'lation-I contend
that the American women are the prettiest in the world. It is very remark-
able. you know, when you come to think of it-what a young country you arc and
what a short time you have had to become so pretty. Only think of it, two hun-
dred years ago you were reel sln"agcs, going about with feathers anù tomahawks and ....
very little elsc. It's astonishing you know-you arc not called a go-ahead country
for nothing.
MRS. GILFLORY. rOllS flte tJ'O bong / excuse me, my Lonl, for dropping so suddenly
into French, but I've lived so long abroad that it has hecome second nature to me.
[Turning tn lill" niec
LIBBY, 1cho is up tlie stage flÍ1,tin(J 1ritll CHARLIE BRoOD.l Libhy,
Lihby dear, wbat are you doing? Excuse me, my Lord, but that niece of mine has
quite emlJarmssed me. I know you will c'-.cuse me, my Lord j but, as I ,yas saying,
1861-88J
BEXJAJ1LY ED WARD WOOLF.
419
-Libby, Libby dear! Oh. she has driven what I was ahout to say completely out
of my head. Excuse me, my Lord, excuse me.
LORD C. Really, if you 'wouldn't call me 'I my Lord," you would oblige me very
much. I feel that I am among simple republican people who set no value on titles
e}"cept Judge, )Iajor, Colonel, or General, and I feel Ea(lly embarrassed when I am
addressed according to the custom of my own country. If you would only call me
General or Judge, you don't know how much ohliged I would be.
IRs. G. Qlld jJ[aisanterie-eXcllse me, I've lh-ed 80 long abroad-but òo Dot feel
embarrassed, I Leg. Our hest society rather fancies Lords. You would say so too,
if you could see how it runs after them.
LORD C. Now tell me, what are your theories about the equality of man?
IRS. G. Oh. we're not talking EO much about that as ,ve were-many of our best
families feel so much Letter than their fellow-citizens that they would not object to
wearing titles themselYes, just to show the distinction. Say uay, my Lord, say vmy.
Enter the Hox. BARDWELL SLOTE.
SLOTE. You will excuse me, )Irs. Gen. GilfJory
'Vhat you say may be quite
true, but I flatter myself I am as good as 1m." LonI, by A. L. )1.-a large majority.
LORD C. I dare say you do. You look like one of the kind ,,'ho think themselves
better. [Aside.] Another remarkaLle product for a young country.
[Goes to LIBBY and takes he'J' off. BROOD sits in a huff.]
SLOTE. 'VeIl, Mrs. Gen. Gilfiory, we mis:;ed you from the ball-room-why, what's
the matter? you seem annoyed.
:!\IRS. G. And I don't wonder at it. Libby gives me such a world of trouble. I
wish she'd U1I11Y sed-excuse my French, I've lived so long abroad.
SLOTE. OllÍ.
)IRs. G. Oh, do you speak French?
SLOTE. Úng petc. I prefer English-by a large majority.
)[ns. G. Oh, what a delightful language it is-bow poetical even the commonest
things sound in it! Pmn de tare oll 'Jlatuml! how different that sounds from boiled
potatoes,
SLOTE. So it does, but then the potato<:s taste the same in both languages, and
there's where the })otatoes ]wxe got the hest of it. I think.
)Ius. G. 'Veil, to return to our muttons. LibLy gives me such fI. world of
trouhle. Her mother heing dead, I am her only protector. Sa eel jJrotectl'l:ss. I
can't (10 an
thing with her: she will insist upon rcmaining unfashionable in spite of
all my efforts to make her a woman of tvng. 8he's been nll over Europe with me.
SLOTE. So she has been all oyer Europe with JOu, has she?
::\[us. G. Yes, she has seen the Colloshum at Kaples; the Parthenian in London,
and the Bridge of Sighs at l\ft, Yesuvius, hut she won't be refined. Sfli trist nes pflr 1
SLOTE. Of course, when you were abroad, you visited the Dardanelles?
l\IRs. G. Oh. yes; we dined with them-hut she won't be refined-sai trist nes par 1
SLOTE. ()lti.
)Iu:-::. G, Libby! Libhy dear! Uh, dear me! how she docs annoy me. It's a
ma-xim of mine that U1le '1NII'IO dnn la 'mflliY vot ",
e [orum.
LOTE. SO I perceive, Excuse me, madam, but I didn't quite understand that
last remark of yours,
':\[RS. G. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
SLOTE. Yes. yes; if the one in the hand's a turkey.
)[us. G. Oh, you droll! I have ùone my very best to improve her mind. I have
only let her read the very best books, such as Charles Dickson's D,n'id Copperplate;
420
BENJAMIN EDWARD WOOLF:
[1861-88
Jack Bunsby's Pilgrim's Progress, and Tom )Ioore's )laladies; and to think that
after the instruction I have given her she should look no higher than that silly billy
of a man 1\11'. Charlie Brood.
SLOTE. 'Vlmt, that youngster that I saw chasing her about here
Surely, you
will never let her marry such a donkey as he is ?
IRS. G. 'Vhy, he is as dch as Creosote. He's worth a million.
SLOTE. Oh, pardon me, madam; when I called him a donkey I did it in a l)arlia-
mentary sense. [Aside.] I must cultivate that young man's acquaintance.
Mus. G. Now, my dear Judge, you must remember that Libby's ancestors came
over on the Cauliflower and settled on Plymouth Church, therefore I naturally look
for somebody with blood to he her husband.
SI,OTE. Blood-wen, you don't object to some flesh and bones too
MRS. G. Oh, you wag! So I have set my mind upon her marrying Lord Cairn-
gorme.
SLOTE. Lord Cairngorme-what, he of the eye-glm::s and shirt collar
Pardon
me, madam, for keeping you standing so long. Let me present you with a seat; we
can continue our conversation so much more at our easf'.
MRS. G. [Seated in rustic clwir.] Thank you so much, Judge, 1m rrw fectl'o dono.
SLO'fE. And so, mariam, you tcll me you lived in France for many years.
:\Ins. G. Yes, Judge. I lived in Paris long enough to become a Parasite. Libby!
Libby dear! There's that Libby flirting with Charlie Brood and neglecting Lord
Cairngorme! Excuse me, Judge. Libby, Libby dear! [Exit.]
SLOTE. Ah, that's a splendid woman! A remarkahly fine woman! [Turns to
Roland Fanre, v:ho is seated at the left cornCJ" qf stage smoking ciga'l'ettes.] Ah,
there's Roland Vance, the journalist. Fine night, Jedge.
R. VANCE. [Er:idi'7ltly annoyed. ] Yes, fine night, sir.
SLOTE. Why, Vance, I didn't know you at first. Seated there in the dark-
conldn't stand the heat of the ball-room, I suppose. Just my case, exactly. "Thy,
what seems to be the mattcr
You look rather pale-not ill, I hope
VANCE. No, sir; I am not ill.
SLOTE. Ah! I see how it is. Up late nights. I pity you poor newspaper-men-
you have hard times of it, so do we statesmen.
VANCE. You will excuse me, Juclge-
SLOTE. [Interruptin(J,] I am very glad to find you here. I want to speak to you,
you being a journalist. I want you to sit down with me two or three hours and let
me give you some pints about the new tariff bill that we intend to introduce.
VANCE. You will excuse me, Judge, I have no time now to listen to you. I have
affairs of more importance to call me away. Good-night, sir.
SLOTE. [Curtly.] Good-night, sir.
[Exit V AXCE.]
SLOTE. [Looking after him.] I'd like to clip that young man's wings-in fact,
I'd like to clip the wings of the whole newspaper hrood, that make it impossible for
an amhitious legislator to obtain his natural perquisites of office. As though he
could afford to come here to 'Vashington just for the honor of the thing-and his
salary. No sooner does a man hegin to look after Ms own interest than these news-
paper-fcllows set up a howl about rings, hribcry, :1.Od corruption. Confound thcm!
They have robhecl me of thousands! For example: A financial party came down
here-a rich man-a perfect J. J. A.-.John Jacob Astor-who intended to build a
railroad solely for the benefit of his countrymen, and so confident was he of the
success of the scheme, that he l)rofessed himself ready to back up his plans with
,
1861-88J
EDTrARD HOWARD HOUSE.
421
-$10,000, which was to ùe forfeited to me in case the bill went through. Now,
when a man is willing to take such risks on the strength of his convictions-when,
I say, a man is prepared for such a sacrifice of H. K.-Hard Kash-is it for me to
discourage him? Is it for me to discourage him? No, sir; not by a G. F.-.Jug
full. And this bill would have goue through, but just then, out comes these news-
papers, up goes the cry about corruption, bottomless schemes, etc., etc., and so
frightened the man off, railroad and all. And to indulge in highly figurative lan-
guage, it knocked the lining out of the whole affair. I have suffered so, not once,
but twenty times! and yet they talk about corruption in Congress! "Thy, I have
never been corrupted once, and what's more I am not likely to be-that is, if these
newspapers are to be encouraged. Liberty of the press! I'd press thcm! If I had
my way, I'd put all these newspapers down, P. D. Q.-pretty damned quick.
<etJmartJ 130martJ $OUØC.
BORS in Boston, Mass., 1836.
A CHILD OF JAPAN.
[Yone Santo: A Child of Jilpan. 1888.]
I WAS interested in her chiefly because sbe was the only very young
girl whom I bad found disposed to tolerate me at all. As a rule,
children of her sex and age had shunned my amiable advances with
indifference or aversion. I attributed the contrast of her demeanor to a
superior intelligence, but it was really due to the superiority of her birth
and culture. Until then I Lad not chanced to fall in witb any of the
Japanese gentry, and had no idea that the rules of her training forbade
her to manifest the feelings which probably possessed her. But there is
no doubt that bel' natural acuteness aided her in overcoming an instinct
which was merely conventional. Circulllstanl..'es presently placed us in
fairly confidential relations with one another. Her aunt's illness grew
serious, and my professional assistance was found effective to an unex-
pected extent. The malady was of a kind which yielded rapidly to a
specified treatment, and tbe wonder or the unsophisticated Japanese was
extreme. I observed that my little friend, in particular, watched all the
proceedings with close intentnes
. 'Vas it to learn, if possible, some
part of the method to be pursued, in case of future need? Partly that,
no doubt. Indeed, she afterward confided to me that her neko (kitten)
suffered from rheumatism, the consequence of an infantile calamity, and
she hoped to gather a few suggestions for her playfellow's relief and
comfort. But, in a broader sense, she was a passionate seeker for
. ,
422
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
[1861-88
knowledge in every form, and the evidence of wbat she considered my
miraculous skill in restoring her relative was sufficient to invest me, in
her esteem, with marvellous attributes of wisdom and genius. A" sen-
sei" (learncd man) is always an object of respect in Japan. and this cbild
was not only roused to admiration, but, in a 'Tague way. hoped to obtain,
by communion with me, some little addition to her own juvenile store of
erudition. Finding me inclined to humor bel', she attached her::::elf to
me with almost a blind devotion; poring over tbe small col1ection of
books I had with me; building wild projects of a course of stuùy tben
and there to be instituted; starting valorously upon explorations in tbe
mazes of the alphabet j groping among labyrinthine numerals; and beg-
ging me, with timid wistfulness, always to be kind to her, and to help
her in tbe hard struggle she would have to make to get an education in
her new borne at Tokio.
INF AKTILE PHILOSOPHY AND ETHICS.
Shall I tell the story of Yone's kitten? Of tùe early adversity which
brought upon it the premature aches and pains {rom which the young
mistress would have studied to shield it? Of tbe persecution from
which she had rescued it, thus rendering tbe little animal-as in the
natural order of things-an object of unspeakable endearment to it;:, pre-
server? \Vhy not? It will serve, perhaps better tban pages of stiff
description, to exhibit in a clear light certain features of the child's char-
acter which were then de\Teloping, anù which grew with her growth as
she advanced toward maturity.
She was sitting in a snug corner of the garden. one afternoon, chatting
confidentially to her cherished companions, when I ventured. through
my interpreter, to join in tbe conversation-her original distrust of me
having by this time almost melted away.
., 'Vhich do you love bet.ter. Yone, the cat or the doll? "
"Ah, which do I?" she answered contemplatively, in the sweet,
silvery voice which belongs to the children of Japan.
,. Yes, which would you rather lose? "
" Truly, it would be a great sorrow to lose either."
"Kow tell me, which will you give me for my own?"
No immediate response, except a look of perplexity and dismay. which
gradually passed away as she gazed intently at me.
" Ah, the Doctor is jesting."
"Certainly I am jesting j nobody sball take away your treasures.
But I wish to know why you are so fond of them."
" They are my cbildren."
" To be sure j and you prefer the doll because she is older."
1861-88]
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
423
" Yes, she is older-but "-and here she sank into deep reflection, as
if the problem presented difficulties hitherto undreamed of to her sen
e
of maternal justice and impartia1ity.
"And then she never misbehaves," I added, desiring to stimulate
the course of her ideas, which were sometimes delightfully quaint
nd
fresh.
"But she does; she often behaves ill. Not very ill j just the same as
neko-san. "
"'Vhat, exactly the same? "
"Exactly the same. Please understand, Doctor-san, how unhappy
the neko will be if he hears he is naughtier than the doll.
Iy doll
mUf:t not be better than my kitten."
" You are very skilful to keep a strict balance, Y one; many foreign
ladies would be glad to do as much with their children."
"Oh, Doctor-san, it is not real," she answered, nervously. ":My doll
-you know, my doll is nobody."
She made this acknowledgment in a cautious undertone, pointing
stealthily at the little stuffed image, as if tenderly reluctant to wound its
feelings. Then, as I waited for a more intelligible explanation, she
Legan to cast furtive glances at the interpreter, intimating, so far as I
could guess her meaning, that she was not unwiIIing to impart to me,
privately, if it could be done, the secret of her disciplinary art, but
doubted the propriety of taking into her confidence a third party, who
possibly would lau
h at her.
"Never mind, Yone," I said j "you need not tell me everything."
"I think I wiII tell yon, " she replied, with some hesitation. " 1Iy
neko, you know, is real; he is alive. :l1y doll-my doll-"
The lines came into her childish brow, as she sought for words to
express what was plain enough within her mind, but which it puzzled
her to put into language.
"
Iy doll," she continued, "is neither good nor bad, if I must tell you
the truth. She is only-my doll. But if I pretend she is good, then
she is good; and if I pretend she is naughty, she is so. But it is differ-
ent with my kitten. He is sometimes truly bad and disobedient. That
is because he is so young. But he is yery sorry, and, not to let him feel
too much ashamed when I scold him, I scold my doll at the same time.
She is just as bad as I choose to have her-and so-I make them always
hoth alike. It isn't real, you must understand. It is-I beg you to
excuse me; I cannot sa,v it at all."
" You have said it \-ery well, Yone. I see how it is, now. I under-
stand, too, why you cannot decide which you care for the more. "
"Indeed," replied the child, pleased at being thus encouraged, and
enjoying the opportunity of working ont her little fable in seeming seri-
424
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
[1861-88
ousness,-" indeed, it is difficult. Shall I tell you all? I know I am
often very unjust to the doll, because, realJy, really, she never can do
an}Tthing wrong, and she Ü; scolded for nothing, and I pity her. But
then she does not mind the scolding, being only a doll; while my kitten,
who is real and alive, does mind the scolding, and so I am obliged to
pity h;m. 'Yhat do you think, Doctor-san? I will pretend they are
both yours. There, they are yours. Now, which is your favorite? "
" Yes, I see; they are mine, and I am Y one Yamada. That is simple
enough. "..- ell, then, the question is, 'Vhich is my favorite? Let me
think; how long have I had them; when did I first get them? 'llhat is
important, and I bave forgotten all about it."
The chi1d's eyes sparkled, as if tLe sympathy and coüperation of a
grown person in her innocent fancies were rare and strange to her
expenence.
"Oh, I can tell you," she said. " Your father gave you the doll, you
know. "
"Did he? Yes, he g
we me the dull. But when was it? I cannot
remember. "
"
fany years ago; why, you were too young to remember."
,. Of course; and the kitten? "
Her countenance f'uddenly fell. Our little comedy had evidently
brought us to a point which she had not foreseen, and Lad perhaps awa-
kened unpleasant recollections.
"It does not matter, Y one," I said, hastily; "I can decide without
that. Or, let us remember that it is all play."
Again slle regarded me with one 01 the keen looks by which I was
still occasional1y reminded of her inward doubts as to the perfect trust-
worthiness of the unfamiliar foreigner. Then casting her eyes upon the
ground, and seeming to gather herself together for an unwonted effort,
she
aid, falteringly:
"No, it is not all play. I did not think; but I wi11 ten you about
the kitten."
"Indeed you shall not," I answered. "Come, we will talk of some-
thing el:3e."
"But I must, Doctor-san; it is right. I do ask you to hear me."
The decision in her countenance was remarkable, for so young a child.
She was plainly resolved to relate something which, however painful,
she considered it her duty to impart without reserve.
"It was in the third month," she began, " and, as my father was about
to leave Nagoya, we were all going, one day, to kneel at the
2'raves of
our family, in the Sokell burial-ground. 'Ye had nearly reached the
gate, when I saw, on the other side of a moat, many boys, jumping, and
shouting. and throwing things into the water. Then I looked closely,
1861-88]
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
4
5
and saw a sroan kitten-this kitten-my kitten-climbing slowly up the
steep stone side. The boys caught it, and threw it far away into the
water again. Oh, Doctor-san, I did not think what I was doing. It was
very wrong, but I ran across a bridge, screaming and screaming again.
Some of the boys ran away, some threw stones worse than before;
tbey would Dot heed mef and so I-I-the moat is not deep at an,
and-"
" I see, my cbild; you went in and saved the poor kitten."
" It was wrong," she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
""'Trong!" exclaimed 1. "How can you say so? "
" I spoiled my dress, and could not go with the otbers to kneel before
our graves."
" But wrong? Think again, Yone."
" I cried out in the street, and disobeyed my grandmother."
"But you saved the kitten's life. Consider. Would you not do the
same again? "
She looked around bel' timorously, and, seeing tbat none of her own
people were near, answered:
"I-am-afraid-l would: but I am not a good gir1."
I peered into her big dark eyes, to find if I could detect any sign of
affectation or pretence, but there was none. Her self-depreciation was
undoubtedly sincere.
,. Tell me, Yone, do you think it wrong to do a kind tbing? "
"No, oh no; but I ran away from my father."
" "V ere you not glad to get this pretty pet, all to :yourself? "
"Truly, :yes; but my best dress was torn and spoiled. "
"'Vhat is that, compared with your beautiful kitten? "
" Nothing, to me; ob, nothing. But my grandmother said I did not
respect our dead."
"Tell me what }}appened next, Yone."
"It was not much. Grandmother told me to throw the cat away, hut
I believe I cried very loud, and my father said I might take it home,
and he would decide afterward. I went quickly back. and when they
returned, the neko was clean and almost dr,}'". Grandmother was still
much displeased, but my father was smiling and gentle. He had been
talking with the good priest at Soken-ji, who asked where I wa
, and
why I was not with them. \Yhen he heard the reason, he told my
fatber that our dead fathers and mothers would not be angry with me
for saving tbe kitten from being killed, instead of going to bow before
tbeir tombs. And the kind priest sent me a present."
" "Vhat was it, Y one? "
"I do not know; grandmother said I must not have it. I never
saw it."
426
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
[1861-88
" Indeed! An interesting old lady, I should judge."
.. Yes, she is very wise,-wiser than anybody. And she was willing,
after an, that I should keep the kitten."
" Ab, that is better."
" At first she was not willing, but my father thought we might decide
by the wishes of the greater number. 'Ve were five, all together, and he
began by saying he believed we need not send the kitten away. That
was one for me, and I was grateful to my good father. It seemed that
perhaps he thought my aunts, or one of them, would follow him. But
grandmother was very positive, and the aunts were both obliged to agree
with her. Then my father said: · Yone, we are only two against three.
I am afraid the neko must go.' I said that if he went, so little and so
weak, he would surely die. r know my father was sorry, for he answered:
'If we had only been two against two, or three against three, it would be
different.' Then I kneeled to my father, and begged him to listen. I
said: · Oh, father, it is so hard to think of, that we must send the suffer-
ing, trembling creature out to die. Forgive your daughter if she dares
to ask you who, of all that live and breathe now in this room, is the
most concerned in your judgment; who must feel it the most deeply;
who will suffer. or rejoice. the most.' · 'Vhy, truly,' he said, · that is easy
to answer: it is the cat, and no other.' Then I bowed llown again, and
said: 'In that case, if it please you. we a'/'e three against three, for surely
the cat has no wish to go, and it is just that his opinion should be taken
with the rest.' My father laugheù, and looked as if he would consent,
but grandmother said quickly: 'No, no, the cat has no voice!' At that
moment, sudùenly, the poor animal, who was in my arms, began to cry
out and make a great noise, and my father laughed more and more, and
said tbat eyerything was settled; I might have my wish. Then be left
us immediately, and grandmother did not object any more."
""\Vhy, it was quite a mirac1e," said I, affecting great astonishment.
., ''"''hat is a mirac1e?" asked Y one.
I eXplained as well as I could, at the same time highly eulogizing the
kitten's instinct.
" No," said Y one, with cautious deliberation,-" no; I do not think it
was a mirac1e."
,. At any rate. it was a remarkable coincidence."
.. 'Vhat is that?" again demanded the child.
With somewhat greater difficulty,-the interpreter being here at a loss,
and even the dictionaries affording us no guidance (" coincidence ., being
a word for which there was then no Japanese equivalent),-l made this
also plain, causing her once more to ponder earnestly.
.. I do not think," she presently observed, with an air of graver solem.
nity than she had yet displayed, although the story had been told
1861-88]
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
427
throughout with the dolorousness of a penitential confession,-" I do not
tbink tbat it was a remarkable co-co-co- "
"K ever mind the foreign polysyllable, my young philologist. It was
fortunate, at least, tbat your kitten took just that opportunity to make
himseU hearcl"
" Yes," she admitted, "it was fortunate-it was fortunate-and-I
think I will not speak any more now, if you please."
Her voice was steady, but I could see tears gathering in her eyes.
So, to shield her from observation, I sent my translator away, and, after
addressing a few instructive remarks to the doll, withdrew myself to
a distant corner, screening my little friend from my own scrutiny by
means of a newspaper.
About a quarter of an hour after, she crept to my side, with her
kitten under one arm, and-of all unexpected things-my copy of ITep-
burn's Dictionary under the other. Laying the volume wide open upon
my knee, she pointed to a Japanese character which she hadlaburiously
hunted up,-evidently with the desire to escape the interpreter's inter-
vention,-and lifted her woe-begone face in pathetic appeal to m.\T com-
prehension, softly repeating with her lips the word which
he indicated
with her finger. Tile translation was "To take between the ends of
tbe fingers; to take a pinch." IIaving read this, I turnell for further
elucidation, which she supplied by transferring her hand from the
book to her living burden, and nipping its flesh so vigorously as to call
forth an eloquent wail of astonishment and remonstrance.
Kothing could be dearer. The timely feline outcry at the critical
instant of the creature's fate was not a mirade, nor yet a strange coinci-
dence. It was the natural effect of a lucky inspiration on the child's
part,-that was all. Perceiving that she bad made herself understood,
sbe nodded her head several times, with a seriousness which checked my
impulse to laufTh at the disclosure; tried to fall on her knees, until I
managed to cOlwincc her that such abasement was superfluous; and
finally divining that she had not entirely forfeited m
T good-will by her
revelation, took herself and her playmates away, still smiling mourn-
fully, but certainly less dejected than sbe had been at any time since my
untoward question as to the origin of her relations with the neko-san.
'Ybo could resist these pretty and touching evidences of simplicity
and candor? It was a pleasant study to trace the current of the child's
inp.-enuous thoughts, and endea \'01' to accompany her through the yarious
perplexities in which her mind had wandered. J failed entirely, as I
afterward learned, in fathoming the aciual depth of her emotions, but
my inferences were at least in the right direction. In truth. her sen-
sitive soul was painfully agitated by the struggles of timidity. appre-
hension, and barsh necessity created by her recollection of the kitten's
428
EDWARD HOWARD HOUBE.
[1861-88
rescue and its attendant incidents. rrhat she must tell me all that bad
bappened, baving once opened the subject, she did not allow herself to
question; notwithstanding tbat the recital would flll her with an agony
of mortification, possibly subject her to fresh pena1ties. and almost
inevitably depri ve her of my aid in her future studies. For she never
doubted tbe strict justice of bel' grandmother's verdict, and fully antici-
pated tbat I would view her conduct with similar censure. She was not
a good girl; she had committed grievous faults, wbich she was com-
pelled to lay open to the inspection of one who, though kindly disposed
toward her, was almost a stranger. The very goodness and generosity
he had shown made it tbe more imperative that she should conceal noth-
ing. To deceive him would be a darker shame t.han to suffer the con-
sequences of her misdeeds. Hardest of all, she must ten her tale through
the cold and unsympathetic medium of an intërpreter. Nevertheless, it
was her duty. It would be difficult to look me in the face, after the
disclosure; but if sbe left me in ignorance, she could not look me in the
face at al1. Yet how to convey the terrible avowal of her culminating
fraud,-the strategic pinch which her grandmother still refused to con-
done? No interpreter could be trusted with that guilty secret. Hence
her reliance upon the dictionary, with the subsequent touch of panto-
mime. I was glad, in later years, to remember tbat I bad not laughed
at her, as was my impulse at the time. In her ovprwrought state, any-
thing like mirth, however good-natured, wou1<l bave cnt her to the
quick, and probably gone far to break up the confidence she had begun
to extend to me. .
It was long before Yone could bring berself to regard ber act of nat-
ural tenderness and humanity in the proper light; and, during the whole
of her girlhood, her faith in the righteousness of the aged relative"s judg-
ment remained unshaken. What child of her years, in Japan, would
dream of doubting the infallibility of a parent or a granJparent? Any
attempt to disturb her convictions on this point would have startled her
beyond measure, and would have severely strained, if not severed, the
pleasant ties tbat held us together during that summer sojourn in the
country. I left her in the enjoyment of an illusion which sbe never
ceased to cherish unti1 it was forcibly dispelled by the torturing experi-
ences of her later life. It was a great concession, for bel', to accept the
indirect consolation I offered. Beyond that limit she did not desire to
be comforted.
THE LAST OF CHILDHOOD.
As the time approached when she would be caned upon to leave all
tbe associations of girlhood behind bel', the childlike simplicity of her
1861-88]
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
429
nature seemed to renew itself in various ways. With many a blush, she
gave me to understand that it had cost bel' a struggle to renounce tbe
never-forgotten and, till now, never-neglected doll which had been the
only intimate companion of her solitary infancy. 'Vith regard to bel' cat,
the consolation of her more advanced youth,-now arrived at a stately
and dignified maturity,-sbe decided to invoke my good offices. In
proffering this priceless gift, she was evidently disturbed by tbe fear that
mankind at large might not value her pet so highly as sbe herself did;
and was not entirely free from the suspicion that what sbe deemed a
precious prize might prove to another an unwelcome encumbrance. She
was, moreover, embarrassed by the necessity of concealing bel' reason for
parting from her four-footed friend; which was, in fact, a vivid appre-
hension of possible ill-treatment for him in the new borne which awaited
her. To reveal this cause of anxiety was not compatible with her sen
e of
propriety; but as it was not difficult to divine, I at once averred that the
only unfulfilled desire of my heart was to pos::;e
s a cat of my own, and
not any haphazard selection from cats in general, but precisely the sort
of animal which Yone had rescued from aquatic perdition in Nagoya, and
brought to years of discretion with prudent nurture and suitable training.
In a case of such extremity, she was not disposed to probe my sin-
cerity too deeply, and with little delay the transfer was formally effected,
-not without ceremonies and exercises which afforded me the liveliest
amusement. 'Vhat bond of intelligence had been established between
the creature and its affectionate mistress, and to what extent the inter-
change of ideas bad become practicable, no man could say; but it
pleased Yone to assume, with a fraction of seriousness in her jest, that
she could hold intelligible conven;:ations with tl1e neko, and tbat he
was by no means insensible to the spell of moral suasion. It is certain
tbat tbe pair would often sit face to face and hold dialogues in a fashion
to impress an attentive bystander with new ana enlarged ideas respecting
the animal's inte]]ectual qualities. Yone would open the debate, and the
cat would respond in accents of ",h1['h I never believed one of his race
capable. On this occasion,
faster Tom was placed upon a cLair, and
informed, gently but gravely, of tLe altered future before him. As if
regarding the announcement as a foolish fiction, unworthy of serious
notice, he simply moved bis lips slightly, in the direction of a mew, but
without emitting a sound,-a common expedient of his wben not inter-
ested in the topic under consideration. Being addressed with more
earnestness, he endeavored to take possession of his mistress's lap, pur-
ring melodiously, and sending out entreat.v in measured cadeneef:.
Finding himself repulsed, and compeIled to listen to a more determined
statement of the situation, he appeared to assume the attitude of a cat
under the influence of extreme astonishment, reversing his ears, and
430
EDWARD HOWARD HOUSE.
[1861-88
,,'ailing with increased energy. From this stage he proceeded to more
vehement demonstrations; uttering prolonged and piercing
creams,
with his mouth stretched open to its widest capacity, as Yone reminded
him, in resolute terms, of the principles of docility and obedience in
which he had been reared, and by which it was his duty to be guided at
this critical epoch. Nothing could be more comical. Even Yone's
melancholy yielded for a moment to the mirthful provocation.
All this will be taken at its proper value, as a fanciful interpretation
of the feline dialect; but an incident which followed showed that the girl
had acquired, in some inscrutable manner, a curious mastery over the
animal's nsual1y wayward win. When about to take leave, her familiar
prepared to accompany her, as a matter of course, but was put in a cor-
ner with stern rebuke. Quite regardless of this unaccustomed severity,
the creature insisted on fonowing his mistress, and when I tried forcibly
to detain him, shrieked at me with such wilJ vociferation of aouse that
I began to doubt the practicability of the transfer. As a last resource, I
fastened a little dog-conal' about his neck, and tied him to a chair; but
this had the effect of rousing him to such fury as Japanese cats seldom
exhibit,-possibly becam
e, ha\Ting no tails to distend, tlH'Y lack the chief
accessory to an extreme display of frenzy. Here, however, was a nota-
ble exception to the rule. He broke the cord, upset the chair, tore off
the collar, and abandoned himse1f to the wildest exaltation of declama-
tory emotion, until Yone, who bad been watching the experiment through
a window, returned, and announced that she would employ an unfailing
device.
" You shall see," she said. "I shall work upon his self-esteem. I
shall flatter him, an(} puff him with vanity anà pride."
Then, replacing the collar, and again fa
tening the cord securely, she
commenced an impressi ve appeal.
"Listen, Pussinole" (Pussinole was a name bestowed in the days of
her earl)T English,-a twisted version of Old Pussy, which designation
had been applied in her hearing): ,. you must respect the good doctor's
collar. It is a beautiful collar, and no cat evcr had so wonderful an orna-
ment before. It is a great honor for you, Pussinole, and every cat in
Tokio will be envious. Why
it is like a king's necklace. You must
keep it carefully, and not injure it. How beautiful he looks in it; does
he not, Doctor? Come and tell him he is now the bandsome:;:t cat in
the world,"-anù so following, for a couple of minutes or more, at the
end of which she rose,
"aying: "lIe will be quiet now, and give .vou no
more trouble."
To my amazement, the creature did not stir, and, while appearing not
altogether content, pur:;:ued his mistress only with his eyes. I could not
conceal my surprise.
1861-88]
JOHN A YLJfER DORGAN.
431
"How did you do it?" I asked, turning over in my mind tbe possi-
bilities of animal magnetism and similar enchantments. "Do you really
believe the cat understands you? "
" Db, Doctor, Pussinole and I cannot let you into all our secrets. No,
indeed. You had better tell me what you think."
" I think you are a witch, of course; I always thought so."
" Truly, Doctor, I do not know wbat to say. I am not so silly as to
suppose my cat knows the meaning of my words. 8ti11, there is some-
thing not easy to explain. He is familiar with the tones of III y speech,
at any rate. I have always talked to him as I would to a friend. For
many years I have hardly had any other person to talk to, at home;
only my little cat. He must comprehend something, for you see bow he
answers. And he is very glad to be praised. He will do anything, if
you compliment and admire him; I am sure of that. 80 there is noth-
ing marvellous about it."
:Marvellous or not, it was true that the animal made no further effort
to escape, and allowed the restra
ning collar to remain unmolested. In
course of time, a certain intimacy grew up between us; but his most
ecstatic manifestations of affection were reserved for Yone, upon whom,
whenever she visited him, he lavished every endearment of which a cat
is capable; purring, chuckling, "chortling," clm;:ing and outstretcbing
bis claws, rubbing his head again
t her as if be would wear away tbe fur,
and entering into animated conversation upon the slightest encourage-
ment. But neither with me nor with any other human acquaintance
would be ever exchange a word on any subject. The power of engag-
ing him in oral discourse belonged to Yone alone.
10l)n grituer }Dorgan.
BOR
in Philadelphia, Penn., 1836. DIED there, 186..
THE DEAD SOLOl\ION.
[Studies. 1862.]
I
I
G SOLO)[OX stood in the house of the Lord,
Anel the Genii silently wrought arounll.
Toiling and moiling without a word,
Building the temple without a sounet
Fear and rage were theirs, hut naught,
In mien or face, of fear or rage:
432
JOILY AYL.J.1fER DORGAN.
For had he guessed their secret thought,
They had pined in hell for many an age.
Closed were the eyes that the demons feared;
Over his breast streamed his silver beard;
Bowed was his head, as if in prayer,
As if, thrbugh the busy silence there,
The answering voice of God he heard.
Solemn peace was on his brow,
Leaning upon his staff in prayer;
And a breath of wind would come and go,
And stir his robe, and heard of snow,
And long white hair;
But he heeded not,
"
rapt afar in holy thought.
King Solomon stood in the house of the Lord,
And the Genii silently wrought around,
Toiling and moiling without a word,
Building the temple without a sounò.
And now the work was done,
Perfected in every part;
And the òemons rejoiced at heart,
...\nd made ready to depart,
But dared not speak to Solomon,
To tell him their task was done,
And fulfilled the desire of his heart.
So around him they stood with eyes of :fire,
Each cursing the king in his secret heart,-
Secretly cursing the silent king,
'Vaiting but till he should say I. Depart";
Cursing the king,
Each evil thing:
But he heeded them not, nor raised his head;
For King Solomon was dead!
Then the body of the king fell down;
For a worm had gnawed his staff in twain;
He had prayed to the Lord that the house be planned
:Might not be left for another hand,
:Might not unfinished remain;
So praying, he had died;
But had not prayed in vain.
So the body of the king fell down;
And howling fled the fiends amain;
Bitterly grieved, to he so deceived,
Howling afar they fled;
[1861-88
1861-88]
RUSSELL STC"RG IS.
433
Idly they had horne his chain,
And done his hateful tasks, in dread
Of mystic penal pain,-
And King Solomon was dead!
BOAT SONG.
A SONG of joy! A song of bliss!
A song for such an hour as this!
The twilight hour! when winds are low,
And western skies are all aglow,
And like a dream beneath our keel
The silent waters lapse and steal-
The silent waters flow.
A song of joy! A song of hliss!
A song for such an hour as this!
The twilight hour! when shines above
The tender, tremulous star of love,
And like a dream around our prow
The silent shadows melt aud flow-
The silent shadows move.
A song of joy! A song of bliss!
A song for such an hour as this!
The twilight hour! Oh! night of June,
Haste onward to thy perfect noon;
Till, like a dream the òm'kness fled,
The silent moon be overhead-
The silent, silver moon.
1!ìu
rll
turgtø.
BORN in Baltimore, Md., 1836.
JOHN LEECH.
[TIM Century J1Iagazine. 1879.]
T HIRTY-SEVEN and a half years ago, in London, there appeared a
prospectus of a proposed new journal. The newsmen handed it to
their customers: it was headed by a fairly clever picture in the fashion
of the day, a wood-cut of just such character as were Hablot Browne's
VOL. IX. -28
434
R U
.sELL STURGIS.
[1861-t>8
contributions to another journal then in its second year,-" :Master
Humphrey's Clock," edited by Charles Dickens and published by Chap-
man & Hall. This head-piece represented the well-known puppet of
London street shows-that vcry I. Punch" whose most famous gentlemen-
ushers were Messrs. Codlin and Short-standing between two masked
personages, his "author" and his" artist"; and the first line declares
that it is a "refuge for destitute wit" which is here established, thereby
asserting a connection between the new journal and the recognized
fashion of comic publication for the previous centur,y or two. On the
seventeenth of July, 1841. came out the n.r
t number of ., Punch ": it
seems not very funny to a reader of to-clay; its manner of je
ting is
ponderous and, except for its freedom from offence, reminds one of that
eighteenth century" wit" now only known to book-collectors as to be
found in the comic publications alluded to. The illustrations, besides
one full-page" cartoon." were wretched little cuts an inch high, scattered
throuf!'h the text; the cartoon itself is better, but is not a design at all,
only five heads of ., Candidates under different Phases,"-n.ve separate
pictures irregularly distributed over the page. The Parliamentary elec-
tlons of that summer were just concluded. The \Vhigs had been beaten
pretty badly. Lord :Melbourne's ministry was evident1y endangered;
the Tories were on the alert and ready to build up their own govern-
ment on the ruins of the old one, and by means of the popular majorities
they had won. " Punch" is chiefly occupied with politics at first, and
very blue reading it is. Except for the preselTation in these pages of
some of those old stories and local aHusions which help the rcader of
history wonderfully, even
fiss :Martineau's recorJ of those times is more
amusing than that of onr joker.
But in the fourth number of "Punch," "for tIle week ending August
7, 18-11," the cartoon was by a clifferent hand. John Leech hall signel!
bis name in full in the left-hand lO'vyer corner; a scroll in the very cen-
tre of tbe page bore the inscription" Foreign Affairs," and, as author's
name, the mark so well known afterward. a bottle with inverted glass
over the f'topper and a wriggling "leech "within. Below the scroll, a
London sidewalk is seen thronged with the denizens of Leicester Square,
eight men and two women, walking and staring: or conversing in a group.
The lowest type of escaped fraudulent debtor, the most truculent sty Ie of
gambler in fairly prosperous condition. the female chorus-singer growing
old and stout; all are here as easy to reco
nize as if described in word
.
Above are detacbed studies. In one rortl
- figure, whose back only is
seen, but who bas an inscription, ., The Great Singer," we recognize
Lablache. In a pianist with a cataract of coan;e bail', a better informed
reader of English journals, or one who had the patience to waùe through
this very number of "Punch," might recognize some celebrity of tbe day
1861-88]
RUSSELL STURGIS.
435
-can it be Liszt ? But the important thing to our inquiry is tbe easy
strength seen in tbe drawing of these twenty grotesque figures. They are
hardly caricature. Take anyone of them and it will be evident tbat we
have before us a portrait. The original of that portrait was ,. padding
with thin soles" the pavement of Regent street in A.ugust, 1841. His
son is there to-day, in a somewbat different hat and coat and without
straps to his trousers.
Did the dissatisfied subscribers of "Punch" (who must have been
many, for the paper was sold to new owners not many weeks after this
"week ending Augu:::;t 7, 1841," and was bought by .Messrs. Bradbury
& Evans very cheaply-some say for a hundred pounds !)-dill they
welcome t4e new hand? 'Vas Lis name already known ,vel] ellou:;rh to
carry with it as
urance of hetter work than that done by A. S. II. and
\\". N.? It must have heen familiar already to amateurs and ðtudents
of wood-engraving and of book-illustration. For Leech, though only
a twenty-four-year-old man in 1841, was a three-year-old designer for
wood-cuts.
During the year 18-1:2. Leech worked steadily for" Punch, " though the
more commonplace sketches of Hine, and the stilted and "hifalutin "
de::-igns of I{enny
[eadows. are more frequent in tbo
e pages. There are
alfo:o a lot of smug and drawing-room-like pictures which seem to be by
Harvey. It is od(l enough to see one of Leech's firm and simple designs
in the adjoining column to one of those other
, with theÜ' lady-like grace
and pretty turns of the heacl, and smoothness and smirk. Leech, for his
part, gets into full career toward the close of the third volume; the big
picture illustrating the pleasures of folding-doors, and ,. of hearing the
'Battle of Prague' played with a running accompaniment of one, and
two, and thrce,-and one, amI two, and three,-and "-is a good land-
mark; it shows the future sty Ie of the artist, his way of treating feature
and expression, his touch, his ingenuity in handling accessorie
. and tbat
neatness of his legends and in
criptiolls whicb never for
ook him. In
the fifth volume, toward tbe close of 18-1:3, there is a picture (perhaps
not the fir
t, indef'ù) and a If'gend. about the organ-grinding nuisance
which, in after life, at least, was a real distress and bunlen to tbe sensi-
tive artist: "'V anted," it says, "by an aged lady, of a very nervous
temperament, a rrofe
sor who will unJertake to mesnlerize all the organs
in hel" street.-Salary, so much per organ." For" aged lady," read,
delicatd.y organized man of twenty-six!
" Punch" was bravely" liberal" in tho:-;c early days; full of sympathy
with advanced ideas, and with the opponents of privilege and stately
establishments; even to the extent of making immen
e fun of royalty
and the royal family, and the rapidly lenpthening list of royal children.
It i
an odd contrast between the touchingly loyal tone of only ten years
436
RUSSELL STURGIS.
[18ül-88
later, and the quite ferocious fun made of Prince Albert, of the Duke of
Cambridge and his daughter's marriage, of the expense of the royal
establishment as contrasted with the wretchedness of the poor-a theme
constantly urged. A change came over the public mind in England, not
long after the e\-ents of 1848 and 1849, and this is
s visible elsewhere
as in the pages of "Punch." Prince Albert was indeed a fa\-orite mark
for ridicule, at least on certain occasions, tiII a much later time, but the
queen and her children and her household, and royalty as an institution,
were all treatcd as things very sacred and yer.r preciou
, from about the
year 1850. Concerning Ireland, too, anù Irish government, there was
in the early volumes a certain feeling of regret and apology not to be
found later; in the sixth volume, the Queen and the Czar :Kicholas are
seen sitting at the two ends of a table, while above their heads hang the
map of Ireland and the map of Poland, and the Queen, pointing to her
own dependency, says: "Brother, brother, we're both in the \vrong!"
In the same volume a rea1ly admirable cartoon is entitled "The Game
Laws, or the Sacrifice of the Peasant to the Hare"; and a more uncom-
promising bit of anti-privilege thought no one need ask for. All these
are by Leech. There is a marked change in the artist's temper in after
life. It is not probable that he ever forgot to be charitable, or to be piti-
ful, or to be indignant at gross abuses: but assuredly his mind was fixed
upon other things.
In "Punch" for this year, 1844. are several fanciful designs which are
remarkable onough. "Old Port introducing Gout to the Fine Y ollng
Engìish Gent1eman" contains a portrait of " Gout" \yhich it is a pity we
cannot find room for. But these fantasies are not his best work. The
holiday-schoolboy at the pa
try-cook's counter, who te1ls the saleswoman
that he has had-" two jellies, seven of them. and eleven of them, and
six of those, and four bath-buns, a sausage-roll, ten almond-cakes, and a
bottle of ginger-beer" ;-the capital heads of the two swimmers at a
watering-place, of which the lips of one say almost in the borror-stricken
ear of the other: " I beg your parding, Captain, but could you oblige me
with m
- little account?" the ùld gentleman and tbe ragged little boy
who meet, in front of a sweet-shop, in " _\ Lumping Penn'orth," between
whom passes this dialogue: a
ow, my man, what would you say, if I
gave you a penny?" "V y, that you V05 a jolly old Brick! "-these
portraits of the people of London are what our kindly amI observant
artist was sent to London to make. Here is bis own portrait, as he was
in July, 1846, when the maid said to hi m: "If you please. sir, here's the
printer's bo}? called again I" And l]ere is his portrait in January, 1847,
"first (and only) fiddle" to the orchestra in "111'. Punch's Fancy BalL"
This picture is a huge double-page cartoon; on the floor are the celeb-
rities of the day dancing and conversing,-Lord Brougham with the
1861-88]
RUSSELL STURGIS.
437
"Standard," Mr. Punch (of course) with Britannia, and O'ConnelI, Lord
Derby, 'Vellington, amI the rest; but the orchestra is made up of the
editor
and contributors to ,. Punch." Let Dr. John Brown describe
them; for be claims to know them aU (see his essay on Leech, reprinted
in "Spare Hours "): "On the left is :Mayhew playing the cornet, tben
Percival Leigh tbe double-bass, Gilbert A'Becket the violin, Doyle tbe
c1arinet, Leech next playing the same-taU, handsome, and nervous-
:Mark Lemon the editor, as conductor, appea1i ng to the feU Jerrold to
moder
te his bitter transports on the drum. :Mooning over all is Thack-
eray-big, "ague, child-like-playing on the piccolo; and Tom Taylor
earnestly pegging away on the piano."
It does not appear from any record of Leech's life within reach at
wbat time he had his experience of tbe hunting-field. That he always
loved horses is evident, and that he owned them and enjoyed riding;
it must have been his custom from an early day to take a two-da.rs'
winter run into the country, visiting some friend in the hunting-district
.
By the time be was thirty-five, tbe long series of bis bunting-field pict-
ures begins, not to cease till his deatb. In" Punch" for 1855, we
find" The Parson in tbe Ditch" 1'1 say, .Jack! wbo's that
come to grief in tbe ditch?" "Only the parson." "Oh! leave bim
there, then! He won't be wanted until next Sunday!" Such are the
gracious remarks of the young
imrods. Tbe picture is selected on
account of its lanùscape background. Leech's professed admirers, writ-
ing soon after his deatb in 1864. have much to say about his love of
and power over 1andscape, but a plenty of designs could be broup:bt
to show how carelessly he could draw out-of-cloor nature, and how
seldom, in his earlier life, be seems to bave cared to give it especial
thought. Still, this one must be accepted at ful] I This is really
a capital distance-flat and leading far away-a December country-
side in England, as if of April with us; and this is onlr the first of a
great many landscape bits equally good and suggestive, which accom-
pany the bunting-scenes and go far to reconcile one to their constant
recurrence.
For, indeed. to anyone who respects tbe history and believes in the
continued manline
s and virtue of English national character, the mod-
ern abandonment of the whole nation to sport seems a wretched thing;
and it is pitiful to see tbe unquestioning way in which so able and ami-
able a man gives up his time to representing the incidents of the bunting-
fielJ. The ways and manners of the young patricians are not a whit
more amusing tban those of London omnibus drivers and cabbies-as
Leech represents them. They say things not nearly so witty; there is
no room for patbos; there is actually nothing delightful about it but the
borses and the landscape, and, to the young swell
themselves and their
438
RUSSELL STURGIS.
[1861-88
famiJies. the constant contemplation of themselves engaged in their
favorite pursuit. Our good-natured moralist enters into the spirit of
many classes of men, and gives us with equal hand scenes of life on sea
and on shore, in the streets and in the fields; and it is all life, tragedy
and comedy, business and rest, mingled in due proportion. But these
scores of pictures, all devoted to one of the many sports which have for
their very nature the cruel destruction of animals-this amusement of
chasing and tearing to pieces a beast who is cared for and made much
of in his native haunts, for the very purpose of this chase, is a hard
thing to an outsider.
The year 1864 came, and found our admirable artist still at work as
vigorously as ever; not robust, not rugged. but in seeming good hea1th
and spirits, and fit to live and work for years. To" Punch" for that
year he had contributed eighty pictures, when, on the fifth of November,
appeared a very amusing cut: An Irishman, dreadfully maltreated in a
street fight, is taken charge of by his wife, while a capitally indicated
group of the victor and his friends is seen in the distance, and two little
Irish boys nearer. "Terence. ye great ummadawn," says the" wife of
his bussum " to the vanquished hero, " what do yer git into this Thrub-
ble fur?" Says the hero in response: "Ð'ye call it Thrubble, now?
\Vhy, it's Engyement." It is as good a thing as ever Leech did-as
p'ood a cut as ever was in ., Punch." '\Vhen he laid his pencil down
h
3ide this drawing, it was never to take it up again; and six days
ÏJefore the appearance of the paper in which the cut was published, he
had passed away. In his death there was taken from modern England
her closest observer and most suggestive delineator of men and women.
To the great Cruikshank, human character was rather a thing to draw
inspiration from than simply to portray: Oliver Twist and Jack Falstaff,
in Cruikshank's work, are conceptions as completely abstract as his
fairies and witches. If the reader will look back to the .July number of
this magazine, he will see how much more varied and how much more
imaginative and powerful is Cruikshank's art. But he could never have
done what Leech did, still less what Leech might have done. To rep-
resent every class of English life, and the peculiar types of form and
character, developed in different parts of the kingdom, with sympa-
thizing and loving touch, and to contrast with these pictures of his
countrymen many studies of foreign life, almost as thorough and accu-
rate, though often touched with tbat pleasant exaggeration, which makes
some portraiture more like th3,n life; tù do this was Leech's appointed
task, and to a certain extent he fulfilled it. Tn one sense, his art is
monotonous; its range is limited; a hundred pictures could be selected
which would show all that Leech achieveJ during his too brief career
of twenty-five years. But the pleasure t.his body of work is capable of
1861-88]
DA YID GRA y:
439
gi ving is not limited by its narrowness of range; every fresh design is a
fresh enjoyment, however like it is to the last. And there is not one
which is not pure and refined in thought and purpose.
abín
rar.
BORN in Edinburgh, Scotland, 1836. Came to America, 1849. DIED at Binghamton, N. Y., 1888.
THE CRO
S OF GOLD.
[Letters, Poems, and Selected Prose Writings, Edited, with a Memoir, by J. N. Lamed.
1888. ]
THE fifth from the north wall;
Row innermost; and the pall
Plain black-all ùlack-except
The cross on which she wept,
Ere she lay down and slept.
This one is hers, and this-
The marhle next it-his.
So lie in brave accord
The lady and her lord,
Her cross and his red s"'ord.
And, now, what seek'st thou here;
H:n'ing nor care nor fear
To vex with thy hot Íl'ead
These halls of the long dead,-
To flash the torch's light
"Gpon their uttcr night ?-
'Vhat word hast thou to thrust
Into her ear of dust?
Spake then the haggarll priest:
"In lands of the far East
I dreamcd of finding rest-
'Vhat time my lips had prest
The cross on this dead ùreast.
., And if my sin be shriven,
\nd mcrcy live in heavf'n,
Surely this hour, and here,
)[y long woc's end i!': ncar-
Is ncar-arlll I am hrought
To peace, and painle,..;s thought
Of her who lies at rest,
This cross upon her breast,
440
DA-VYD GRA
" Whose passionate heart is cold
Beneath this cross of gold;
Who lieth, still and mute,
In sleep so absolute.
Yea, ùy this precious sign
Shall sleep most sweet be mine;
And I, at last, am blest,
Knowing she went to rest
This cross upon her breast."
COl\fMUNION.
"""{"{THEN the great South-wind, loud,
V V Leaps from his lair of cloud,
And treads the darkness of the sea to foam;
'Vhen wilù awake is night,
And, not too full nor bright,
The moon sheds stormy light
From heaven's high dome;
Then, while I only keep
'Vatch of the sounding deep,
And midnight, and the white shore's curving form,
'Vakeful, I let the din
Of their shrill voices in,
And feel my spiri
win
Strength from the storm.
Strength from the wrestling air
It wins, till I can bear
To beckon him who waits for me, apart-
Him, the long dead, whom love,
Deathless, hath set above
All other Lares of
My hearth and heart.
The house is still, and swept,
Save where the witlll has crept,
And utters at the door its cry of fear.
While the weak moonbeams swim
Down from the casement dim,
I wait for sign of him:
Hush! he is here;
Betwixt the light and gloom
He fronts me, in mid-room;
i stir not, nor a greeting hand extend;
[18ü1-88
1861-88]
ADO.NIRAJI JUD80,N SAGE.
But the loud-throhhing breast
And silence greet him best,
Beloved, yet awful, guest-
Spirit, yet friend!
He speaks not, but I brook
In his calm eyes to look,
And dare nn utterance of my dread delight:
Oh, as in midnights flown,
Bide with me, thou long-gone;
Are we not here alone-
'Ve and the night?
Then gliding on a space,
Be takes the ancient place,
Vacant so long, a sorrow's desolate shrine.
Night shuts us in, yet seems
Lit, as in festal dreams,
And the storm past us :,treams
In song divine.
Slips, then, from my sick heart
Its covering of sad art;
.Joy rushes hack in speech as sweet as tears;
Te1l1llc. I cry, 0 friend,
"Those calm eyes see the end,
Unto what issues bend
The awful years ?
Tell me what view is won,
From mountains of the sun,
Over this earth's unstarred anù hlackened sphere.
This life of weary breath
Vainly one questioneth-
Oh! from the halls of death
What cheer? 'Vhat cheer?
nonítal1t j1tn
On:
agc.
BOR"i ill )Iassillon, Ohio, 1836,
THE VIOLIN.
O B, fair to see!
Fashioned in witchery!
With purfled curves outlining
Thine airy form, soft shining,
441
442
ADONIRAJI JUDSON SAGE.
In mould like ri pening maidcn,
Buchling and heauty-Iaden;
Thou'rt naught but wood and string,
Crowned with a carvhl scroll,
Yet when we hear thee sing
'Ve deem thou hast a sou1.
In some old tree
'Vas horn thy melody-
Its boughs with breezes playing,
Its trunk to tempests swaying,
Carol of wild-birds singing,
The woodman's axe loud ringing;
Light arch of forest limb
Curving thine every line,
Tones of the forest hymn
Grown ripe in thee like wine.
Lightly the bow,
As if with life aglow,
Thy mystic grace revealing,
Shall set the witches dancing;
With classic notes entrancing,
Touch deepest chords of feeling.
Thy secret caves resoullfl
As where enchanting elves,
Flinging the echoes 'round,
Blithely disport themselves.
How wild. thy glce!
How sweet thy harmony!
l\Iurmur of light heart dreaming,
Voice of the valkyr screaming,
Song of the cascade's dashing::>,
Dance of auroral flashings!
o weird and wondrous thing!
'Vhate'er thy mood of art,
To wail or laugh or sing,
Thou'rt monarch of the heart.
[1861-88
1861-88]
JOHN BURROUGHS.
443
101)11 1ðurrougl)ø.
BOR
in Roxbury, N. Y., 1837.
IX THE HE1\ILOCKS.
[Wake-Robin. 1871.-Third Edition. 1887.]
--' T A TITRE loves such woods, and places her own seal upon them.
..L" Here she shows me 'what can be done with ferns and mosses and
lichens. The soil is marrowy and full of innumerable forests. Standing
in these fragrant aisles, I feel the strength of the vegetable kingdom,
and am awed by the deep and inscrutable processes of life going on so
silent! v about me.
Xo "hostile forms with axe or spud now visit these solitudes. The
cows have balf-hidden ways through them, and know where the best
browsing is to be bad. In spring the farmer repairs to their bordering
of maples to make sugar; in July and August women and boys from all
the country about penetrate the old Bark-peelings for raspberries and
blackberries; and I know a youth who wonderingly follows tbeir lan-
guid stream casting fur trout.
In like spirit. alert and buoyant, on this brigbt June morning go I
al:::;o to reap my harvest-pursuing a sweet more delectable than sugar,
fruit more savory than berries, and game for another palate than tbat
tickled by trout.
I descend a steep hill, and approach the hemlocks through a large
sugar-bush. 'Vhen twenty rods distant, I hear all along the line of
the forest the incessant warble of the red-eyed fly-catcher, cheerful and
happy as the merr.v whistle of a school-bo.r. He is one of our most
common and widely distributed birds. Approach any forest at any hour
of the day, in any kinJ of weather, from
la.r to August, in alJ
v of tbe
Iiddle or Em-tern districts, and the chances are that the first Hote you
hear will be his. Rain or shine, before noon or after, in .the cle("p forest
or in the village grove-when it is too hot for the thru8hes or too cold
and winlly for the warbler
-it is neyer out of time or place for this
little minstrel to indulge his cheerful strain. Tn the deep wilds of tbe
,l\diron<1ack, where few hirds are seen and fewer heard, his note 'was
almost constantl.v in my car. ....\.lways bllsy, making it a point neyer to
suspend for onc moment his occupation to inllulge his musica.l taste, his
lay is that of industry and contentment. Tbt're is nothing plaintin> or
e:;:pecially musical in his performance, but the :::;entiment expre::-secl is
eminently that of cheerfulne
. InJeed, the songs of most birds have
some human signiticance. which, I think, is the source of the delight we
444
JOHN BURRO UG HB.
[1861-88
take In them. The song of the bobolink to me expresses hilarity; the
song-sparrow's, faith: the bluebird's, love; the cat-bird's, pride; tbe
white-eyed tly-catcher's, f:elf-consciousness; tbat of the hermit-thrusb,
spiritual
erellit.r: wbile there is something military in the call of tbe
robin.
Ever since I entered the woods, even while listening to the lesser
songsters. or contemplating the silent forms about me, a strain has
reached my ears from out tbe depths of the forest that to me is the
finest sound in nature-the song of the hermit-thrush. I often hear him
thus a long way off, sometimes over a quarter of a mile away, when only
the
tronger and more perfect parts of his music reach me: and through
the general chorus of wrens and warblers I detect this sound rising pure
and serene, as if a spirit from some remote height were slowly chanting
a divine accompaniment. Thi
song nppeals to the sentiment of the
beautiful in me, and sugge:::ts a serene religious beatitude as no other
sound in nature does. It is perhaps more of nn evening than a morning
hymn, though I hear it at all bours of the da,v. It is very simple, and
I can hardly tell the secret of its charm. "0 spheral. spheral!" he
seems to say; "0 holy, holy! 0 clear away, clear away! 0 clear up,
clear up!" interspersed with the finest tril1s and the most delicate pre-
ludes. It is not a proud, gorgeous strain, like the tanager's or the gro8S-
beak's; suggests no passion or emotion-nothing personal- but seems
to be the voice of that calm, sweet solemnity one attains to in his best
moments. It realizes a peace and a deep, solemn joy that only the finest
souls may know. A few nights ago I ascended a mountain to see the
world by moonlight; and when near the summit the hermit commenced
his evening hymn a few rods from me. Listening to this strain on the
lone mountain, with the full moon just rounded from the horizon, tbe
pomp of your cities and tbe pride of your civilization seemed trivial and
cheap.
I have seldom known two of these birds to be singing at tbe same
time in the Rame locality, rivalling each other, like tbe wood-tbrush or
the veery. Shooting one from a tree, I have observed another take
up the strain from almost the identical perch, in less than ten minutes
afterward. Later in the day, when I had penetrated the heart of tbe old
Bark-peeling, I came suddenly upon one singing from a low stump.
and for a wonder he did not seem abrmed, but lifted up his di\Tine
yoi('e as if his privacy was undisturbed. I open his beak. and find the
inside yellow as gold. I was prepared to finù it inlaid witb pearls and
diamonds, or to see an angel issue from it.
The wood-pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests your
attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also in the
deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated strains.
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1861-88]
JOHN BURROUGHS.
445
Its relative, the phæbe-bird, builds an exquisite nest of moss on the
side of some shelving cliff or overhanging rock. The other day, passing
by a ledge near the top of a muuntain in a singularly desolate locality,
my eye rested upon one of these structures, looking precisely as if it
grew there. so in keeping was it with the mo
sy character of the rock,
and I have had a growing affection for the bird ever since. The rock
seemed to loye the nest and to claim it as its own. I said, "That a
lesson in arclátecture is here! Here is a house that was built. but with
such loving care and sllch beautiful adaptation of tbe means to the end,
that it looks 1ike a product of nature. The same wise economy is notice-
able in the nef;ts of a11 birds. No bird would paint its house wbite or
red. or add aught for show.
.At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I come
su(ldenly upon a hrood of screech-owls, full grown. sitting together upon
a dry. moss-draped limb, but a few feet from tbe ground. J pan;:;e within
four or five yards of them and am looking about me, when my eye
alights upon these gray, motionless figures. Tbey sit perfectl.v upright,
some with their backs and some with their breasts toward me, but every
head turned squarely in m.v direction. Their eyes are closed to a mere
black line; through this crack the,v are watching me, C\'idently thinking
themseh-es unobserved. The spectacle is weird and grotesque, and sug-
gests
omething impish and uncanny. It is a new effect, the night side
of the wooùs by daylight. After observinp- them a moment I take a
single step toward them, when. quick as thoup:l1t, their eyes fly wide
open, their attitude is chang-ed, they bend, some this way. some that. and.
instinct with life and motion, stare wildly around them. Another step.
and they all take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch, and
with the' look of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconc1
oyer its
shoulder. They fly swiftly anel softly, and disperse through the trees.
I shoot one, which is of a tawny red tint, like that figured by 'Vilson,
who mistook a young bird for an old one. The old birds are a beautiful
ashen gray mottled with black. In the present instance, they were si t-
ting on the branch with the young.
Coming to a dryer and less mossy place in the woods, I am arnused
with the golden-crowned thrush-which, however, is no thrush at all,
but a warbler. like the nightingale. IIe walks on the ground ahead of
me with such an easy. gliding motion. and with such an unconscious,
preoccupied air, jerking his head like a hen or a partridge, now hurry-
ing, now slackening his pace, that I pause to observe him. If I sit
tlown, he pauses to observe me, and extends his pretty ramblings on
aU sides, apparently very much engrossed with his own affairs, 1ut never
losing si
ht of me. But few of tbe birds are walkers, most being hop-
pers, like the robin.
446
JOH,N BURROUGHS.
[1861-88
Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions. the pretty pedestrian mounts
a limh a few feet from the ground, and gives me the benefit of one of his
musical performances. a sort of accelerating chant. Commencing in a very
low ke.,-. which makes him seem at a very uncertain Jistance, he grows
louder anrllouc1er, till his body quakes and his chant runs into a shriek.
ringing in my ear with a peculiar sharpness. This lay may be repre-
sented thus: "Teacher, teacher, TEACHER. TEACHER, TEACHER! "-
the accent on the first syllable, and each word uttered with increased
force and shrillness. No writer with whom I am acquainted gives him
credit for more musical ability than is displayed in this strain. Yet in
this the balf is not told. He has a far rarer song, which he re8erves for
some nymph whom he meets in the air. )Ionnting b,v easy flights to the
top of the tallest tree, he launches into the air with a sort of suspended,
hovering flight
like certain of the íinches, and bursts into a perfect
ecstasy of song-clear, ringing, copious, riva]}ing the goJdfinch's in
vivacity, and the linnet's in melod,'.' This strain i
one of tllO rarest
bits of bird-melody to be heard, and is oftf'ne::,t indulged in late in the
afternoon or after sundown. Over the woods. Lid from view, the ecstatic
singer warbles his finest strain. In this song you instantly detect his
relationship to the water-wagtail-erroucou::,ly caBed water-thrush-
whose song is likewise a sudden bur
t, fuH and ringing, and with a tone
of youthful joyousness in it, as if the bird had just had some unexpected
good fortune. For nearly two years this strain of the pretty walker was
little more than a diF:embodied voice to me, and I was puzzled by it as
Thoreau by his mysterious night-warbler
which, "hy the wa.,T, I suspect
was no new bird at a11, but one he was otherwise familiar with. Tlw
littJe bird himself seems disposed to keep the matter a secret. and
improve:" e,'ery opportunity to repeat before JOu hi
shri]], accelerating
lay, as if this were quite enough and an he laid claim to. StilJ. I trust
I am betraying no confidence in making the matter public here. r think
this is prel;minentl.r his Jove-song, as I hear it oftenest about the mating
season. I have caught half-f'uppressed hursts of it from two males
chasing each other with fearful f'peed through the forest.
But the declining sun and the deepening shadows admoni
h me that
this ramble must be brou:;rltt to a close, C\Ten though only the Jeading
characters in tbis chorm; of forty songsters have been described, and
ollJya small portion of the ,-enerable old woods explored. In a secluded,
swampy corner of the old Bark-peeling, where I find the great purple
ore.his in hloom. and where the foot ot man or Least seems never to have
trod, I linger long:, contemplating the wonderful dispJa,y of lichens and
mo
ses that overrun both the smal1er and the larger gruwths. Every
bush and branch am1 sprig is dressed up in the most rich and fantastic of
liveries; and, crowning all, the long-bearded moss festoons the branches
1861-88]
JOH
Y BURROUGHS.
447
or sways graceful1y from the limbs. Ever,)' twig looks a century old,
though green leaves tip the end of it. A young yellow birch has a ven-
erable, patriarchal look, and seems i11 at ease nnder
uch premature
honors.
-\. decayed hemlock is draped as if by bands for some solemn
festiva1.
:Mounting toward the upland again, I pause reverently, aR the hush
and
til1ness of twilight come upon the woods. It is the sweetest, ripest
hour of the day. AmI as the hermit's evening hymn goes up from the
deep solitude below me. r experience that serene exaltation of sentiment
of which music, literature, and religion are but the faint types and
symbols.
OBITER DICTA.
[Winter Sunshine. 1873. Twelfth Edition. 188..-Bird8 ond Poets. 1877.]
W_\LKIX(
.
I DO not think I exaggerate the importance or the charms of pedestri-
anism, or our need as a people to cultÏ\'ate tbe art. I think it would
tend to soften tbe national manners, to teach us the meaning of leisure.
to acquaint us with toc charms of the open air, to strengthen and foster
the tie between the race and the lanel. Ko one else looks out npon the
world so kindly anù charitably as the pedestrian; no one else gives and
takes so much from the country he passes tbrough. :x ext to the laborer
in the fields, the walker holus tbe closest relation to the soil; and he
holds a clo
er and more vital relation to X ature because he is freer and
his mind more at leisure.
ran takes root at his feet, and at best he is no more than a potted
plant in hi
house or carriage. till he has established communication
with the soil by the lm-ing and magnetic touch of his soles to it. Then
the tie of as:::;ociation is hol'll; then spring tbose invisible fibres and root-
lets through which cbaracter comes to smack of the soil, and which
make a man kindred to the spot of earth he inhabits.
The mads and paths you have walkeù along in summer amI winter
weather, the fields and hills whiclJ you have looked upon in lightne
s
and gladness of heart, where fresh thoughts ba'"e come into your mind,
or some nohle prospect has opened before you, and especially the quiet
ways where you bave walked in sweet converse with your frienel. pans-
ing under the trees, drinking at the spl'ing-henceforth theJ
are not the
same; a new charm is added; those thoughts spring there perennial,
your friend walks there forever.
',e IJa ,'e produced some good walkers and saunterers, and some noted
448
JOlIN BURROUGHS.
[1861-88
climbers; but as a staple recreation, as a daily practice, tbe mass of the
people dislike and despise walking. Thoreau said be was a good borse,
but a poor roadster. I chant tbe virtues of the roadster as well. I sing
of the sweetness of gravel, good sharp quartz-grit. It is the proper con-
diment for the sterner seasons, and many a human gizzard would be
cured of half its ins b.r a suitahle daily allowance of it. I think Tho-
reau himself would have profited immensely by it. His diet was too
exclusively vegetable. A man cannot liye on grass alone. If one ba8
been a lotus-eater all summer, he must turn gravel-eater in the fall and
winter. Those who have tried it know that gravel possesses an equal
though an opposite charm. It spurs to action. The foot tastes it and
henceforth rests not. The joy of moving and surmounting, of attrition
and progression, the thirst for space, for miles and leagues of distance,
for sights and prospects, to cross mountains and thread rivers, and defy
frost, beat, snow, danger, difficulties, seizes it; and from that day forth
its possessor is enrolled in the noble army of walkers.
FRO)! SPIUKG TO FALL.
S PRING is the inspiration, fan the expiration. Both seasons have
their equinoxes, both their filmy, hazy air, their ruddy forest tints,
their cold rains, their drenching fogs, their mystic moons; botb have
the same solar light and warmth, the same rays of the sun; yet, after
all, how different the feelings which they inspire! One is the morning,
the other tbe evening; one is youth, the other is age.
The difference is not merely in ns; there is a subtle difference in the
air and in the influences that emanate upon us from the dumb forms
of nature. All the senses report a difference. The sun seems to have
burned out. One recalls the notion of Herodotus, that he is grown fee-
ble, and retreats to the south because he can no longer face the cold and
tbe storms from the north. There is a growing potency about his beams
in spring; a waning splendor about them in fall. One is the kindling
fire; the other the subsiding flame.
It is rarely tbat an artist succeeds in painting unmistakably the dif-
ference between sunrise and sunset; and it is equally a trial of bis skill
to put upon canvas the difference between early spring and late fall, say
between April and Nm 7 ember. It was long ago observed that the shad-
ows are more opaque in the morning than in the evening; the struggle
between the light anù the darkness more marked, tbe gloom more solid,
the contrasts more sharp, etc. The rays of the morning sun chisel out
and cut down the shadows in a way those of the setting sun do not.
Then the sunlight is whiter and newer in the morning-not so yellow
1861-t;S]
JOH_V BCRROUGHS,
4-:19
and diffused. A difference akin to tbis is true of the two seasons I am
speaking of. The spring is tbe morning sunligbt, clear and determined;
tbe autumn the afternoon rays, pensive, lessening, golden.
Does not the human frame yield to and sYll1l--'athize with the seasons?
Are there not more births in tbe spring and more deaths in the fall?
In the spring one yegetates; his thoughts turn to sap: another kind of
activity seizes him; he makes new wood which docs not harden till past
mid
umlller. For my part, I find all literary work irksome from April
to Augu
t; my :,ympathies run in other cbannels; the gra
grows
where mellitation walked. _-\s fall approacheE, the currents rnollnt to
tbe head again. But my thoughts do not ripen well ti11 after there has
been a frost. The burrs will not open much before that. A man's
thinking, I take it, is a kiwI of com bllstion, as is tbe ripening of fruits
anù If'<lves, and he wants plenty of oxygen in the air.
Then the earth seems to haye become a positive magnet in the faJI;
the forge and anvil of the sun have had their effect. In the spring it is
negative to all intellectual conditions and drains one of his lightning.
THE APPLE-EATER.
D o .yon remember the apple-hole in the ganlen or back of the bouse,
Ben Bolt? In the fall after the bins in the cellar had been well
stocked, we excavated a circular pit in the warm mellow earth, and cover-
ing the bottom with clean rye straw, emptied in basketful after basketful
of hardy choice varieties, till there was a tent-
haped mound several feet
high of shining, variegated fruit. Then wrapping it about with a thick
layer of long rye straw, and tucking it up snug anù warm, the mound
was covered with a thin coating of earth. a flat
tone on the top ho]ding
down the straw. As winter ser; in, another coating of eartL was put upon
it, with perhaps an overcoat of coar
e dry stable manure, and the pre-
cious pile was left. in f'i]ence awl darkness till spring. K 0 marmont
hibernating uncleI' ground in his lWSt of leaves and dry grass. more co
PY
awl warm. No frost, no wet, bllt fragrant privacy anù quiet. Then
how the earth tempers and flavors the apple
! It draw
out all the
acrid, unripe qua]ities, anll infu
es into tlJem a subtile, refreshing ta
te
of the soil. Some varieties perish, Imt tIle ranker. hardier kinds, like the
northern spy, the greenin:f, or the l)lack apple, or t.he russet, or the pin-
nock, how they ripen and pTOW in c!l"ace, how the green becomes gold,
and the bitter becomes sweet!
....\s the
upply in the bins anll barrels gets low and spring approaches,
the buried treasures in the garden are ren
embere(l. \Vith spade and
a:^-e we go out and penetrate through the snow and frozen earth till the
YOLo IX. -29
450
JOHN BURRO'CGHS.
[1861-88
inner dressing of f'traw is laid bare. It is not quite as dear and bright
as when we placed it there last faU, but the fruit beneath, which the
hand soon exposes, is just as bright and far more 1 uscious. Then, as
da,Y after ùay you resort to tbe hole, and remO\-ing the :"traw and earth
from the opening thrust your arm into the fragrant pit. you haye a bet-
ter chance than ever before to become acquainted with 'your favorites hy
tbe sen:"e of touch. How you feel for them, reaching to the right and
left! :K ow you have got a Tolman sweet: you imagine you can feel
that single meridian line that divides it into two hemisphere
. l\owa
greening fins your hand; you fepl its fine quality beneath its rough coat.
Now you have hooked a swaar, you recognize its full face: now a Van-
devere or a King rolls down from the apex above and you bag it at
once. 'Yhen you were a schoolboy 'you stowed these away in your
pockets and ate them along the road and at recess, and again at noon-
time: and they, in a measure, corrected the effects of the cake and pie
with which yonI' indulgpnt mother fil1ed your lunch-basket.
The boy is indeed the true apple-eater, and is not to he questioned
110W he came by the fruit with which his pockets are filled. It belongs
to him, anù he may steal it if it cannot be had in any other way. His
<Hyn juicy flesh craves the juicy flesh of tbe apple. Sap draws sap. His
fruit-eating hflS little reference to the state of his appetite. ',",'hether he
be full of meat or empty of meat, he wants the apple just the samc.
Before meal or after meal it never comes amiss. The farm-Loy munches
apples all day long. TIe has nests of them in the ha.,--mow, mellowing-,
to which he makes frequent visit:::,. Sometimes old Brindle, having
access through the open door, smens them out and make::; short work of
them.
In some countries the custom remains of placing a r()
y apple in the
hand of the dead that they may fin(l it when tbey enter paradise. In
northern mytholo
y the giants eat apples to keep off old age.
The apple is illJeed the fruit of youth. As we grow old we cra\
e
applps le
8. It is an ominous sign. 'Vhen you are ashamed to he f;een
eating them on the street; when you can carry them in your pocket and
your haml not constantly find its way to them; when your neighbor Las
apple.:; and you have none, and you make no nocturnal visits to bis
orcharJ; when your lunch-basket is witLont them and you can pass a
winter.s night by the fireside with no thought of the fruit at your elbow,
then be assureJ you are no longer a boy, either in heart or years.
The genuine apple-eater comforts himself with an apple in their sea-
son as others with a pipe or cigar. '
hell he bas nothing el
e to do, or
is bored, he eats an apple. 'Vhile he is waiting for the train he eats an
apple, sometimes several of them. 'Vhen he takes a walk he arms him-
self with apples. His travelling-bag is full of apples. lie offers an
1861-88]
JOH,N BURROUGIIS.
451
apple to his companion, and takes one himself. They are his chief
solace when on the road. He sows their seed all along the route. IIe
tosses tbe core from the car-window and from the top of the stage-coach.
He would, in time, make the land one yast orchard. He di
penses with
a knife. lIe prefers that his teeth shall have the first taste. Then he
knows the best flavor is immediately beneath the skin, and that in a
pared apple this is lost. If you will stew the apple, he says, instead of
baking it, by all means leave the skin on. It. improves the color and
vastly heightens the flavor of the dish.
IIDSe)DIER.
I A1vI glad to observe that all the poetry of the midsummer harvesting
has not gone out with tbe scythe and the whetstone. The line of
mowers was a pretty sight, if one did not sympathize too deepl.v with
the human backs turned up there to the sun, and the sound of the whet-
stone, coming up from the meadows in the dewy morning, was pleasant
music. But I finù the sounds of the mowing-machine and tbe patent
reaper are even more in tune with the voices of nature at this season.
The characteristic sounds of midsummer are tbe sharp, whirring cres-
cendo of the cicada, or harvest-fly, and the rasping, stridulous notes of
the nocturnal insects. The mowing-machine repeats and imitates these
sounds. 'Tis like the hum of a locust or the shuffling of a mighty
grasshopper. :More than that, the grass and tbe grain at this season
have become hard. The timothy stalk is like a file. the r
Te straw is
glazeù with flint, the grasshoppers snap sharply as tbey fly up in front
of you, the bird-songs have ceased. the ground crackles under foot, the
eye of day is brassy and merciless. and in harmony with all these things
is the rattle of the mower and hay teùder.
W AITIXG.
SERENE, I {o1fl my halHls and wait,
Nor care for wind, OJ' tille, or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate.
For 10! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make (l('lays,
For what avails this cageI' pace V
I stand amid the etcmal way:"
Allll what is mine shall know my face.
452
JOHN BURROUGHS.
[1861-88
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tiùe of destiny.
'Vhat matter if I stand alone V
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their Own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure tlclight.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
"HAIL TO THEE, BLITHE SPIRIT I "
[Mellow England.- Winter Sllnshine. 187;). 1887.]
B EFORE I had got fifty 3
ards from the station I began to hear tbe
larks, and being unprepared for them I was a little puzzled at first,
but was not long in discovering wbat luck I was in. The song disap-
pointed me at first, being less sweet and melodious than I had expected
to bear j indeed, I thought it a little sharp a11l1 harsh-a little stubLly-
but in other respects, in strength and gladness and continuity, it was
wonderful. And the more I hearJ it the better I liked it, until I would
gladly bave given any of my songsters at home for a bird that could
shower down such notes, even in autumn. Up, up, went the bird,
describing a large easy spiral ti11 he attained an altitude of three or four
hundred feet, when, spread out ag-ainst the sky for a space of ten or
fifteen minutes, or more, he pourerl out his de1i
ùt. filling a11 tbe yault
with sonnd. The song is of the sparrow kind, and, in its best parts,
perpetuall.\T sug
ested the notes of our yesper sparrow; but tbe wonder
of it. is its ('()piou
ness and sustainecl strength. There is no theme, no
beginning, mi(ldle, or end, like most of our best bird-songs, but a perfect
swarm of notes pouring out like bees from a hi,-e aml resembling ench
other nearly as closely. and only cea
inQ" as tbe hiI'd nears the earth
again. We have many more melodious songsters; tbe bobolink in the
meadows. for instance; the vesper sparrow in the pastures, the purple
1861-88]
JOH
N BURROUGHS.
453
finch in the groves, the winter wren, or any of the tbrushes in the woods,
or the wood-wagtail, whose air-song is of a similar cbaracter to that of
the skylark's, and is even more rapid and ringing, and is delivered in
nearly the same manner; but our bird
al1 stop when the skylark bas
only just begun. Away be goes on quivering wing, Í11f1ating his throat
funer and fuller, mounting and mounting, and turning to an points of
the compass as if to em brace the whole landscape in his song, the notes
still raining upon yon as distinct as ever, after you bave left him far
behind. You feel that you need be in no hurry to ob:.;;erve the song lest
the bird finish, you walk along, Jour mind reyerts to other things, you
examine the grass and weeds. or search for a curious stone, still there
goes the bird; you sit down and study the landscape, or send your
thoughts out toward France or Spain, or across the sea to your own
lanel. and yet, when you get them back, there is that song above you
almost as unceasing as the light of a star. This strain indeed suggests
some rare pyrotechnic display, musical sounds being substituted for the
many-colored sparks and lights. Anù yet I will adrl what perhaps the
best readers do not need to be told, that neither the lark song, nor any
other bird-song in the open air and under the sky, is as noticeable a
feature as my ùescription of it might imply, or as the poets would have
us believe; and that mo
t persons, not especial1y interested in birds or
their notes, and intent upon the general beauty of the landscape, would
probably pa:.;;s it by unremarker1.
I sllspect that it is a little higher flight than the facts will bear out
when the writers make the birùs go out of sight into tbe sky. I could
eaRiIy fol1ow them on this occasion, though if I took my eye away for a
moment it was ver.y Ilifficult to get it back again. I bad to search for
them as the astronomer searcbes for a star. It may be that in the
spring, when the atmosphere is less clear, and the heart of the bird full
of a more mad and reckless love, the climax is not reached until the
eye loses sight of the singér.
SPRI
GS.
[Pepacton. 1881.-Seventh Edition. 1887.]
A MAN who came back to the place of his birth in tbe East, after an
ahsence of a quarter of a century in the "\Vest, said the one thing
he most desired to see about the old homest.ea(l was the spring. This, at
least, be would. find unchanged. Here his lost yout.h would come back
to him. The faces of his father and mother he might not look upon;
454
JOHN BURROUGHS.
[1861-88
but the face of the spring that had mirrored theirs and his own so oft,
be fondly imagined would beam on him as of old. I can well believe
that in that all but springless country in which he had cast his lot, the
vision, tbe remembrance of the fountain that flowed by his father's door-
\Va,Y. so prodigal of its precious gifts, has awakened in him tùe keenest
10lJzinp-s amI regrets.
Did he not remember the path, also? for next to the spring it
elf is
the path that leads to it. Indeed, of all foot-paths, the spring-path is
the most suggesti ve.
This is a path with something at the enfl of it, and the be
t of goofl
fortune awaits him who walks therein. It is a well-worn path, and,
though generally up or down a hill, it is the easiest of all paths to
travel: we forget our fatigue when going to the spring. and we have
lost it when we turn to come away. See with what alacrity the laborer
hastens along it, all sweaty from the fields; see the bo,\- or girl running
with pitcher or pail; see the welcome shade of tbe spreading tree that
presides over its marvellous birth!
In the wooas or on the mountain-side follow the path, and you are
pretty sure to find a spring; all creatures are going that way night and
day, and they make a path.
A spring is always a vital point in the landscape; it is indeed the eye
of the fields. an(l how often, t00, it has a noble eyebrow in the shape of
an overhanging bank or le(lge. Or else its site is marked by some tree
which the pioneer has wisely left standing, and which sheds a coolness
and freshness that make the water more sweet. In tbe sLade of this
tree the harvesters sit and eat their lunch and look out upon the quivey-
ing air of the fields. Here the Sunday saunterer stops and lounges with
his book. and bathes his hands and face in the cool fountain. Hither
tbe strawberry-girl comes with her basket and pauses a moment in the
green shade. The ploughman leaves his plough and in long strides
approaches the life-renewing spot, while his team, that cannot follow,
look wistfully after him. Here the cattle love to pass the heat of the
day, anù hither come the birds to wash themselves and make their toilets.
Indeed, a spring is always an oasis in the desert of the fields. It is a
creative and generatiye centre. It attracts all things to itself-the
grasses, the mosses, the flowers, the wild plants, the great trees. The
walker finds it out. t.he camping party
eek it, the pioneer builds his
hut or his house Ilear it. ',hen the settler or squatter bas found a
good spring, he has found a gooa place to begin life; he Las found tIle
fountain-head of much tbat be is seeking in tbis world. The chances are
that he has found a southern and eastern exposure; for it is a fact tbat
water does not readily flow north; the valleys mostly open the other
way; and it is quite certain he has found a measure of salubrity: for
1861-88]
JuHX BURROUGHS.
455
where water floW's fever abideth not. The spring, too, keeps him to the
right belt, out of the low valley, and off the top of the hill.
\Vhen John '\Vintbrop decided upon the site where now stands the
city of Boston. as a proper place for a settlement, he was chiefly attracted
by a large and excellent spring of water that flowed there. The infant
city was born of this fountain.
There seems a kind of perpetual spring-time about tbe place w bere
water issues from the ground-a freshness and a greenness tbat are ever
reneweù. The grass neyer fades. the ground is never parched or frozen.
There is warmth there in winter and coolnes
in summer. The temper-
attue is equalized. In :March or April the spring runs are a bright
emerald while the surrounding fields are yet brown and sere, anfl in
fall they are yet green when the first snow cmrers them. Thus every
fountain by the road-side is a fountain of youth and of life. This is
what the old fables finally mean.
An intermittent spring i
shallow; it has no deep root and is like
an inconstant friend. But a perennial spring, one whose ways are
appointed, whose foundation is established. what a profound and beau-
tiful symbol! In fact, there is no more large and universal symbol in
nature than the spring, if there is any other capable of such wiòe and
various applications.
I recentl.\" went many mileB out of my way to see the famous trout-
spring in \,arren County, Sew Jersey. This spring flows about one
thousand gallons of water per minute, which has a uniform temperature
of fifty de
rees winter and summer. It is near the
Iusconetcong Creek,
which looks as if it were made up of similar springs. On the parched
and sultry RUmmel' day upon which my visit fell, it was well worth
walking many miles just to see such a volume of water issue from the
ground. I felt with the boy Petrarch, when he first beheld a famous
spring, that" \Vere I master of such a fountain I would prefer it to the
finest of cities." A lar
e oak leans down over the spring and affonls an
abundance of shaJe. The water does not bubble up, but comes straight
out with great speeù like a courier with important ne,,'s, and as if its
course undergrouncl had been a direct and an easy one for a lon
dis-
tance. Springs that i
suc in this way have a sort of vertebra, a ridgy
and spine-like centre that suggests the gripe and push there is in this
element.
\Vhat would one not give for such a spring in his back-yard or front-
yard, or anywhere near his house, or in any of his fields? One would
be tempted to move his house to it, if the spring could not be brought
to the house. Its mere poetic val ue and sngt!estion would be worth all
the art and ornament to be had. It would irrigate one's heart and char-
acter as well as his acres. Then one might have a Naiad Queen" to do
456
JOHJ.Y BCRROr;GHS.
[1861-88
his churning and to saw his woo(1; then one migbt "see his chore done
by the gods themselves," as Emerson says, or by the nymphs, whicb is
just as well.
I know a homestead situated on one of tbe picturesque branch val-
leys of the Housatonic, that has such a spring flowing by the foundation
walls of the honse, and not a little of tbe strong overmastering local
attacbment that holds the owner there is born of that-his native spring.
He coulù not, if he would, break from it. He Rayg that when he looks
down into it he has a feeling that he is an amphibious animal that has
somehow got stranded. A long, gentle flight of stone steps leads from
the hack porch down to it umler the branches of a lofty elm. It wells
up through tbe white sand and gravel as through a sie'
e, anù fills the
broad space that has been arranged for it so gently and imperceptibly
that one does not suspect its copiousness until he has seen the overflow.
It turns no wheel, yet it lends a pliuut hand to many of the affairs of
that household. It is a refrigerator in summer and a frost-proof enve-
lope in winter, and a fountain of delights the year round. Trout come
up from the'Veebutook River and d"vell there and become Jomesti-
cated, aud take lumps of butter from your hand, or rake the ends of
your :fingers if you tempt them. It is a kind of sparkling and ever-
washed larder. '\There are tbe berries"? where is the butter, the milk,
the steak, the melon? In the spring. It preserves, it ventilates, it
cleanses. It is a board of health and general purveyor. It is equally
for use and for pleasure. Nothing degrades it, and nothing can enhance
its beauty. It is picture and parable, and an instrument of lllusic. It
is senTant and divinity in one. r.!'he- milk of forty cows is coole(l in
it, and never a (lrop gets into the cans, though they are plunged to the
brim. It is as insensible to drought and rain as to heat and cold. It is
planted upon the sand and yet it ahicleth like a house upon a rock. It
evidentlJ- has some relation to a little brook that flows down through a
deep notch in tbe hills half a mile distant, because on one occasion, when
the brook was being ditched or dammed, the spring showed great per-
turbation. Every nymph in it was :filled with sudden alarm and kicked
up a commotion.
In some sections of the country, when there is no spring near the
honse, the farmer, with much labor and pains, brings one from some
uplying field or wood. Pine and poplar logs are borer! anù laid in a
trench, and the spring practically moved to t.he desired spot. The
ancient Persians had a law, that whoeyer thus conveyed the water of a
spring to a spot not watered before sbould enjoy many immunities
under the state not granted to others.
Hilly and mountainous countries do not always abound in good
spnngs. When the stratum is vertical or has too great a dip, the water
1861-88]
JOH
Y BURRO'CGHS.
1157
is not collected in large veins, but is rather beld as it falls and oozes out
slowly at the surface over the top of the rock. On tbis account one of
the most famous grass and dairy sections of X ew York is poorly sup-
plied with springs. Ever." creek starts in a bog or marsh, and good
water can be had only by excavating.
'Vhat a charm lurks about those springs that are found near the tops
of mountains, so small that they get lost amid the rocks and débris and
ne\rer reach the \-alley, and 80 cold that they make the throat ache!
Every hunter and mountain-climber can tell you of such-usually on
the last ri
e before the summit is cleared. It is eminently the hunter's
spring. I do not know \yhether or not the foxes and other wild crea-
tures lap at it, but their pursuers are quite apt to pause there and take
breath or eat their lunch. The muuntain-climbers in summer hail {t
with a shout It is always a surprise, and raises the spirits of the
dullest. Then it seems to be born of wildness and remotene
s, and to
savor of some special benefit or good fortune. A spring in the valley
is an idyl, but a spring on the mountain is a genuine l
-rical touch.
It imparts a mild thriU; and if one were to calJ any springs" miracles,"
as the natives of Cashmere are said to re
arcl their fountains, it would
be
uch as these.
'Yhat secret attraction draws one in hi:::, summer walk to touch at all
the springs on his route, and to pause a moment at each, as if what he
was in quest of would be likely to turn up there? I can seldom pass a
f'pring without doing homage to it. It is the shrine at which I oftenest
worship. If I find one fouled with leaves or trodden full by cattle, I
take as much pleasure in cleaning it out as a de\'otee in setting up the
broken image of his Saint. Though I chance not to waut to drink
there, I like to behold a clear fountain, and I may want to drink next
time I pass, or some traveller, or heifer, or milch-cow may. Leaves have
a strange fatality for the spring. They come from afar to get into it.
In a grove or in the woods they drift into it and cover it up like snow.
Late in Kovember, in clearing one out, I brought forth a frog from his
hibernac1e in the leaves at the bottom. Be was very black and he
rushed about in a bewildered manner like one suddenly aroused from
his sleep.
There is no place more suitable for statuary than about a spring or
fountain, especially in parks or improved fields. Here one seems to
expect to see figures and bending forms. .. 'V here a spring rises or a
river flows," says Seneca, '" there should we build altars and offer sac-
rifices. "
458
FORCEYTHE WILLSOl.Y.
[1861-88
1rOtccptlJ c ([líll
on.
BORN in Little Genesee, X Y., 1837. DIED at Alfred, N. Y., 1867.
I
STATE.
[The Old Sergeant, and Otlter Poems. 1867.]
1.
O KEEPER of the Sacred Key,
And the Great Seal of Destiny,
Whose eye is the blue canopy,
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.
"Lo. through the wintry atmosphere,
On the white bosom of the sphere,
A cluster of :five lakes appear;
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheeted bier.
" And on that vast and hollow :field,
.With both lips closed and both eyes seeled,
A mighty Figure is revealed,-
Stretched at fulllengtb, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow of a shield.
" The winds have ticd the drifted snow
Around the face and chin; and 10,
The sceptred Gian
come and go,
And shake their shadowy crowns and say: "Ve always feared it would be so ! '
" She came of an heroic race:
A giant's strength, a maidcn's grace,
Like two in one seem to embrace,
And match, and blend, and thorough-blen(l, in her colossal form and face.
".Where can her dazzling falchioll be?
One hand is fallen in the sea;
The Gulf-Stream drifts it far and free;
And in that hand her shining brand gleams from the depths resplendently.
" And by the other, in its rest,
The starry banner of the \Vest
Is clasped forever to her hreast;
And of her silver helmet, 10, a soaring cagle is the crest.
" And on her brow, a softened light,
As of a star concealed from sight
By some thin veil of fleecy white,-
Or of the rising moon behind the rainy vapors of the night.
18Gl-88]
FORGEYTHE WILL60,N.
459
"The Sisterhood that was so sweet,
The Starry System sphered complete,
'Which the mazed Orient used to greet,
The Four and Thirty fallen Stars glimmer and glitter at her feet.
" And over her,-and over all,
For panoply and coronal,-
The mighty Immemorial,
And evel'lasting Canopy and starry Arch and Shield of All."
II.
"Three cold, bright moons h:we marched and wheeled;
And the white cerement that revealed
A Figure stretched upon a Shielll,
Is turned to verdure; and the Land is now one mighty Battle-Field.
'And 10, the children which she bred,
\.nd more than all else cherishèd,
To make them true in heart and head,
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords crossed aboye the dead.
"Each hath a mighty stroke and stride:
One true-the more that he is tried;
The other dark and edl-eyed;-
And by the hand of one of them, his own dear mother surely died!
"A stealthy step-a gleam of hell,-
It is the simple truth to tell,-
The Son stabbed and the Mother fell:
And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and irreproachable!
" And then the battle-trumpet blew
And the true brother sprang and drew
lIis blade to smite the traitor through;
And so they clashed above the bier, and the Night sweated bloody dew.
".\.nd all their children, far anù wide,
That are so greatly multiplied,
Rise up in frenzy and dh-ide;
And choosing, each whom he will serve, unsheathe the sword and take their side.
" And in the low sun's bloodshot rays,
Portentous of the coming days,
The Two great Oceans blush and blaze,
.With the emergent continent between them, wrapped in crimson ha7e.
"Now whichsoever stand or faU,
As God is great and man is small,
The Truth shall triumph oypr all,-
Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over ull!"
460
FUROEYTIIE WILLSO_Y.
[1861-88
III.
"I see the champion sword-strokes flash;
I see them full and hear them clash;
I hear the murderous engines cra
h;
I see a. brother stoop to loose a foemfiu-brother's bloody sash.
"I see the torn and mangled corse,
The dead and dying heapeù in scores,
The headless rider by his horse,
The wounded captive bayonete(l through anù through without remorse.
"I hear the dyin
' sufferer cry,
With hi,; crushed face turned to the sky,
I see him crawl in agony
To the foul pool. and bow his head into its bloody slime and die.
" I see the assassin cronch and :fire,
I see his victim fall-expire;
I see the munlerer creeping nigher
To strip the dead: He turns the head: The face! The sou beholds his sire!
" I hear the cnrses nnd the thanks;
I see the mad charg-e on the flanks,
The rents-the gaps-the hroken ranks,-
The vanquished squadrons driven headlong down the river's bridgeless banks.
" I see the death-gripe on the plain,
The grappling mons ers on the main,
The tens of thousanùs that are slain,
And all the speechless suffering :md agouy of heart and brain.
"I see the dark IUHl bloody spots,
The crowded rooms and crow(led cots,
The bleaching bones, the battle-hlots,-
Anù writ on many a nameless grave, a legend of forget-me-nots.
"I see the gorgè(l prison-den,
The dead-line and the pent-up pen,
The thousands quartered in the fen,
The living dea.ths of skin and hone that were the goodly shapes of men.
" And still the bloody Dew must fall!
And His great Darkness with the Pall
Of His dread Judgment COver all.
Till the Dead Nation rise Transformed by Truth to triumph over all!"
"AND LAST-AND LAST I SEE-THE DEED."
1861-88]
SAJIUEL GREE
YE WHEELER BENJAJII,N.
461
mm Thus saith the Keeper of the Key,
And the Great Seal of De
tiny,
'Vhose Eye i:5 the IJlue canopy,
And leaves the Pall of His great Darkness over all the Land and Sea.
ant1tcl Cf5fCC1tC Eêlbeclc
13cnjantín.
BORN in Argos, Greece, 1837.
THE SOL"RCE AND THE ADI OF ART.
[What is Art ?-Essex Institute Lect-ure. 1877.]
Y OU observe, doubt1ess, that we are proceeding on tbe assumption
that there is a moral or subjective element in art, otherwise called
the good and the true-a theory which French artists and critics of the
last twenty-five years generally deny both in theory and practice, contin-
ing themselves to the physically beautiful as the all-sufficient end of the
highest art. That is one reason why contemporary French art. setting
aside its tecbnical excel1ences, is not now and never can be, as now con-
ducted, the highest art, wbile tbe Germanic races, acknowledging tbe
moral element in art, lIave a better chance of reaching the quality of tbe
pictorial art of the Renaissan0e. But while artist
are undoubtedly the
interpreters of the emotions and aspirations of an age, or of mankind,
and are responsible for what they say, no le::,s t
an other men, they are
at the same time unconsciollsly the interpreter;"') of these emotions 'which
they share with their fellow-men. A poet who writes with a set purpose
to introduce a ne\,,{ style or revolutionize thought, and not because an
irresistible impulse impels bim, is by so much less a puet; and the same
holds good in the case of the artist.
In artists of the first rank the balance of the powers is such that in
their works we see approximately expressed the fundamental principle
that the gooù, the true, and the beautiful are the founùations on which
art is based. :Minor artists show their inff'riority by inclining mucb
more strongly to one than to the other, as well as hy laying
Teat Rtress
on certain phases of art which are of a tcmporary character, resulting
from conventional ahn
e of the principles of art, as when the pre-
Raphaelites, in their C'a!'nest quest after th(' true in art to succeed the
cl>11,'ent-ionalisms of the eighteenth century, di
I'e
ardell the lilI1itations
which the practice of art imposes on itf' followers, and undertook to
repre
ent every detail they saw in nature on canvas, practically if!nor-
ing thereby the ideal in art, and demonstrating the feeblene
s of the
462
SAJIUEL GREE
7E WIIEELER BEXJA,JIIN.
[1861-88
materials at our disposal when we place ourselves face to face with
Nature. The contemporary French school also shows that, noble as it
is in many respects and worthy our respectful attention, it is yet not
equal as a whole to that of the Renaissance in Italy or Spain, for it pro-
ceeds on the theory that the beautiful alone is the origin and the end
of all art; thus, while recognizing the ideal rather more than the pre-
Raphaelite school, it is lacking in another direction, and so far holds a
proportionately lower rank.
If the good, the true, and the beautiful are the source of the highest
art, the ideal is in its turn the ultimate aim of art, and imparts to mere
inanimate stone anù mortar, cold marble, or opaque ochres and minerals
the power of yielding infinite pleasure to the intellectual and spiritual
element in man. To
uggest iùeas, to quicken the imagination, to touch
the secret spring which moves the emotions, and thus to please, to influ-
ence, to educate, and to elevate-this is the highest province of art. No
mere technical excellences can make up for the absence of the ideal in a
work of art: and its presence in a high degree in a statue or a painting
may cover a multitude of technical sins. In the exercise of the imagina-
tion man becomes a creator, and seems akin to the supreme Creator hi m-
self. In the words of Couture, "In art tbe ideal is everything. '\Vith
painters of an inferior order you may find surprising technical skill and
knowledge; but, lacking the iùeal and the moral element, their produc-
tions seem of but moderate value."
Let us not, hO\vever, be misunderstood upon this point. The first
requisite to good art mnst be and is
xcellence in its technical qualities,
as in good literature, grand as the ideas of the writer may be. if he have
not the power of succe
sfully expressing his thoughts, their influence
upon others must amount to little or nothing. So the idealist or moral-
ist who employs art forms to convey his thoughts must have a practical
knowledge of the methods of art expression, even more than in the field
of letters. _\.. man may be a good colorist and ,yet a poor idealist, a good
copyist from nature but weak in other respects, but he is, notwithstand-
ing, entitled to be considered an artist to a certain degree. But, granting
this fact, it still remains true that he who to technical excellence adds
high ideal qualities is neces;:;arily the greater artist.
1861-88] JEANNETTE RITCHIE HADERJIAJ.Yl't
W AL WORTH. 463
jcanncttc 1aítcl)íe
atJcrntann iliUal\\1ortIJ.
BOR
in Philadelphia, Penn., 1837.
UNCLE LIGE.
[Southern Silhouettes. 1887.]
THE date of U nele Lige's birth is lost in the fogs of remote ages.
Even tbe exigent questioning of the census-taker has never ex-
tracted anything more definite from him than that he "was here w'en
de stars fell." This system of chronology is simple and original. The
earlier events of his life all occurred either before or after the year the
stars fell; later ones, before or after General Jackson died. Whosoever
insists upon greater accuracy on Uncle Lige's part is set down by him
as being" onreasonable an' exactin'." His stock of superstitions is large
and indestructible, and as long as he remains the autocrat he is on the
Caruthers place, no cattle will ever be branded on the wane of the moon,
or any potatoes be planted on its increase, and Friday will never witness
the beginning of an undertaking.
U nele Lige's immediate connection with the white family dates from
the day of his accidental promotion from the position of head teamster
on the plantation to that of family coachman, the most dignified po::Útion
attainable by anybody in his sphere of life. He never wearies of df'tail-
ing the circumstances of his promotion, and his sense of morality is
nowise shocked that his own rise was in consequence of a fellow-mortaI's
fall. If any casuist draws his attention to this point. Uncle Lige dis-
misses it with an airy aeclaration that "ev'y tub mus' stan' on its
own bott'm." The story of his transplanting from the quarters to be
"yard folks" he tells with a chuckling prelude that never failed to
arouse ., French John" (his supplanted ri val) to the hi
'hest pitch of
frenzy.
"Hït all hap'n befo' Genul Jacksin die. It was 'bout de time dat
Mars' John 'clude it wor'n' good fur man l' be 'lone, en 'elude to "bey de
Scripture 'juncsblln, en' go down de coas' to fetch him up a wife. But
befo' he wen' he sot be's house in order, so to speak. He'd ben livin' to
heseff in de log cabin his pa put up w'en he fus' cl'ared de place, but no
wife er his'n wor'n gwine to be put down in dat little low-roof log-house
'hind de cotton-wood trees; so Mars' John. he sends all de way to Cin-
cinnater fur de framework uv dis Lig house, en Rech a sawin' en ham-
merin', en garrlenin', en puttin' up uv hen-houses, en la,vin' down of brick
walks, en pickin' out of ,Yard folks from de fieI' han's! But Lige wor'n
'mongst 'em, no, sirs. Lige bed to stan' off en' look at h'it all wid his
46-1 JEANNETTE RITCHIE HADER
lLtNN TV AL WORTH. [lS61-bS
finger in he's mouf. Den de crownin' glory come, in a new kerridge en'
p'ar from Orleens. lain' gwine ten no lie 'bout it, dis nigger's fingers
did fa'rly itch t' git ho1' uv dem spankin' bob-tail mar's. But
fars'
John didn' have no use for a fiat-nose, pock-mark, squatty nigger lak
me, den. I '\YUZ good "nough to drive he's mule team t' de landin', arter
a load er freight. or t' haul his cott'n crop t' town, but not t' set up on
dat kerridge-box en dri,-e he's wife. No, sirs. He (lone bought a driver
same time he bought de kerridge en' de mar's. A gemmun ob color he
WlIZ, he wor'n' no nigger. A black monkey I called him, wi' his ha'r
smellin' of grease, en his dandy ways, en all dat. En' I larfe tu myself
to think er dat boy tr,,-in' to manage dem skittish bob-taib, as day prance
oyer de bridges and crost Lle bayers en froo dese woods er ourn. 'V ell,
sirs, de clay clone come w'en
Iars' John was t' git home wid be's new
wife. French John had he's orders to be at de landin' wid de horses en
kerridge, en' I hed mine to be cIaI' wiù de mule-team to fotcll out de
baggidge. 'Yell, sirs, we wuz dar, (Trench John wid de new kerridge
en me wid de fo'-mule wagin. I tuk Sam Baker 'long t' llelp wid de'
tl'unks. De boat was late. Boats mos' generally is late w'en you's
waitin' fur 'em.
h'. Creole Nigger he strut 'bout dar showin' off in
fars' John's las' winter overcoat en a ne\y hat, a Cl'ackin' uv his bran'
new kerridge whip lak Fofe uv July firecrackers at fus', but come pres-
en'ly, I sees
Ir. Creo' slippin' crost de levee to :Mack 'Villiams's sto'.
I sez to rnyseff, go it, nigger; ef you knowed es much 'bout :Mack 'Vil-
Iiams's whiskey as dis nigger does, you'd be mighty shy of tf-'chin' it w'en
-ou got t' dri,-e wÏte folks home in de dark wid de mud 'bout axle deep.
But it wor'n none er my lookout. I wor'n' put dar t' keep French John
straight, and I allers were principled 'gainst meddlin' wid w'at wor'n none
er my bizine
s. ')Iy hrudderl' En I should a ben he's keeper! No,
sirs; French John wor'n' none er my brn(lder. I didn' come from no
see h stock, I tell :you. "ell, de long en de short of it wuz, de boat
done come finally, en I see :Mars' John a steppin' crost de gang-plank
wid he's head bigh up in de a'r, en a hangin' to he's arm de purties' sort
uv a lady (I tell yon 01' :Miss were a f'tunner in her young day
" en'
French John, yere he come, jus' a cavortin' cro
t de levep mekin' clem
skittish mar's jump ev'y foot uv de way t' ùe chune of clat Cl'ackin' whip.
)lars' John he gin Ïm one black look, den he call out, sorter loud like,
, Is Lige Rankin here?' Lige were thaI' sho'e
you is ho'n; en' he say,
'Git up on dat box en tak dem reins.' Lige didn' need no
econ' axin'.
I was dar, en' I hed dem reins in my hands fo' :Mr. Creo' knew wa't hu't
llim. French John he went home layin' in a Leap on top a bale er
bag
in' in de fo' mule wagin. En Lige Rankin, we]], he done hol' dem
reins frum dat day to dis. But w'at de use er goin' so fur back? All
dat happin' fo' Genul Jacksin die."
1861-88] JEANNETTE RITCHIE HADERMA...YN TrAL TVORl'Il, 465
The carriage that brought the bride home on that memorable occasion
is a wreck and a relic now. It has stooJ motionless in one corner of
the carriage-house while the dust of years accumulated on its cracked
and wrinkled curtains. It is the favorite retreat of an ancient Dominick
hen, who la} s her eggs under the back seat and broods over them peri-
odically in peaceful immunity from fresh-egg fiends; but it is a sacred
relic in U nele Lige.s estimation, and no vehicle will ever be just the
same to him. The bride he brought home in triumph then sits in the
easiest chair in the warmest nook by tbe fireside in winter, or the shadi-
est spot on the galIery in the
ummer, and the young men and maidens
of the household do reverence to her years anù her virtues. To U nde
Lige she is something only a little lower than the angels, for to her
gentle sway be owes the many additional accomplishments that became
his after he was enrolIed among the yard-folks.
01' :Miss was the making of him, he candidly admits. As the Caru-
thers place, with its isolation from its neighbors and its environment
of mud, did not offer temptations for the idle luxury of a daily drive, the
carriage and horses were kept as conveyances, anù in the long intervals
of their appearance at the front door, up to which Uncle Lige delighted
in driving with as broad a sweep as the fmnt yard would permit of;.
hig duties apart from dri vi ng were well deßnecl and numerous. The-
large garden, where vegetables and flowers flourished amicably side by
side, was his to work by ùay am1 to guard by night. Set into one side
of the tall picket-fence was a tiny cabin of one room and a lean-to that
goes by the name of the gardener's house. '\Vithin, its wa1ls are bung
thick with bags of seed:::; of the watermelons, cantaloupes, lima beans,
and innumerable other esculents of his own preservation, for Uncle Lige
has slight faith in "sto' seed." The whitewasheù joists are gay with
strings of red pepper, garlands of okra pods, and the bright yellow bal-
sam apple, whose curative qualities when steeped in whiskey are sure
and far-fameù. Many a quart of whiskey finds its way into Uncle
Lige's locker, brought lJitbpr Ly the recipient of cut or burn or bruise,
who craves the ba!fmm of which Unele Lige always has good store in
exchange for the fiery liquid the old man craves. The shed in front of
the gardener's house is wreathed about with a rich climbing rose that
would grace a palace, but it is a thing of small acc01mt in the old man's
eyes. 01' Miss, in his estimation, wastes much good ground and time.
too, in tIle cultivation of Ler roseH, and jasmines, and violets, and lady
slippers, and dahlias, and tuberoses. It had much hetter be put in pin-
dar
or rutabagas; but, though neither the beauty nor the sweetness of
the flowers appcals to anx of his senses, it is her wish to have them, and
it would go Imrù with Lige before they should suffer neglect at his
hands. Seen by the moonlight, or yet more vaguely by the glimmer of
VOL. Ix.-30
4G6 JEANNETTE RITCIIIE HADERMAN
V WAL WORTH. [1861-88
the distant stars, the long spacious garden over which Uncle Lige reigns
;supreme is a peaceful and pretty object, with its neat squares of erect
-cabbages, bordered with bright-hued zinnia
. its feathery-toppeù carrot
bed, tipped at the edges with glowing gladioli, its green tangled masses
of watermelon vines. hiding not only the dark glossy fruit so dear to the
universal palate, but deadly spring-guns wbich Uncle Lige has placed
judiciously and so arranged by a system of telegraphic strings running
into bis cabin floor that tbe soundest sleep he is capable of falling" into
will be shattered at the first marauding footfall. None of the white
family lay any claim to the garden or its fruitage. It is emphatically
Uncle Lige's garden, and visitor
to the big house must always pay it
their meed of allmiration UlIIler his personal supervision. He is con-
scious that it stands unrivallerl in all the country-side, anù is not a\'erse
to being told so over and over again.
It was to Uncle Lige the boys came for instruction in rowing, and
riding, and gunning. It was he who taught them the rhythm of the
oars aml tbe dexterous art of "feathering " that sent the clear water of
the lake rippling away in fairy rings from the shining blades; it was he
who ., broke" their ponies for them and plodded patiently at their heads
until they grew ashamed of his protection; it was the prowess of his gun
that kept the family table supplied with ducks, anù snipe, and par-
tridges, and made the boys his eager pupils and his envious admirers.
But the day carne when the boys rode away from the big house, leaving
behind them their ponies, with other childish things; when the yellow
curls and the blue eyes of the child who tried in vain to inoculate him
with buds from the tree of knowledge, were seen less seldom in the
cabin in the garùen; for days of anxious watching and tumultuous
effort had come to the women of the land, who had sent away from them
all who were strong enough of heart and hand to do a patriot's part. It
was then that Uncle Lige's executive ability and loyal affection for his
" w'ite folks" had full and vigorous play.
"Take care of your mistress anù my daughter, old man," the master
bad said, wringing old Lige's hand, as he too, when the fight waxed
hotter and thicker, went off to the front. How proudly the old man's
heart swelled within him when the mistress, whom he regarded only as
a trifle lower than t.he anf!"els, turned to him for allvice at almost every
junctnre! How eagerly he spent himself that the comforts his" w'ite
folks" were accustomed to should not fail thezñ through an.y misman-
agement or neglect on his part! And when grim gunboats began to
sentinel the river, putting a period to aU communication with the master
and the boys, and grad uall}T drawing the cordon still closer, until the
necessities of life grew few and hard to procure, it was Uncle Lige, who,
loading a skiff with sweet-potatoes and pecans,. and paddling softly out
1861-88] JEANNETTE RITCHIE HADERMANN WALWORTH. 467
into the river, under cover of thick darkness, came back with a won-
drous supply of tea and coffee that his LL w'ite folks" consumed with a
guilty sensation of disloyalty, but with a relish born of a nauseous expe-
rience of burned okra coffee and sassafras tea.
Uncle Lige was never absent from the yard about the big house dur-
ing the entire period of his administration but once besides tllÏs; then it
was for four days and nights. It was a notable journey, and has been
embodied among bis reminiscent narratives. It was no desertion of the
post of duty; it was, on the contrary, the taking on of a graver respon-
sibility for the sake of the" young Miss" who ranked next in his affec-
tions to the master's wife, "01' Miss."
The blue eyes he had watched from the cradle were growing faded
from excessive weeping, the springing step be had found it hard to keep
pace with in brighter days was growing heavy and listless. ":Missy
was pinin'." He knew well what for. There l}ad gone away from her
onc even dearer than father or brother. Lige knew of the rumors that
haù floated to the big house concerning him. lie was sick. He was in
hospital at Vicksburg. The old man conceived an heroic resolve. Per-
haps be could get him home. Then the light would come back to his
"dear chile's" eyes and the elasticity to her step. It was bard to go
away without telling" 01'
Iiss," but if he should fail it would be worse
than ever. For a little while they must think what they would of him.
They did tbink unspeakable things of him. "Lige had gone over to
the enemy!" Who then could be relied on? There was no special
discomfort entailed by his disappearance. lie had seen to all that, and
a son of his own loins assumed his duties pro æm. But no one could
supply Lige's place. The mistress marvelled and moaned; the girl for
whose sake he was consenting to be cruelly mi
mnderstood for a little
while, waxed wordy in her indignation, and said in her baste he was a
traitor. How harshly all her hot words came back to bel' when one
evening, as she paceù the long gallery of the hig house, watching with
listless gaze the sun set in a blaze of purple and gold, wondering bitterly
in her sore heart why men must fight and women must weep, the wooden
latcb of the front gate was lifted by a quick hand, and tl]ere, coming up
the walk, leaning heavily on old Lige's arm, was the one of all others in
the wide world she most yearned to see! She was down the steps and
by his side in a seconù, wondering, laughing, crying, the light alrcad.v
back in her eyes and the buoyancy of her J.}Cart communicating itself to
her step.
"I fotch him, Missy," was all old Lige said at that moment, hut latcr
on he told tbem how he had travelled by night in his staunch and welI-
provisioned little skiff, lying by in wooded coves by day, eluding pur-
suit, laboring untiringly, encouraging the sick and heartsore boy, who lay
4G8
ARTHUR GILlfJAN.
[1861-88
in the boat on his heap of blankets j reaping his reward beforehand in the
reflection that he was carrying peace and joy back to his" dear cbile,"
and tbat "01' :Miss" herself would approve of his course of conduct.
But all that was since" Genul Jacksin" died, and although Lige's
days of active service are wel1nigh over, the cabin with the climbing
roses is still his own, and if he does not wield the shovel and the hoe as
vigorously in the garden beds it overlooks, nor drive the family carriage
with as lofty an assumption of dignity, his sway is just as autocratic and
his worth as highly rated as on the day when he supplanted French
J 0 h n.
gttgUt <!5íl1Uan.
BORN in Alton, Ill., 1837.
"THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID."
[The Story of the Saracens. 181;6.]
W E have now reached that brilliant period in the history of the
world when the heroes of romance were ruling at once-imperial
Charlemagne in the west and capricious Harun al Rashid in the east,
and we can scarcely turn the pages on which the record of the times is
written without expecting to see a paladin of the one start up before us,
or to have our ears ravished by the seductive voice of Queen Schehera-
zade tel1ing her romantic tales. The familiar picture of the period is
crowded witI1 jinns, efreets, and ghouls j minarets burnished with gold
shine from every quarter; gayly-lighted pleasure barges float on the
waters of the Tigris; deadly cimeters flash before our startled eyes j we
are introduced to caves in which thieves gorged with gold have hoarded
their ill-gotten wealth; we tread the streets of Bagdad by night in com-
pany with caliphs true and false; we hear the sound of a voice calling
upon us to exchange old lamps for new j we enter the gorgeous palace
of the four-and-twenty windows, and as we behold the unfinished one,
exclaim with the poet:
" Ah, who shall lift that wanel of magic power,
AmI the lost clew regain?
The unfinished window in AJaùùin's tower
Unfinished must remain. . . .
"So I wanùer and wander along,
Ann forever before me gleams
The shining city of song,
In the beautifullanù of dreams."
1861-88]
ARTHUR GILMAN.
469
It is a land of dreams to most of the worId, but it was far otherwise to
tbe citizens of Bagdad then. To them Harun was a flesh-and-blood
monarch; his cimeter was no phantasm of a dream; his caprices were
not the entertaining story of a fascinating Persian genius; the brilliant
Oriental imaf!ination had not yet wrought out its rich pages of advent-
ure and despotic marvels; the people of Bagdad did not smile at the
erratic deeds of their chief ruler: to them he was one whose words
made every subject tremble, le
t the fate of the Barmecides, perchance,
might be theirs; lest the whirling cimeter of the executioner should
cut through their own necks. The people who in tbat day were borne
"aùown the Tigris,"
" By Bagrlad's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens g-reen and old,"
who rested beneath the citron shadows, \dw saw
It The costly doors flung open wide,
Cold glittering through the lamplight dim,
And broidered sofas on each side,"
did not enjoy the charms of the scenes they were surrounded by so
much as we may now; for every step they took was dogged by fear-
fear that was based upon ghastly experience of the tyranny and peremp-
tory savagery of the" good" Harun al Rashid, of which poetry so gayly
speaks to us to-day.
The reign of this monarch, who raised the greatness of the calipbate
higher than it bad ever before been carried, was divided into two peri-
ods, during the :first of which the sovereign, giving himself up to the
enjoyment of luxurious ease, permitted his ministers, the sons of Bar-
mek, to send his armies hither and thither in search of conquests or in
efforts to put down risings against his power. This period closed in
803, aIllI the affairs of the caliph then fell into a state of confusion which
only grew worse after his death in 809.
The Barmecides were patrons of arts. letters, and science, and encour.
aget1 mpn of learnin
to make their homes at the capital; Harun sym-
pathized in this policy, and Bagdad became magnificent almost beyond
the power of words to express to reader
accustomed to the comparative
simplicity of nineteenth-century magnificence. In the progress of Bag-
dad the caliph's brother Ibrahim, a man of parts, who afterwards became
a claimant for supreme power, was a helper not to be left out of the
account. The chief vizier, who bore the burdens of state, as the title
signifies, was Yahya, son of Kn]ic1, son of Barmek; and he it was
who encouraged trade, regulated the internal administration of govern-
ment in every respect, fortified the frontiers, and mnde the provinces
])rosperous by making them safe. Jaafer, his son, governed Syria and
470
ARTHUR GILJfA,N.
[1861-88
Egypt, besides having other responsibilities. The family was an orna-
ment to the forehead and a crown on the head of tbe caliph, as the chron-
iclers relate; they were brilliant stars. vast oceans, impetuous torrents,
beneficent rains, the refuge of the afflicted, the comfort of the distre
sed,
and so generous are they represented that the story of their beneficence
reads like a veritable page from tbc Thousand and One Nights.
rrbe Alyites rose in Africa in 792, and the Barmecides put them
down; dissensions broke out at Damascus, at :Mosul, in Egypt, among
the Karejites, but they were restrained Ly the strong ministers, and all
the while the caliph pursued his career as patron of arts and letters; wits
and musicians thronged about him; grammarians and poets, jurists and
divines, alike were encouraged in their chosen punmits. In 802, a new
empemr came to the throne at Constantinople; Nicephorus usurped tbe
place of Irene. lIe courted Charlemagne on the west, and insulted
Harun on the east. He sent a letter to the caliph, saying:
U From Nicepborus, King of the Greeks, to Harun, King of the Arabs.
U The queen considered you as a rook and herself as a pawn; she sub-
mitted to pay tribute to JOu, though she ought to have exacted twice as
much from you. A man speaks to you now; therefore send back the
tribute you have received, otherwise the sword shall be umpire between
me and thee! "
To this haughty note Harun replied:
U In the name of Allah most merciful!
U Harnn al Rashid, Commander of tbe Faithful, to Nicephorus, the
Roman dog.
" I have read thy letter, 0 thou son of an unbelieving mother! Thou
shalt not hear but behold my reply! "
The caliph set forth that very day; he plundered, burned, and COID-
pletel.v conquered the region about Heraclea, in Bithynia. Nicephorus
sued for peace, which was granted him on condition that the usual trib-
ute should now be paid twice a year. Scarcely had the caliph reached
bis palace, when the treacherous emperor broke the treaty, and llarun
advanced upon him over the Taurus mountains in spite of the inclement
winter weatber, with an army of one hundred and twent,y-five thousand
men. I-leraclea and other fortre
scs were again taken, and tbis time dis-
mantled, and peace was once more agreed upon.
At about this period, Harun became jealous of his great ministers, the
Barmecides, one of whom had secretly married his sister, and decreed
their ruin. ""Ïth the usual Oriental treachery, the different members of
tbe family were taken and imprisoned for life or slaughtered, to the last
man. In this case, as in many others in the Saracen history, no senti-
ment of gratitude for all tbat had been accomplisbed by the faithful
servants was taken into account; though Harun is said to Lave shed
1861-88]
WHITELA lV REID.
4ïl
tears over the fate of the two children of his sister and Yahya, he did
not aHow such sentimental weakness to interfere with his atrocious pur-
pose. There had been enemies of the Barmecides at court, some of
whom bad lost tbeir offices on the ad vent of the favorites, alld these had
endeavored to prejudice the mind of the caliph against them. As Per-
sians they were naturally hated, and tbese enemies accused them of dis-
loyal ambition. 'Vhen they found themselves unaùle to carry their
point in tbis way, they accused the Barmecides, with more grounds, of
infidelity, and doubtless tlley were tbought nihilists by many, for they
had little sympathy with Islam. Harun was himself exceedingly ortho-
dox, and very scrupulous in obeying such of the laws of his religion as
he did not care to break, and though at the time he paid little attention
to this accusation, he found it convenient to remember when he had
determined to overtllrow his favorites.
'Vhen Harun was assured that his last moment had almost arrived, he
chose his shroud, ordered his grave prepared, and then superintended
the savage butchery of one of the captured revolters, causing his body
to be cut to pieces liwb by limb in his presence. Two days after this
ghastly performance, he died, breathing his last at the capital of Korassan
(A.D. 809). In accordance with an agreement to wl1Ïch he bad caused
his sons Amin and
ramun to swear within the sacred enclosures of the
Kaaba, on the occasion of the last of his many pilgrimages, Harun was
succeeded by his eldest son Amin.
&1l)ítcla\1.1 1l\eíb.
BOUN near Xenia, Ohio, ltið7.
SIIER
L\N, THE SOLDIER.
[Ohio in the War. 18ö8.]
pERHAPS the briefest expression of General Sherman's professional
cbaracter may be found in the reversal of a well.known apothegm
by Kinglake. He is too warlike to be military. Yet, like most appli-
cations of such sayings, this is only partially just. He is indeed warlike
by. nature, and his ardor often carries him beyond mere military rules-
sometimes to evil. as at Kenesaw, sometimes to great glory, as in the
march to the sea. Yet in many things he is devoted to the severeRt
military methods. In moving, supplying, and manæuvrinf! great armies
-undertakings in which rigid adherence to method is vital-he is with-
472
WHITELA W REID.
[1861-88
out a rival or an equal. In the whole branch of the logistics of war be
is the foremost general of the country, and worthy to be named beside
the foremost of the century.
As a strategist he has displayed inferior but still briI1iant powers. He
cannot here be ùeclared without a rival. He is indeed to be named
after one or two generals who have achie\red a much smal1er measure of
success. But the single campaign in which he was enabled to make a
worthy display of his stratf'g,y against a worthy antagonist will long be
studied as a happy exemplification of the art of war. In the campaigns
through Georgia and the Carolinas he was unworthily opposed, amI his
superiority of force was for the most part overwhelming j hut he still
carried the same skin into the management of his columns, anù drew an
impenetrable yeil of m)Tstery over his movements. His topographical
know ledge was wonùerful j and it is to be observed that he never seemed
burdened with the manifold details which he accumulated, but, rising
above them, took in their import with a coup d'æil as comprehensive as
it was minute.
In hiB plans there was often a happy mingling of audacity with sys-
tem j of defiance of military methods in the conception with a skilful
use of them in the execution. It was unmilitary. as he himself said, to
turn his back on Hood and set out for Savannah; but there was no
unmilitary looseness in the order of march or in the handling of the cav-
a11'y. It was audacious to project his army into the heart of Georgia,
along a thread of railroad that for hundreds of miles was vulnerable at
almost every point j but there was nu unmilitary audacity in the care
which established secondary depots along the route, or in the system
which pervaded the whole railroad management and made it a marvel
forever. Into all these details, too, he personal1y entered. lIe turned
from a study of Joseph E. Johnston's latest move to specify tbe kinds of
return-freight the railroad might eany j from the problem of what to do
with Atlanta after he got it, to the status of news-agents, and the issue
of a decree that the newspapers migbt be transported but not the news-
boys. Through such minute matters his wonderful energy carried him;
and when be turned to the larger problems before l1im, not one trace of
fatigue from the labor or confusion from the details blurred the clearness
of vision which he brought to the determination of Hood's purposes, or
to the estimate of the difficulties between him and Savannah.
There was unconscious egotism in his beginning a long letter to Grant
about his plans with the phrase: "I still have some thoughts in my
busy brain that should be confided to you." But it expressed the
embodied energy and force of the man. His brain was a busy one-
always seeking somethinf! new, always revolving a thousand chances
that might never occur, always roving over the whole field that he filled,
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1861-88J
WHITELA W REID.
473
and into many an obscure quarter bes
des. Physically and mentally he
was the most uniformly restless man in the army.
Out of this sprang many of those hasty opinions-dashed off on the
spur of the moment, and expressed with his usual looseness of lan
tuage
and habit of exaggerating for tbe sake of emphasis-to which. in their
literal meanings, it would be so hard to hold him. No man at the close
of the war was probably more opposed at heart to the policy of confisca-
tion: but, in tbe heat of an argument with the people of Huntsville, in
the first daTs of 1864, he declared himseH in favor of confiscation if the
war l-Ihould la
t another .rear. No man probably knew better than he
how hollow was the shell of the Confederacy, and how near its col1apse:
but in the heat of an argument with the Secretary of \Vat' against negro
recruiting he decl:ued, late in the autumn of 1864, that the war was but
fairly begun. No man was more committed to tbe theory of overwhelm-
ingly large annies, and for himself he demanded at least a hundred
thousand on starting for Atlanta; but, in arguing with IIal1eck against a
concentration with Grant, he declared that no general could handle more
tban sixty thousand men in battle.
He was liable, too, to amazing twists of logic in defence of positions to
wbich he had once committed himself. Before the Committee on the
Conduct of the \Var he swore to his knowledge that, if President Lincoln
had lived, he would have sanctioned the treaty with Johnston. Yet,
when he took this oath, he had seen 1\11'. Lincoln's despatch to Grant
peremptorily forbidding him to meddle in civil affairs. lIe considered
himself funy authorized by the President to undertake civil negotiations.
Yet, when he was asked to produce his authority, the most tangible thing
he could show was this: "I feel great interest in the subjects of your
despatch mentioning corn and sorghum, and contemplate a visit to
vou.-A. Lincoln." And the only feature in the despatch, to which this
cautious and non-committal reply was sent, that referred to civil nego-
tiations, was as follows: "Governor Brown has disbanded his militia to
gather the corn and sorghum of the State. I have reason to believe that
he and Stephens want to visit me, and I have sent them a hearty invita-
tion." Such, on the oath of General Sherman, was authority for making
peace with General Johnston and the rebel Secretary of \Va1', ,. from the
Potomac to the Rio Grande." Nay, it was even more. It was a ground
for tbe arraignment of the new administration because of tbe neglect to
explain its civil policy to bim. "It is not fair," he exclaimed, "to with-
hold plans and policy from me (if any there be) and expect me to guess
at them."
In his logical processes tbere was little stopping-place between abso-
lute disbelief or absolute conviction. By consequence he was apt to be
either vehemently right or vehemently wrong-in any event, vehement
474
WHITELA TV REID.
[1861-88
in an things. If he agreed with the Gm-ernment, wen. If he c1i
agreed
with it, the Government was wrong! That this dangerous quality did
not lead to irreparable mischief was due partly to fortunate circum-
stances, but largely also to that instinctive loyalty which led the con-
servative principal of the Louisiana Military Institute to abandon his
congenial position rather than" raise a lmnd against the Union of these
States."
He waf' as prompt to learn his mistakes as he was to deny tbat he had
made mi
takes. He learncd indeed with a rapidity that showed not only
the extent of his tlleoretical knowledge, but his remarkable natural
capacity for war. He made many mistakes after Pittsburg Landing, but
he rarely repeated old ones. 'Vith every campaign he learned and rose.
'Vhen Grant, turning eastward, left him the Valley of the
Iississippi
for his Department, he was equal to it. \Vhen, before Savannab, he
faced north, to bear his part in the colossal campaign that ended the
war, he was not indeed the safest, but beyond question the most brilliant
general in the army.
lore than Grant, more, perhaps, than any of the
less noted generals who might be named beside him, he had displayed
not merely military talent but military genius.
THE PURSUIT OF POLITICS.
[The Scholar 'in Politics. A C::nmencement Addl.esS. 1873.]
,-XTHA T I wish first of all to insist upon is the essential wortb,
V nobility, primacy indeed, of the liberal pur8uit of politics. It is
simply the highest, the most dignified, the most important of all earthly
objects of b uman study. Next to the relation of man to his .Maker, there
is nothin
so deserving his best attention as his relation to his fellow-
men. The welfare of the community is always more important tllan the
we]fare of any individual, or number of individuals; and the welfare of
the community is tbe highest object of the science of politics. The
course and current of men in masses-that is the mm:t exalted of human
studies, and that is the study of the politician, rro help individuals is
the business of the learned professions. To do the same for communi-
ties is the business of politics. To aid in developing a single career
may task tbe best efforts of the teacher. To shape the policy of the
nation, to fix the fate of generations-is this not as much higher as the
hcavens are high above the earth? .Make the actual politician as des-
picable as you may, bllt the business of politic
remains the highest of
human concerns.
1861-88]
WHl'l'ELA W REID.
475
'Yhat is the legitimate function of scholars in this business?
It is a notable tendency of the men of the highest and finest culture
everywhere to antagonize existing institutions. Exceptional influences
eliminated, the scholar is pretty sure to be opposed to the established.
The universities of German.v contain the deadliest foes to the absolute
authority of the Kaiser. The scholars of France prepared the way for
the first revolution, and were the most dangerous enemies of the im perial
adventurer who betrayed the second. Charm he never so wisely, he
could never charm the Latin Qnarter; make what contributions to lit-
erature he would, he could never gain the suffrage of the Academy.
'Vhile the prevailing parties in our own country were progressi,re and
radical, the temper of our col1eges was to the last degree conservati ve.
As our politics settled into the conservati ve tack, a fresh wind began
to blow about the college seats, and literary men at last furnished inspi-
ration for the splendid mo\-ement that swept slavery from the statute-
book, and made us a free nation.
., The worst legacy," sa.vs :Mr. Frouùe, as his conclusion of the whole
matter, " which princes or statesmen could bequeath to their country,
would be the resolution of an its perplexities, the e8tablishment once
and forever of a finished system, which would neither require nor toler-
ate improvement." 'Vhile the scholars of a land do their duty, no such
system will be created. 'Vise unrest will always be their chief trait.
We may set it down as, within certain needful and obvious limitations,
the very foremost function of the scholar in politics, To oppose the estab-
lished.
And the next is like unto it. Always, in a free government, we may
expect parties, in their normal state, to stand to each other somewhat in
the relation described by :Mr. Emerson as existing between the Demo-
cratic and 'Vhig parties, both now happily extinct. The one, he said,
had the best cause, the other the best men. Always we shall have,
under some new name, and with new watchwords, the old Conservative
party, dreading- change, gathering to itself the respectability of. experi-
ence and standing and success, having in its ranks most of the men
whom the countr,v has proved on the questions of yesterday, and there-
fore, by that halting, conservative logic which is so natural, on one side
so just, and yet so often delusive. prefers to trust on the wholly different
questions of to-day and to-morrow. ..A.lways. again, we shall have the
party of revolt from these philosophers of yesterdays-the party that
disputes the established, that demands change, that insiHts upon new
measures for new emergencies, that refuses to recognize the ru Ie of the
past as the necessary rule for them. It is the party that gathers to itself
all the restless, an the extravagant, all the crack-Lrained, all the men
with hobbies and missions and spheres. Here, too, as of old unto David,
476
WHITELA W REID.
[1861-88
gather themselves everyone that is in distress, everyone that is in debt,
everyone that is discontented. And so we have again, just as in the
old Democratic days, just as in the old Free-Soil days, just as in the old
Republican days, before Republicani::;m, too, in its turn became powerful
and conservative, the disreputable party of conglomerate material, repul-
si'T
appearance, and f:plemlid possibilities, the perpetual antagonist of
conservatism, the perpetual party of to-morrow. Need I say where it
seems to me tLe American scholar belongs? He bas too rarely been
found tLel'e as yet. Mr. Bright's Cave of Adullam has not seemed an
inviting retreat for the sLy, scholastic recluse, or for the well-nurtured
favorite of academic audiences. But
Ir. BrigLt anù our scholars have
alike forgotten their history. The disreputable Adullamites C:lme to
rule Israel! As for the scholar, the laws of his intellectual development
may be truste<l to fix his place. Free thought is necessarl1yaggressive
and critical The scholar, like the bealthy, red-blooded young man! is
an inherent, an organic, an inevitable radical. It is his business to
reverse the epigram of Emerson, and put the best men anù the best canse
together. And so we may set down, as a second function of the Ameri-
can scholar in politic::;, .An 'Ùltellectualleadership of the radicals.
No great continuous class can be always in the wrong; and even the
time-honored class of the croakers llave reason when they say that in our
politics the former times were better than these. 'Ye do not have so
many great men as formerly in public life. De Tocqueville explains the
undeniable fact-far more conspicuous now, indeed, than in his time-
by what he cal1s " the ever-increasing despotism of tbe l11ajority in the
United States." "This power of the majority," he continues, "is so
absolute and irresistible that one must give up his rights as a citizen,
and almost abjure his qualities as a man, if he intends to
ray from the
track which it prescribes." The declaratiun is extravagant, yet who that
has seen the ostracism of our best men for views wherein they were only
ill advance of their times, will doubt that the tyranny of party and the
intolerance of independent opinion among political associates consti-
tute at once one of the most alarming symptoms of our politics and
one of the evils of our societ.v to be most stren uously resisted 'I 'Ve
deify those who put wbat we think into fine phrases: we anathematize
those who, thinking the opposite, put it into equal1y fine phrases; and
we crucify those whom we have deified when they presume to disagree
with us.
No citizen can do a higher duty than to resist the majority when he
believes it wrong; to assert the right of individual judgment and main-
tain it; to cherish liberty of thought and speech and action against the
tyranny of his own or any party. Tin that tyranny, yearly growing
more burdensome, as tbe main oLject of an old party ùecomes more anù
.
1.861-88]
KATE NEELY FESTETITS.
477
more tbe retention or the regaining of power, instead of tbe success of
the fresh, vivid principles on which new parties are always organized-
till that tyranny is in some measure broken, we shall get few questions
considered on their merits, and fail, as we are failing, to bring the strong-
est men into the service of the State. Here, tben, is another task in our
politics, for which the scholar is peculiarly fitted by the liberality and
independence to which he has been trained; and we may set it down as
another of the functions whose discharge we have the Tight to expect at
his hands, To resist the tyranny of party and the intolerance of political opin-
ion, and to maintain actnal freedom as well as theoretical liberty of thought.
A great difference between the man of culture and the man without it,
is that the first knows the other side. A gre3.t curse of our present poli-
tics is that your heated partisan never elm's. He cannot understand bow
tbere should be any other side. It seelW; tu him disluyal to have any
other side. lie is always in doubt about the final salvation of tbe man
who takes the other side, and always sorry that thcre should be any
doubt about it. 'Ve bave good warrant to expect from the scholar a
freedom from prejudice, an open hospitality to new ideas, and an habit-
ual moderation of thought and feeling-in a word, what :Mr. vVhipple
has felicitously called a temper neit.her stupidly conservative nor malig-
nantly radical, that shall make it among the most valuable of his func-
tions to bring into our politic::; the element the
T now so sadly need:
Candid considerallon qf every quesllon on 'its
.ndt.vid aal men.ts ,. fairness to
antagonists and a willingness always to hear the othe,' side.
ltate J
cCl1?
c
tctít
.
BORN in 'Varrenton, Va., 1837.
CHRIST)[AS-'l'Il\IE.
THE happy Christmas-time (haws near;
Full are the hours of glad expectancy;
Dull cares and common for a while have flown,
And through the househol(l music creeps a tone
Of hushed and hiòden gle(';
For still the blessed joy-time of the year
Is sacred unto thoughts of all the heart holds dear
The children run ahout,
Trying vainly to keep out
The mischievous shining from their eyes
478
KA TE NEEL Y FEBTE1'ITS.
That might reveal the tale-
Full of some wonderful surprise,
'Vbich none must venture evcn to surmise
Till Christmas lifts the veil.
The spirit of loving industry,
Of happy secrets, find of merry mystery,
Fills all the housc, till every guarded room
'Vitb biclLlen flowcrs of love begins to bloom.
Even the little ones are busy too,
There is so much to do!
They fetch and carry, flutter here and there,
.With most important air,
And choose their longest stockings out,
'Yith never a thought of doubt,
The good Kriss Kringle's bounty to receive.
All things they hope, all things believe;
:May God keep whole
The sweet child-trust in each young, innocent soul!
The dear house-mother smiles,
And does not seem to see,
Herself entangled also in the wiles
Of Christmas mystery.
'Vith well-feigned sober mien,
And lip and brow serene,
Hel' cunningest devices she applies
To slip the scrutiny of eager eyes,
And hides away upon the closet-shelf
Parcels of shape find size
That could have only come from Santa Claus himself.
The busy hum pervades
Kitchen as well as hall,
And dainties hidden from the schoolboy's raids
Come forth in answer to the Christmas call.
Odors of spice and plum
From the far precincts come;
And sounds suggestive (now the eggs they beat,
Now chop the apples) tempt the little feet,
Brighten the laughing eyes,
And set small mouths a-watering
For Christmas cake and pies.
The hlessèd day draws nigh;
The ruddy lads comc in, their arms piled high
'Vith Christmas boughs of cedar, fir, and pine,
Red-berried holly and green ivy-vine.
The incense-like perfume
Hallows each happy room;
The house is beautiful with Christmas cheer:
It is the gay time of the year!
[1861-88
1861-88]
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
479
o Christ, who on this Christmas morn,
Long years ago,
1Vhile angcls sang the chime
For the first Christmas-time,
Of a poor maid wast Lorn,
And laid'st thy kingly head
Beneath thc humble shed
'Where sad-eyed oxen munch the bruisèd corn,
And milch-kine for their wean lings low,-
o Christ, be pitiful this day!
Let none un-Christmaseil go;
Let no poor wrctch in vain for help implore,
Let none from any door,
"Gmvarmcd, unfed,
No kind word said,
Helpless, be turned away.
For thine own sake, we pray!
atíllíant ;!Dean
o\tJellS5.
BOR
in )Iartin's Ferry, Belmont Co., Ohio, 1837.
VENETIAN VAGABONDS.
[Venetian Life. 1867. -FOll-rteenth Edition. 1888.]
T HE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can be a loafer, without the
admixture of ruffianism, which blemishes most loafers of northern
race. He may be quite worthless, and even impertinent, but he cannot
be a rowdy-that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed,
thick-blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with
other loiterers at the caffè j not with the natty people who talk politics
interminably over little cups of black coffee j not with those old habit-
ués, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the
tops of their sticks, and staring at the ladies who pass with a curious
Rteadfastne8s and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim
e,ves of age j certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasa-
gnone are the Germans, with their honest, beavy faces comically angli-
cized by leg-of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not
flourish in the best caffè j he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for
he is commonly not rich. It often happens tbat a glass of water, flavored
with a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a wbole evening.
lie knows the waiter intimately, anù ùoes not call him" Shop!" (Bot-
tlga) as less familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is
480
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
pretty sure to be named. "Behold! " he says, when the servant places
his modest drink before him, " who is that loveliest blonde there? " Or
to his feIIow-lasagnone: "She regards me! I haye broken bel' heart! "
This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasagnone-to break
ladies the heart. He spares no condition-neither rank nor wealth is
any defence against him. I often wonder what is in that note he con-
tinually shows to his friend. The confession of some broken heart, I
think. 'Yhen he has folded it and put it away, he chuckles, "Ah, caral"
and sucks at his long, slender, Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire
consumes cigars. I never see him read the papers-neither the Italian
papers nor the Parisian journals, though if he can get" Galignani" he
is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowledge of English, uttering upon
occasion, with great relish, such distinctively English words as " Yes"
and" Not," and to the waiter, "A-Jittle-fire-if-you-please." He sits very
late in the ca:ffè, and be touches his hat-his curly French hat--to the
company as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane helù lightly in his
left hand, his coat cut snugly to show his hips, and genteelly swaying
with the motion of his body. lIe is a dandy, of course-all Italians are
dandies-but his yanity is perfectly harmless, and his heart is not bad.
He would go half an hour out of his way to put you in the direction of
the Piazza. A little thing can make him happy-to Rtand in the pit
at tbe opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes-to attend the
)farionette, or the
falibran rrheatre, and imperil the peace of pretty
seamstresses and contadinas-to stand at the church doors and ogle the
fair saints as tbey pass out. Go, hacmles
lasagnone, to thy lodging in
some mysterious height, and break hearts if thou wilt. They are
quickly mended.
Of other vagabonds in Venice, if IlIad my choice, I think I must
select a certain ruffian who deals in dog-flesh, as the nearest my ideal of
what a vagabond should be in all respects. ne Ftands babitually under
the Old Procuratie, beside a basket of sma}] puppies in that snuffling and
quivering state which appears to he the favorite condition of very young
dogs, and occupies himself in conversation with an adjacent dealer in
grapes and peaches, or sometimes fastidiously engages in trimming the
hair upon the closely shaven bodies of the dogs; for in Venice it is the
ambition of every dog to look as much like the Lion of St. 1\Iark as the
nature of the case will permit. 1\1." vagabond at times makes expedi-
tions to the gronps of trave}]ers always seated in summer before the Ca:ffè
Florian, appearing at such times with a very small puppy-neatly poi
ed
upon the palm of his hand, amI winking pensively-which he advertises
to the company as a "beautiful beast," or a "lovely babe," according
to tbe inspiration of his light and plea
ant fancy. I think the latter
term is used generally as a means of ingratiation with tbe ladies, to
1861-88J
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
481
whom my vagabond always shows a demeanor of agreeable gal1antry.
I never saw him seJl any of these dogs, nor ever in the least cast down
by his failure to do so. His air is grave but not severe; there is even,
at times, a certain playfulness in his manner, possibly attributable to
sciampagnin. His curling black locks, together with his velveteen
jacket and pantaloons, are oiled and Y glossy, and his beard is cut in the
French-imperial mode. ilis personal presence is unwholesome, and it is
chiefly his moral perfection as a vagabond that makes him fascinating.
One is so confident, however, of his fitness for his position and business,
and of his entire contentment with it, that it is impossible not to exult
in him.
lie is not without self-respect. I douht, it would be hard to find any
Venetian of any vocation, however ba:::e, w lw forgets that he, too, is a
man and a brother. There is enough servility in the language-it is.
the fashion of the Italian tongue, with its Tn for inferiors, Voi for inti-
mates and frienùly equals, and Lei for superiors-but in the manner there-
is none, and there is a sense of equality in tbe ordinary intercourse of
the Venetians at once apparent to foreigners.
All ranks are orderly; the spirit of aggression seems not to exist
among them, and the very boys and dogs in Venice are so well behaved
that I have never seen the slightest disposition in them to quarrel. Of
course, it is of the street-boy-the bin.cchino, tbe boy in his natural, unre-
claimed state-that I speak. This state is here, in winter, marked by a
clouded countenance, bare head, tatters, and wooden-soled sLoes open at
the heels; in summer by a preternatural purity of person, by abandon
to the amphibious pleasure of leaping off the bridges into the canals, and
by an insatiable appetite for polenta, fried minnows. and watermelons.
When one of these boys takes to beggary, as a great many of them
do, out of a spirit of adventure and wish to pass the time, he carries out
the enterprise with splendid daring. A favorite artifice is to approach
Charity with a slice of polenta in one hand, and. with the othcJ' extended,
implore a soldo to huy cheese to eat with the polenta. The stn,pt-boys .
also often perform the duties of the gransÙri, who draw your !!,ondola to
shore, and keep it firm with a hook. To this orùer of beggar I usually
gave; but one day at the railway station I had no soldi, and as I did
not wish to render mL,y friend discontented with future alms by giving
silver, I deliLerately apolop:ized, praying him to excuse me, and promis-
ing him for another ti!lle. I cannot forget the lofty courtesy with which
he returned,-" S'accomodi pur, Signor!" They Lave sometimes a sense
of bumor, these poor swindlers, and can enjoy the exposure of their own
enormities. An amiable rogue drew our gondola to land one evening
when we went too late to see the church of San Giorgio ::\Iaggiore. The
sacristan maJe us free of a perfectly dark cllurch, and we rewarded him
VOL. IX.-31
482
WILLIAJI DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
as if it'had been noonda,v. On our return to the gondola, the s2l.me beg-
gar whom we had just feed held out his hat for another alms. "But we
bave just paid you," we cried in an agony of grief and desperation.
" Si, signori I" he aùmitted with an air of argument, "è vero. Jla, la
chiesa I" (Yes, gentlemen, it is true. But the church !) he added with
confidential insinuation, and a patronizing wave of the hanJ. toward the
edifice, as if he had been San Giorgio himself, and held the cL urch as a
source of revenue. This was too much. and we laughed him to scorn;
at which, beholding the amusing abomination of his conduct, he himself
joined in our laugh with a cheerfulness that won our hearts.
That exuberance of manner which one notes, the first thing, in his
intercourse with Venetians, characterizes all clasE;ps, hut is most exccs-
si ve and relishÌ!1g in the poor. There is a vast deal of ceremony with
every order, and one hardly knows what to do with the numbers of com-
pliments it is necessar,Y to respond to. A Yenetian does not come to see
you, he comes to revere YOll; he not only asks if you be well when he
meets you, but he bids you remain well at parting, and desires you to
salute for him all common friends; he reverences you at leave-taking;
be will sometimes consent to incommode you with a visit; he wil
relieve you of tbe disturhance when he rises to go. AU spontaneous
wishes, which must with us take original forms, for lack of the compli-
mentary phrase, are formally expressed by bim-good appetite to you,
when you go to dinner; much enjoyment, when you go to the theatre; a
pleasant walk, if you meet in promenade. He is your servant at meet-
ing and parLing; he begs to be comd;anded when he has misunderstood
you, But courtesy takes its highest flights, as I hinted, from the poor-
est company. Acquaintances of this sort, when not on the GÙl ciappa
footing, or that of the familiar thee and thou, always address each other
in Lei (lorùship), or Elo, as the Venetians have it; anJ. their compliment-
making at encounter anfl separation is enJ.lef's: I salute you! Remain
well! :Master ! :Mistress! (Paron 1 parona I) bei ng repeated as long as
the polite persons are within hearinp-.
One da,Y, as we passed through the crowded l\Ierceria, an old Vene-
tian friend of mine, who trod upon the dress of a young person before
us, calle(l out, "&Ilsate, bellu {Iiovane I" (Parùon, beautiful girl!) She
was not so fair nor so young as I have seen women; but she balf turneù
her face with a forgiying smile, and seemed pleased with the accident
that had won her the amiable apology. The waiter of the caffè fre-
quented by the people says to the ladies for whom he places seats:
'" Take this place, beautiful blonùe" ; or, "Sit here, lovely brunette," as
it happens.
A Venetian who enters or leaves any place of public resort touches
his hat to the company, and one day at tbe restaurant some ladies, who
1861-88]
WILLIA.JI DEAN HO WELLS.
483
had been dining there, said" Complirnent'i 1 77 on going out, with a grace
that went near to make the beefsteak tender. It is this uncostly gentle-
ness of bearing which gives a winning impression of the whole people,
whatever se]fishness or real discourtesy lie beneath it. At home it some-
times seems that we are in such haste to live and be done with it, we
have no time to be polite. Or is popular politeness merely a vice of
servile peoples? And is it altogether better to be rude? I wish it were
not. If you are lost in his city (and you are pretty sure to be lost there
continually), a Venetian will go with you wherever you wish. And he
will do this amiable little service out of what one may sa.v old civi1iz:l-
tion has established in place of goodness of heart, but which is perhaps
not so different from it.
You hear people in the streets bless each other in the most dramatic
fashion. I once caught these parti ng words between an old man and a
young girl:
Gi.ovanetla. Revered sir! (Patron 'riverito I)
Vecchio. (\Vith that peculiar backward wave and beneficent wag of
the hand only possible to Italians.) Blessed child! (Benedettal)
It was in a crowd, but no one turned round at the utterance of
terms which Anglo-Saxons would scarcely use in their most emotional
moments. The old gentleman who sells boxes for the theatre in the Old
Procuratie always gave me his benediction when I took a box.
There is equal exuberance of invective, and I have heard many fine
maledictions on the Venetian streets, but I recoJ]ect none more elaborate
than that of a gondolier who, after listening peacefully to a quarrel
between two other boatmen, suddenly took part against one of them,
and saluted him with,-" All! baptized son of a dog! And if I had
been present at thy baptism, I would have d3ßhed thy brains out against
the baptismal font! 77
All the theatrical forms of passion were visible in a scene I witnessed
in a little street near San Samuele, where I found the neighborhood
assembled at doors and windows in honor of a \Vordy battle between two
poor women. One of these had been forced in-doors by her prudent hus-
band, and the other upbraided her across the marital barrier. The
assailant was washing, and twenty times she left her tub to revile the
besieged, who thrust her long arms out over those of her husband, and
turned each reproach back upon her who uttered it, thus:
Assailant. Beast!
Besieged. Thou!
A. Fool!
B. Thou!
A. Liar!
B. Thou!
484
WILLIA.J.ll DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
E via in seguito I At last the assailant, beati ng her breast with both
hands, and tempestuously swaying her person back and forth, wreaked
her scorn in one wild outburst of vituperation, and returned finally to
her tub, wisely saying, on the purple verge of asphyxiation, " 0, non .
discorro più con genie."
I returned ha1f an hour later, and she was laughing and playing
sweetly with her babe.
It suits the passionate nature of the Italians to have incredible ado
about buying and selling, and a day's shopping is a sort of campaign,
from which the shopper returns plundered and discomfited, or laden with
the spoil of vanquished shopmen.
The embattled commercial transaction is conducted in this wise:
The shopper enters and prices a given article. The shopman names
a sum of which only the fervid imagination of the south could conceive
as corresponding to the value of the goods.
The purchaser instantly starts back with a wail of horror and indigna-
tion, and the shopman throws himself forward over the counter with a
protest that, far from being dear, the article is ruinously cheap at the
price stated, though they may nevertheless agree for something less.
'Vùat, then, is the very most ultimate price?
Properly, the very most ultimate price is so much. (Say, the smallest
trifle under the price first asked.)
The purchaser moves toward the door. He comes back, and offers one
third of the very most ultimate price.
The shopman, with a gentle desperation, declares tùat the thing cost
him as much. He cannot really take the offer. He regrets, but he can-
not. That the gentleman would sa,v something more 1 So much-for
example. That he regard the stuff, its quality, fashion, beauty.
The gentleman laughs him to scorn. Ah, heigh 1 and, coming for-
ward, he picks up the article and reviles it. Out of the mode, old, fra-
gile, ugly of its kind.
The shopman defends his wares. There is not such quantity and
quality elsewhere in Venice. But if the gentleman will give even so
much (still something preposterous), he may have it, though truly its
sale for that money is utter ruin.
The shopper walks straight to the door. The shopman calls him
back from the threshold, or sends bis boy to call him back from tbe
street.
Let him accommodate himself-whicb is to say, take the thing at bis
ow n prIce.
He takes it.
The shopman says cheerfull.v, " &rvo 8110 I"
The purchaser responds, "Bon dll Patron I " (Good day 1 my master I)
1861-88]
TfILLIAJf DEAN EO WELLS.
485
Thus, as I said, every bargain is a battle, and every purchase a tri-
umph or a defeat. The whole thing is understood; the opposing forces
know perfectly well all that is to be done beforehand, and retire after the
contest, like the captured knights in "
Iorgante ltIaggiore," "calm as oil II
-however furious and deadly their struggle may bave appeared to
strangers.
CLEL\lE
T.
[Poems. 1873.-Revised Edition. 1886.]
I.
THAT time of year, you know, when the summer, beginning to sadden,
Full-mooned and silver-misted, glides from the heart of September,
:Mourned by disconsolate crickets, and itemnt grasshoppers, crying
All the still nights long. from the ri peneel abuuâance of gardens j
Then, ere the boughs of the maples are mantled with earliest autumn,
But the wind of autumn breathes from the orchards at nightfall,
Full of winy perfume and mystical yearning and languor j
And in the noonday woods you hear the foraging squirrels,
And the long, crashing fall of the half-eaten nut from the tree-top;
When the robins are mute, and the yellow-birds, haunting the thistles,
Cheep, and twitter, and flit through the dusty lanes "and the loppings,
When the pheasant booms from your stealthy foot in the cornfield,
And the wild-pigeons feed, few and shy, in the scoke-berry bushes;
'Vhen the weary land lies hushed, like a seer in a vision,
And your life seems but the dream of a dream which you canllot remember,-
Broken, bewildering, vague, an echo that answers to nothing!
That time of year, you know. They stood by the gate in the mcadow,
Fronting the sinking- sun, and the level stream of its splendor
Crimsoned the mcadow-slope and woodland with tenderest snnset,
:Made her beautiful face like the luminous face of an angel,
Smote through the paillèd gloom of his heart like a hurt to the sense, there.
Languidly dnng about hy the half-falleu shawl, and with folded
Hands, that held a few sad asters: "I sigh for this i(lyl
l..ived at last to an end; and, looking on to my prose-life,"
'Vith a smile, she said, and a subtle derision of manner,
"Better aIllI better I seem, when I recollect all that has happened
Since I came here in June: the walks we have taken together
Through these darling meadows, and dear, old, desolate woocllands;
All our afternoon readings, and fill our strolls through the moonlit
Village,-so sweetly asleep, one scarcely could credit the scanelnl,
Heartache, and trouhle, and spite, that were hushed for the night, in its silence.
Yes, I am better. I think T couhl even be civil to 7lÍm for his kindness,
Letting me come here without him. . . . But open the gate, Cousin Clement;
Seems to me it grows chill, and I think it is healthier in-doors.
-No, then! you neeJ not speak, for I know well enough what is coming:
486
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
Bitter taunts for the past, and discouraging vie,,'s of the future?
Tragedy, Cousin Clement, or comedy,-just as you like it;-
Only not here alone, but somewhere that people can see you.
Then I'll take part in the play, and appear tIll' remorseful young person
Full of divine regrets at not having smothered a genius
Under the feathers and silks of a foolish, extravagant woman.
o you selfish boy! what was it, just now, about anguish
Bills would be your talk, Cousin Clement, if you were my husband."
Then, with her summer-night glory of eyes low-bending upon him,
Dark'ning his thoughts as the pondered stars bewilder and darken,
Tenderly, wistfully drooping toward him, she faltered in whisper,-
AU her mocking face transfigured,-with mournful effusion:
"Clement, do not think it is you alone that remember,-
Do not think it is you alone that have suffered. Amhition,
Fame, and your art,-you have aU these things to console you.
I-what have I in this world? Since my child is dcad-a bereavement."
Sad hung her eyes on his, and he felt all the anger within him
Broken, and melting in tears. Rut he shrank from her touch while he answered
(Awkwardly, being a man, and awkwardly, heing a lover),
" Yes, you know how it is done. You have cleverly fooled me beforetime,
With a dainty scorn, and then an imploring forgiveness!
Yes, you might play it, I think,-that rôle of remorseful young person,
That, or the old man's darling, or anything else you attempted.
Even your earnest is so much like acting I fear a betrayal,
Trusting your speech. You say that you have not forgotten. I grant you-
Not, indeed, for your word-that is light-but I wish to believe you.
Well, I say. since you have not forgotten, forget now, foreved
I-I have lived and loved, and you have lived and have married.
Only receive this bud to rememher me "tlen we have parted,-
Thorns and splendor, no sweetness, rose of the love that I cherished! "
There he tore from its stalk the imperial flower of the thistle,
Tore, and gave to her, who took it with mockiug obeisance,
Twined it in her hair, and said, with her subtle derision:
" You are a wiser man than I thought you coulcl ever he, Clement,-
Sensible, almost. So! I'll try to forget and remember."
Lightly she took his arm, but on through the lane to the farm-house,
Mutely together they moved through the lonesome, odorous twilight.
II.
High on the farm-house hearth, the first autumn fire was kindled;
Scintillant hickory bark and dryest limos of the beach-tree
Burned, where all summer long the boughs of asparagus flouriEhed.
'''ïld were the children with mirth, anò grouping and clinging together,
Danced with the dancing flame, and lithely swayed 'with its humor;
Ran to the window-panes, and peering forth into the darkness,
Saw there another room, flame-lit, and with frolicking children.
(Ah! by such phantom hearths, I think that we sit with our first-loves!)
Sometimes they tossed on the floor, find sometimes they hid in the corners,
Shouting and laughing aloud, anel never resting a moment,
In the l'Ude delight, the boisterous gladness of childhood,-
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1861-88]
WILLLL1I DEA..N no WELLS.
481
Cruel as summer sun and singing-birds to the heartsick.
Clement sat in his chair unmoved in the midst of the hubbub,
Rapt, with unseeing eyes; and unafraid in their gamhols,
By his tawny beard the chil(1ren caught him, and clambered
Over his knees, and waged a mimic warfare across them,
l\Iade him their battle-ground, and won and lost kingdoms upon him.
Airily to and fro, and out of one room to another
Passed his cousin, and busied herself with things of the househohl.
:Xonchalant, dehonair, blithe, with hewitching housewifely importance,
Laying the cloth for the supper, and bringing the meal from the kitchen;
Fairer than ever she seemed, and more than ever she mocked him,
Coming behind his chair, and clasping her fingers together
O'"er his eyes in a girli:"h caprice, and crying, .. Who is it ? "
Vexed his despair with a vision of wife and of home and of children,
Calling his sister's children around her, and stilling their clamor,
Making believe they were hers. And Clement sat moody and silent,
Blank to the wistful gaze of his mother },('nt on his visage
'Vith the tender pain, the pitiful, helpless devotion
Of the mother that looks on the face of her son in his trouble,
Grown beyond her consoling, and knows that she cannot befriend him.
Then his cousin laughed, and in idleness talked with the children;
Sometimes she turned to him, and then when the thistle was falling,
Caught it and twined it again in her hair, and called it her keepsake,
Smiled, and made him ashamed of his petulant gift there, before them.
But, when the night was grown -old and the two lIy the hearthstone together
Sat alone in the flickering red of the flame, and the cricket
Carked to the stillness, and ever, with sullen throbs of the pendnle
Sighe(1 the time-worn clock for the death of the days that were perished-
It was her whim to be sad, and she brought him the book they were reading.
" Head it to-night," she said, "that I Illay not seem to be going."
Said, and mutely reproached him with all the pain
he had wrought him.
From her hand he took the volume and read, and she listened,-
All his voice molten in secret tears, and ehhing and flowing,
Now with a faltering breath, amI now with impassioned ahanc1on,-
Head from the book of a poet the rhyme of the fatally sundered,
FataUy met too late, and their love was their guilt and their anguish,
But in the night they rose, and fled away into the darkness,
Glad of all dangers and shames, and even of death, for their love's sake.
Then, when his voice brake hollowly, falling a11(1 fading to silence,
Thrilled in the !'ilence they sat, and durst 110t behold one another,
Feeling that wild temptation, that tender, ineffable yearning,
Drawing them heart to heart. One blind, mad moment of passion
'Vith their fate they stmve; but out of the pang of the conflict,
Through such costly triumph as wins a waste and a famine,
Victors they came, and Love retrieved the ermr of IOYÌng.
So, foreknowing the years, and sharply discerning the future,
Guessing the riddlc of life, and accepting the ('ruel solution,-
Side by side they sat, as far a<; the stars fire asunder.
Carked the cricket no more, but while the audihle silence
Shrilled in their ears. she, suddenly rising and dragging the thistle
Out of her clinging hair, laugh ell mockingly, casting it from her:
488
WILLIAJI BEAN EO WELLS.
[1801-88
"Perish the thorns and splendor,-the bloom and thc sweetness are perished.
Dreary, respectable calm, polite despair, and one.s Duty,-
These and the world, for dead Love!- The end of these moùern romances!
Better than yonder rhyme
Pleasant dreams and gooll-night, Cousin
Clement. "
THE rHIE
T'S QUESTIOY.
[A Foregone ClJnclu.sion. 187.3.]
F LORIDA and Don Ippolito had paused in the pathway which
parted at the fountain and led in one direction to the water-gate,
and in the other out through the palace-court into the campo.
"Now, you must not give way to despair again," she said to him.
" You will succeed, I am sure, for yon will deserve success."
" It is all your goodness, madamigella," sighed the priest, "and at the
bottom of my heart I am afraid that all the hope and courage I ha\Te are
also yours."
" You shan never want for hope and courage then. '\Ye believe in
you, and we honor your purpose, and we will be your steadfast friends.
But 11m\' you must think only of the present-of how you are to get
away from Venice. Oh, I can understand how you must hate to leave
it! 'Vhat a beautiful night! You mustn't expect such moonlight as
this in America, Don Ippolito."
"It is beautiful, is it not?" said tbeJJriest, kindling from her. "But
I think we Venetians are never so conscious of the beauty of Venice as
. "
you strangers are.
" I don't know. I only know that now, since we have made up our
minds to go, and fixed the day and hour, it is more like leáving my own
country than anything else I've ever felt. This garden, I seem to have
spent my whole life in it j and when we are settled in Providence, rm
going to have mother send back for some of these statues. I suppose
Signor Cavaletti wouldn't mind our robbing his place of them if he were
paid enough. At any rate we must have this one that belongs to the
fountain. You sl)all be the first to set the fountain playing over there,
Don Ippolito, and then we'll sit down on this stone bench before it, and
imagine ourselves in the garden of Casa Vervain at Venice."
"No, no j let me be the last to set it playing here," said the priest,
quickly stooping to the pipe at the foot of the ngure, "and then we will
sit down here, and imagine ourselves in the garden of Casa Yervain at
Providence. "
Florida put her hanrl on his shoulder. " You mustn't do it," she said
simply. "The pat1rone doesn"t like to waste the water."
1861-88]
WILLIAlIf DEAN HOWELLS.
489
"Oh, we']] pray the saints to rain it back on him some day," cried
Don Ippolito with wilful levity, and the stream leaped into the moon-
light and seemed to bang there like a tangled skein of silver.
"But how shall I shut it off when you are gone'?" asked the young
girl, looking ruefully at the floating threads of splendor.
" Oh, I wi]] shut it off before I go," answered Don Ippolito. "Let it
play a moment," be continued, gazing rapturously upon it, while the
TI100n painted bis lifted face with a pallor that his black robes height-
ened. He fetched a long, sigbing breath, as if he inhaled witb that res-
piration all the rich odors of the flowers, blanched like his own visage
in the white lustre j as if he absorbed into his heart at once the wide
glory of the summer night and the beauty of tbe young girl at his side.
It seemeJ a supreme moment with him; be looked as a man might look
who bas climbed out of life-long defeat into a single instant of release
and triumph.
Florida sank upon the bench before the fountain, indulging his
caprice with that sacred, motherly tolerance, some touch of which is in
all womanly yielding to men's will, and which was perhaps present in
greater degree in her feeling towards a man more than ordinarily
orphaned and unfrienc1ed.
"Is Providence your native city?" asked Don Ippolito abruptly, after
a little silence.
., Ob, no j I was born at St. Augustine in Florida."
" Ah yes, I forgot j madama has told me about it; Providence is her
city. But the two are near together?"
,. No," said Florida compassionately, "they are a thousand miles apart."
" A thousand miles? vVhat a vast country! "
"Yes, it's a whole world."
" Ah, a world, indeed!" cried the priest softly. " I sha]] never com-
prehend it."
" You never wi]]," answered the young girl gravely, "if you do not
think about it more practically."
"Practically, practically!" lightly retorted the priest. "'Yhat a
word with you Americans! That is the consul's word: practical."
"Then you have been to see him to-clay?" asked Florida with eager-
ne
s. " I wanted to ask ,you-"
"Yes, I went to consult the oracle, as you bade me."
" Don Ippolito-"
"And he was averse to my going to America. He said it was not
practical. "
"Oh !" murmured the girl.
"I think," continued the priest with vehemence, "that Signor Ferris
is no longer my friend."
490
WILLIAJ.V DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
"Did he treat you coldly-harshly?!J she asked, with a note of indig-
nation in het' voice. "Did he know tbat I-that you came-"
"Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I sball indeed go to ruin there.
Ruin. ruin! Do I not live ruin here?!J
" 'Vh
tt did he say-what aiel he tell you?!J
" No, no; not now, madamige11a! I do not want to think of that
man now. I want you to help me once more to realize myself in Amer-
ica, where I shall never have been a priest, where I shan at least battle
even-handed with the world. Come, let us forget him; the thought of
him palsies an my bope. lIe could not see me save in this robe, in this
figure that I abhor."
" Oh, it was strange, it was not like him, it was cruel! 'Vhat did he
say ? "
"In everything but words he bade me despair; be bade me look upon
a11 that makes life dear and noble as impossible to me! "
"OL. how? Perhaps he did not understand you. No, he did not
underf'tand you. What did you say to him, Don Ippolito? Tell me!!J
She leaned towards him, in anxious emotion, as she spoke.
The priest rose and stretched out his arms, as if he would gather
something of courage from the infinite space. In his visage were the
sublimity and the terror of a man who puts everything to the risk.
" How will it really be with me yonder? ,. he demanded. " As it is
with other men, whom their past life, if it bas been guiltless, does not
follow to that new worlJ of freedom and justice?"
"'Vhy shoulJ it not be so?!J demanded Florida. "Did he say it
would not?!J
"Need it be known there t1]at I have been a priest? Or, if I tell it,
will it make me appear a kind of monster. different from other men?!J
"No, no!" sbe answered fervently. " Your story would gain friends
and bonor for .rou everywhere in America. Did he-I!
"A moment, a moment!!J cried Don Ippolito, catching bis breath.
"'Vill it ever be possible for me to win something more tban honor and
friendship there? !J
She looked up at him as kingly, confusedly.
" If I am a man, and tbe time should ever come that a face, a look, a
voice, shall be to me what they are to other men, will she remember it
against me tbat I have been a priest, when I tell her-say to her, mada-
migel1a-how dear she is to me. offer her my life's devotion, ask her to
be my wife?!J
Florida rose from the seat and stood confronting him, in a helpless
silence, which he seemed not to notice.
Suddenly he clasped his hands together, and desperately stretched
them towards her.
1861-88]
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
491
"Oh, my hope, my trust, my life, if it were you that I loved? "
" 'Vbat ! " shuddered tbe girl, recoiling with almost a shriek. ., You?
A priest! "
Don Ippolito gave a low cry, half sob:-
"IIis words, bis words! It is true, I cannot escape, I am doomed, I
must die as I have lived! "
He dropped his face into his hands, and stood with his bead bowed
before her; neither spoke for a long time, or moved.
Then Florida said absently, in the husk:' murmur to which her voice
fell when she was strongly moved, " Yes, I see it all, how it has been,"
and was silent again, staring, as if a procession of the events and scenes
of the past months were passing before her; and presently she moaned
to herself, "Oh, oh, oh !" and wrung her hands.
The foolish fountain kept capering and babbling on. An at once,
now, as a flame flashes up and then expires, it leaped and dropped
extinct at the foot of the statue.
Its going out seemed somehow to leave them in darkness, and under
cover of that gloom she drew nearer the priest, and by such approaches
as one makes towards a fancied apparition, when his fear will not let
him flv, but it seems better to suffer the worst from it at once than to
live i
terror of it ever after, she lifted her hands to hif', and gently tak-
ing them away from his face, looked into his hopeless eyes.
" Ob, Don Ippolito," she grieved. "'Vhat shall I say to you, what
can I do for you, now? "
But there was nothing to do. The whole edifice of his dreams, his
wild imaginations, had fallen into dust at a word; no magic could
rebuild it; tbe end that never seems the enrl had come. He let her
keep his cold hands, and presently he returned the entreaty of her tears
with his wan, patient smile.
" You cannot help me; there is no help for an error like mine. Some-
time, if ever the thought of me is a greater pain than it is at this
moment, you can forgive me. Yes, you can do that for me."
"But who, who win ever forg:ive me," she cried, "for my blindness!
Oh, ,You must believe tbat I never thought, I never dreamt-"
" I know it well. It was your fatal truth that did it-truth too high
and fine for me to have discerned save through such agony as
You, too, loved my soul, like the rest, and you would have had me no
priest for the reason that they wonld have had me a priest-I see it.
But you had no right to love my soul and not me-you, a woman. A
woman must not love only the soul of a man."
" Yes, yes!" piteously eXplained the girl, "but you were a priest to
me! "
"That is true, madamigel1a. I was always a priest to you; and now
492
WILLIA.JI DEAN no WELLS.
[1861-88
I see that I never could be otherwise. Ah, the wrong began many years
before we met. I was trying to blame you a little-"
" Blame me, blame me; do!"
· -" but there is no blame. Think that it was another way of asking
your forgiveness. 0 my God, my God, my God!"
He released his hands from her, and uttered this cry under his
breath, with bis face lifted towards the heavens. When he looked at
her again, he said: "1Iadamigella, if my share of this misery gives me
the right to ask of you-"
" Oh, ask anything of me! I wi]] give everything, do everything! "
He faltered, and then, " You do not love me," he said abruptly; "is
there some one else tbat you love? "
She did not answer.
" Is it . he? "
She hid her face.
" I knew it," groaned the lJriest, "I knew that, too!" and he turned
away.
"Don Ippolito. Don IppoJito-oh. poor, poor Don Ippolito!" cried
tbe girl
springing towards him. "Is tlu.s the way you leave me?
'\Vhere are you going? 'Vhat will you do now? "
"Did I not say? I am going to die a priest."
" Is there nothing tbat you will let me be to you, hope for you? "
"Nothing." said Don Ippolito, after a moment. "What could .you?"
He seized the hands imploringly extended towards him, and clasped
them together and kissed them both
"Adieu!" he whispered; then
he opened them, and passionately kÜ
sed either palm; "adieu, adieu! "
A great wave of sorrow and compassion and despair for him swept
through her. She flung her arms about his neck, and pulled his head
down upon her heart, and held it tight there, weeping and moaning
over him as over some hapless, harmless thing that she had unpurposely
bruised or killed. Then she suddenly put her hands against his breast
and thrust him away, and turned and ran.
BEFORE THE GATE.
THEY gave the whole long day to idle laughter,
To fitful song anù jest,
To moods of soberness as idle, after,
And silences, as idle too as the rest.
But when at last upon their way returning,
Taciturn, late, anù loath,
1861-88]
WILLIAlff DEA,N HOWELL'S.
493
Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,
They reached the gate, one.fine spell hindered them both.
Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish
Such as but women know
That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,
And what they would, would rather they would not so;
Till he said,-nHm-like nothing comprehending
Of all the wondrous guile
That women won win themselves with, and bending
Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,-
"Ah, if heyond this gate the path united
Our steps as far as death,
And r might open it !-" His voice, affrighted
At its own daring, faltered under his breath.
Then she-whom both his faith and fear enchanted
Far beyond words to tell,
Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted
The art he had that knew to blunder so well-
Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,
" Shall we not be too late
For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking:
Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you-open the gate?"
THE PARLOR CAR.
[The Parlor Car. A Farce. 1876.]
SCENE: A parlor car on the New York Central Railroad. It i8 late aftprnoon in the
early autumn, with a cloudy sunset threatening Tm'n. The car is unoccupied save by
a gentleman, 1(1//0 sits fronting one of the windows, (,ith hi8 feet in another chair,. (t
newspaper lies across his lap,. hi8 hat is drawn down Ot'er his eyes, and he is appar-
ently ((sleep. The rear door of the car opens, and the conductor enters with a youn,q
lady, heavily veiled, the porter coming after with her wraps and travelling-bags. The
lady's air is of mingled anxiety and desperation, with a certain jìercene.88 of move-
ment. She casts a careless glance over the empty chairs.
C ONDUCTOR. " Here's your ticket, madam. You can have any of the places
you like here, or "-glancing at the unconscious gentleman, and then at the
young lady-" if you prefer, you can go and take that scat in the forward car."
MISS Lucy GALllRAITII. "Oh. I can't rifle backwards. I'll stay here, please.
Thank you. " The porter places her things in a chair by a window, across the car
from the sleeping gentleman, ancì she throws herself wearily into the next scat,
wheels round in it, and lifting her veil gazes ahsently out at the landscape. lIeI'
face, which is very pretty, with a low forehead shadowed by thick blond hair,
494
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
shows the traces of tears. She makes search in her pocket for her handkerchief,
which she presses to her eyes. The conductor, lingering a moment, goes out.
POUTER. "I'll be right here, at de end of de cab, if you should happen to want
anything, miss "-making a feint of arranging the shawls and satchels. " Should
:you like some dese things bung up? "
ell, dey'll be jus' as well in de chair. We's
pretty late dis afternoon; more'n four hours bellin' time. Ought to been into
\lbany 'fore dis. Freight train off dc track jus' dis side 0' Rochester, an' had to
wait. 'Vas you guin' to stop at Schenectady, miss?"
.:\lIss G., absently. "At Schenectady?" After a pause, ., Yes."
PORTER. "'V ell, that's de next station, and den de cahs don't stop ag'in till dey
git to Albany. Anything else I can do for you now, miss?"
l\lIss G. "No, no, thank you, nothing." The porter hesitates, takes off his cap,
and scratches his head with a murmur of embarrassment. }Iiss Galbraith looks up
at him illlJuiringly, then suddenly takes out her porte-monnaie and fees him.
PORTEU. "Thank you, miss, thank you. If you want anything at all, miss, rm
right dere at de end of de cah." lIe goes out by the narrow passage-way beside
the smaller enclosed parlor. .:\Iiss Galbraith looks askance at the sleeping gentle-
man, and then, rising, goes to the large mirror to pin her veil, which has become
loosened from her hat. She gives a little start at sight of the gentleman in the
mirror, but arranges her head-gear, and returning to her place looks out of the
window again. After a little while she moves about uneasily in her chair, then leans
forward and tries to raise her window; she lifts it partly up, when the catch slips
from her fingers and the window falls shut again with a crash.
MISS G. "Oh, dt;ttr, how provoking! I suppose I must call the porter." She rises
from her seat, but on attempting to move away she finds that the skirt of her polo-
naise has heen caught in the falling window. She pnlls at it, and then tries to lift
the window again, bnt the cloth has wedged it in, and she cannot stir it. "'VeIl,
I certainly think this is heyond endurance! Porter! Ah-porter! Oh, he'll never
hear me in the racket that these wheels ar making! I wish they'd stop-I-"
The gentleman stirs in his chair, lifts his head, listens, takes his feet down from
the other seat, rises abruptly, and comes to Miss Galbraith's side.
MR. ALLEN IbcIIARDS. "'ViII you allow me to open the window for you?"
Starting back, "Miss Galbraith! "
l\hss G. "AI-)Ir. Richards!" There is a silence for somc moments, in which
they remain looking at each other; then-
l\Iu. HICIIARDS. "Lucy-"
l\lIss G. "I forbid you to address me in that way, Mr. Richards."
l\Iu. R. "'Vhy, you were just going to call me Allen!"
l\lIss G. "That was an accident, you know very well-an impulse-"
.:\IR. R. " Well, so is this."
.:\lIss G. "Of which you ought to be ashamed to take advantage. I wonder at
your presumption in speaking to me at all. It's quite idle, I can assure you. Every-
thing is at an end between us. It seems that I hore with you too long; but I'm
thankful that I had the spirit to act at last, and to act in time. And, now that
chance has thrown us together, I trust that you will not force your conversation
upon me. No gentleman would, and I have always given you credit for thinking
yourself a gentleman. I l'equest that you will not speak to me."
)IR. R. "You've spoken ten words to me for everyone of mine to you. But I
'Won't annoy you. I can't believe it, Lncy; I can 1tOt believe it. It seems like some
rascally dream, and if I had had any sleep since it happened, I should think I 'tad
dreamed it."
1861-88]
WILLIAJ.ll DEAN HOWELLS.
495
MISS G. "Oh! You were sleeping soundly enough when I got into the car!"
MR. R. "I own it; I was perfectly used up, and I had dropped off."
MISS G., scornfully. "Then perhaps you have dreamed it."
:MR. R. "I'll think so till you tell me again that our engagement is broken: that
the faithful love of years is to go for nothing; that you dismiss me ,,-ith cruel
insult, without one word of explanation, without a word of intelligible accusation,
even. It's too much! I've been thinking it all over anù O\"er, and I can't make
head or tail of it. I meant to see you again as soon as we got to town, and implore
you to hear me. Come, it's a mighty serious matter, Lucy. I'm not a man to put
on heroics and that; but I believe it'll play the very deuce with me, Lucy-that
is to say, )Iiss Galbraith-l do indeed. It'll give me a low opinion of woman."
MISS G., averting her face. ,. Oh, a very high opinion of woman you have
had!"
)IR. R., with sentiment. "'Veil, there was one woman whom I thought a per-
fect angel."
.MISS G. "Indeed! )[ay I ask her name? "
IR. H.., with a forlorn smile. "I shall be obliged to describe her bomewhat
formally as-l\Iiss Galhraith."
)hS8 G. ")1r. Richards! "
)1R. R. "'Yhy, you've just forhidden me to say Lucy! You must tell me, dear-
est, what I have done to offend you. The worst criminals are not condemned
unheard, and I've always thought you were merciful if not just. And now I only
ask you t.o be just."
J\lIss G., looking out of the window. "You know very well what you've- done.
You can't expect me to humiliate myself by putting your offence into words."
l\1u. R. "Upon my soul, I don't know what you mean! I don't know what I've
done. 'Vhen you came at. me, last night, with my ring and presents and other little
traps, you might have knocked me down with the lightest of the lot. I was per-
fectly dazed; I couldn't say anything he fore you were of I, and all I could do was
to hope that you'd be more like yourself in the morning. And in the morning,
when I came rounù to )[rs. Phillips's, I found you were gone, and I came after you
by the next train."
hss G. "l\Ir. Richards, your personal history for the last twenty-four hours is a
matter of perfect in(lifference t.o me, as it shall he for the next twenty-four hundred
years. I see that you are resolved to annoy me, and since you will not leave the
car, I must do so." She rises haughtily from her seat, but the imprisoned skirt of
her polonaise twitches her abruptly back into her chair. She bursts into tears.
"Oh, what shall I do? "
MH. n., dryly. "You shall do whatever you like, Miss Galbraith, when I've set
you free; for I see your dress is caught in the winùow. 'Vhen it's once out, I'll
shut the window, and you can call the porter to raise it." He leans forward over
her chair, and while she shrinks back the length of her tether, he tugs at the win-
dow-fastening. "I can't get at it. 'Yould you he so good as to stalll,l up-all
you can?" )Iiss Galhraith stands up droopingly, and .Mr. Richards makes a move-
ment towards her, and then falls back. "No, that wou't do. Please sit down
again. " IIe goes round her chair and tries to get at the window from that side.
.. I can't get any purchase on it. Why don't you cut out that piece?" Miss Gal-
hraith stares at him in dumb amazement. .. 'Yell. I don't see what we're to do.
I'll go and get the porter." IIe goes to the end of the car, anù returns. "I can't
find the porter-he must be in one of the other can,. nut "-bright
nlllg with the
fortunate conccptlOn-" I've just thought of sOlllethmg. \Vill It unlmtton ?"
49û
JVILLIA.Jf DEAN lIOWB.'LLS.
[1861-88
MISS G. "Unbutton?"
)IR. R. "Yes; this garment of yours "
l\hss G. "l\Iy polonaise?" Inquiringly, "Yes."
l\lR. R. "'Well, then, it's a very simple matter. If you will just take it off, I ca
easily-"
hss G., faintly. "I can't. A polonaise isn't like an ovel'coat-"
MR. R., with dismay. "Oh! 'Well, then-" He remains thinking a moment
in hopeless peI1)lexity.
1\hss G., with polite ceremony. "The porter will be back soon. Don't trouble
yourself any further about it, please. I shall do very well."
l\IR. R., without heeding hcr. " If you could kneel on that foot-cushion and face
the window-"
l\h::;s G., kneeling promptly. "So?"
l\IR. R. "Yes, and now"-kneeling beside her-" if you'll allow me to-to get
at the window-catch "-he stretches both arms forward; she shrinks from his right
into his left, and then back again-" and pull, while I raise the window-"
1\lIss G. "Yes, yes; but do hurry, please. If anyone saw us, I don't know what
they would think. It's perfectly ridiculous! "-pulling. "It's caught in the cor-
ner of the window, between the frame and the sash, and it won't comc! Is my hair
troubling you? Is it in your eyes?"
l\IR. R. "It's in my eyes, but it isn't troubling me. Am I inconveniencing
you? "
)hss G. "Oh, not at all."
)IIC R. .. Well, now then, pull harcl! " He lifts the window with a great effort;
the polonaise comes free with a start, and she strikes violently against him. In
supporting the shock he cannot forbear catching her for an instant to his heart.
She frees herself, and starts indignantly to her feet.
l\hss G. "Oh, what a cowardly-suhterfuge!"
1\IR. R. "Cowardly? You've no i(lea ho
v much courage it took." Miss Gal-
braitll puts her handkerchief to her face, and sobs. "Oh, don't cry! Bless my
heart-I'm sorry I did it! But yon know how dearly I love you, Lucy, though I
do think you've ùeen cruelly unjust. I told you I never should love anyone else,
and I never shall. I couldn't help it, upon my soul I couldn't. Nobody could.
Don't let it vex you, my-" He approaches her.
1\hss G. "Please not touch me, sir! You have llO longer any right whatever to
do so."
l\IR. R. "You misinterpret a very inoffensive geRture. I have no idea of touch-
ing you, but I hope I may be allowed, as a special favor, to-pick up my hat, which
you are in the act of stepping on." Miss Galbraith hastily turns, and strikes the hat
with her whirling skirts; it rolls to the other side of the parlor, and Mr. Richards,
who goes after it, utters an ironical" Thanks!" He brushes it and puts it on,
looking at her where she has again seated herself at the window with her back to
him, and continues, "As for any further molestation from me-"
l\hss G. "If you will talk to me-"
MR. R. "Excuse me, I am not talking to you."
l\hss G. "What were you doing
;;
l\IR. R. "I was beginning to think aloud. I-I was soliloquizing. I suppose I
may be allowed to soliloquize? "
l\hss G., very coldly. " You can do what you like."
MR. R. .. Unfortunately that's just what I can't do. If I could do as I liked, I
should ask you a single question." r
1861-88]
WILLIA.l-ll DEAN HOWELLS.
497
1\lIss G., after a moment. "'VeIl, sir, you may ask your question." She remains
as before, with her chin in her hand, looking tearfully out of the window; her face
is turned from 1\11' Richards, who hesitates a moment before he speaks.
l\IR. R. "I wish to ask you just this,
Iiss Galbraith: if you couldn't ride back-
wards in the other car, why do you ride backwards in this? "
l\hss G., burying her face in her handkerchief, and sobbing. "Oh, oh, oh 1
Th is is too l)a<1 1 "
)1u. R. "Oh, come now, Lucy. It breaks my heart to hear you going on so,
and all for nothing. Be a little merciful to both of us, and listen to me. I've
no doubt I can explain everything if I once undcrstaðd it, but it's pretty hard
explaining a thing if you don't understand it yourself. Do turn round. I know it
makes you sick to ride in that way, and if you don't want to face me-there 1-"
wheeling in his chair so as to turn his back upon her-" you needn't. Though it's
rather trying to a fellow's politeness, not to mention his other feelings. Now, what
in the name-"
PORTER, who at this moment enters with his step-ladder, and begins to light the
lamps. " Going pretty slow agïn, sah."
l\IR. R. "Yes; what's the trouble?"
PORTER. "'V ell, I don't know exactly, sah. Something de matter with de loco-
motive. 'Ve sha'n't be into Albany much 'fore eight o'clock."
MR. R. "'Vhat's the next station? "
PORTER. " Schenectady. "
MR. n. "Is the whole train as empty as this car? "
PORTER, laughing, "'V ell, no, sah. Fact is, dis cah don't belong on dis train.
It's a Pullman that we hitched on when you got in, and we's taking it along for one
of de Eastern roads. We let you in 'cause de drawing-rooms was all full. Same
with de lady"-looking sympathetically at her as he takes up his steps to go out.
"Can I do anything for you now, miss?"
1\lIss G., plaintively. "No, thank you; nothing whatever." She has turned
while
Ir. Richards and the porter have been speaking, aml now faces the back of
the former, but her veil is drawn closely. The porter goes out.
MR. R., wheeling round so as to confront her. "I wish you would speak to me
half as kindly as you do to that darkey, Lucy."
)hss G. "lle is a gentleman I"
1\1R. R. "He is an urbane and well-informed nobleman. At any rate, he's a man
and a brother. But so am I." Miss Galhraith does not reply, and after a pause
1\11'. Richards resunws. "Talking of gentlemen, I recollect, once, coming up on
the day-boat to Poughkeepsie, there was a pOOl' devil of a tipsy man kept following
a young fellow about, and annoying him to death-trying to fight him, as a tipsy
man will, and insisting that the young fellow had insulted him. By and by he lost
his halance and went overhoard, and the other jumped after him and fishcd him
out." Sensation on the part of :\Iiss Galhraith, who stirs uneasily in her chair,
looks out of the wÌIulow, then looks at Mr. Richards, and drops her head. "There
was a young laùy on boarù, who hac! seen the whole thing-a very charming young
lady indeed, with pale blond hair growing very thick over her forehead, and dark
eyelashes to the sweetest hlue eyes in the world. Well, this young lady's papa was
amongst those who came up to say civil things to the young fellow when he got
ahoard again, and to ask the honor-he said, the Jwnor-of his acquaintance. And
when he came out of his state-room in dry clothes, this infatuated old gentleman
was waiting for him. and took him and introduced him to his wife and daughter.
And the daughter said, with tears in her eyes, and a perfectly into
icating impul-
VOL. IX.-32
,498
WILLIAJ.JI DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
;siveness, that it was the grandest and the most heroic and the nohlest thing that
;she had ever seen, and she should always be a better girl for having seen it. Excuse
me, :l\Iiss Galbraith, for troubling you with these facts of a personal history which,
as you say, is a matter of perfect indifference to you. The young fellow didn't
think at the time he had done anything extraordinary; but I don't suppose he did
expect to live to have the same girl tell him he was no gentleman."
l\hss G., wildly. "Oh, Allen, Allen! You know I think you are a gentleman,
and I always did! "
MH. R., languidly. "Oh, I merely had your word for it, just now, that you
didn't." Tenderly," 'Vill you hear me, Lucy?"
1\hss G., faintly. "Yes,"
.MR, R. " 'V ell , what is it I've done? 'Vill you tell me if I guess right? "
1\1Iss G., with dignity. "I am in no humor for jesting, Allen. .And I can assure
you that, though I consent to hear what you have to say, or ask, nothing will change
my determination. All is over between us."
l\Iu. R. "Y e8, I understand that perfectly. I am now asking merely for general
information. I do not expect you to relent, and in fact I shoulll consider it rather
frivolous if you did. No. 'Vhat I have always admired in your character, Lucy,
is a firm, logical consistency; a clearness of mental vision that leaves no side of a
subject un searched ; and an unwavering constancy of purpose. You may say that
these traits are characteristic of all women; but they are preëminently character-
istic of you, Lucy." )Iiss Galhraith looks askance at him, to make out whether he
is in earnest 01' not; he continues, with a perfectly serious air. "And I know now
that, if you're offend ell with me, it's for no trh'ial cause." She stirs uncomfortably
in her chair. " 'Vhat I have done I can't imagine, but it must be something mon-
strons, since it has made life with me appear so impossible that yon are ready to
fling away your own happiness-for I know you did love me, Lucy-and destroy
mine. I will begin with the worst thing I can think of. 'Vas it becausc I danced
so much with Fanny 'V ate!'\' liet ? " .
)hss G., indignantly. " How can you insult mc by supposing that I could be
jealous of snch a peJiect little goose as that? No, Allen! 'Vhatever I think of
you, I still respect you too much for tlwt."
l\IR. R. "I'm glad to hear that there are yet depths to which you think me inca-
pahle of descending, and that l\Iiss 'Vatervliet is one of them. I will now take a
little higher ground. Perhaps you think I flirt('<l with 1\1rs. Dawes. I thought,
myself, that the thing might begin to have that appearance, but I give you my
word of honor that, as soon as the idea occurred to me, I dropped her-rather
)'ude:ly, too. The trouble was, 110n't you know, that I felt so perfectly safc with a
'TIull"l"ied friend of yours. I couldn't be hanging about you all the time, amI I was
afraid I might vex you if I went with the other girls; anù I didll't know what
to ùo. "
MISS G. "I think you behaved rather silly, gigg1ing so much with her. But-"
}IH. H. "I own it, I know it was silly. But__"
l\hss G. "It wasn't that; it wasn't that! "
l\IR. R. "Was it my forgetting to bring you those things from your mother?"
::\lIss G. "
o!"
l\IR. R. "'Vas it because I hadn't given up smoking yet?"
:MISS G. "You know I never asked you to give up smoking. It was entirely your
own proposition."
l\IR. R. "That's true, That's what made me so easy about it, I knew I could
leave it off any time. 'VeIl, I willuot ùisturb you any longer, l\Iiss Galbraith." He
1861-88]
WILLIAM DEAN no WELLS.
499
throws his overcoat across his arm, and takes up his travelling-bag. "I have failed
to guess your fatal-conundrum; and I have no longer any excuse for remaining.
I am guing into the smoking-car. Shall I send the porter to you for anything? "
:MI8S G. "No, thanks." She puts up her handkerchief to her face.
:MR. R. H Lucy, do yuu send me away 1"
)hss G., behind her handkerchief. .. You were going, yourself."
MR. R., over his shoulder. " Shall I come b!\ck ? "
::\hss G. H I have no right to drive you from the car."
MR. R., coming back, and sitting ùown in the chair nearest her. "Lucy, dear-
est, tell me what's the matter."
)lIss G. "Oh, Allen, your not kJ/ulf
ing makes it all the more hopeless and kill-
ing. It shows me that we must part; that you \Voultl go on, hreaking my heart,
and grinding me into the dust as long as we lived." She sohs. " It shows me
that you never understood me, and you never will. I know yuu're good and kind
and all that, but that unly makes your nnt understanding me so much the worse.
I do it quite as much for your sake as my own, Allen."
)IR. R "I'd much rather you wouldn't put yourself out on my account."
}lIss G., without regarding him. "If you could mortify me before a whole
roomful of people as you did last night, what could I expect after marriage ùut
continual insult? "
)IR. R., in amazement. "How did I mortify you? I thought that I treated you
with all the tenderness and affection that a decent regard for the feelings of others
would allow. I was ashamed to find I couldn't keep away from you."
hss G. "Oh, you were attentive enough, Allen; nobody dellles that. Attentive
enough in non-essentials. Oh, yes!"
)lu. R. "'V ell, what vital matters did I fail in? I'm sure I can't remember."
)hss G. "I dare say! I dare say they wnn't appear vital to you, .\llen. N oth-
ing does. And if I had told you, I should have been met with ridicule, I suppose.
But I knew better than to tell; I respected myself too 'much."
:MR. R. "But now you mustn't respect yourself quite so much, dearest. And I
promise you I won't laugh at the most serious thing. I'm in no humor for it. If
it were a matter of life and death, even, I can assure you that it wouldn't bring a
smile to my countenance. No, indeed! If you expect me to laugh now, you must
say something particularly funny."
lIss G. "I was not going to say anything funny, as you call it, and I will say
nothing at all, if you talk in that way."
In. R "'VeIl, I won't thcn. But do you know what I suspect, Lucy
I
wouMn't mention it to everybody, but I will to you-in stJict confidence: I suspect
that you're rather ashamed of your grievance, if you have any. I suspect it's noth-
ing at all."
l\hs
G., very sternly at first, with a rising hysterical inflection. "Nothing,
Allcn! Do you call it nothing, to have :\[rs. Dawcs come out with all that ahout
your accident on your way up the river: and ask mc if it. didn't frighten me terribly
to hear of it, even after it was all over; and I had to say you hadn't told mc a
word of it? · 'Yhy, Lucy!' "-angrily mimicking Mrs. Dawcs-'" you must teach
him bettcr than that.. I make Mr. Dawes tell me everything.' Littlc simpleton!
And then to havc them alliaugh-oh, dear, it's too much! "
)[R. R. "'Yhy, my dear Lucy-"
)lIss G., interrupting him. " I saw just how it was going to be, and I'm thank-
ful, thankful that it happened. I saw that you didn't care enough for mc to take
me into your whole life j that you despised and distrusted me, and that it wuuld
500
WILLIA.J.V DEAN no WELLS.
[1861-88
gct worse fin(1 worse to the cnd of our days; that wc should grow further and fur-
ther apart, and I should he left moping at home, while you ran about making con-
fidantes of other womcn whom you considered wortl/y of your confidence. It all
fiaslted upon me in an instant
. and I resolved to break with you then and there;
and I did, just as soon as ever I could go to my room for your things, and I'm
glad-yes-O 1m, 1m, 1m, hu, hu! so glad I did it! "
MR. R., grimly. " Your joy is obvious. May I ask-"
l\hss G. "Oh, it wasn't the first }ll'Oof you had given me how little you really
cared for me, but I was detcrmined it should hc the last. I dare say you've for-
gotten thcm! I dare say JOu don't rcmembcr tclling Mamie :Morris that you didn't
like crocheted cigar-cascs, whcn you'd just told me that you did, an(1 let me be
such a fool as to commence one for you; but I'm thankful to say tllflt went into the
fire-oh, yes, instantly! And I dare say you've forgottcn that JOu didn't tell me
your brother's engagement was to be kept, and let me come out with it that night
at the Rudges', and then looked perfectly aghast, so that everybody thought I had
been blaùbing! Time and again, Allcn, you have made me suffer agonies, yes,
agonies; but your power to do so is at an end. I am free and happy at last." She
weeps hitterly.
l\IR. R., quietly. "Yes, I harl forgotten those crimes, and I suppose many simi-
lar atrocities. I own it, I am forgetful and careless. I was wrong about those
things. I ought to have told you why I said that to Miss :Morris; I was afraid she
was going to work me one. As to that accident I told Mrs. Dawes of, it wasn't
worth mentioning. Our boat simply walked over a sloop in the night, and nobody
was hurt. I shouldn't have thought twice about it, if she hadn't happened to brag
of their passing close to an iceberg on their way home from Europe; then I trotted
out my pretty-near disaster as a match for hers-confound her! I wish the iceberg
llad sunk them! Only it wouldn't have sunk her-she's so light; she'd have gone
hohbing :1bout all over the Atlantic Ocean, like a cork; she's got n perfect life-
})l'escrver in that mind of hers." )Iiss Ga1braith gives a little laugh, and then a
little moan. " But since you are happy, I will no" repine, Miss Galbraith. I don't
pretend to be very happy myself, but then, I don't deserve it. Since you are ready
to let an ahsolutely unconscious offence on my part cancel all the past; since you
let my devoted love weigh as nothing against the momcntary pique tbat a mali-
cious little rattle-pate-she was vexed at my leaving her-could make you feel, and
choose to gratify a wicked resentmcnt at the cost of any suffering to me, why, I
can be glad and happy, too." 'Vith rising anger, "Yes, Miss Galbraith. All is
ovcr between us. You can go! I renounce you! "
l\hss G., springing fiercely to her feet. ., Go, initeed! Renounce me I Be so
good as to remember that you ha\.cn't got me to renounce! "
MR. R. .. Well, it's all the same thing. I'd renounce you if I had. Good even-
ing, :Miss Galbraith. I will send back your prescnts as soon as I get to town; it
won't be necessary to acknowledge thcm. I hope we may never meet again." He
goes out of the door towards the front of the car, but returns dircctly, and glances
uneasily at Miss Galbraith, who remains with hcr handkerchief pressed to her
eyes. '" Ah-a-that is-I shall be ohliged to intrude upon you again. The fact
is- "
::\Irss G" anxiously. .. Why, the cars have stopped I Are we at Schenectady?"
l\IR. R. "'Yell, no; not exactly,. not exactly at Scltenectady-"
l\hss G. ., Thcn what station is this? Have they carricd me by ?" Observing
his emùarrassment, "Allen, what is the matter? 'Yhat has happened? Tell me
instantly! Are we off the track? Have we run into another train? Have we
1861-88]
lVILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
501
broken through a bridge? Shall we he burnt alive? Tell me, Allen, tell me !-I
can bear it !-are we telescoped?" She wrings her hands in terror.
IR, R., unsympathetically. "
othing of the kind has happened. This car has
simply come uncoupled, and the rest of the train has gone on ahead, and left us
standing on the track, nowhere in particular." He leans back in his cbair, and
wheels it round from her.
J\lIss G., mortified, yet anxions. "'VeIl?"
MH. R. "'VeIl, until they miss us, and run back to pick us up, I shall he obliged
to ask your indulgence. I will try not to disturb you; I would go out and stand
on the platform, hut it's raining."
)hs::; G., listening to the rainfall on the roof. "'Vby, so it is!" Timidly,
" Did you notice when the car stopped? "
)IR. R. " K o. " He rises and goes out of the rear door, comes back, and sits
down again.
)lIss G. rises and goes to the large mirror to wipe away her tears. She glances
at )[r. Richards, who docs not move. She sits down in a seat nearer him than the
chair she has left. After some faint murmurs and hesitations, she asks, "'Vill you
please tell me why you went out just now? "
)[u. R., with indifference. " Yes. I went to see if the rear signal was out. "
)hi"s G., after another hesitation. " 'Yhy ?"
)[n. R. "Because, if it wasn't out, some train might run into us from that direc-
tion. "
)hss G., tremulously. "OIl! And was it?"
)[R. R., dryly. "Yes."
)h
s G. returns to her former place with a wounded air, and for a moment
neither speaks. Finally she asks very meekly, "And there's no danger from
the front?"
)IR. R., coIc1ly. "No."
)hss G., after some little noises and movements meant to catch :Mr. R. 's atten-
tion. "Of course, I never meant to imply that you were intentionally careless or
forgetful. "
Mu. R., still very coldly. "Thank you."
2\hss G. "I always did justice to your good-heartedness, Allen; you're perfectly
lovely that way; and I know that you would be sorry if you knell) you had wounded
my feelings, however accidentally." She droops her head so as to catch a sidelong
glimpse of his face, and sighs, while she nervously pinches the top of her parasol,
resting the point on the floor. Mr. R. makes no answer. " That about the cigar-
case might havl' heen a mistake; I saw that myself, and, as you explain it, why, it
was certainly vCl'y kind and very creditable to-to your thoughtfulness. It was
thoughtful! "
)[R. R. ,. I am grateful for your good opinion."
MISS G. "But do you think it was exactly-it was quite-nice, not to tell me
that your brother's engagement was to he kept, when you know, Allen, I can't bear
to blunder in such things?" Tenderly," Do you? You can't say it was?"
)[u. R. "I never said it was."
)lIss G., plaintively. "
o, Allen. That's what I al\\"a
's admired in your char-
acter. You always owncd up. Don't you think it's easier for men to own up than
it is for women?"
)In. R. "I (lon't know. I never knew any woman to do it."
)hs
G. "Oh, yes, Allen! You know I often own up."
)IR. R. ' · :x 0, I don't."
502
WILLIA.J.ll DEAN HOWELLS.
[1861-88
MISS G. "Oh, how can you bear to say so? "
hen I'm rash, or anything of that
kind, you know I acknowledge it."
)IR. R. "Do JOu acknowledge it now?"
)hss G. "'''hy, how can I, 'when I haven't been rash? TVhat have I been rash
about?"
)IR. n. "About the cigar-case, for example. "
hss G. "Oh! That! That was a great while ago! I thought you meant some-
thing quite recent." A sound as of the approaching train is heard in the distance.
She gives a start, and then leaves her chair again for one a little nearer his. "I
thought perhaps you meant about-last night."
MR. R "'''ell?''
1\rr
s G., very judicially. "I don't think it was msTl, exactly. No, not rash. It
might not have becn very l.ind not to-to-trust you more, when I knew that you
didn't mean anything; but- No, I took the only course I could. .Nobody could
have done differently under the circUlJ1stances. But if I caused you any pain, I'm
very sorry; Oh, yes, very sorry indc{'d. But I was not precipitate, and I know I
did right. At least I il'ied to act for the best. Don't you believe I did?"
MR. R. "'Vhy, if you have no doubt upon the subject, my opinion is of no con-
sequence. "
)h
s G. "Yes. Rut what do you think? If you think differently, anù can
make me see it differently, oughtn't you to do so? "
l\hL R. "I don't see why. As you say, all is over between us."
l\hss G. "Yes." After a pause, "I should suppose you woul(l care enough for
YOllrse{f to wish me to look at the matter from the right point of view."
)IR. R. "I don't."
l\hss G., becoming more and more uneasy as the noise of the approaching train
grows louder. " I think you have heen very quick with me at times, quite as quick
as I could have been with you last night." The noise is more distinctly heard.
" I'm sure that, if I could once see it as you .0, no one would be more willing to do
anything in their power to atone for thcir rashness. Of course, I know that every-
thing is over."
)hc R. "As to that, I have your word; and, in view of the fact, perhaps this
analysis of motive, of character, however intercsting on general grounds, is a
little-"
)Irss G., with sud(len violence. "Say it, and take your revenge! I have put
myself at your feet, anel you do right to trample on me! Oh, this is what women
lllay expect when they trust to men's generosity! 'Yell, it is over now, and I'm
thankful, thankful! Cruel, su
picious, vindictive, you're all alike, and I'm glad
that I'm no longer subjeet to your heartless caprices. And I don't care what hap-
pens aftcr this, I shall always- Oh! You'rc sure it's from the front, Allen?
Are you sure the rear signal is out? "
)IR. R, relenting. "Yes, but if it will case your mind, I'll go and look again."
He rises and starts towards the rear (1001'.
l\hss G., quickly. "Oh, no! Don't go! I can't bear to be left alone!" The
sound of the approaching train continually incren:"es in volume. "Oh, isn't it
coming very, vcry, ur!l fast? "
)IR. R. "K 0, no! Don't be frightened."
)Irss G., running towards the rear door. "Oh, I must get out! It will kill me,
I know it will. Come with me! Do, do!" He runs after her, and her voice is
heard at the rear of the car, "Oh, the outside door is locked, and wc are trapped,
trapped, trapped! Oh, quick! Let's try the door at the other cnd." They rcënter
1861-88]
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
503
the parlor, and the roar of the train announces that it is upon them. "No, no t
It's too late, it's too late! I'm a wicked, wicked girl, and this is all to punish me !
Oh, it's coming, it's coming at full speed!" He remains bewildered, confronting
her. Rhe utters a wild cry, and, as the train strikes the ear with a violent concus-
sion, she flings herself into his arms. "There, there! Forgive me, Allen! Let
us die together, my own, own love!" She hangs fainting on his breast . Voices
are heard without, and after a little delay the porter comes in with a lantf'rn.
PORTER. "Rather more of a jah than 'we meant to give you, sah! 'Ye had to
run down pretty quick after we missed you, and the rain made the track a little
slippery. Lady much fdghtened!"
:MISS G., disengaging herself. "Oh, not at all! Kot in the least. 'Ve thought
it was a train coming from behind, and going to run into us, and so-we-I-"
POUTER. "
ot quite so bad as that. 'Ve'll be into Schenectady in a few minutes,
miss. I'll come for your things." He goes out at the other door.
)hss G., in a fearful whisper. " Allen! 'Vhat will he ever think of us? I'm
sure he saw us!"
:MR. R. "I don't know what he'll think now. He did think you were frightened;
but you told him you were not. However, it isn't important what he thinks.
Prohably he thinks I'm your long-lost brother. It had a kind of familiar look."
)hss l+. "Ridiculous!"
MR. R. "'Yhy, he'd never suppose that I was a jilted lover of yours! "
l\hs
G., ruefully. " No."
l\In. R. "CO/pe, Lucy"-taking her hand-" you wished to die with me a
moment ago. Don't you think you can make one more dIort to live with me? I
won't take advantage of words spoken in mortal peril, but I suppose you were in
earnest when you called me your own-own-" Her head droops; he folds her
in his arms a moment, then she starts away from him, as if something had suddenly
occurred to her.
::\[I::
S G. "Allen, where are you going?"
)hL R. "Going? Upon my soul, I haven't the least idea."
l\hss G. "'Vhere were you going?"
:MR. H. "Oh, I
ra8 going to Aloany."
l\lIss G. "'V ell, don't! Aunt ::\Iary is expecting me here at Schenectaùy-I
telegraphed her-and I want you to stop here, too, and well refer the whole mat-
ter to her. She's such a wise old head. I'm not sure-"
)[R. H. "'Yhat?"
l\hss G., demurely. " That I'm goo 11 enough for you."
)[R. R., starting, in burlesque of her movement, as if a thought had struck him.
" Lucy! how came you on this train when you left Syracuse on the morning
express? "
)hss G., faintly. "I waited over a train at "Gtica." She sinks into a chair and
averts her face.
)[R. R. ")[ay I ask why?"
l\hss G., more faintly still. " I dont like to tell. 1-"
)hL R., coming and stamling in front of her, with his hands in his pockets.
" Look me in the eye, Lucy! " She drops her yeil oyer her face, and looks np at
him. " Did you-did ).ou expect to find me on this train? "
)hss G. "I was afraill it never lCould get along-it was so late! "
l\hL R. "Don't-tergiversate."
II:-';
G. "Dout u
/tat '!"
[H. R. ,. Fib,"
504
WILLIAJI DEAN no WELLS.
[1861-88
MISS G. "Not for worlds! "
:MR. R. ., How did you know I was in this car?"
:MISS G. "Must I? I thought I saw you through the window; and then I made
sure it was you when I went to pin my veil ou,-1 saw you in the mirror."
:MR. R., after a little silence. " :\liss Galbraith, do you want to know what you
are ?"
MISS G., softly. "Yes, Allen."
1\IR. R. "You're a humbug!"
:MISS G., springing from her seat and confronting him. "So are you ! You
pretended to be asleep! "
:MR. R. "1-1-1 was taken by surprise. I had to take time to think."
:\lIss G. "So did I. "
:MR. R. "And you thought it would be a good plan to get your polonaise caught
in the window?"
l\lIss G., hiding her face on his shoulùer. "No, no, Allen! That I never will
admit. .J..Vo woman would! "
1\IR. R. "Oh, I dare say!" After a pause: "'Vell, I am a poor, weak, helpless
mall, with no one to alhise me or counsel me, and I have been cruelly deceh"ed.
How could you, Lucy, how could you? I can never get over this." He tlrops his
head upon her shoulder.
1\hss G., starting away again and looking about the car. "Allen, I have an idea!
Do you suppose :Mr. Pullman could be induced to sell this car? "
:MR. R. "'Vhy?"
1\lIss G. "Why, hecause I think it's perfectly lovely, and I should like to live in
it always. It could oe fitted up for a sort of summer-house, don't you know, and
we could have it in the garden, and you could smoke in it."
l\ht. R. ..
\dmirahle! It woul,l look just like a travelling photographic saloon.
No, Lucy, we won't buy it; we will simply keep it as a precious souvenir, a
sacred memory, a beautiful dream-and Ie it go on fulfilling its destiny all the
same. "
PORTEH, entering and gathering up :Miss Galbraith's things. " Be at Schenec-
tady in half a minute, miss. 'V on't have much time."
1\hss G., rising and adjusting her dress, and then looking about the car, while
she passes her hand through her lover's m'm. .. Oh, I do hate to leave it. Fare-
well, you dear, kind, good, lovely car! :May you never have another accident!"
She kisses her hand to the car, upon which they both look back as they slowly
leave it.
:MR. R., kissing his hand in like manner. "Gooù-by, sweet chariot! May you
never carry any but ùridal couples! "
:\lIss G. "Or engaged ones!"
:\IR. H. "Or husbands going home to their wives! "
l\lIss G. "Or wives hastening to their hushan,ls."
1\IR. R. "Or young ladies who ha"e waite,l one train over, so as to be with the
young men they hate."
:MIsS G. "Or young men who are so indifferent that they pretend to be asleep
when the young ladies come in!" They pause at the door and look back again.
" 'And must I leave thee. Paradise?'" They both kiss their hands to the car
again, and, their faces heing very close together, they impulsively kiss each other.
Then :Miss Galbraith throws hack her head, and solemnly confronts him. " Only
think, Allen! If this car hadn't hroken its engagemcnt, we might never have
mended ours."
lR61-88]
HORACE PORTER.
505
THE FIRST CRICKET.
^ H me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning,
...Lî. And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,_
Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer millnight complaining,
All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?
Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber,
Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan,
Yet with th' unconscious earth's hoded evil my soul thou dost cumber,
And in the year's lost youth makest me still lose my own.
Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest,
And when the fervid grate feigns me a )[ay in my room,
And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,-
Thou wilt again give me alI,-dew and fragrance and bloom?
ay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing,
If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf,
l\Ie blither lays to sing than the hlithest known to thy shrilling,
Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and-himself:
Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers
Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.
Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer :yet lingers,
Better than bloom that has been red leaf aUlI sere that must ue?
ora'e
ottet.
BOUN in Huntingdon, Penn., 1837.
FIVE FORKS, AKD THE CAPTURE OF PETERSBURG.
[Battles and Leaders of the Civil War. 1887-89.J
A BOUT 1 o'clock it was reported by the cavalry that the enemy was
retiring to bis intrenched position at Five Forks, which was just
north of the 'Vhite Oak road, and paraUel to it, his earthworks running
from a point about three-quarters of a mile east of Five Forks to a point
a mile west, with an angle or crotchet about one bundred yards long
thrown back at right angles to his left to protect that flank. Orders
were at once given to the :Fifth Corps to move up tbe Gra,-elly Run
Church road to the open ground near the church, and form in order of
battle, with Ayres on the left, Crawford on his right, and Griffin in
rear as a reserve. The corps was to wheel to the left, and make its
attack upon the "angle," anù then, moving westward, sweep down in
506
HORACE PORTER.
[1861-88
rear of the enemy's intrenched line. Tbe cavalry, principally dis-
mounted, was to deploy in front of tbe enemy's line and engage bis
attention, and, as soon as it heard tbe firing of our infantry, to make a
vigorous assault upon his works.
The Fiftb Corps had borne the brunt of the fighting e\Ter since the
army bad moved out on the 29th. and the gallant men who composed it,
and bad performed a conspicuous part in near1y every battle in which
the Army of tbe Potomac had been engaged, seemed eager once more to
cross bayonets with tbeir old antagonists. But the movement was slow,
the required formation seemed to drag, and Sheridan, chafing with impa-
tience and consumed with anxiety, became as restive as a racer when he
nears the score and is struggling to make the start. He made every
possible appeal for prom ptness, he dismounted from his horse, paced up
and down, struck the clinched fist of one band into the palm of the
otber, and fretted like a caged tiger. He said at one time: "This battle
must he fought and won before the sun goes down. All the conditions
may be changed in the morning; we have but a few bours of daylight
left us. ,My cavalry are rapidly exhausting their ammunition, and if
the attack is delayed much longer they may have none left." And then
another batcb of staff-officers were sent out to gallop through the mud
and hurry up the columns.
At 4 o'clock the formation was completed, the order for the assault
was given, and the struggle for Pickett's intrenched line began. The
Confederate infantry brigades were posted from right to left as follows:
Terry, Corse, Steuart, Ransom, and 'Va 1I ace. General Fitzhugh Lee,
commanding the cavalry, had placed ,Yo II. ,F. Lee's two brigades on the
right of the line, :Munford's division on the left, and Rosser's in rear of
Hatcher's Run to guard the trains. I rode to the front in company with
Sheridan and "\Varren, with the head of Ayres's division, which was on
the left. 'Vhen this division became engaged, 'Varren took up a more
central position with reference to his corps. Ayres threw out a skir-
mish-line anù advanced across an open fielù, which sloped down gradu-
ally toward the dense woods, just north of the "\Yhite Oak rowl lIe
soon met with a fire from the edgt> of this woods, a number of men feU,
and the skirmish-line halted and seemed to waver. Sheridan now began
to exhibit those traits that always made him such a tower of strength in
the presence of an enemy. He put spurs to his horse and dasbed along
in front of the line of battle from left to right, shouting words of
encouragement and having something cheery to sa:,- to every regiment.
"Come on, men," be cried. "Go at 'em with a will. :Move on at a
clean jump or you'll not catch one of them. They're all getting ready
to run now, and if you don't get on to them in five mÌllute:5, tLey'll
everyone get away from you! Now go for them." Just then a man
1861-88]
HORACE PORTE-'ll.
507
on the skirmish-line was struck in the neck; the blood spurted as if the
jugular vein had been cut. "I'm killed! " he cried, and dropped on the
ground. " You're not hurt a bit," cried Sheridan; "pick up your gun,
man, and move right on to the front. '. Such was the electric effect of
his words that the poor feHow snatched up his musket and rushed for-
ward a dozen paces before he fell never to rise again. The line of battle
of weather-beaten veterans was now moving rigbt along down the f'lope
toward the woods with a steady swing that boded no good for Pickett's
command, earthworks or no earthworks. Sheridan was mounted on Lis
favorite black horse Rienzi, that had carried him from \Viu(;hester to
Cedar Creek, and which BucLmnan HeaJ made famous for all time by his
poem of "Sheridan's Ride." The roac18 were muddy, the fields swampy,
the undergrowth dense, and Rienzi, as he pI unged and curveted, dashed
the foam from his mouth and the mud from hi8 heels. Bad the 'Vin-
chester pike been in a similar condition, he would not have made his
famous twenty miles without hreaking his own neck anù Sheridan's too.
:l\Iackenzie had been ordered up the Crump road with directions to
turn east on tbe 'Vhite Oak road and whip f'verything he met on that
route. lie met only a sman cavalry command, and having whipped it
according to orders, now came ga110ping back to join in the general
scrimmage. lIe reported to Sheridan in person, and was ordered to
strike out toward Hatcher's Hun, then move west and get possession of
the Ford road in the enemy's rear.
Soon Ayres's men met with a heavy fire on their left flank and had
to change direction by faci ng more toward the west. As the troops
entered the woods and moved forward over the boggy ground and strug-
gled through the dense undergrowth, they were staggered by a heavy
fire from the angle and fen back in some confusion. Sheridan now
rushed into the midst of the broken lines, and cried out: "\Vhere is my
battle-flag
" As the sergeant who carried it rode up, Sheridan seized
the crimson and white stanJard, waved it above his head, cheered on
the men, and made heroic efforts to c1o
e up the ranks. Bullets were
humming like a swarm of bees. One pierced the battle-flag, another
kil1ed the sergeant who had carried it, another wounded Captain A. J.
:McGonnigle in the side, others strack two or three of the staff officers'
horses. AU. this time Sheridan was dashi ng from one point of the line
to another, waving his flag, shaking his fist, encouraging. threatening,
praying, swearing, the very incarnation of battle. It would he a sorry
oldier who could help fol1owing such a leader. AyreH and his officers
were equa]]y exposing themselves at all points in ral1ying the men, and
soon the line was steadied, for such material coul(l suffer but a momen-
tary check. Ayres, with drawn sabre, ru::-:heù fonvard once more with
his veterans, who now bebaved a
if they had fal1en back to get a
508
BORA CE PORTER.
[1861-88
.
"good-ready," and with fixed bayonets and a rousing cheer dashed over
the earthworks, sweeping everything before them, and killing or cap-
turing ever.v man in their immediate front whose legs had not saved him.
Sheridan spurred Rienzi up to the angle, a11l1 with a bound the horse
carried his rider over the earthworks, and landed in the midst of a line
of prisoners who had thrown down their arms and were crouching close
under their breastworks. Some of them calIed out: "\Vhar do you
want us-all to go to?" Then Sheridan's rage turned to humor, and
he bad a running talk witb the "Johnnies" as they filed past. "Go
right over there," he said to them, pointing to the rear. "Get right
along, now. Drop your guns; you'lI never need them any more. Y ou'n
all be safe over there. Are there any more of you? \Ve want every
one of you fe]]ows." Nearly fifteen hundred were captured at the angle.
An orderly here came up to Sheridan and said: "Colonel Forsyth of
your staff is kiIIed, sir." "It's no such thing," cried Sheridan. " I
don't believe a word of it. You'll find Forsyth's all right." Ten min-
utes after, Forsyth rode up. It was the gallant General Frederick Win-
throp who had fallen in the assault anù bad been mistaken for him.
Sheridan did not even seem surprised when be saw Forsyth, and only
said: "There! I told you so." I mention this as an instance of a pecu-
liar trait of Sheridan's character, which never a]]owed him to be dis-
com'aged by camp rumors, however disastrous.
The dismounted cavalry had assaulted as soon as they heard the
infantry fire open. The natty cavalr.rmen, with tight-fitting uniforms,
short jackets, and small carbines, swarmeù through the pine thickets
and dense ullùergrowth, looking as if they had 1een especially equipped
for crawling through knot-holes. Those who had magazine guns cre-
ated a racket in those pine woods that sounded as if a couple of army
corps bad opened fire.
The cavalry commanded by the gallant :Merritt made a final dash,
went over the earthworks with a hurrah, captured a battery of artiIlery,
and scattered everything in front of them. Here Custer, Devin, Fitz-
hugh, and the other cavalry leaders were in their element, and vied
with each other in deeds of valor. Crawford's division had advanced
in a northerly direction, marching awa
r from Ayres and leaving a gap
between the two divisions. General Sheridan sent nearly alI of his staff
officers to correct this movement, aHd to finù General \Van'en, whom he
was anxious to see.
After the capture of the angle I started off toward the right to see
bow matters were going there. I went in the direction of Crawford's
division, passed arounù the left of the enemy's works, then rode due
west to a point beyond the Ford roaù. IIere I met Sheridan again, just
a little before dark. He was laboring with all the energy of his nature
1861-88]
HORAGE PORTER.
509
to complete the destruction of the enemy's forces, and to make prepara-
tion to protect his own detached command from an attack by Lee in the
morning. He said he had relieved '\Varren, directed him to report in
person to General Grant, and placed Griffin in command of the Fifth
Corps. 1 had sent frequent bulletins during the da)' to the general-in-
chief, and now despatehed a courier announcing the change of corps
commanders and giving the general result of the round-up.
Sheridan had that day fought one of the most interesting technical
battles of the war, almost perfect in conception, brilliant in execution,
strikingly dramatic in its incidents, and proùuctive of immensely impor-
tant results.
About half-past seven o'clock I started for general headquarters. The
roads in places were corduroyeù with captured muskets. Ammunition
trains and ambulances were still struggling forward for miles; teamsters
prisoners, stragglers, and wounded were choking the roadway. The
coffee-boilers had kindled their fires. Cheers were resounding on an
sides, and everybody was riotous over the victory. .A hor8-cman had to
pick his way through this jubilant condition of things as be
t he could,
as he did not have the right of way by any means. I travelled again
by way of the Brooks road. As I galloped past a group of men ou the
Boydton plank, my orderly called out to them the news of tbe victory.
The only respom;;e he got was from one of them who raised his open
hand to his face, put his thumb to his nose, and yeJIed: "No, you don.t
-April fool!" I then realized that it was the 1st of April. I had
ridden so rapidly that I reached headquarters at Dabne.v's Mill before
the arrival of the last courier I had despatcbed. General Grant was f'it-
ting with most of the staff about him before a blazing camp-fire. He
wore his blue cavalry overcoat, and the ever-present cigar was in his
mouth. I began shouting the good news as soon as I got in sight, and
in a moment all but the imperturbable general-in-chief were on their feet
giving vent to wild demonstrations of joy. For some minutes there wa
a bewildering state of excitement, grasping- of hands, tossing up of hats,
and slapping of each other on the back. It meant the beginning of the
end-the reaching of the "last ditch." It pointed to peace and home.
Dignity was thrown to tbe winds. rrhe general, as waR expected, asked
his usual question; "How many prisoners have been taken?" This
was always his first inquiry when an engagement was reported. No
man ever had such a fondness for taking prisoners. I think the gratifi-
cation arose from the kindness of his heart. a feeling that it was much
better to win in this way than by the destruction of human life. I was
happy to report that the prisoners this time were estimated at over five
thousand, and this was the only part of my recital that seemed to call
forth a responsive expression from his usually impassive features. After
510
HORACE PORTER.
[1861-88
having listened to the description of Sheridan's day's work, the general,
with scarcely a word, walked into his tent, and by the light of a flicker-
ing candle took up his "manifold writer," a small book which retained
a copy of the 1natter wri tten, and after finishing several despatches
hamled them to an orderly to be sent over the field-wires, came out and
joined our group at the camp-fire. and said as coolly as if remarking
upon the state of the weather: "I have ordered an immediate ass
ult
along the lines." This was about 9 o'cluck.
General Grant was anxious to have the different commands move
against the enemy's lines at once, to prevent Lee from withdrawing
troops and sending them against Sheridan. General Meade was all
activity and so alive to the situation, and so anxious to carry out the
orders of the general-in-chief, that he sent word that he was going to
have the troops make a clash at the works without waiting to form
assaulting co] umns. General Grant, at 9.30 P. 1.I., sent a message saying
he did not mean to bave tbe corps attack without assaulting columns,
but to let the batteries open at once and to feel out with skirmishers;
and. if the enemy was found to be leaving, to let the troops attack in
their own way. The corps' commanders reported that it would be
impracticable to make a successful assault till morning, but sent back
replies full of enthusiasm.
The hour for the general assault was now fixed at 4 the next morn-
ing. :Miles was ordered to march with his division at midnight to reën-
force Sheridan and enable him to make a stand against Lee, in case he
should movp westward in the night. The general had not been unmind-
ful of Mr. Lincoln's anxiety. Soon after my arrival he telegraphed
him: "I have just heard from Sheridan. He has carried everything
before him. He has captured three brigades o'f infantry and a train of
wagons, and is now pushing up his success." He had this news also
communicated to the several corps commanders, in accordance with his
invariable custom to let the different commands feel that they were
being kept informed of the general movements, and to encourage them
and excite their emulation b,y notifying them of the success of other
commanders. A little after midnight the general tucked himself into
his camp-bed, and was soon sleeping as peacefully as if the next day
were to be devoted to a picnic instead of a decisi ve battle.
About 3 A. M. Colonel F. C. Newhall, of Sheridan's staff, rode up
bespattered with more than the usual amount of Virginia soil. He haù
the latest report from Sheridan, anù as the general-in-chief would, 110
doubt, want to take this opportunity of sending further instructions as
to the morning's operations on the extreme left, he was wakened, anù
listened to the report from Newhall, who stood by the bedside to deliver
it. The genera] tolù him of the preparations being made by the Army
1861-88]
HORACE PORTER.
511
of the Potomac, and the necessity of Sheriùan's looking out for a push in
his direction by Lee, and then began his sleep again where he had left
off. NewLan then started to take another fifteen-mile ride back to
Sheridan. Everyone at headquarters had caught as many cat-naps as
he could, so as to be able to keep both e.ves open the next day, in the
hope of getting a sight of Petersburg, anù possil,ly of Richmond. And
now 4 o'clock came, but no assault. It was found that to remove aba-
tis, climb over chevaux-de-frise, jump rifle-pits, and scale parapets. a
little daylight would be of material assistance. ,At 4.45 there was a
streak of gray in the heavens which soon revealed another streak of
gray formed by Confederate uniforms in the works opposite, and the
charge was ordered. The thunder of hundreds of guns shook the
ground like an earthquake, and soon the troops were engaged all along
tbe lines. The general awaited the result of the assault at headquarters,
where be could be easily communicated with, and from which he could
give general directions.
At a quarter past five a message came from \V right that he haù car-
ried the enemy's line and was pushing in. Next came news from Parke.
that he had captured tbe outer works in his front, with tweh-e pieces of
artillery and eight hundred prisoners. At 6.40 the general wrote a tele-
gram with his own hand to ,Mr. Lincoln, as follows: " Both Wright and
Parke got through the enemy's line. rrhe battle now rages furiously.
Sheridan with his cavalry, the Fifth Corps, and
Iiles's division of the
Second Corps I sent to him since 1 this morning, is sweeping down from
the west. All now looks highly favorable. Ord is en@:aged, but I have
not yet heard the result on his part." A cheering despatch was also
sent to Sheridan, winding up with the words: "I think nothing is now
wanting but the approach of your force from the west to nnish up the
job on tbis side."
Soon Ord was heard from, having broken through the intrenchments.
Humphreys, too, had been doing gallant work; at half-past seven tLe line
in his front was captured, and half an hour later Hays's division of his
corps had carried an important earthwork, with three guns and most of the
garrison. At 8.25 A. 111. the general sat down to write another telegram
to the President, summing up the progress made. Before he had finishf'd
it a despatch was brought in from Ord saying some of his troops hall
just captured the enemy's works south of Hatcher's Hun, and this news
was added to the tidings which the general was sending to :\11'. Lincoln.
Tbe general and staff now rode out to the front, as it was necessary to
give immediate direction to the actual movements of the troops, and pre-
vent confusion from the overlapping and intermingling of the several
corps as they pushed forward. He urged his horse over the works that
W right's corps had captured, and suddenly came upon a body of three
512
HORACE PORTER.
[1861-88
thousand prisoners marching to tbe rear. His whole attention was for
some time riveted upon tbem, and we knew he was enjoying his usual
satisfaction in seeing them. Some of the guards told the prisoners who
the general was, and they became wild with curiosity to get a good look
at him. N ext he came up witb a division of the Sixth Corps flusbed
with success, and rushing forward with a dash that was inspiriting
beyond description. 'Vhen they caugbt sight of the leader, whom they
had patiently followed from the Rapidan to the Appomattox. their cheers
broke forth with a will, and their enthusiasm knew no bounds. The
general galloped along toward the right, and soon met Meade, with
wbom he had been in constant communication, and who had been push-
ing forward the Army of the Potomac with all vigor. Congratulations
were quickly excbanged, and both went to pushing forward tbe work.
General Grant, after taking in the situation, directed botb :Meade and
Ord to face tbeir commands toward tbe east, and close up toward the
inner lines which covered Petersburg. Lee had been pushed so vigor-
ously that he seemed for a time to be making but little effort to recover
any of bis lost ground, but now he made a determined fight against
Parke's corps, which was threatening his inner line on his extreme left
and the bridge across tbe Appomattox. Repeated assaults were made,
but Parke resisted them all successfuny, and could not be moved from
his position. Lee bad ordered Longstreet from the north side of the
James, and with these troops reënforced bis extreme right. General
Grant dismounted near a farm-house which stood on a knoll within a
mile of the enemy's extreme line, and from which he could get a good
view of the field of operations. He seated himseH at tbe foot of a tree,
and was soon busy receiving despatches and writing orders to officers
conducting the advance. The position was under fire, and as soon as
tbe group of staff officers was seen the enemy's guns began paying their
respects. This lasted for nearly a quarter of an hour, and as the fire
became batter and hotter several of the officers, apprehensive of the
general's safety, urged him to move to some less conspicuous position,
but he kept on writing and talking without the least interruption from
the I:;hots falling around him, and apparently not noticing what a target
the place was becoming. After he had finished his despatches, he got
up, took a view of tbe situation, and as he started toward tbe other side
of the farm-house said, with a qui7.zical look at the group around him:
" Well. they do seem to have the range on us." The staff was now sent
to various points of tbe advancing lines, and all was activity in pressing
forward tbe good work. By noon, nearly aU tbe outer line of works
was in our possession, except two strong redoubts which occupied a
commanding position, named respectively Fort Gregg and Fort 'Vbit-
worth. The general decided that these should be stormed, and about 1
1861-881
HORACE PORTER.
513
o'clock three of Ord's brigades swept down upon Fort Gregg. The gar-
rison of three hundred (under Lieutenant-Colonel J. II. Duncan) with
two rifled cannon made a desperate defence, and a most gallant contest
took place. For half an hour after our men had gained the parapet a
bloody hand-to-hand struggle continued, but nothing could stand against
the onslaught of Ord's troops, flushed with their morning's victory. By
half-past two, fifty-seven of the brave garrison lay dead, and about two
hunùred and fifty had surrendered. Fort \Vhitworth was at once aban-
doned, but the guns of Fort Gregg were opened upon the garrison as
they marched out, and the commander (Colonel Joseph 11. Jayne) anù
six tv men were surrendered.
Ãbout this time :Miles had siruck a force of the enemy at Suther-
land's Station, on Lee's extreme right, and had captured two pieces of
artillery and nearly a thou
and prisoners. At 4.40 the general, who
had been keeping :Mr. Lincoln fully advised of the history that was so
rapidly being made tbat day, sent him a telegram inviting him to come
out the next day amI pay him a visit. A prompt reply came back from
the President, saying: ,( Allow me to tender you and all with you the,
nation's grateful thanks for the additional and magnificent success. At
your kind suggestion, I think I will meet you to-morrow."
Prominent officers now urged the general to make an assault on the:
inner lines and capture Petersburg tbat afternoon, but he was firm in,
his resolve not to sacrifice the lives necessary to accomplish such a result.
lIe
aid the city would undoubtedly be evacuated during the night, and
he would dispose the troops for a parallel march westward, and try to
head off tbe escaping army. And thus ended the eventful Sunday.
rrhe general was up at daylight the next morning, and the first report
brought in was that Parke had gone through the lines at 4 A. )L, captur-
ing a few skirmishers, anù that the city had surrendereù at 4.28 to.
Colonel Ralph Ely. A
econd communication surrendering the place
was sent in to \V right. rrhe evacuation had begun about 10 the night
before, and was completed before 3 on the morning of the 3d. Between
5 and 6 A. M. the general had a conference with :Meade, and orders were
given to push westward with all haste. About 9 A. M. the general rode
into Petersburg. Many of the citizens, panic-stricken, had escaped with
the arm,'"-
rost of the whites who remained stayed indoors, a few
groups of negroes gave cheers, but the scene generally was one of com-
plete desertion. Grant rode along quietly with his staff until he C3me
to a comfortable-looking briek house, with a yard in front, situated on
one of the principal streets, and here he and the officers accompanying
him dismounted and took seats on the piazza. A number of tbe citizens
soon gathered on the sidewalk and gaze
with eager curiosity upon the
commanùer of the Yankee armies.
VOL. IX. -33
514
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1861-88
([ètl\t1artl ægglc
ton.
BORN in Vevay, Ind., 1837.
ABRAHAl\I LIXCOLN'S DEFENCE OF TOM GRAYSON.
[The Graysons. 1888,]
T HE people who had seats in the court-room were, for the most part,
too wise in their generation to vacate them during the noon recess.
Jake Hogan clambered down from his uncomfortable window-roost for a
little while, and Bob
lcCord took a plunge into the grateful fresh air,
but both got back in time to secure their old points of observation. The
lawyers came back early, and long before the judge returned the ruddy-
faced Magill was seated behind his little desk, facing the crowd and pre-
tending to write. lle was ill at ease; the heart of the man had gone out
to Tom. He never for a moment doubted that Tom kiIled Lockwood,
but then a sneak like Lockwood "richly desarved it," in l\lagiIl's esti-
mation. Judge Watkins's austere face assumed a yet more severe
expression; for though pity never interfered with justice in his nature,
it often rendered the old man unhappy, and therefore more than usually
irascible.
r.l'here was a painful pause after the judge had taken his seat and
ordered the prisoner brought in. It was like a wait before a funeral ser-
vice, but rendered ten times more distressing by the element of suspense.
The judge's quilI pen could be heard scratching on the paper as he noted
points for his charge to the jury. To Hiram
lason the whole trial was
unendurable. The law had the aspect of a relentless boa-constrictor,
slowly winding itself about Tom, while all these spectators, with merely
a curious interest in the horrible, watched the process. The deadly
creature had now to make but one more coil, and then, in its cruel and
deliberate fashion, it would proceed to tighten its twists until the poor
boy should be done to death. Barbara and the mother were entwined
by this fate as well, while Hiram had not a little :finger of help for them.
He watched Lincoln as he took seat in moody silence. 'Vhy had the
lawyer not done anything to help Tom? Any other lawyer with a
desperate case would have had a stack of la\v.-books in front of him, as a
sort of dam against the flood. But Lincoln had neither law-books nor
so much as a scrap of paper.
The prosecuting attorney, with a taste for climaxes, reserved his chief
witness to the last. Even now he was not ready to call Sovine. He
would add one more stone to the pyramid of presumptive proof before
he capped it all with certainty. Markham was therefore put up to
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1861-88]
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
515
identify the old pistol which he had found in Tom's room. Lincoln
again waived cross-examination. Blackman felt certain that be himself
could have done better. Be mental1y constructed the questions that
should have been put to the deputy sheriff. '\V' as the pistol bot when
you found it? Did it smell of powder? Did tbe family make any
objection to }Tour search? Even if the judge bad ruled out such ques-
tions the jury would have heard tbe questions, and a question often has
weight in spite of rulings from the bench. The prosecuting attorney
began to feel sure of his own case; he had come to his last witness and
his great stroke.
"Call David Sovine," he said, wiping his brow and looking relieved.
"David Sovine! David Sovine! David Sovine!" cried the sheriff in
due and ancient form, though David sat almost within wbispering dis-
tance of bim.
The witness stood up.
" Howld up your roight hand," said the clerk.
Then when Dave's right hand was up :\lagill rattled off the form of the
oath in the most approved and clerkly style, only adding to its effect by
the mild brogue of his pronunciation.
"Do sol'm swear 't yull tell th' truth, th' 'ole truth, en nuthin' b' th'
truth, s' yilpye God," said the clerk, without once pausing for breath.
Sovine ducked his head and dropped his hand, and the solemnity was
over.
Dave, who was evidently not accustomed to stand before such a crowd,
appeared embarrassed. TIe had deteriorated in appearance lately. His
pat
t-leather shoes were bright as ever, his trousers were trimly held
down by straps, his hair was well kept in place with bear's oil or what
was sold for bear's oil, but there was a nervousness in his expression
and carriage that gave him the air of a man who has been drinking to
excess. Tom looked at him with defiance, but Dave was standing at
the right of the judge, while the prisoner's dock was on the left, and the
witness did not regard Tom at a 11, but told bis story with clearness.
Something of the bold assurance which he displayed at the inquest was
lacking. His coarse face twitched and quivered, and this appeared to
annoy him; he sought to hide it by an affectation of nonchalance, as he
rested his weight now on one foot and now on the other.
"Do you know the prisoner? " asked the prosecutor, with a motion of
his head toward the dock.
" Yes, wen enough"; but in saying this Dave did not look toward
Tom, but out of the window.
" You've played cards with him, haven't you? "
" Yes. "
"Ten his lIonor and the jury when and where you played with him."
516
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1861-88
U \Ve played one night last July, in Wooden & Snyder's store."
"\Vho proposed to Tom to play with you? "
"George Lockwood. He hollered up the stove-pipe for Tom to come
down an' take a game or two with me."
,. What did you win tnat night from Tom?"
U Thirteen dollars, an' his hat an' coat an' boots an' his han'ke'chi'f an'
knife."
"\Vho, if anybody, lent him the money to get back his things which
you had won?"
" George Lockwood."
Here tbe counsel paused a moment, laid down a memorandum he
had been using, and looked about his table until he found another; then
he resumed his questions.
" rrell the jury whether you were at the Timber Creek camp-meeting
on the 9th of August."
" Yes; I was,"
"What did you see there? TeIl about the Rhooting."
Dave told the story, with a little prompting in the way of questions
from the lawyer, substantialIy as he had told it at the coroner's inquest.
He related his parting from Lockwood, Tom's appearance on the scene,
Tom's threatening speech, Lockwood's entreaty that rrom would not
shoot him, and then Tom's shooting. In making these statements Dave
looked at the stairway in the corner of the court-room with an air of
entire indifference, and he even made one or two efforts to yawn, as
though the case was a rather dull affaIr to him.
,. How far away from :Mason and Lockwood were you when the
shooting took place? " asked the prosecutor.
" Twenty foot or more,"
U \Vhat did Tom shoot with? "
" A pistol."
U '\Vhat kind of a pistol? "
"One of the ole-fashion' sort-Bint-Iock, weth a ruther long barreI."
The pro
ecuting lawyer now beckoned to the sheriff, who handed
down to him, from off his high desk, Tom's pistol.
"TeII the jury whether this looks like the pistoI."
"'Twas just such a one as that. I can't say it was that, but it was
hung to the stock Ii ke that., an' about as long in the barrel."
" What did Grayson do when he had shot George, and what did you
do ? "
"Tom run off as fast as his feet could carry him, an' I went up
tov'ards George, who'd fell over. He was dead ag'inst I could get there.
Then purty soon the crowd come a-runnin' up to see what the fracas
was. "
1861-88]
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
517
After bringing out some further details Al1en turned to his opponent
with an air of confidence and said:
" You can have the witness, :Mr. Lincoln."
There was a brief pause, during which the jurymen changed their
positions on the hard seats, making a little rustle as they took their right
legs from off their left and hung their left legs over their right knees, or
vice versa. In making these changes they looked inquiringly at one
another, and it was clear that their minds were so well made up that
even a judge's charge in favor of the prisoner, if such a thing had
been conceivable, would have gone for nothing. Lincoln at length rose
slowly from his chair, and stood awhile in silence, regarding Sovine,
who seemed excited and nervous, and who visibly paled a little as his
eyes sought to escape from the lawyer's gaze.
" You said you were with Lockwood just before the shooting?" the
counsel a.sked.
,. Yes." Dave was all alert and answered promptl,v.
,. \Vere you not pretty close to him when he was shot?"
" No, I wa
n't," said Dave, his suspicions excited by this mode of
attack. It appeared that the lawyer, for some reason, wanted to make
him confess to having been nearer to the scene and perhaps implicated,
and he therefore resolved to fight off.
" Are you sure you were as much as ten feet away? "
" I was more than twenty," said Dave, huskily.
"\Vhat had you and George Lockwood been doing together? "
"\Ve'd been-talking." :ManifestIy Dave took fresh alarm at this
line of questioning.
"Oh, you had? "
" Yes."
"In a friendly way? "
" Yes, tubby shore; we never had any fuss."
" You parted from him as a friend? "
" Yes, of cou rse."
"By the time Tom came up you'd got-how far away? Be careful
now. "
" I've told you twiste. More than twenty feet."
"Y ou might have been mistaken about its being Tom then?"
" No, I wasn't."
" Did you know it was Tom before he fired? "
"Tubby shore, I did."
"vYhat time of night was it? "
'Long towards 10, I sb'd think."
" It mig-ht have been 11 ? "
" No, 't wus n't later'n about 10." This was said doggedly.
518
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1861-88
" N or before 9 ? "
"No, 't wus nigh onto 10, I said.:' And the witness showed some
irritation, and spoke louder than before.
" How far away were you from tbe pulpit and meeting-place?"
" 'Twixt a half a mile an' a mile."
" Not over a mile? "
" No, skiercely a mile."
"But don't you think it might have been a little less tban half a
mile? "
"No, it's nigh onto a mile. I didn't meaf:ure it, but it's a mighty big
three-quarters. "
'rbe witness answered combatively, and in this mood he made a bet-
ter impression than he did on his direct examination. The prosecut-
ing attorney looked relieved. Tom listened with an attention painful
. to see, his eyes moving anxiously from Lincoln to Dave as be wondered
w hat point in Dave's armor the lawyer could be driving at. lie saw
plainly that his sal vation was staked on some last throw.
" You didn't have any candle in your hand, did you, at any time dur-
ing the evening?"
"No!" said Dave, positively. For some reason this question discon-
certed him and awakened his suspicion. "'Vhat should we have a
candle for? " he added.
" Did either George Lockwood or Tom have a candle? "
"No, of course not! 'Vhat'd they have candles for?"
"'Vhere were the lights on the camp-ground?"
"Closte by the preachers' tent."
"l\fore than three-quarters of a mile away from tbe place where the
murder took place? "
" Anyway as much as three-quarters," said Dave, who began to wish
that he could modify his previous statement of the distance.
"How far away were you from Lockwood wben the murder took
place? "
" Twenty feet. .,
" You said' or more' awhile ago."
" 'V ell, 't wus n't no less, p'r'aps," said Dave, showing signs of worry.
" You don't think I measured it, do yeh? "
"There were no lights nearer than three-quarters of a mile? "
" No," said the witness. the cold perspiration beading on his face as
he saw Lincoln's trap opening to receive hi.m.
"Y ou don't mean to say that the platform torches up by the preach-
ers' tent gave any light three-quarters of a mile away and in the
woods? "
" No, of course not."
1861-8tJJ
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
519
U How could you see Tom and know tbat it was he that fired, when
the only light was nearly a mile away, and inside a. circle of tents? "
U Saw by moonlight," said Sovine, snappishly, disposed to dash at any
gap that offered a possible way of escape.
" \Vhat sort of trees were there on the ground? "
" Beech."
"Beech-leaves are pretty thick in August? " asked Lincoln.
" Y e-es, ruther," gasped the witness, seeing a new pitfall yawning just
abead of him.
"And yet light enough from the moon came through these thick
beech-trees to let you know Tom Grayson? I'
" Yes."
" And you could see him shoot? "
" Yes."
" And you full twenty feet away? "
"vVell, about that; nearly twenty, anyhow." Dave shifted his weight
to his right foot.
"And you pretend to say to this court that by tbe moonJight that
JOu got through the beech-trees in August you could even see that it
was a pistol that Tom had?"
" Y e-es." Dave now stood on his left foot.
"And you could see what kind of a pistol it was?" This was said
with a little lau
h very exasperating to the witness.
" Yes, I could," answered Dave, with dogged resolution not to be faced
down.
"And just how the barrel was hung to the stock?" There was a
positive sneer in Lincoln's voice now.
" Yes." This was spoken feebly.
"And you twenty feet or more away?"
" I've got awful good eyes, an' I know what I see," whined the wit-
ness apologeticaIl.y.
Here Lincoln paused and looked at Sovine, whose extreme distress
was only made the more apparent by his feeble endeavor to conceal his
agitation. The counsel, after regarding his uneasy victim for a quar-
ter of a minute, thrust his band into the tail-pocket of his blue coat, and
after a little needle
s fumbling drew forth a smaIl pamphlet in green
covers. lIe turned the leaves of this with extreme deliberation, while
the court-room was utterly silent. The members of the bar had as by
general consent put their chairs down on aU-fours, and were intently
watching the 8tru
gle between the cOlm
el and the witness. The sallow-
faced judge had stopped the scratching of his quill, and had lowered his
spectacles on his nose, that he might stndy tbe distressed face of the
tormented Sovine. :Mrs. Grayson's hands were on her lap, palms down-
520
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1861-88
ward; her eyes were fixed on Abra'm, and her month was balf open, as
though she were going to speak.
Lincoln appeared to be the only perfectly deliberate person in the room.
lIe seemed disposed to protract the situation as long as possible. He held
his victim on tbe rack and he let him suffer. He would turn a leaf or
two in his pampblet and then look up at the demoralized witness, as
though to fathom the depth of his torture and to measure the result.
At last he fixed his thumb firmly at a certain place on a page and turned
his eyes to the judge.
" Now, your Honor," he said to the court, "this witness," with a half.
contemptuous gesture of his awkward left band toward Sovine, "has
sworn over amI over tbat he recognized the accused as the person w 10
shot George Lockwood, near the Union camp-meeting on the night of
the 9th of last August, and that he, the witness, was standing at the time
twenty feet or more away, while the scene of tbe shooting was nearly a
mile distant from the torches inside the circle of tents. So remarkably
sharp are this witness's eyes that he even saw what kind of a pistol the
prisoner held in his hands, and how the barrel was hung to the stock,
and he is able to identify this pistol of Grayson's as precisely like and
probably the identical weapon." Here Lincoln paused and scrutinized
Sovine. "All these details he saw and observed in the brief space of
time preceding the fatal shot-saw and observed them at 10 o'clock at
night, by means of moonlight Bhining through the trees-beech-trees in
fullleaf. That is a pretty bard story. How much light does even a full
moon shed in a beech woods like that ()n the Union camp-ground ? Not
enough to see your way by, as everybody knows who bas bad to stum-
ble through such woods." Lincoln paused here, that the words he had
spoken might have time to produce their due effect on the judge, and
especially on the slower wits of some of the jury. :Meanwhile he turned
the leaves of his pamphlet. Then he began once more: "But, may
it please the court, before proceeding with the witness I would like
to have the jury look at the almanac which I hold in my hand. They
will here see that on the night of the 9th of last August, when this
extraordinary witness" -with a sneer at Dave, who had sunk down on
a ehair in exbaustion-" saw the shape of a pistol at twenty feet away,
at 10 o'clock, by moonlight, the moon did not rise until half-past 1 in
the morning."
Sovine had been gasping like a fish newly taken from the water while
Lincoln uttered these words, and he now began to mutter something.
" You may have a chance to explain when the jury get done looking
at the almanac," said the lawyer to him. II For the :present you'd better
keep silence."
There was a rustle of excitement in the court-room, but at a word
1861-88]
B7JW ARD EGGLESTON.
521
from the judge the sheriff's gavel fell and all was still. Lincoln walked
slowly toward the jury-box and gave the almanac to the foreman, an
intelligent farmer. Countrymen in that day were used to consulting
almanacs, and one group after another of tbe jurymen satisfied them-
selves that on the night of the 9th, that is, on the morning of the 10th,
thc moon came up at half-past 1 o'clock. '\Vhen all Lad examined the
page, the counsel recovered his little book.
"'Vin you let me look at it? " asked the judge.
" Certainly, your Honor"; and the little witness was handed up to the
judge, who with habitual caution looked it all over, outside and in, even
examining the title-page to make sure tbat the book was genuine and
belonged to tbe current year. rrhen he took note on a slip of paper of
the moon's rising on the night of August 9 and 10, and handed back
the almanac to Lincoln, who slowly laid it face downward on the table
in front of him, open at the place of its testimony. The audience in tbe
court-room was utterly silent and expectant. The prosecuting attorney
got half-way to his feet to object to Lincoln's course, but be thought bet-
ter of it and sat down again.
"Now, may it please the court," Lincoln went on, "I wish at this
point to make a motion. I think the court will not regard it as out of
order, as the case is very exceptional-a matter of life and death. This
witness has scXemnly sworn to a story that ha.;; manifestly not one word
of truth in it. It is one unhroken falsehood. In order to take away the
life of an innocent man he has invented this atrocious web of lies. to the
falsity of which the very heavens above bear witness, as this almanac
shows you. Now why does David Sovine go to aU this trouble to per-
jure himself? 'Vhy does he wish to swear away the life of that young
man who never did him any harm?" Lincoln stood still a moment,
and looked at the witness, who had grown ghastly pale about the lips.
Then he went on, \Tery slowly. " Because that witness shot and killed
George IJockwood himself. I move, your Honor, that David Sovine be
arrested at once for munIer."
These wor(ls, spoken with extreme deliberation and careful emphasis,
shook the audience like an explosion.
The prosecutor got to his feet, probably to suggest that the motion
was not in order, since he had yet a right to a redirect examination of
Sovine, but, as the attorney for the State, his duty was now a clivi(led
one as reganled two men charged with the same crime. So he waved
his hand irresolutely, stammered inarticulately, and sat down.
"This is at 1cast a case of extraordinary perjury," said tlle judge.
"Sheriff, arrest David Sovine! This matter will have to be looked into."
The sheriff came down from his seat, and went up to the now stunned
and bewildered Sovine.
522
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1861-88
" I arrest :you," he said, taking him by the arm.
The day-and-night fear of detection in which Dave had lived for all
these weeks had wrecked his self-control at last.
"God!" he muttered, dropping his head with a sort of shudder.
" ,rrain't any use keepin' it back any longer. I-didn't mean to shoot
him, an' I wouldn't 'a' come here ag'inst Tom if I could 'a' got away."
r.rhe words appeared to be wrung from him by some internal agony
too strong for him to master; they were the involuntary result of the
breaking down of his forces under prolonged suffering and terror, cul-
minating in the slow torture inflicted by his cross-examination. A min-
ute later, when his spasm of irresolution had passed off, lIe would have
retracted his confession if he could. But tbe sheriff's deputy, with the
assistance of a constable, was already leading him through the swaying
crowd in the aisle, while many people got up anù stood on the benches
to watch the exit of the new prisoner. \Vhen at lenf!th Sovine had dis-
appeared out of the door the spectators turned and looked at Tom, sit-
ting yet in the dock, but with the certainty of speedy rclease before him.
The whole result of Lincoln's masterful stroke was now for the first time
realized, and the excitement bade fair to break over bounds. :McCord
douLled himself up once or twice in the effort to repress his feelings out
of respect for the court, but his emotions were too much for him j his
big fist, grasping his ragged hat, appeared above his head.
"Goshamity! Hooray!" he burst out with a stentorian voice, stamp-
ing his foot as he waved his hat. .
At this the whole court-roomful of people burst into cheers, laughter,
cries, and waving of hats and handkerchiefs, in spite of the sheriff's
sharp rapping and shouts of "Order in court!" And when at length
tbe people were quieted a little,
Irs. Grayson spoke up, with a choking
VOIce:
" J edge, ain't you a-goin' to let him go now? "
There was a new movement of feeling, and the judge called out:
"Sheriff, order in court!" But his voice was husky and tremulous.
He took off his spectacles to wipe them, and he looked out of the win-
dow behind him, and put his handkerchief first to one eye, then to the
other, before he put his glasses back.
"
[ay it please the court," said the tan lawyer, who had remained
standing, waiting for the tempest to subside, and who now spoke in a
subdued voice, "I move, your Honor, that the jury be instructed to ren-
der a verdict of 'Not guilty.'" The judge turned to the prosecuting
attorney.
" I don't think, your Honor," stammered Allen, "that I ought to ob-
ject to the motion of my learned brother, under the peculiar circum-
stances of this case."
1861-88]
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
523
" I don't think you ought," said the judge promptly, and he proceeded
to give the jury instructions to render the desired verdict. As soon as
the jury, nothing loath, had gone through the formality of a verdict, the
sheriff came and opened the door of the box to allow Tom to come out.
"0 Tom! they are letting you out," cried Janet, running forward to
meet him as he came from the dock. She had not quite understood the
drift of these last proceedings until this moment.
This greeting by little Janet induced another burst of excitement. It
was no longer of any use for the judge to keep on saying " Sheriff, com-
mand order in court!" All tbe sheriff's rapping was in vain; it was
impossible to arrest anù fine everybody. 1.'he judge was compeJIed to
avail him
e1f of the only means of saving the court's dignity by adjourn-
ing for the day, while
frs. Grayson was already embracing bel' 1'ommy
under his very eyes.
The lawyers presently congratulated Lincoln, Barbara tried to thank
him, and J udge Watkins felt that Impartial Justice herself, as repre-
sented in his own person, could afford to praise tbe young man for his
conduct of the case.
" Abr'am," said :Mrs. Grayson, " d' yeh know I kind uv lost confidence
in you when you sot there so long without doin' anything." Then, after
a moment of pause: "Abr'am, I'm thinkin' I'd ort to deed you my farm.
You've 'arned it, my son; the good Lord ..A'mighty knows you have."
" I'll never take one cent, Aunt 1farthy-not a single red cent"; and
the lawyer turned away to grasp Tom's hand. But the poor fellow who
had so recently felt the halter about his neck could not yet speak his
gratitude. " Tom here," said Lincoln, "will be a help in your old days,
Aunt 1farthy, and then I'll be paid a hundred times. You see it'll
tickle me to think that when you talk about this you'll say: 'That's
the same Abe Lincoln that I used to knit stockings for when he was a
poor little fellow, with his bare toes sticking out of ragged shoes in the
snow.' "
COURTSHIP AND l\IARRIAGE IN TIlE COLONIES.
[Sodnl Life in the Colonies.-The Century JIagazine. 1883.]
T ilE traveller Josselyn gives us a glimpse of seventeenth-century
"gallants," promenading with their sweethearts, on Boston Com-
mon, from a little before sunset till the nine o'clock bell gave warning of
the lawfully establiRhed bed-time. This picture of twilight and love
lends a touch of human feeling to the severely regulated life of the
Puritan country. But even love-making in that time was made to keep
524
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1861-88
to the path appointed by those in authority. Fines, imprisonment
, and
corporal punishment were the penalties denounced in New England
against him who shoulù inveigle the affections of any" maide, or maide
servant," unless her parents or guardians should" give way and allow-
ance in that respect." Nor were such laws dead letters. In all tbe col-
onies sentiment was les
regarded than it is now. The worlùly estate of
the parties was weighed in even balances, and there were sometimes con-
ditional marriage treaties between the parents, before the young people
were consulted. Jud
e Sewall's daughter Betty hid herself in her
father's coach for hours one night, to
l\roid meeting an unwelcome
suitor approved by her father. Sometimes marriage agreements between
tbe parents of the betrothed extended even to arrangements for bequests
to be left to the young people, as "incorridgement for a livelihood."
The new
paper
of the later period, following English examples, not only
praised the bride, but did not hesÏtate to mention her "large fortune,"
that people Illight know the elements of the bridegroom's 11appines8.
But if p
s
ion was unùer more constraint from self-interest among
people of the upper class, it was less restrained by refinement in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries than it is in our time.
'rhe mode of courtship known as bundling or tarrying-the very
name of which one hesitates to write to-clay-was prevalent in certain
regions of New England, especially in the COllnecticut Valley. The
practice existed in many parts of Europe, auù is said still to linger in
\Vales. It was no doubt brought from England b:"T early immigrants.
That it could flourish throughout the whole colonial age, alongside a
system of doctrine and practice so austere as that enforced by New
Englanù divines and magistrates, is but one of many instances of the
failure of law a11(1 restraining precept to work a refinement of manners.
That during much more than a centulT after the settlement this prac-
t tice founù none to challenge it on grounùs of modesty and moral ten-
dency, goes to show how powerful is the sanetion of traditional custom.
Even when it wa:;: attacked by Jonathan Edwarùs and other innova-
tors, the attempt to abolish it was met by violent opposition and no
end of ridicule. Edwards seems to think that as "amoll
people who
pretend to uphold their credit," it was peculiar to New England; and
there appears to be no evidence that it was practised elsewhere in Amer-
ica, except in parts ûf Pennsylvania, where the custom is a matter of
court record so late as 184õ, and where it probablJ still lingers in out-of-
the-way places among people both of Englisb and of German extraction.
A certain grossness in the relations of the sexes was a trait of
eighteenth-century life, not confined to rustics and people in humble
stations. In the "Journal of a Young Lady of Virginia," the writer
complains more than once of the freeùoms of certain married gentlemen
1861-88]
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
525
of bel' acquaintance, "who seized me and kis
ed me a dozen times in
spite of all the resistance I could make."
fiss Sarah Eve, of Philadel-
phia, bas likewise recorded in a private journal her objections to the
affectionate salutations bestowed on her in company by a Dr. S. "One
hates to be always kissed," she says, "especially as it is attended with
80 many inconveniences: it decomposes the ceconomy of one's handker-
chiif', it disorders one's high Roll, and it ruffles the serenity of one's coun-
tenance." Perhaps it was the partial default of refined feeling tbat made
stately and ceremonious manners seem so proper to the upper class of
that day; such usages were a fence by which society protected itself
from itself. But eigbteenth-century proprieties were rather tbin and
external; they Lad an educational value, no ùoubt. but conventional
hypocrisies scantly served to hide the rudeness of the Englishmen of the
time.
:Marriage ceremonies anù festivities in America differed but little from
those which prevailed in the mother conntry. The widest divergence
was in New England, where the Puritans, abhorring the Catholic classi-
fication wbich put marriage among the sacraments, were repelled to the
other extreme, and forbade ministers to lend an.\? ecclesiastical sanction
to a wedding. But tbe earliest New Englanders celebrated a public
betrothal, or, as they styled it, "a contraction," and on this occ3,sion a
minister sometimes preached a sermon. A merely civil marriage could
hardly continue long in a community wbere tbe benedictions of religion
were sought on so many other occasions; where the birth of a child, the
illness and the recovery of the sick, birthday annivergaries, the entrance
into a new house, and even the planning of a bridge, gave occasion for
prayer and psalm-singing. Indeed, a marriage performed as at first by
a magistrate was accompanied by psalms sung Ly the guests and by
prayers; and as the seventeenth century drew to its close, the Puritan
minister resumed tbe function of solemnizing marriages.
The Quaker
, of course, were married without intervention of parson
or magistrate, by ,. pas
ing the meeting." E\?en in the colonies in which
the Ch urch of England wa
establighed, marriages usually took place in
private houses-a divergence from English u
age growing out of the
circumstances of people in a new country. But it was eyerywhere
enacted that the banns should be published. This was in some places
done at church service, as in England, or by putting a notice on the
court-house door. In New England the publication was sometimes made
at the week-day lecture, at town-meeting, or by affixill
a notice to the
door or in the ves
lbule of the meetin
-holl
e, or to a post set up for
this express purpose. Publication seems to have been sometimes evaded
by ingenuity. The Friends in Pennsylvania took care to enjoin that the
notice should be posted at a meeting-house, .. with the fair publicatiol1
526
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
[1t\61-88
side outward." The better sort of people in some of the colonies were
accustomed to buy exemption from publishing the banns, by paying a
fee to the governor for a license, and the governor's revenue from this
ource was very considerable. :Ministers in remote places sometimes pur-
chased a supply of licenses signed in blank and issued them at a profit.
English colonists in the hardest pioneer surroundings took a patriotic
pride in celebrating what was called "a merry English wedding." The
festivities in different places varied only in detail; in all the colonies a
genteel wedding 'was a distressingly expensive and protracted affair.
There was no end of eating, and drinking, and dancing, of dinners, teas,
and suppers. The guests were often supplied with one meal before the
marriage, and then feasted without stint afterward. These festivities, on
one ground or another, were in some places kept up two or three days,
and sometimes even much longer. The minister finished the service by
kissing the bride; then all the gentlemen present followed his example;
and in some regions the bridegroom meanwhile went about the room
kissing each of the ladies in turn. There were brides who receiyed the
salutations of a hundred and fifty gentlemen in a day. As if this were
not enough, the gentlemen called on the bride afterward, and this call
was colloquially known ag "going to kiss tbe bride." In some parts of
the Puritan country kissing at weddings was discountenanced, but there
were other regions of New England in which it was practised with
tbe greatest latitude and fervor. In Philadelpbia the Quaker bride,
having to "pass the meeting" twice, bad to submit to a double ordeal of
the sort, and the wedding expenses, despite the strenuous injunctions of
yearly meetings, were greatly increased by the twofold festivity.
I have seen no direct evidence that the colonial gentry followed tbe
yet ruder English wedding cl1stoms of the time. But provincials loyally
follow the customs of a metropolis, and I doubt not a colonial wedding
in good societ.v was attended by observances as indecorous as those of a
nobleman of the same period. Certainly stocking-throwing and other
such customs long lingered among the backwoodsmen of the colonies, as
did many other ancient wedding usages. Among the German immi-
grants, the bride did not throw her shoe for the guests to scramble for as
she entered her chamber, after the manner of the noble ladies of Ger-
many in other times; but at a "Pennsylvania Dutch" wedding the
guests strove by dexterity or craft to steal a shoe from tbe bride's foot
during the day. If the groomsmen failed to prevent this, they were
obliged to redeem the shoe from the bosom of the lucky thief with a
bottle of wine. The ancient wedding sport known in parts of the British
Islands as "riding for the kail," or "for the broose "-that is, a pot of
spiced broth-and elsewhere called" riding for the ribbon," took the
form among tbe Scotch-Irish in America of a dare-devil race over peril-
1861-88]
ED WARD EGG LESTOJ.Y.
527
ous roads to secure a bottle of whiskey with a ribbon about its neck,
whicb awaited the swiftest and most reckless horseman on his arrival at
the house of the bride's father. r.rhere were yet other practices-far-
reaching shadows of the usages of more barbarous ages, when brides
were carried off by force. A wedding party in tbe backwoods as it
approacbed the bride's house would sometimes find its progres8 arrested
by wild grape-vines tied across the way, or great trees felled in tbe road
in sport or malice hy the neighbors. Sometimes, indeed. they would
be startled by a sudden volley with blank cartridges fired by men in
ambuscade. rrhis old Irish practice, and other such horse-play, was most
congenial to woodsmen and Indian-fighters, in whom physical life over-
flowed all bounds.
A custom, no doubt of very ancient origin, prevailed in some :Massa-
chusetts villages, by which a group of the non-invited would now and
then seize the bride and gently lead her off to an inn or other suitable
place of detention until the bridegroom consented to redeem her by pro-
viding entertainment for the captors. But in the staid est parts of New
England, puritanism succeeded in suppressing or modifying some of the
more brutal wedding customs of the time. Sack-posset was eaten, per-
haps even in tbe bridal chamber, but it was taken solemnly with the
singing of a psalm before and a grace afterward. The health and toasts to
posterity, which had been, according to immemorial usage, drunk in the
wedding chamber after the bedding of tbe bride and groom, were omitted,
and in their place prayers were offered that the children of the newly
married might prove worthy of a godly ancestry. Old English blood
and rude traditions would now and then break forth j it was necessary
in 1651 to forbid all dancing in taverns on tbe occasion of weddings,
such dancing having produced many" abuses and disorders."
'Yhere church-going was practised, as in New England, the" coming
out groom and bride" on the Sunday after the wedding was a notable
part of the solemnities. In SewaH's diary one may see the bride's family
escorting the newly married pair to church, marching in double file, six
couples in all, conscious that they were the spectacle of the little street,
and tbe observed of all in the church.
The eccentric custom, known in England, of a widow's wearing no
garment at her second marriage but a shift, from a belief tbat by her
surrendering before marriage all her property but this, ber new husband
would escape liability for any debts contracted by her or her former
l1usband, was followed in a few instances in the middle colonies. One
Pennsylvania bridegroom saved appearances by meeting the slightly clad
bride half-way from her own house to his, and announcing in the pres-
ence of witnesses that the wedding clothes which he proceeded to put on
ber with his own hands were only lent to tbe widow for the occasion.
528
BURKE AARON HINSDALE.
[1861-88
'15utlie gaton
íl1
nale.
BOH
in 1Vadsworth, Ohio, 1"37.
THE CONNECTICUT WESTER
RESERVE.
[The Old Northwest. 1888.]
THE development of the Western Reserve has been as gratifying as
its beginning was discouraging. Its area is about five thousand
square miles, its population about six hundred thousand souls. It is a
trifle larger than Connecticut, but bas a somewhat smaller populat.ion.
No other fiv'e thousand square miles of territory in the United States,
lying in a boùy out..ç:ide of New England, ever had, to begin with, so
pure a New England population. No similar territory west of the Alle-
any :Mountains bas so impressed the brain and conscience of the coun-
try. No other district gives so fine an opportunit,y to study the devel-
opment of the New England character under \Vestern conditions. In
externals, the colonists, a majority of whom came from Connecticut,
reproduced New England in Northeastern Ohio. It 11as long been
remarked that, in some respects, the \Vestern Reserve is more New
England than New England herself. Mr. John Fiske found the illus-
tration that he wanted of an early feature of English life in Euclid
A venue, Cleveland. There is also an undeniable continuity of intel-
lectual and moral life. But the southern shore of Lake Erie is not the
northern shore of Long Island Sound; New Connecticut is not a repro-
duction of Old Connecticut.
The position of Connecticut in history is a most honorable one, quite
disproportionate to her territorial area. or to the numbers of her popula-
tion. Far should it he from a man of Connecticut descent to 8peak
sligbtingly of the commonwealt11 of his fathers. But the Connecticut of
1796 was dominated by class influences and ideas; a heavy mass of
political and religious dogma rested upon society; an inveterate conser-
vatism fettered both the actions and the thougbts of men. The church
and the town were but different sides of the same thing. The town was
a cIof:e corporation; and tbe man who did not belong to it, either by
birth or formal naturalization, could he a resident of it only on suffer-
ance. The yearly inauguration of the governor is said to have been
"an occasion of solemn import and unusual magnificence." Connecticut
Federalism was the most iron-clad variety anywhere to be found, unless
in Delaware. In 11:)04 tbe General Court impeached several justices of
the peace who had the temerity to attend a Jeffersonian convention in
New Haven.
Iechanics were accounted ,. vulgar"; farming was the
1861-88]
BC'RKE AARON HI.J.YSDALE.
529
" respectable ., caIling; "leading men" had an extraordinary influence;
and" old families" were the pride and the weakness of their respective
localities. The militia captain and the deacon were local magnates.
C0ugregationalism was an established religion; and "how restive the
Episcopalians, the Baptists, the Sandemanians, the :Methodists, anù other
dissenting churches, anel men of no church. were, unàer it:-; reign, a
lance througb a file of old Connecticut newspapers wiIl show. For
Yf'ars the General Assern hly refused to charter Episcopalian and 1Ietho-
dist colJeges. President Quincy paints this picture of a Sabbath morn-
ing in Andover,
Iass. :
"The whole space before the meeting-house was fiIIed with a waiting,
respectful, and expecting multitude. At the moment of f'ervice, the
pastor issued from his mansion, with Bible anel manu
cript sermon
under his arm, with his wife leaning on one arm, flanked by his negro
man on his side, as his wif(' was by her negro woman, the little negroes
being distributed, according to their sex, by the side of theil' respective
parents. Then followed every other member of the family according to.
age and rank, making often, with family visitants, somewhat of a for-
midable proce
sion. As soon as it appeared, the congregation, as if led
by one spirit, began to move towards the door of the church, and before
the procession reached it alJ were in their places. .As soon as the pastor
entered, the whole congregation rose and stood until he was in the pul-
pit and his family were seated. At the close of the service, the con-
gregation
tood until be and his family had left the chur
h. Forenoon
and afternoon the same course of proceeding was bad."
Of course, such magnificence as this was unusual; but the passage
well marks the awful consequence with which the New England mind,
in that period, invested the parson. AIl the conseryatism of Connecti-
cut rallied around the venerable charter of 1662, holding it as sacred as
the Trojans ever held the Palladium; and the party which bmke down
the charter and set up the constitution of 1818 were called ,. The Tolera-
tionists. "
It is plain that at the close of the last century Connecticut had shelled
over. "\Vhile a rlesire to break throu
h this shell was the motive that
sent many a man and family to the \Vest, the whole emigration 8tiIJ
brought much of the old conservatism and dogma to OLio. But these
people had not been long in their new home before the,v hegan to feel
the throbbings of a Hew life. amI they soon beO'an to do thinus tbat in
their old home they would ne\'er ha
e dreame(l of doin
. Ãs early as
1832, Presillent Storrs and his assistants in the facuIty of Western
Reserve CoIJege were preaching and lecturing against slavery, at Hurl-
son. Those sermons and lectures were the real beginning of antisla-
very propaganùism in Northern Ohio. How much the antislavery men
of tbe East counted upon Storrs's coüperatioll is shown by 'Yhittier's
VOL. Ix.-34
530
B'CRKE AARON HINSDALE.
.
[1861-88
pathetic elegy written on Storrs's too early death. Early in its history,
the name of Oberlin bf'came synonymous with Abo1itionism throughout
the country. Giddings upheld antislavery principles in Congress when
there was none but John Quincy A(lams to support him. Full fifty
years ago the Reserve bad a more definite antislavery character than
:any other equal extent of territory in the United States. A liberalizin{l
tendency may also be traced in religion. The Calvinistic rigidity of
the churches was softened. The new theology sounded out from Ober-
lin, while that seat of learning was stiH l1idden in the woods, was even
more hateful to New England orthodoxy than the new theology sounded
out from Andover is to-day. Dif:senting bodies, as they would have
been in Connecticut-Baptists, :Methodists, and Disciples-gaine(l a foot-
hold and multiplied in numbers. And the same in education. !\fen on
whom the awful shadow of Yale and Harvard had fanen began at Ober-
lin the first collegiate co-education experiment tried in the world. Both
at Oberlin and at Hu<lson the finality of the old educational rubrics was
denied, and new studies were introduced into the curricula. The com-
mon school, the aca<.lemy, the college, the church, the newspaper, the
debating society, an(l the platform stimulated the mental and moral life
of the people to the utmost. The Reserve came to have a character all
its own. .Men with "new ideas" hastened to it as to a 8ee,l-bed. Men
with "reforms" and "causes" to advocate found a willing audience.
Later years have brought new elements j but to-day the mail-clerks on
the Lake Shore Railroad are compelled to quicken their motions the
moment they enter its borders from either east or we
t. Arlapting the
language that General J. D. Cox once used, there are in Northeastern
Ohio the straits in a great moral G u]f Stream. Between Lake Erie
and the Ohio, from Pittsburg to Chicago, has been compressed a human
tide fed by the overflow of New England, the :Middle States, and Europe.
Beyond Lake Michigan this stream widens out, fan-like, northwest and
southwest, from :\lanitoba to the Arkansas River, and breaks O\rer the
ridges of the Rocky
lou}}tains in streams that reach the Pacific con
t.
,Vberever it has gone this stream has carried the thought-seeds p:athered
from tbe banks of the straits throup:h which it ru
he
. But the Reserve
has been conservative as well as radical. Since Elisha "\Vhittlesey took
his seat, in 1828, the Ninf:?teenth Ohio Congressional District has heen
represented in Congre
s by but five men. In 1872 the greatest of these
five men, Garfield, in addressing the convention that had just nominated
him for the sixth time, said for more than haH a century the people of
the dIstrict had lleld and expre
sed bold anLl independent opinions on
all public questions, yet tbey had Iw,'er asked their representative to be
tbe mere echo of the party voice. They supported and defen(lcLl tbeir
representative in maintaining an independent position in the K 3.tional
1861-88]
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
531
Legislature, and whenever he acted with honest and intelligent courage
in the interests of trutb, tbey generously sustained him even when he
differed from them in minor matters of opinion and policy. The old
charge of "isms" and" extravagance" cannot be wholly denied j but,
on the whole, the plain people, wbile throwing much of the New Eng-
land ballast overboard, anù crowding their canvas, bave belù the rud-
der so true as to avoid dangerous extremes. The historian finds small
occasion to defend them on the ground that somewhat of folly and
fanaticism always attend a people's emancipation.
<etJ\tJartJ
ap
Ott 1Soc.
BORN in
loodna, New Windsor, Orange Co., N. Y., 1838. DIED at Cornwall, N. Y., 1888.
A DAY IN SPRING.
[Nature's Serial Story. 1885.]
A T last Nature was truly awakening, and color was coming into her
pallid face. On every side were increasing movement and evidences
of life. Sunny hiJlside
were free from snow, and the oozing frost loosed
the holù of stones upon the soil or the clay of precipitous Lanks, leaving
them to tbe play of gravitation. 'Vill the world become level if there
are no more upheavals? The ice of the upper Hudson was journey-
ing towards the sea that it would never reach. The sun smote it, the
high winds ground the honey-combed cakes together, and the ebb and
flow of the tide permitted no pause in the work of disintegration. By
the middle of March the blue water predominated, anù aùventurous
steamers bad already picked and pounded their way to and from the
city.
Only those deeply enamoured of Nature feel much enthusiasm for the
first month of
rring j but for them this season possesses a 1>eculiar fasci-
nation. The beauty that has been so cold an(l repellent is relenting-
yielding, seemingly against LeI' will, to a wooing that cannot he repulsed
hy even her harshest mooùs. To tbe vigilance of love, suclrlen unex-
pected smiles are granted j and though, as if these were r('9:rette<1. tbe
frown quickly returns, it is often less forbidding. It is a period full of
delicious, soul-thrilling "first times," the coy, exquisite Lcg1l1nings of
that final abandonment to her suitor in the sky. Although she veils her
face for days with clouùs, and again and again greets him in the dawn,
wrapped in her old icy reserve, he smiles back his answer, and she can-
532
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
[1861-88
not resist. Indeed, there soon come warm, still, bright days whereon
she feels herself going, but does not even protest. Then, as if suddenly
conscious of lost ground, she makes a passionate effort to regain her win-
try aspect. It is so passionate as to betray her, so stormy as to insure a
profounder relenting, a warmer, more tearful, and penitent smile after
her wild mood is over. She finds that she cannot return to her former
sustained coldness, and so at last surrenders, and the frost passes wholly
from her lwart.
To Alf's and Johnnie's delight it
o happened that one of these gentlest
moo<ls of early spring occurred on Saturday-that weekly mil]ennium of
chool-children. With plans and preparations matured, they bad risen
with the sun, and, scampering back and forth over the frozen ground and
the remaining patches of ice ancl snow, had carried every pail and pan that
they could coax from their mothet' to a rocky hillside whereon clustered
a few sugar-maples. \Vebb, the evening before, had inserted into the
sunny sides of the trees little wooden troughs. and from tbese the tink-
ling drip of the sap made a music sweeter than that of the robins to
the eager boy and girl.
At the breakfast-table each one was expatiating on the rare promise of
the day. Even
frs. Clifford, awakened by the half-subdued clatter of
the children, bad seen the brilliant, rose-tinted dawn.
"The day cannot be more beautiful than was the night," \Vebb
remarked. " A little after midnight I was awakened by a clamor from
the poultry, and, suspecting either two- or four-footed thieves, I was soon
covering tbe hennery with my gun. As a result, :::;ir ,Mephitis, as Bur-
roughs calls him, lies stark and stiff near the door. After watching
awhile, and finding no other marauders abroad, I became aware that it
was one of the most perfect nights I had ever seen. It was hard to
imagine that, a few hours before, a gale had been blowing under a cloudy
sky. The moonlight was so clear that I could see to read distinctly.
So attractive and still was the night that I started for an hour's walk up
the boulevard, and when near Idlewild brook had the fortune to empty
the other barrel of my gun into a great horneù owl. Uow the echoes
resounded in the quiet night! The changes in April are more rapid,
but they are on a grander scale this month."
"It seems to me," laugbed Burt, "that your range of topics is even
more sublime. From Sir
fephitis to romantic moonlight and lofty
musings, no doubt, which ended with a screech-owl."
" The great horned is not a screech-ow I, as you ought to know. \Vell,
Nature is to blame for my alternations. I only took the goods the gods
sent. "
"I hope you did not take cold," said )laggie. "The idea of prowling
around at that time of night 1 "
1861-88J
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
G33
" ',ebb was in hopes that Nature might bestow upon him some confi-
dences by moonlight that he coulJ not coax from her in broad day. I
shall seek better game than you found. Ducks are becoming plenty
in the river, and all the conditions are favorable for a crack at them this
morning. So I shall paddle out with a white coat over my clothes, and
pretend to be a cake of ice. If I bring you a canvas-back, Amy, will you
put the wishbone over the door? "
., Not till 1 have locked it and hidden the key."
\Vithout any prearranged purpose tbe day promised to be given up
largely to country sport. Burt had taken a lunch, and would not return
until night, while the increasing warmth and brilliancy of the sunshine,
and the children's voices from the maple grove, soon lured Amy to the
PIazza.
"Come," cried ,Yebb, who emerged from the wood-house with an axe
on his :,houlùer, "don rubber boots and wraps, and we'll improvise a
maple-sugar camp of the New England style a hunl1red years ago. \Ve
should make the most of a ùay like this."
They soon joined the children on the hi1lside, whither Abram had
alreaùy carried a capacious iron pot as black as himself. On a little ter-
race that was warm and bare of snow, \Vebb set up cro
s-sticks in gypsy
fashion, and then with a chain suspended the pot, the children dancing
like witches around it.
1r. Clifford and 11ttle Ned now appeared, tbe
latter joining in the eager quest for dry sticks. Not far away was a
large tree that for several years had been slowly dying, its few living
branches baving flushed e3.r1'y in September, in their last glow, which
had been premature and hectic. Dry sticks would make little impres-
sion on the sap that now in tbe warmer light dropped faster from the
wounded maples, and therefore to supply the intense heat that should
give them at least a rich syrnp before night, 'V ebb threw off his coat
and attacked tbe defunct veteran of the grm"e. Amy watched his vigor-
ous strokes with growing zP:;;t; ancl he, con!'ciouR of her eyes, struck
strong and true. Leonard. no
far away, was removing impediments
irom the cour
f'S. thus securing a more rapid flow of the water amI pro-
moting the drainage of the laud. He had sent up his cheery voice from
time to time, uut now joined the group, to witness the fan of a tree tbat
had been olù when he had played near it like his own children to-day.
The echoes of the ringing axe came hack to them from an adjacent biB-
side; a squirrel barked and" snickered," as if he too were a party to the
fnn; crows overhead cawed a protest at the destruction of their ancient
perch; but with steady and remor
e]e:-::s stroke the axe was driven
through the concentric rings on either side into the tree's dead heart. At
last, as fibre after fihre was cut away, it hegan to tremhle. The children
stooù breathless amI almost pitying as they saw tbe shiver, apparent1y
534
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
[1861-88
conscious, which followed each blow. Something of the same callous-
ness of custom with which the fall of a man is witnessed must blunt
one's nature before he can look unmoved upon the de8truction of a
familiar tree.
The blue of the sky seemp-d intense after so man.y gray and steel-hued
days, and there was not a trace of doud. The flowing sap was not
s,yeeter than the air, to which the brilliant sunlight imparted an exhila-
rating warmth far removed from sultriness. From the hillside came the
wooùy odor of decaying leaves, and from the adjacent meadow the deli-
cate perfume of grasses whose roots began to tingle with life the moment
the iron grip of the frost relaxed. Sitting on a rock near the crackling
fire, Amy made as fair a gypsy as one would wish to see. On every side
were evidences that spring was taking possession of the land. In the
hollows of the meadow at her feet were glassy pools, kept from sinking
away by a substratum of frost, and among these migratory robins and
high-holders were feeding. The brook beyond was running full from
the melting of the snow in the mountains, and its hoarse murmur was
the bass in the musical babble and tinkle of smaller riI1
hastening
towards it on either side. Thus in all directions the scene was lighted
up with the glint and sparkle of water. The rays of the sun idealized
even the mu(ld,v road, of which a glimpse was caught, for the pasty clay
glistened like the surface of a stream. The returning birds appeared as
jubilant over the day as the children whose voices blended with their
songs-as do all the
ounds that are absolutely naturaL The migratory
tide of robins, song-sparrows, phæbcs, and other early hirds was still
moving northward; but multitudes haù dropped out of line. having
reached their haunts of tbe previous year. The sunny hillsi(le and its
immediate vicinity seemed a favorite lounging-place both for the birds of
passage and for those already at home. The excitement of travel to
some, and the delight at having regained the E'ccne of last year's love and
nesting to others, added to the universal joy of spring, so exhilarated
their hearts that they could scarcely be 8ti II a moment. Altbough tbe
sun was approaching the zenith, there was not the comparative silence
that pervades a summer noon. Bird-calls resounded everywhere; there
was a constant flutter of wings, as if all were bent upon making or
renewing acquaintance-an occupation frequently intClTupte(1 by trans-
ports of song.
"Do you suppose they really recognize each other?" Amy asked
\Vebb, as he threw down an armful of wood near bel'.
"Dr.
Iarvin would insist that they do," he replied, laughing. "When
with him, one must be wary in den.ying to tbe birds any of the virtues
and powers. lie would probabl,r say that the,v understood each other as
well as we do. They certainly seem to be comparing notes, in one sense
1861-88]
EDIL4.RD PAYSOX ROE.
535
of the word at least. Listen, and you will hear at this moment the song
of bluebird, robin, both song- and fox-sparrow, phæbe, blue jay, high-
holder, and crow-that is. if you can call the notes of the last two birds
a song."
""\Vhat a lovely chorus! " she cried, after a few moments' pause.
" "\Vait till two months have passed, and you will hear a grand sym-
phony every morning and evening. All the members of our summer
opera troupe do not arrive till J nne, and several weeks must still pass
before tbe great star of the season appears."
" Indeed! and who is he, or she? "
"Both he and she-the wood-thrush and his mate. They are very
aristocratic kin of these robins. ..A.. little before them will come two
other blood-relations, Mr. and
Ir:::. Brownthra
her, who, notwithstand-
ing their family connection with the high-toned wood-thrush and jolly,
honest robin, are stealthy in their manner, and will skulk away before
you as if ashamed of something. \Vhen the musical fit is on them. how-
ever, they will sing openly from the loftiest tree-top, and with a sweet-
ness, too, that few birds can equal."
"'Vhy, \Vebb, you almost equal Dr.
Iarvin."
" Ob, no j I only become acquainted with my favorite
. If a bird is
rare, though commonplace in itself, he will pursue it as if it laid golden
eggs. "
A howl from Ned proved that even the brightest days and
cenes have
their drawbacks. The little fellow had been prowling around among
the pails and pans, intent on obtaining a drink of the sap, and thus had
put his hand on a honeJ-bee seeking the first sweet of the year. In an
instant \Vebb reached his side, and saw what the trouble was. Carrying
him to the fire, he drew a key from his pocket, and pressed its hollow
ward over the spot stung. This caused the poison to work out. Nature's
remedy-mud-abounded, and soon a little moist clay covered the wound,
and Amy took him in her arm
and tried to pacify him. while his father.
who had strolled away with :Mr. Clifford. speedily returned. The grand-
father looked down commiseratingly on the soùbing little companion of
his earlier morning walk, anù soon brought, not merely serenity, but
joy unbounded, by a quiet proposition.
" I will go back to the house," he said, "and have mamma put up a
nice lunch. and you and the other children can eat your dinner bere by
the fire. So can you, \Vebb and Amy, and then you can look after the
youngF:Jters. It's warm and dry here. Suppose you have a little picnic,
which, in =.\Iarch, will be a thin
to remember. Alf, you can come with
me, and while maTIlma is preparing the lunch. you can run to the market
and get some oysters and clams, and these, with potatoes, you can roast
in the ashes of a smaller fire, which Ned and Johnnie can look after
536
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
[1861-88
under 'Yebb's superintendence. ',ouldn't you like my little plan,
Amy? "
" Yes, indeed," sl1e replied. putting Iter hands caressingly within his
arm. "It's hard to think you are oM when you know so well what we
young people like. I didn't believe that this day could be brighter or
jollier, and yet your plan has made the children half wild."
Indeed, AU had already given his approval by tearing off towards the
house for the materials of this unprecedented March feast in the woods,
and the old gentleman, as if made buoyant by the good promiRe of his
little project in the children's bebalf, followed with a step wonderfu]]y
elastic for a man of fourscore.
"'V ell, heaven grant I may attain an age like that!" said Webb,
looking wistfully after him. .. There is more of spring than autumn in
father .'yet, amI I lIùn't believe there will be any winter in his life. "\Vell,
Amy, like the birds and squirrels around us, we shan dine out-of-doors
to-day. You must be mistre
s of the banquet; Ned, Johnnie, and I
place ourselves under your orders; don't we, Johnnie? "
"To be sure, Uncle \Vebb; only I'm so craí
Y oyer all this fun that
I'm sure I can never do anything straight."
" Well, then, 'bustle! bustle I ' "crie(l Amy. .. I helieve with Mag-
gie that housekeeping anll dining well are high art
, and not humdrum
necessities. \,... ebb, I need a broad, flat rock. Please provide one at
once, while Johnuie gathers clean dr.v leaves for plates. You, Ned, can
put lots of dry sticks between the stones there, and uncle \Vebb will
kindle the right kind of a fire to lefwe plenty" of hot coals and ashes.
Now is the time for him to make his science useful."
\Vebb was becoming a mystery unto himself. vVas it the exquisitely
pure air and tbe exhilarating spring sUllshine that sent the blood ting-
ling through his yeins? 01' wa
it the presence, tones, and gestures of a
girl with brow and neck like the snow that glistened on the mountain
slopes above them, anll large true eye:; tkü sometimes seemed gray and
again blue? Amy's de\'eloping beauty was far removell from a fixed
type of prettiness, and he felt this in a vague way. The majority of the
girls of his acquaintance had a manner rather than an individuality, and
looked and acted much the same whenever he saw them. They were
conventionalized after some received country type, and although farm-
ers' daughters, they seemed unnatural to this lover of nature. Allowing
for the difference in years, Amy was as devoid of self-consciousness as
Alf or Johnnie. Not the slightest trace of mannerism perverted her
girlish ways. She moved, talked, and acterl with no more effort or
thought of effort than had the bluebirds that were passing to and fro
witb their simple notes and graceful flight. She was nature in its phase
of girlhood. To one of his temperament and training the perfect day
1861-88]
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
537
itself would have been full of unalloyed enjoyment although occupied
with hi
ordinary labors; but for some reason this unpremeditated holi-
day, with Amy's companionship, gave him a pleasure before unknown-
a pleasure deep and satisfying, unmarreJ by jarring discords or uneasy
protests of conscience or reason. Truly, on this spring day a "first
time" came to him, a new element was entering into his life. He
did not think of defining it; he did not e\Ten recognize it, except in
the old and general way that AmJY's presence had enriched them all, and
in his own ca
e had arrested a tendency to become materia1istic and
n3rrow. On a like day the year before he would Lave been absorbell
in the occupations of the farm, and merely conscious to a certain ex-
tent of the sky above him and the bird-song and beauty around him.
To-day they were like revelations. Even a :March world was transfig-
ured. His zest in living and working was enhanced a thousand-fold,
because ]ife and work were illumined by happiness, as the seene was
brightened by sunshine. He felt that he had only half seen the world
before; now he had the joy of one gradually gaining vision after partial
Llindnes
.
Amy saw that he was enjoying the day immensely in his quiet way;
she al::;O saw that f:he had not a little to do with the rf'sult, and the reflec-
tion that she could please and interest the grave and thoughtful man,
who was six years her senior, conveyed a delicious sense of power. And
yet she was pleased much as a child would be. " He knows so much
more than I do," she thought, ., and is usually so wrapped up in some deep
subject, or so busy, that it's awfully jolly to find that one can beguile
him into having such a good time. Burt is so exuberant in everything
that I am afraid of being carried away, as by a swift stream. I know not
where. I feel like checking and restraining him all the tilile. For me
to add my small stock of mirth to his immense spirits would be like
lighting a candle on a day like this; but when I smile on 'V ebb the
effect is wonderful, and I can never get over my pleased surprise at the
fact. "
Thus, like the awakening forces in the soll around them, a vital force
was developing in two human hearts equally unconscious.
Alf and his grandfather at last returned, each well laden, and prepara-
tions went on apace.
fr. Clifford made as if he would return and dine
at home, but they all clamored for his company. 'Yith a twinkle in his
eye, he said:
" 'V ell, I told mother that I might lunch with you, and I was only
waiting to be pressed a little. I've lived a good many years, but never
was on a picnic in :March before."
"Grandpa, you shall be squeezed as 'well a
pre
f'd," cried Johnnie,
putting her arms about his neck. " You shall stay and see what a lo\yely
538
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
[18ü1-88
time you have given us. Oh, if Cinderella were only here!" and she
gave one little sigh, tbe first of the day.
"Possibly Cinderella may appear in time for lunch ,:; and with a sig-
nificant look he directed Amy to the basket .he had brougbt, from the
bottom of which was drawn a doll with absurdly diminutive feet, anù
for once in bel' life Johnnie's heart craved nothing more.
"::\Iaggie knew that this little mother could not be content long with-
out her doll, and so sbe put it in. You children bave a thoughtful
mother, and .vou must be thoughtful of her," added the old man, who felt
that the incident admitted of a little homily.
'Vhat appetites they all had! If some of the potatoes were slightly
burned and others a little raw, the occasion added a flavor better than
Attic salt. A flock of chickadees approached near enough to gather the
crumbs that were thrown to them.
" It's strange," said 'V ebb, " how tame tbe bird
are when they return
in the spring. In the fall the robins are among tbe wildest of the birds,
and now they are all around us. I believe that, if I place some crumbs
on yonder rock, they'll come anù dine with us, in a sense" ; and the
event proved that he was right.
"Hey, Johnnie," said her grandfather, "you never took dinner with
the birds before, did you? This is al most as wonderful as if Cinderella
sat up and asked for an oyster."
But Johnnie was only pleased with the fact, not surprised. 'V onder-
land was her land, and she said: "I don't see why the birds can't under-
stand that I'd like to have dinner witñ them every da
r."
"By the way, vVebb," continued his father, "I brought out the field-
p:lass with me, for I thought that with your gooù eyes you might see
Burt "; and lw drew it from his pocket.
The idea of seeing Burt shooting ducks nearly broke up the feast, and
"T ebb swept the distant river, fuU of floating ice that in the sunlight
looked like snow. "I can see several out in boats," he said, "and Burt,
no doubt. is among them."
Then Amy, Alf. and Johnnie must have a look, but Ned devoted him-
self strictly to business, and Amy remarked that he was becoming like a
Ii ttle sa usage.
"Can the glass make us hear the noise of the gun better?" Johnnie
asked. at which they all laughed, Ned louder than any, because of the
laughter of the others. It required but a little thing to make these ban-
queters hilarious.
But there was one who heard them and did not laugb. From the
brow of the bill a dark, sad face looked down upon them. Lured by the
beauty of tbe day,
Ir. Alvord had wandered aimlessly into the woods,
and, attracted by merry voices, Lad drawn sufficiently near to witness a
1861-88]
EDWARD PAYSON ROE.
539
scene that awakened within him indescribable pain and longing. lIe
did not think of joining them. It was not a fear that he would be
unwelcome that kept bim away; be knew the famil.v too well to imagine
tbat. .A stronger restraint was upon him. Something in the past dark-
ened even that bright day, and built in the crystal air a barrier that he
could not pass. They would give him a place at their rustic board, but
he could not take it. He knew tbat be would be a discord in their har-
mony, and their innocent merriment smote bis morbid nature with almo::::t
intoleraLle pain. \Vith a gesture indicating immeasurable regret, he
turned and bastened away to his lonely home. As he mounted the
little piazza, his steps were arrested. The exposed end of a post that
supported the inner side of its roof formed a little sheltered nook in
wbicb a pair of bluebirds had begun to build their nest. rrhey looked
at Lim with curious and distrustful eyes as they flitted to and fro in a
neighboring tree, and he sat down and looked at them. rrbe birds were
evidently in doubt and in perturbed consultation. They would fly to tbe
post, then away and all around tbe house, but scarcely a moment passed
that
Ir. Alvord did not see that be was observed anlI discussed. \Vith
singular interest and deep suspense he awaited their decision. At last
it came, and was favorable. rrhe female bird came flying to the post
witb a beakful of fine dry grass, and her mate, on a spray near, broke
out into his soft, rapturous song. The master of the house gave a great
sigh of relief. A glimmer of a smile pas
ed o\-er his wan face as he
muttered: "I expected to be alone this summer, but I am to have a fam-
ily with me, after all."
Soon after the lunch had been discussed leisurely and hilariously, the
maple-sugar camp was left in the care of Alf and Johnnie, with Abram
to assist them. Amy longed for a stro]], but even with the protection of
rubber boots she found that the departing frost had left the sodded
meadow too wet and spongy for safety. Under vVebb's direction she
picked her way to the margin of the swol1en stream, and gathered some
pussy-willows that were bursting their sheaths.
540
OHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.
QI:IJsrlottc fí
lic ']3ate
.
Boltr\ in New York, N. Y., 1838.
THE PROBLEM.
[Risk, and Other Poems. 1879.]
T WO parterllong, :nul yearning long to meet,
'Yithin an hour the life of months repeat;
Then come to silence, as if each had poureù
Into thc other's keeping aU his hoard.
And whcn the lip seems draincd of all its store,
Each in)y wonders why hc says no more.
'Vhy, since they meet, ùoes mutual need seem small,
And what avails the presence after aU ?
Though silent thought with those we love is sweet,
The heart finds every meeting incomplete;
And with the dearest there must sometimes ùe
The wiùe and lonely silence of the sea.
SPRING IN WINTER.
F OR me there is no rarer thing
Than, while the winter's lingering,
To taste the blessedness of spring.
'Vere this the spring, I now should sigh
That aught were spent ;-but dch am I !
Untouched spring's golden sum doth lie.
WOODBINES IN OCTOBER.
A S dyed in blood, the streaming vines appear,
While long and low the wind about them grieves;
The heart of Autumn must have broken here,
And l)Oured its treasure out upon the leaves.
[18Gl-88
11;61-88]
MARGARET ELIZABETH SANGSTER
541
largarct c?líiabctlJ
an
tcr.
BOH:-l in New Rochelle, N. Y. 1838.
OUR OW
.
[Poems of the Household. 1882.-Home Fairies and Heart Flowers. 1887.]
I F I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
The words unkind
"
ould trouLle my mind,
I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you nec(lless pain;
But we vex "our own "
With look and tone
"\Ve might never take back again.
For though in the quiet evening
You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet well it might be
That never for me
The pain of the heart should cease.
How many go forth in the morning
"Tho never come at night;
And hearts have broken
For harsh words spoken,
That sorrow can ne'er set right.
We have careful thought for the stranger,
And smiles for the sometime guest,
But oft for "our own"
The bitter tone,
Though we love our own the best.
All! lip with the curve impatient;
Ah! brow with that look of scorn,
'TwCI'e a cruel fate
'V ere the night too late
To undo the work of morn.
APPLE BLOSSO:\lS.
LAST eve there stole a wee white dream to brush our darling's pillow;
It whispered of a flowing stream and of a nodding willow.
She stirred and laughed, for in her sleep she heard the blue hells ringing,
And far away the Lleat of sheep, and near the roLin's singing.
542
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
[1861-88
This morning, when our darling woke, the worlrl was all a wonder:
Above, sueh golden sunshine broke, such light and joy were umler;
The meadows rippled like the sea. and every knoll was flushing;
The zephyrs came with kisses free, and, oh, the trees were blushing.
The apple blossoms, pink and white, you could not count their number;
The fairy work was wrought by night, while earth was hushed in slumber.
Our darling's violet eyes grew wide: the orchard aisles were bowers,
And here and yoncler, everywhere, she saw a snow of flowers.
We hear her little footsteps pass; her merry voice is humming;
A flitting shadow o'er the grass, her daintiness is coming.
"Oh, this is Spring, is 8p1"Ïng," she cries; "I know her by the glory.
And see, oh, see, the birdie's wing! which flashing tells the story.
"I've tiptoed all across the brook, I've searched in all the hollows,
I've peeped in many a tiny nook, I've chased the flying swallows,
I've seen the cunning little chicks-dear things, so round and funny!-
And helped the wrens to straws and sticks, and fed both Frisk and Bunny.
" And this is Spring, " our darling cried. It pleased our hearts to hear her;
And Nature's self, with loving pride, seemed gently drawing nearer,
While dropped the wind such kisses sweet that all the land was flushing,
And hill and vale were glad to greet the apple blossoms' blushing.
ora'e <fU
IJa
,ubbCt.
.
BORN in Boston, Mass., 1838.
LANDOR AS A CLASSIC.
[.11Ien and Letters. 1888.]
D o readers nowadays resort to Landor's" Imaginary Conversations .'?
\Vriters of Eng]ish respect the work so highly that it is a rare
thing for anyone to attempt to imitate Landor in this form of compo-
sition. He invented a variation of literary form, and was so consum-
mate a master in it that it is almost as if he had taken out a patent
which cautious authors feared to infringe. Headers thus have a pecu-
liar possession in the work, though I suspect that it is writers chiefly
who have recourse to Landor-that be is a literary man's author, as
others have been poets of poets.
The genera] reader who does not treat himself severely in the matter
of reading may be expected to pass by some of the more recondite sub-
jects and to rest at those volumes which contain the" Dialogues of Liter-
ary
fen and Famous 'V omen," and the "
fiscellaneous Dialogues." For
I I ' Jr
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;.,ÞN
1861-88]
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
543
while all the dialogues presuppose a knowledge of history and literature,
the actors in these are most familiar to the reader, and the topics discussed
are neither so obscure nor so remote from common interest as are those
presenteù in tbe other volumes. Not that Landor is ever exclusive in
his interests j it is the very reach of bis sympathy which makes some
of his dialogues more unreadable than others, for there are few humilia-
tions to tbe ingenuous reader of modern English literature deeper than
that whicb awaits him when he tries to folIow the lead of this remarka-
ble writer, wbo passes without the sign of toil from converse with
ancients to talk with moderns, and seems capable of displaying a won-
derful puppet-show of all history.
Perhaps the rank respectfully but without enthusiasm accorded to
Landor is due mainly to the exactions which he makes of the reader.
There must he omniscient readers for such an omniscient writer, and it
cannot be denied that the ordinary reader takes bis enjoyment of Landor
with a certain stiffening of his facuIties j he feels it impossible to read
him lazily. rfhe case is not very unlike that of a listener to music, who
bas not a musical e<lucation and has an honest delight in a difficult
work, while yet perfectly aware that he is missing, through his lack of
technical knowledge, some of the finest expression. 'Vith classical
works as with music, one commonly prefers to read what he has read
before. Hamlet to the occa
ional reader of Shakespeare is like tbe Fifth
Symphony to tbe occasional hearer of Beethoven. To ask him to read
Landor is to ask him to hear Kalkbrenner, requiring him to form new
judgments upon the old standard. .
The pleasure which awaits the trained reader, on taking up Landor,
is very great. At first tbere is the breadth and sweetness of the style.
To come upon it after the negligence, the awkwardness, or the cheap
brilliancy of much that passes for good writing, is to feel that one has
entered the society of one's intellectual superiors. One might almost
expect, upon discovering how hard Landor rode his hobby of linguistic
reform, to find conceits and archaisms, or fanta
tic experiments in lan-
guage j but as it was Landor's respect for sound words which lay at the
hottom of his inconsistent attempts to remoyc other inconsistencies, the
same respect forbaùe him to use the English language as if it were an
individual possession of his own. Neither can it be said that his famil-
iarity with Latin forms misled him into solecisms in English j here,
again, the very perfection of his classical skill was turned to account in
rendering his use of English the masterly employment of one of tbe
dialects of all language. Yet, though there is no pedantry of a scholar
perceptible in the English style, the phrase falls upon the ear almost as
a translation. It is idiomatic English, yet seems to have a relation to
other languages. This is partly to be referreJ to tbe subjects of many
544
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
l1861-88
of the dialogues, partly to the dignity and scholarly tone of the work,
but is mainly the result of the cast of mind in Landor, which was emi-
nently classic, freed, that is, from enslaving accidents, yet always using
with perfect fitness the characteristics which seem at a near glance to be
merely accidents. This is wen illustrated by those dialogues which are
placed in periods strongly individualized, as the Elizabethan and the
Puritan, 01' present speakers whose tone is easily caught when over-
heard. 1'1_ weaker writer would, for example, mimic John
on in the con-
yersations which occur between him and Horne Tooke; Landor catches
John
on 's tone without tickling the ear with idle sonorous phrases.
\ writer who had read the dramatists freely, and set out to represent
them ill dialogue, would be very likely to use mere tricks of speech,
but Landor carefully avoids all stucco ornamentation, and makes the
reader sure that he has overheard the very men themselves. It was
the pride of Landor's design not to insert in anyone of his conversa-
tions "a single sentence written by or recorded of the personages who
are supposed to hold them." In the conversation between Lord Brooke
and Sir Philip Sidney, he makes Sidney say, "To write as the ancients
have written, without borrowing a thought or expression from them, is
the most difficult thing we can achieve in poetry"; and the task which
Landor set himself was an infinitely higher and finer one than the merely
ingenious construction of a closely joined mosaie. He has extended the
lives of the men anù women who appear in his dialogues.
The faithfulness with which Landor has reproduced the voices of his
characters follows from the truthful
ss of the characters, as they he tray
their natures in these conversations. This I have already intimated,
and it is the discovery of the reader who penetrates the scenes and is
aùle in any case to compare the men and women of Landor with the
same a
tlley stand revealed in history or literature. The impersona-
tions are ne
essarily outlined in CO!lVersat1on. Revelation through
action is not
ranted, except occasionally in some such dE-licate form
as hinted in the charming scene between "\Valton, Cotton, and Oldway
.
These delicate hints of action will sometimes escape the reader through
their subtlety. but they tell upon the art of the conversations very
gtrongly. Still, the labor of disclosing character is borne by the dia-
logue, and success won in this field is of the highest order. No one
who uses conversation freely in novel-writinfr, when the talk is not to
advance the incidents of the story, but to fix the traits of character heM
by the persons, can fail to perceive Landor's remarkable power. TIe
deals, it is true, with characters already somewhat definitely existing in
the minds of his intelligent readers, yet he gives himself no advantage
of a setting for his conversation, by which one might make pJace, cir-
cnmstance, scenery, auxiliary to the interchange of sentiment and opin-
1861-88]
HORA.CE ELISHA srUDDER.
545
ion. Perhaps the most perfect example of a conversation instinct with
meaning, and permitting, one may say, an indefinite column of foot-
notes, is the brief, exquisitely modulated one between Henry VIII. and
Anne Boleyn.
It may be that we have received the best good to be had from litera-
ture \"hen we have been enabled to Jwrceive men and women brightly,
and to hold for a time before our eyes tbose who once were seen by
persons more blessed only than we. Cprtain it is that to the solitary
stuùent, placed, it may be, in untoward circumstance, such a gift is price-
leRs. But it belongs with this as a necessary accompaniment, if not a
further good, to have such a discovery of character as comes through
high thought and wise Rentiment. The persons whom Landor has
vivified have burst their cerements for no mean purpose. They are
summoned, not for idle chit-chat, but to speak words befitting them in
their best moments. Southey is saill to have remarked on the conver-
sation which he is made to hold with Porson, that they might not have
conversed as Landor had shown them, " but we could neither of us have
talked better." It is Landor's power not only to inhabit the characters,
but to inhabit them worthily, that makes these books great. The sub-
jects discussed are such as great-minded men might discuss, and it is
when one marks the range of topics and the 11eight to which the thought
ri
es that he perceives in Landor a moralist as well as a dramatist. It is
true that the judgments and opinions which he puts into the mouths of
speakers partake of his own wayward, impetuous nature, and it would
not be hard to find cases where the characters clearly Landorize, but the
errors are in noble not i lJ petty concerns.
There is, doubtless, something of labm. in reading Landor's" Cðnversa-
tions" if one is not conversant with high thinking, and if one is but slen-
derly endowed with the historic imagination, but the labor is not in the
writing. The very form of con\Tersation permits a quickness of transi-
tion and sudden shifting of subject and scene which enliven the art
and give an inexhaustible variety of light and shade. One returns to
passages again and again {or their exceedin
bcauty of expression and
their exquisite setting. To one accustomed to the glitter of current
epigrammatic writing, the brilliancy of some of Landor's sentences may
not at first be counted for its real worth, but to go from Landor to smart
writcr
is to exchange jewels for paste.
'Vhat I have said may Rcrve partly to explain the limited audience
which Landor lUl
ha<.l and must continue to have. If it is a liberal
education to read hi::; writings, it. requires one to receive them freely.
The appeal which Landor makes to the literary class is very strong, a
d
apart from a course of st\1fl.v in the Greek and Latin clas
ics, T douht if
any single FtlHly would serve an author so well as the study of Laul1or.
VOL. IX. -3.j
54û
lJORACE ELISHA SC
'IJDEll.
[1861-88
Indeed, there is perhaps no modern work which gives to the realler l;ot
familiar with Greek or Latin so good an idea of what we call classical
literature. Better than a translation is the original writing of Lallllor
for conveying the aroma which a translation so easily lo
es. The dig-
nity of the classics, the formality, the fine use of sarcasm, the conscious-
ness of an art in literature-an these are to be found in tbe ,. Imaginary
Conversations"j and if a reader used to the highly seasoned literature of
recent times complains that there i
rather an ah.;ellce of hUlllor, and
that he finds Laudor sometimes dul1. why, hea,-en knmvs we do not
often get hilarious on:r our ancient autbors, and Landor, for his contem-
poraries, is an ancient author with a very fiery soul.
A survey of all hi8 work increases the admiration. not unmixed with
fear, with which one contemplates the range of thi
extraordinary writer.
The greatest of his dialo
ues are great indeed, but tbe facility with
which he used this form betrayed him into employing it for the venting
of mere vagarie
, and the prolix discussion of topics of contemporary
politics and history, hy no means of general interest. Still, after all
deductions are made, the work as a whole remains great, and I repeat
that a study of Landor would be of signal sen'ice to any faithful man
of letters. In his style he wonkl di
co\-er a strength amI purity which
would constantly rebuke his own tenllencies to yerhosity and unmean-
ing phrases; in the respect which Landor had for great writers he would
learn the contcmptible character of current irreverence in literature: in
tbe sustained flight of Landor's thought he would find a stimulus for his
own less resolute naturè j and as Lallt!!or was himself no imitator, so the
student of Landor would discover how impo..,sible it was to imitate him,
how much more positive was the lesson to make himself a master by an
unceasing reverence of masters and a fearless independence of inferiors.
Landor is sometimes characterized as arrogant and conceited; stray
words and acts might easily he cite
in support of this, but no one can
read his ,. Conversations" intelligently and not perceive how noble was
his scorn of mean men, how steadfa
t his admiration of great men.
A \?ISIOX OF PEACE.
[F1'om "A House of Entertainment,"-Stories and Romances. 1880.]
I T was not long before the regular movements of tbe stranger attracted
tbe attention of the villagers, and it was easily surmised tbat he was
tbe Alden IIolcroft \yho bad bought the old tavern. But tbe people
Lad a lazy curiosity: the few advances made by one and another fail.
1861-88]
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
547
ing to elicit anything, he was lookeù upon simply as an odd stick, and
left to himself. lie managed to keep all entire in(lcpendence of his
neighbors, and it was nearly two years after he baLl takeu po
:,ession of
his house before he formed even the most trivial a
sociation with them.
He had then completed the mure important change
, and "-<1;<; mainly
occupied with lighter matters of decoration and furni
hinf!'. rrhere were
therefore idler moment::' than he ha(l known, and sometlJlng of the old
restlessness came back, repressed as it had been by bis occu patioll. One
Sunùay morning, ta
ting- the freRh life of a June dny, he locked tlH-' door
upon the outside, awl walked along a road which he had occa:-:ional1y
taken on his way to or from the railway station, less direct tLan the cus-
tomary roall. It passed through a small settlement of the people known
as Shakers, who had cstahlished themseh-es upon the slupe of a hill
which O\-erlooked the river valley. Their houses and barns and out-
houses had the air of keeping up a continual conflict with nature, as if a
strong resolution was maintained not to suffer them to harmonize with
the landscape. A prodip-ious barn, long unpainted, and by the lapse of
time subdued to a russet hue, which dimiuishcd its proportions aDd
made it look almost as if it had grown throuf!h generations, like the
trees about it, had recently been clapboarde , l and painted white; so that
now it put nature out, and shone in the midst of the greener.v with a
blank immensity which was tIle very triumph of ungovernable order.
In this settlement Holcroft was always reJl}illilel1 of monasteries in their
prime: the gardens were
o rich; tbe slow-moving men, with tbeir
broad hats and somhre garment
, led so monotonous anl1 regular a life;
the bell tolled at intervals; and he could fancy the brothers, with their
few books of devotion and thcir petty ù uties mingling religion and
worldly comfort by that subtle combination which produced almost a
new order of life. Only the Yankee thrift and barrenness of æsthetic
predilection gave to the whole a hopelessly modern look, as if by no
lapse of time could the buildinf!s and family ever become picturesque.
It is true, the comparison with a monastery failed again in an impor-
tant point: that the famil,v held a goollIy number of sisters, young and
old; for their faces were at the windows-there always seemed to be
one or two whose bu
iness was to keep watch of passers-by-and figures
of women could be seen mO\-ing about between the houses and through
the fields. The poke-honnets which they wore reduced them all to one
undistinguishable age and condition, and they seemed to Holcroft, wben
he casually passed them, scarcely more human than the stacks of beans
wbich be saw in tl]eir fields in autumn. Once, crossing a corn-field in
the early summer, he had corne upon a scarecrow made with grim pleas-
antry out of tbe ordinary dre
s of a Shaker sister. It is true, they could
hardly be
upposed to bave any other clothes to put to such a use, but
548
HORAGE ELISHA 8GUDDER.
[1861-88
the sight gave him a queer start, as if he had come upon one gone to
seed; and he wondered besides if the crows would really be afraid of
anything so barmless and patient.
As he elrew near the'viBage this morning be beard the toB of a bell,
and was surprised by the sight of a procession crossing the road from
one of tbe houses to the plain meeting-house opposite. He stopped in
admiration. r.I\vo and two the women walked, carrying music-books in
their bands, and dressed now in quiet-colored, delicate gowns which
hung in straight folds, but were rendered singularly beautiful by the
addition of the soft silk handkerchief about the neck; while the head
was enclosed in a snug cap, which coulJ not be caBed lovely in itself,
yet had an undeniable harmony with the rest of the dress. The placid
manners and quiet dignity of the little procession moving under the
blue sky brought a singular sense of quiet to him, and as they entered
the meeting-house he suddenly resolved to follow them and see what
their service was like. Some wagons and carriages stood near by, and
strangers-wodel's people-were moving into the little building. He
folJowed through the men's door, and seated himself upon one of the
benches set apart for outsiders. The whole company of men and women
were standing in opposite rows amI singing, a few holding music-books,
but most familiar with music and worùs. The hymn sung was intro-
ductory to the service, which began with the reading of a chapter from
the New Testament ùy one of the elders. The chief part of the service,
bowever, was in the combined mnsic and marching, or dancing, as it
might sometimes be caned. By some understanding the company qui-
etly formed, cight young men and women occupying the centre of the
room in an oval figure, the remainder disposed in two circles outside tbe
sma]]er one; this small circle was stationary, and seemed to form a
cboir j the song was started by it, and the two circles began moving
ronnd it, the inner in an opposite direction to tbat taken by the outer.
The choir members held their hands before them witb uplifted palms,
and gently let them rise and fall to the cadences of the music. So also
did the two circles of marchers, and the singing \Va::; carried on not only
by the choir, but by so many of the marchers as were possessed of
musical powers; while those who could not sing moved their lips with
the worùs of the song and seemed th us to fìhare in the singing. 'Yben
the song was ended, tbe double procession stopped, eacb member in
place, and all, choir and marchers, swept their hands downward, and by
a gesture, appeared to arrest the music. Then. after a pause, either new
singing with a resumption of tbe marching would begin, or some one
would speak a few words of thanksgiving or exhortation.
It was the first time that Holcroft bad ever been within the Shaker
meeting-house, and he was surprised into a spirit of reverence. "\Yhat-
18Gl-S8j
IIORACE ELISIL.4. SCr:DDER.
549
ever of the grotesque had been associated with the service in his mind,
from tbe descriptions he had heard, disappeared in the actual presence
of these sincere men and women. It is true that now anll then he had
to repress a smile, as some peculiar earnestness of expression turned its
odd side toward him, and he thought also that he ùetected certain sleepy
and perfunctor.'
movements on the part of some, 3S if their minds were
on some remote occupation. perchance the gathering of roses for the dis-
tilled rose-water to be made shortly, or some like innocent occupation
in their unexciting life j but the congregation doubtless had its range
of de\Totion, like other congregations. The main effect was of a sim-
ple-mindeù anù single-hearted people, who threw into this service a
fervor which expressed the ideal of their life. To be neat and practical
was not the whole of their religion j for them also were aspirations and
anticipations; and
ometimes, as they marched to the singing of a hymn
which spoke of them as pilgrims on their way to a heavenl}T home, their
faces wcre turned up with an eager, joyous look, their feet seemed only
to touch the floor, and their hands pushed back the sorrlid world with
an energetic gesture. It was at such times that Holcroft was thrilled
with a sympathetic emotion. The rude singing and the quick move-
ments of the marchers blended harmoniom;ly, am] his soul was fanned
as it were Ly a breath from some rlistant sea. rrhere were, besi(les, other
times when the gestures, changing their meaning with the varying
hymn, swept the world away anù brought back heavenly presences, and
the refrain was repeated again and again, so that the meaning was
driven in upon one with renewe<1 wavcs of feeling j and finally, by a
sudden movement, the inner circle of singers was it
elf transformed into
a moving circle, making threp, rings of worshippers, passing and repass-
ing each other with rhythmic tread. and singing joyfully a triumphant
song. Holcroft half closed his eye
, and the moving bodies before him
:;.pemed almost resolved into a cloud of witnesses, wavering under a
divine power which swept it hackward and forward across the heavenly
field.
There was (loubtless in llolcroft a sensiti vene
f' to subtle influences
which made him easily affected by the spectacle. It was the visible
and frank manifestation of emotions which he shared with others, but
was rarely permitted to witne
s, because in most cases onc needs first
to express like emotions, and llolcroft by his constitutional shyness
was prevented from soliciting or sharing in any exhibition of feeling.
Besides, the humorous was not strongly developed in him, and very
simple sentiment. from his long brooding in solitude, had come to have
an elemental force likely to be overlooked by per
ons more familiar with
the process of exprcs
ion and repression. In tbe f:cene before him he
thought he was looking into the depths of the human heart, just as in
550
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
[1!)ijl-88
hearing a few chords of music he might believe himse1f listening to
spheral harmonies. Pedlaps it was because he was so sympathetic and
responsive that the faces of tbe men anù women were hallowed by a
light not ordinarily seen by him. Be this as it may, it is certain that
bis eye rested with peculiar reverence upon one of the worshippers who
was in the outer circle, and in face, manner, and dress seemed to hold
and give forth the perfume, as it were, of the religious ceremony. There
were an ages present, from young children to old men and women; but
tbe beauty of devotion never appears so fair as when residing in a girl
who is beiress to all that the world can give, yet reaches upward for
more enduring delights.
As the circles moved round the room, llolcroft had caugbt sight of a
maiden, dressed like otbers of bel' age, in a fabric which was neither
clear white nor gray, but of a soft pearly tint, which symbolized the
innocence of youth and tbe ripening wisdom of olùer years. Her dark
hair was closely confined beneath the stiff cap which aU wore, but in the
dance a single lock had escapeù, unknown to the wearer, anù peeped
forth in a half-timid, half-daring manner. A snow-white kerchief was
folded over her shoulders and bosom, and bel' carriage was so erect, her
movements so lithe, that as she came stepping ligbtly forward, her little
hands rising and faUing before ner, or moving tremulously at her side,
she seemed the soul of the whole body, pulsating visibly there before
the re\'erent Holcroft. Once, in a pause of the dance, she stood directly
before him, and be found it imposf;ible to raise his eyes to her face,
while a deep blush spread over his own. nut when the dance began
again, his eyes followed her, as she passed b
ond and then returned,
still with the sweet grace and unconscious purity which made tbe wbole
worship centre in her.
The dancing ceased finally, and the worshippers took their placcs on
the wooden benches, which had been placed on one sille. There were
addresses made by one and another, passages from hook, pampblet, or
paper were read, and tben they all rose to sing once more; this over, an
elder came forward, added a few words, and said, "The meeting is
closed," when the outside attendants took their leave and stood in knots
by the meeting-house watching the Shakers as they came out after tbem
and passed into the several houses where they belonged. Holcroft,
standing apart, watcbed for the young girl who bad so attracted him,
and saw her cross the road and enter one of the houses of the commu-
nity. Then he turneù and walked toward his own house.
18ûl-
8]
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
551
., AS GOOD AS A PL.\. Y."
[Stories from .iffy Attic. 1869.]
T HERE was quite a row of them on the mantel-piece. They were
all facing fmnt, and it looked as if tbey hall come out of the wall
behind, and were on their little stage facing the auùience. There was
the bronze monk reading a book by the light of a candle, who had a
private opening under his girdle, so that sometimes his head was thrown
violently back, and one looked down into him and found him full of
brimstone matches. Then the little boy leaning against a greyhound:
he was made of Parian, very fine Parian too, so that one would expect
to finù a glass cover over him: but no; the gla8s cover stood over a
cat; and a cat made of worsteù too: still it was a very old cat, fifty
years old in fact. There was another young person there, young like
the boy leaning on a gre.vhouncl, and she too was of Parian: she was
very fair in front. but behind-ah, that is a secret which it is not quite
time yet to ten! One other stood there, at least she seemed to stand,
but nobody could see her feet, for her dress was so very wide and so
finely flounced. She was the china girl that rose out of a pen-wiper.
The fire in the grate uelow was of soft coal, and flashed np and down,
throwing little jets of flame up that made very pretty foot-lights. So
here was a stage, and here were the actors, but where was the audience?
Oh, the Audience was in the arm-chair in front. He had a special seat;
he was a critic, and could get up when he wanted to, when the play
became tiresome, and go out.
"It is painful to say such things out loud," said the Boy-Ieaning-
against-a-greyhound, with a trembling \'oice, ., but we have been to-
gether so long, and these people round us never will go away. Dear
girl, will you ?-YOL1 know." It was the Pm'ian girl that he spoke to,
but he did not look at her; he could not, be was leaning against the
greyhound; he only looked at the Auùicllce.
"I am not quite sure," she coughed. "If now you were under a
glass case."
"I am under a glass case,"
roke up the Cat-made-of-worsted. "
Iarry
me. I am fifty years old.
rarry me, and live under a glass case."
" Shocking!" said she. "IIow can you? Fifty years old, too! That
woulù indeed be a match! "
" '1Iarry !" muttered the bronze
Ionk-realling-a. book. "A match I
I am fun of matches, but I don't marry. Folly! "
" You stand up very straight. neighbor," saitl the Cat maùe-of-worsted.
"I never bend/' saitl the bronze
I()n k-reading-a book. " Life is ear-
nest. I read a book by a candle. I am never illle."
552
HORACE ELISHA SCUDDER.
[1861-88
Tbe Cat-made-of-worsted grinned to himself.
"Y ou'\'e got a hinge in your back," said he. " They open you in
the middle; your head flies back. How the blood must run down. And
then you're fuB of brimstone matches. He! he!" and the Cat-made-of-
worsted grinned out loud Tbe Boy-leaniug-against-a-greyhound spoke
agai n, and sighed:
,. I am of Parian, you know, and there is no one else bere of Parian,
except yourself."
" And the greybound," said the Parian girl.
,. Yes, and the greyhoUl1l1,"
aid he eagerly. ,. He belongs to me.
Corne, a glass case is nothing to it. \Ve could roam job, we could
roam! "
" I don't like roaming."
" Then we could stay at home, and lean against the greyhound."
" No," said the Pari an gi 1'1, " I don't like tbat."
" 'Yhy? "
" I have private reasons."
" 'Vhat ? "
"No matter."
"I know," said the Cat-made-of-worsted. "I saw her behind. She's
hollow. Sbe's stuffed with lamp-lighters. lIe! be!" and the Cat-
made-of-worsted grinned again.
" I 100Te you just as much," said the steadfast Boy-leaning-against-a-
greyhound, "and I don't believe the Cat."
"Go away," said the Parian girl angrily. .. You're all bateful. I
won't have you."
" Ah !" sighed the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.
'" Ab !" came anothpr sigh-it was from the China-girl-rising-out-of-
a-pen-wiper-" how I pity you!"
"Do you?" said he eagerly. "Do you? Then I love you. "Till
JOu marry me?"
" Ah !" said sbe j "but"-
"She can't!" said tbe Cat-made-of-worsted. "She can't come to you.
She hasn't got any legs. I know it. I'm fifty years old. I never saw
them."
"Never mind the Cat," said tbe Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.
"But I do mind the Cat," said she, weeping. "I haven't. It's all
pen-wiper."
" Do I ('are?" said he.
"She has tboughts," said the bronze 1Ionk-readinp--a-book. " That
lasts longer than beauty. .And she is solid behind."
"And she ha
no 11Ïnge in her back," grinned tbe Cat-made-of-wors-
ted. "Come, neighbors, let us congratulate them. You begin."
1861-
t)]
HENR Y A.J.1fES BLOOD.
553
" Keep out of disagreeable company," said the bronze :Monk-reading-
a-book.
"That is not congratulation; that is ad vice," said the Cat-made.of.
worsted. "N ever mind, go on, my dear "-to tbe Pm'ian girl. " \Vhat !
nothing to sa
r? Then I'll say it for you. I Friends, may your 10\Te
last as long as your courtship.' Now I'll congratulate you,"
But before he could 8peak, the Audience got np.
" You shaH not say a word. It m llst end happily."
He went to the mantel-piece and took up the China-girl-rising-out-of.
a-pen-w1per.
,. ,'T'hy, she has legs after all,'' said he.
"They're false," said the Cat-made-of-worsted. "They're false. I
know it. I'm fifty years old. I never saw true ones on her."
The Audience paid no attention, but took up the Boy-leaning-against-
a-greyllOund.
., Ha!" said the Cat-maele-of-worsted. "Come. I like this. He's
hollow. They're all llOllow. TIe! he! Neighbor :i\Ionk. you're hol-
low. n
! he!" and the Cat-made-of-worsteel never stopped grinning.
The Au(1ience lifted the gla
s case from him and set it over the
Boy-Jeaning-against-a-grey bound and the China-girI-rising-out-of-a-pen-
\V1 per.
I. Be happy!" said he.
I. Happy!" said the Cat-made-of-worsted, "Happy [ "
Still they were happy.
l
r1tt1:
ntC
161001:1.
BORN in Temple, N. H., 1838.
SHAKESPEARE.
I 'YISII that I could have my wish to-night;
For all the fairies should assist my flight
Back into the abyss of :years;
Till I could see the streaming light,
And hear the music of the spheres
That sang together at the joyous birth
Of that immortal mind,
The noblest of his kind-
The only Shakespeare that has graced our earth.
011. that I might behold
Those gentle sprites, by other:ò all unseen,
.
554
HEj,YRY AMES BLOOD.
[1861-88
Queen )la1> and Puck the bold,
With curtseys manifold
Glide round his cradle ('\'ery morn and e'en;
That I might see the nimble shapes that ran
And frisked and frolickecl by his sille,
'Vhen school- hours ended or began,
At morn or eventide;
That I might see the very shoes he wore
Upon the dusty street,
His little gown and pinafore,
His satchel and his schoolboy rig complete!
If I could have the wish I rhyme,
Then should this night, and all it doth contain,
Be set far' back upon the rim of Time,
And I would wihlered be upon a stormy plain:
The wanton \Va.ves of winter wind and storm
Should beat upon my ruddy face,
And on my streaming hair;
And hags and witches multiform,
And held ames past all saintly grace,
Should hover roullIlme in the sleety air.
Then, hungry, cold, anll frightened by these imps of sin,
And breathless all with huffeting' the storm,
Betimes I would arrive at some old English inn,
'Yainscoted, high, anù warm.
The fire shouhl blaze i.o antique chimney-place;
.And on the high-backe'l settles, here and there,
The village gossip and the merry laugh
Should follow brimming cnps of half-an'-half;
Before the fire, in ho
pitable chair.
The landlord fat shouhl bask his shining face,
And slowly twirl his pewter can:
And there in his consummate grace,
The perfect lord of wit,
The immortal man,
The only Shakespeare of this earth should sit.
There, too, that Spanish g-all('on of a hulk,
Ben Jonson, lying at full 1l'1\;..:"tll,
Should so di8pose his goodly bulk
That he mi:..d1t lie at ease upon his back,
To test the tone and strength
Of Boniface's sherris-sack.
And there should he some compeers of these two,
Rare wits fUlll poets of the lanll,
'Yhom all good Englanù knew,
And who are now her dear forget-me-nots;
1861-88]
23 April, 1864.
HE.1YRY A.JIES BLOUD.
And they should lounge on Shakespeare's either hand,
And sip their punch from queer old cans and pots.
Oh. then, such drollery should begin,
Such wit flash out, such humor run
Aroull<l the fil'e in this old English inn,
The verie:;t clod would be convulsed with fun;
And Boniface's merry sides woul!l ache,
And his round belly like a Pllllding shake.
Never since the wOl'hl began
Has been such repartee;
And ne\'er till the next hegins,
"
ill greater things be said by man,
Than this same company
Were wont to say so oft in those old English inns.
Dear artist, if you paint this picture mine,
Do not forget the storm that roars
Above the merry din an<llaughter within doors;
But let some stroke divine
l\Iake all within appear more rich and warm,
By contrast with the (luter storm.
THE WAR OF TIlE DRY
\DS.
S H
\.PES of earth or sp1'Ïtes of air,
Shoul<l you travel thither,
Ask the Dryads how they dare
Quarrel thus together?
Live and love, or coo and woo,
l\Ien with axes hnnc1in
,
They will have all they can (10
To keep their live-oak standing.
Long and loud the larum swells
Rousing up the peoples:
Campaneros clang thcir bells
High in leafy steeples.
Swiftly spcC'd the eager hours,
Fairy fel1ies rattle;
Bugle-weed and trumpet-flowers
Heralding the battle.
Foremost ml1,rch, in pale platoons,
Barnacles anù ganzas,
Quacking through the long lagoons
Military stanzas.
555
556
HENRY A..:'tIES BLOOD.
Red-legged choughs and screeching daws
File along the larches;
" Right! " and "Left!" the raven caws,
" Blast your countermarches! "
Chcek by jowl with stately rooks
Come the perking swallows,
Putting on important, looks,
Strutting up the hollows;
Lank, long-legged fuglemcn,
Herons, cranes, mIll gaIIllers,
Stri<le before thc buglemen,
Cock-a-hoop commanùers.
Learneò owls with wondrous eyes,
Apes with wilù grimaces,
Shardy chafers, chattcring pyes,
Bustlc in their places.
"Forward! " cry the captains all,
Seeming hoarse with phthisis;
h Forward! " all the captains call,
Cocks and cockatrices.
Fiercely gmpplc now the foes,
Rain the bottle-grasses;
Hobhle-hushcs, bitter sloes,
Block the mountain passes.
Here and there and everywhere
Ueinforcements 'ally,
Seeming !'prung from earth and air,
From mountain top and valley.
Either gleaming hullets hum,
Or the bees are plying;
Either whizzing goes the bomb,
Or the pheasant flying.
'Tis the pheasa.nt, 'tis the bee;
Never fiercer volley
Rang upon the birken tree,
Nor whirred along the holly.
Out from furze find prickly goss,
Fiery serpents jetting,
Over level roods of moss
Rahbits ricochetting;
Oh, the onset! Oh, the chargel
How the a.spens quiver!
Fever-bushes on the marge
Chatter to the river.
Overhead by rod and rooù,
1\[ore than man could number,
[18G1-88
1861-88]
ALBION lfTNEGAR TOURGÉE.
557
Spear-grass ann arrow-wood
Turn the white air sombre.
Gentle, gentle Dryades,
You shall reap your sorrow;
More than rainy Hyades
You shall weep to-morrow.
Crows the cock anù caws the crow,
Croaks the boding raven
Pallid as the moonueams go,
Three nUll three, the cnl\Ten
Dryads, and the sun (hops low.
Soon shall come strang"e faces,
)Ieu with axes, to anù fro,-
:Kew peoples and new races.
glbíon alíncgar '<tourgéc.
BOR:S in Williamsfield, Ohio, 18:
8.
A RACE AG AIXST TIME.
[..-1 Fool's Errand. By One of the Fools. 1879.]
T HE brawny groom with difficu1ty held the restless horse by tbe bit;
but the slight girl, who stood upon tbe block with pale face and set
teeth, gathered the reins in her hanJ, leaped fearlessly into the saddle,
found the stirrup, and saill, .. Let him go!" without a quaver in hér
voice. The man loosed his hold. The hor
e stood upright, and pawed
the air for a moment with hi
feet, gave a few mighty leaps to make
sure of his libprty. and then,
tretching out hi
neck, bounded fonvard
in a race which would require all tbe mettle of his endless line of nol)le
sires. .Almost without words, her errand had become known to tbe
household of servants; and as she flew down the road, her bright hair
gleaming in the moonlight, old Maggie, sobbing and tearful, 'was ,yet so
impressed with admiration, that she could only say:
I. De Lor' bress her! 'Pears like dat chile ain't 'fear'd 0' noffin' ! "
As she was borne like an arrow down tbe avenue, and turned into the
Glenville road, Lily heard the whistle of the train as it left the depot
at Verdentoll. and knew that upon her coolness and re
olution alone
depenJed tbe life of her fatber.
It was, perhaps, well for the accompli
hment of her purpose, that, for
some time after setting out on her perilous journey, Lily Servos::;e had
558
ALBIOX TrLYEGAR TO
RGÉE.
[1861-88
enough to do to maintain bel' seat, and guide and control her horse.
Young Lollard, wbom the servant had so earnestly remonstrated against
her taking, aùùed to tbe noted pedigree of bis sire the special excellences
of tbe Glencoe strain of Lis dam, from whom he inLerited also a darker
coat, and that touch of native savageness wbich characterizes the stock
of Emancipator. Upon both sides his blood was as pure as that of the
great kings of the turf, and what we have termed his savagery was
more excess of spirit than any inclination to do mischief. It was that
uncontrollable ùesire of the thoroughbretl hurse to be always doing his
best, which made him restless uf the bit and curb, while the native
sagacity of bis race had leLl him to practise somewbat on the fears of
h is groom.
'YitL head outstretcheù, and sinewy neck strained to its uttermost, he
flew over the ground in a wild, mad race with the e\?ening wind, as it
seemed. 'Vithout jerk or strain, but easily and steadily as the falcon
flies, tbe highbred horse skimmed along the ground. A mile, two, three
miles were made, in time that would bave done honor to tbe staying
quality of his sires, and still his pace had not sla.ckenen.. Ile was now
nearing the river into which fell the creek that raIl by 'Varrington. As
he went down tbe long slope that lell to the forù, his rider tried in vain
to check his speed. Pressure upon the bit but resulted in an impatient
shaking of the head and laying back of the ear:--:. lIe kept up his mag-
nificent striùe until he hall rcached the very verge of the river. There
he stopped. tbrew up Ilis Ilead in in<1uiry, as he gazed upon the fretted
waters lighted up by_the full moon, glanced back at Lis rider, and, with
a word of encouragement from her, marched proudly into the waters,
casting up a silvery spray at every step. Lily did not miss this oppor-
tunity to establish more intimate relations with her steed. She patted
his neck, praised him lavishly, and took occasion to assume control of
bim while he was in the deepest part of the channel: turning him this
way and that much mure than was needfql, simply to accustom him to
obey her wilL
'Yhen he came out on the other bank, he would have resumed bis
gallop almost at once: hut she required him to walk to the top of the
hilL The night was growing chilly by this time. As the wind struck
her at the hill-top, Rhe remembered that sbe had thrown a hooded water-
proof about her before startin:r. She stopped her horse, and, taking off
her hat, gathered her long hair into a mass, and thrust it into tbe hood,
which she drew over her head, anù pressed her hat down on it; then
she gathered the reins, anù théy went on in that long, steady stride
which marks the highbred horse when he gets thoroughly clown to his
work. Once or twice she drew rein to examine the landmarks, anù
determine which 1'0::1.11 to take. Sometimes Ler way lay through the
1861-88]
.ALBIO
Y WLYEGAR TO L-RGEE.
559
forest, and she was startled by the cry of the owl; anon it was through
the reedy bottom-land, and the half-wild hogs, starting from their lairs,
gave her an instant's fright. The moon cast strange shadows around
her; but still she pushed on, with this one only thought in her mind, that
her father.s life was at stake, anù she alone could save him.
She glanced at her watch as she passed from under the shade of the
oaks, and, as she held the dial up to the moonlight, gave a scream of joy.
It was just past tbe stroke of nine. She had still an hour, and half tbe
distance had been accomplished in balf tbat time. She bad no fear of
her horse. Pressing on now in the swinging fox-walk which he took
whenever the character of the road or the mood of bis rider demanded,
there was no sign of weariness. As he threw his head upon one side
and the other, as if asking to be allowed to press on, she saw his dark
eye gleam with the fire of the inveterate racer. His thin nostrils were
distended; but his breath came regularly and full. She had not for-
gotten, even in her haf'te and fright. the lessons bel' father had taught:
but, as soon as she could control her horse, she had spared him, and
compel1eJ him to husband his strength. Her spirits rose at the prospect.
She even carol1ed a bit of exultant song as Young Lollard swept on
through a forest of towering pines, with a w bite sand-cushion stretched
beneath his feet. rrhe fragrance of the pines came to her nostrils, and
with it the thought of frankincense, and that brought up the hymns of
her childhood. The Star in the East, the Babe of Bethlehem, the Great
Deli verer,-al1 swept across her rapt vision; and then came the price-
less promise. "I will not leave thee, nor forsake."
Sti11 OIl and on the brave horse bore her with untiring limb. Half the
remaining di:;:tance is now consumed, and she comes to a place where
the road forks, not once, but into four branchps. It is in the midst of a
level old field covered with a thick growth of ::;cru bby pines. Through
the masses of thick green are white lanes v-hich stretch away in every
direction, with no visible c}ifference save in the density or frequency of
the sbadows which faIl acro:,s them. She tries to think which of the
many intersecting paths lewls to her destination. She tries tbis and then
tbat for a few steps, consult:;: tbe stars to determine in wbat direction
Glenville lies, and 1uts almost decidc{l upon the first to the right, when
she hears a sound which turn
her blood to ice in her veins.
A sbrill whistle sounds to the left,-once, twice, thrice,-anc1 then it
is answered from the road in front. There are two others. 0 God! if
she but knew which road to take! She knows well enough the meaning
of those signals. She has heard them before. The masked candiers are
closing in upon her; and, as if frozen to stone, she sits her horse in the
clear mooillight, and cannot choose.
Sbe is not thinking of her:-ielf. It is not for herself that she fears j
560
ALBIO
V WINEGAR TOURGÉE,
[1861-88
but there ha
come over her a horrible numbing sensation tbat she is
lost, that she does not know which road leads to those she seeks to
save; and at the same time there comes the certain conviction that to err
would be fatal Tbere are but two roads now to choose from, since she
has beard the fateful signals from the left and front: but bow much
depends upon that choice! "It must be this," she says to herself; and.
as she says it, the sickening conviction comes, " No, no: it is the other!"
She hears hoof-strokes upon the road in front, on that to her left, and
now, too, on that which turns sheer to tbe right. From one to the
other the whistle sounds,-sharp, short signals. Her heart sinks within
bel'. She bas halted at tbe very rendezvous of tbe enemy. They are
all about bel'. To attempt to ride down either road now is to invite
destruction.
Sbe woke from bel' stupor when the first horseman came in sight, and
tbankeel God for her dark horse and colorless habit. She urged Young
Lollard among the dense scrub-pines which grew between the two roads
from which she knew that she must choose, turned his bead back
toward the point of intersection, drew her revolver, leanel} over upon
his neck, and peered through the overhanging branches. She patted her
horse's head, and whispered to him softly to keep him still.
Hardly had she placed herself in hiding, before the open space around
the intersecting roads was alive with disguised horsemen. She could
catch glimpses of their figures as she gazed through the clustering pines.
Three men came into tbe road which ran along to the right of where she
stood. They were hardly five stepg from where she lay, panting, but
determined, on the faithful horse, which moved not a muscle. Once be
had neighed before they came so near; but there were so many horses
neighing ancl snuffing, that no one had heeded it. She remembered a
little flask which :Maggie had put into her pocket. It was whiskey. She
put up her revolver, drew out the flask, opened it, poured some in her
band, and, leaning forward, rubbed it on the horse's nose. He did not
offer to neigh again.
One of the men who stood near her Rpoke.
"Gentlemen, I am the East Commander of Camp No.5 of Pultowa
County. "
,. And I, of Camp No.8, of 'Vayne."
,. And 1. of No. 12, Sevier."
" You are the men I expected to meet," said the first.
"'Ve were ordered to report to you," said the others.
"nas tbe party we want left Verdenton ? "
" A messenger from Glenville says be is on tbe train with the carpet-
bagger Servosse."
., Going home with him?"
lS61-88J
ALBIO
V WL.YEGAR TOl.,
RGÉE.
561
" Yes."
" The decree does not cover Servosse? ..
" No."
"I don't half like the business, anyhow, and am not inclined to go
beyo:ld express order
. 'Vhat do you say about it?" asked the leader.
" IIadn't we better say the decree covers both? " asked one.
" I can't do it," said the leader with decision.
,. You remember our rules," said the third,-u 'when a party is made
up by details from different camps, it shall constitute a camp so far as
to regulate its own action; and all matters pertaining to such action
which the officer in command may see fit to submit to it shall be decided
by a majority vote.' I think this had better he left to the camp."
"I agree with you," said the leader. "But before we do so, let's have-
a drink."
Re prol.1uced a flask, and they all partook of it
contents. Then they
went back to the intersection of the roads, mounted their borses, and the-
leader commanded, "Attention! "
The men gathered closer, and then an was still. Then the leader said,
in words distinctly heard by the trembling girl :
"Gentlemen, we have met here, under a solemn and duly authenti-
cated decree of a properly organized camp of the county of Rockford, to
execute for them the extreme penalty of our order upon Thomas Denton,
in the way and manner therein prescribed. This unpleasant duty of
course will be (lone as becomes earnest men. 'Ve are, however, informed
that there will be with the said Denton at the time we are directed to
take him another notorious Radical well known to you all, Colonel Com-
fort Servosse. He is not included in the decree; and I now submit for
your determination the question, 'What shall be done with him? ' "
There was a moment's buzz in the crow(l.
One careless-toned fellow said that he thought it would be well enough
to wait till they caught their hare before cooking it. It was not the first
time a squad had thought theX had Servosse in their power; but they
bad never ruffled a hair of his head yet.
The leader commanded, "Order!" and one of the associate com-
manders moved that the
ame decree be made against him as against the
said Denton. Then the ,.ote was taken. AIJ were in the affirmative,
except the loud-voiced 'young man who had spoken before, who said
with emphasis:
., No, b.v Granny! I'm not in favor of killing anybody! I'll have
JOu know, gentlemen, it's neither a pleasant nor a safe business. First
we know, we'll all be runnin
our necks into hemp. It's wbat we can
murder, gentlemen, in civilized and Christian countries! "
"Order! " cried the commander.
VUL. IX.-36
56
ALBION W-INEGAll TOURGÉ.E.
[1861-88
"Oh, you needn't yell at me! " said the young man fearlessly. "I'm
not afraid of anybody here, nor all of you. :Me!. Gurney and I came
just to take some friends' places who couldn't obey the summons,-we're
not bound to stay, but I suppose I sball go along. I don't like it,
though, and, if I get much sicker, I shall leave. You can count on
that! "
"If you stir from your place," said the leader sternly, " I shall put a
bullet through you."
"Oh, you go to hell!" retorted the other. " You don't expect to
frighten one of the old Louisiana Tigers in that way, do you? Now
look here, Jake Carver," he continued, drawing a huge navy revolver,
and cocking it coolly, "don't try any such little game on me, 'cause, if
ye do, there may be more'n one of us fit for a spy-glass when it's over."
At tbis, considerable confusion arose; and Lily, with her revolver
ready cocked in bel' band, turned, and cautiously made ber way to tbe
road which had been indicated as tbe one which led to Glenville. Just
as her horse stepped into the path, an overhanging limb caught her hat,
and pulled it off, together with tbe hood of her waterproof, so that her
hair fell down again upon her shoulders. She hardly noticed tbe fact in
her excitement, and, if she had, could not bave stoppell to repair tbe
accident. She kept her horse upon tbe sbady side, walking upon the
grass as much as possible to prevent attracting attention, watcbing on all
sides for any scattered members of the Klan. She had proceeded thus
about a hundred and fifty yards, when she came to a turn in the road,
and saw, sitting before her in the moonlight, one of the dÜ
guised horse-
men, evidently a sentry who had been stationed there to see tbat no one
came upon the camp unexpectedly. He was facing the other way, but
just at tbat instant turned, and, seeing her indistinctly in the shadow,
cried out at once:
'
,\Vho's there? Hal t ! "
They were not twenty yards apart. Young Lollard was trembling
with excitement under the tightly-drawn rein. Lily thought of her
father half-prayerfully, half-fiercely, bowed close over her horse's neck,
and braced bersclf in the saddle, with every muscle as tense as those of
the tiger waiting for his leap. Almost before the words were out of
the sentry's mouth, she bad given Young Lollard the spur, and shot
like an arrow into tbe bright moonligbt, straight toward the black
muffled horseman.
"
fy God!" he cried, amazed at the sudden apparition.
She was close upon him in an instant. There was a shot; his startled
horse sprang aside, and Lily, urging Young Lollard to his utmost speed,
was flying down the road toward Glenville. She heard an uproar
behind-shouts, and one or two shots. On, on, sbe
ped. She knew
1861-88]
ALBION WI.J.YEGAR TOURGÉE.
5G3
now every foot of the road beyond. She looked back, and saw her pur-
suers swarming out of the wood into the moonlight. Just then she was
in shadow. A mile, two miles, were passed. She ùrew in her horse to
listen. There was the noise of a horse's hoofs coming down a hill she
had just descended, as her gallant steed bore her, almost with undimin-
ished stride, up the opposite slope. She laughed, even in her terrible
excitement, at the very thought that anyone should attempt to over-
take her.
.. They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochinntr,"
she hummed as sbe patted Young Lollard's outstretched neck. She
turned when they reacbed the summit, her long hair streaming back-
ward in the moonlight like a golden banner, and saw the solitary horse-
man on the opposite slope; then turned back and passed over the hill.
He halted as she dashed out of sight, and after a moment turned round,
and soon met the entire camp, now in perfect order, galloping forward
dark and silent as fate. The commander halted as they met the return-
ing sentinel.
"'V hat was it? " he asked quickly.
"Nothing," replied the sentinel carelessly. "I was sitting there at the
turn examining my revolver, when a rabbit ran across the road, and
frightened my mare. She jumped, and the pistol went off. It bappened
to graze my left arm, so I could not hold the reins: and she like to have
taken me into Glenville before I could pull her up."
" I'm glad that's all," said the officer, witb a sigh of relief. "Did it
burt you much? "
"'V ell, it's used that arm up, for tbe present."
A hasty examination showed this to be true, and the reckless-talking
young man was detailed to accompany him to some place for treatment
and safety, while the otbers passed on to perform their borrible task.
The train from Verdenton had reached and left Glenville. The
incomers had been divided between the rival hotels, the porters had
removed the luggage, and tbe agent was just entering his office, when
a foam-flecked horse with bloody nostrils and fiery eyes, ridden by a
young girl with a white, set face, anù fair, flowing hair, dashed up to the
station.
" Judge Denton! " the rider shrieked.
The agent had but time to motion with his hanel, and she bad swept
on toward a carriage which was being swiftly driven away from the
station, and which was just visible at the turn of tbe village street.
" Papa, papa!" shrieked the gil.Jish voice as she swept on.
564
JOHN RICHARD DENNETT.
[1861-88
A frif!htenecl face glanced backward from the carriage, and in an
instant Comfort Servosse was standing in tbe path of the rushing
steed.
"Ho, Lollard!" he shouted, in a voice which rang over the sleepy
town like a trumpet-note.
The amazed horse veered quickl.y to one side, and
topped as if
stricken to stone, while Lily fell insensible into her father's arms. "\Vhen
she recovered, he was bending O\rer her with a look in his eyes which
she will never forget.
101)11 1lìícl)artJ PCI1I1Ctt.
BORN in Chatham, N. B., 1838. DIED at Westbol"Ough,
fass., 18ì4.
ROSSETTI AND PRE-RAPHAELITIS:\I.
[Tlte North .American Ru'iew. 1870.]
F OR some twenty years l\fr. Dante Rossetti has been more or less
well known, even to persons not ('ounted among his particular
admirers, as a man of great poetical susceptibility and refined poetical
taste. His translations of the ,. Vita Nuova," of the" Inferno," and
other mediæval Italian poetry, abundantly proved this, and proved, too,
that he had in a high degree the powër of literary expression. Despite,
then, that presumption of incapacity very rightly entertained against a
man who does not make public trial of a strength for which public
acknowledgment is asked, there has been a disposition to give :Mr. Ros-
setti the credit his immediate circle of friends asked for him as a poet of
extraordinary abilities. It is true that he has printed, besides his trans-
lations, some original poems which would have served as confirmatory
evidence in his favor; but the distinction between the printing of a
work and the publication of it is not often better marked than in the
case of "The Blessed Damoze1." in its earlier form; and the general
pu blic has, until the appearance of this volume, known but little more
of his poetry than that it was handed about among a few friend
, and by
them admired with wbat to most discriminating persons seemed like
extravagance. This, for the reason just mentioned, that the world is not
much inclined to believe in poetry which is deliberately and persistently
hid under a bushel; and, seconrlly, because readers and observerR who
have discernment are apt to feel a general distrust of the capacities of
such natures as seem to have the weakness of contemrtuou
ly or with
morbid uneasiness shunning the judges who alone can make general
18Gl-88]
JOlLY RICHA.RD DENNETT.
565
award, and seeking the presumably partial applause of a few j and, finally,
becam
e the few who in this instance called us to admire were not judges
in whom there is entire confidence.
It is in a circle of poets and artists, and their intimates, some of them
having, in their capacity as artists, a strong claim on the respect of
people of cultivation, and most of them being at least interesting to
people of cultivation, that
Ir. Rossetti has had his high reputation.
But as we have said, their dl,cla have not heen of wide acceptance among
those not given over to the cultus of Pre-Raphaelitism. Of this cultus it
is not out of our pl.e:3ent province to speak, for it has affected the literary
a
well as the pictorial or plastic expression of all who g:a ve themsel ves
up to it j but it is beyond our ability to treat of it as it sllOuld be treated
of if one would make thoroughly clear the genesis and character of the
works done under its influence. It may, however, be permitted anyone
to say that it had an absurd and ridiculous side j and if this a:;:pect of
it be once
een, the investigator and critic win doubtless find himself dis-
embarrassed of some of that hindering reverence with which it is proba-
ble he might otherwise approach works which have been so very emphati-
cany pronounced admirable and excellent, and which are to most critics
strange enough and new enough to be not a little baffling. He does
not neeLl to be at an a hardened critic in order to laugh at the projectors
of the "Germ," for example, admired artists tbough they be, when he
learns that, ina
much as they helieved that they had before them in con-
ducting that iconoclastic magazine a 'work of great difficulty and labor,
tbey decided to indicate this belief by always pronouncing tbe name of
their periodical with the initial letter hard. Tbis seems too absurd to
be readily believed-that a number of grown men should go about say-
ing "germ" with a hard g, because tbey bad resolved to paint as good
pictures, and write as good poems, and make as good reviews of other
people's poems as they possibly could. Yet, if a la)yman with no recog-
nized right to say anything about art may say f:O, there is nothing in
this procedurf' which is essentially inconsistent with the characteristics
of the works which Pre-Raphaelitic art has produced-as, indeed, how
should th('re l)e? Over-strenuousness. enthusiasm in need of reasonable
direction,
elf-conscious, crusading zeal, the exaggeration of surface-
matters at the expense of the essential thing sought, affectation, which,
however, may probably be the expression of genuine moods of minds in
natures too little comprehensive-all the
e one can fancy that one sees
in the pictures and poems just as in this baptism of the magazine which
tbe school set on foot. . Not to insist on what is perhaps not very
well worth attention, but by way of corroborating the evidence which
our stor.\" of the" Germ" may offer, we may mention the fact that some
years since. when something like an American Pre-Haphaelite Brother-
566
JOH.N RICHARD DENNETT.
[1861-88
hood was formed in tbe city of Kew York, wbere an American" Germ,"
too, was established and lived for a while, it was seriously discussed by
the brethren w betber or not they should di
card the ordinary clothes of
contemporary mankind, and endue themselves with doublets and long
hose and pantofles, and such other articles of dress as doubtless had so
much to do with making the 1.'itians anù Angelos and Anùreas of the
old days of art.
Opinions must differ; but the prevailing opinion, we should say,
will be that we have in )11'. Rossetti another poetical man, and a man
markedly poetical, and of a kind apparently thongb not radically dif-
ferent from a.ny other of our seconrlary writers of poetry, but that we
bave not in him a true poet of any weight. He certainly has taste, anfl
su btlety, and skill, and sentiment in excess, and excessive sensibility,
anrl a sort of pictorial sensuousness of conception which gives warmth
and vividness to the imagery that embodies his feelings and desires.
But he is all feelings and desires; anf! he is of the earth, earthy, though
the earth is often bright and beautiful pigments; of thought and imagi-
nation he has next to nothing. At last one discovers, what has seemed
probable from the first, that one has been in company with a lyrical
poet of narrow range; with a man who has nothing to say but of him-
self; and of himself as the yearning lover, mo::;tly a sad one, of a person
of the other sex. 'Vhere there seems to he something more than this,
as in such a dramatic piece as "Sister Helen," for instance, the substra-
tum is usually the same; and the es
entiany subjective, and narrowly
subjective character of the poem is only temporarily concealed by the
author's favorite mediæval dress, which is never obtained except at the
cost of throwing over the real life of the :Middle Ages the special color
which it suits the author's purpose to throw over it. Mediævalism of
this kind, elaborately appointed and equipped, has always been common
enough, and certainly it has great powers of imposition, but what is it
usually but our taking, each of us as it chances to suit his taste or bis
purpose, some one aspect of the true life of the
Iiddle Ages, or. as it
may happen, the classic ages, or the age of Queen Anne say, or King
David, or Governor V\Tinthrop. and making that stand for the objective
truth? 'Vith :1\[1'. Morris, say, tIle ,Middle Ages mean helmets and the
treacheries of long-footed knights who fiercely love ladies who embroider
banners, anù wear samite gowns, and watch ships sailing out to sea, as
do illuminated ladies, out of all drawing, in old manuscripts. Another
man's Middle Ages are made up of tourneys and knightl.y courtesies.
The England of Queen Anne is to such and such a man all coffee-houses
and wigs and small-swords; and to such and such another, Governor
Winthrop's New England is
oing always to church, and hanging
witches, and austerely keeping fasts. 'Ve confess tbat whenever tbis
1861-88]
JOlIN RICHARD DE-,-YNETT.
567
particular form of self-indulgence is accompanied by an ostentation of
exactness and of absolute reproduction of the past times, or when, as
in the case of a certain school of writers, the impression given is the
impression of the writer's inability to Eve the life of his own age, and
to see that in that also the realities of Efe and thought, the substance and
subject of aU real1y sound poetry. present themselves for treatment, we
confess that we experience a feeling not far removed from contemptuous
resentment. Surely there is
omething wrong in the thinker or the
poet-shal1 we say, too, in the artist ?-who can content himself with
his fancies of the thoughts and feelings and views of times past, and
who can better please himself with what after aU must be more or le
s
unreal phantasmagoria than with the breathing life around him.
Considered as a lyrical poet pure and simple, a lyrical verse-making
lover, apart from whatever praise or blame belongs to him as a Pre-
Raphaelite in poetry whose Pre-Raphaelitism is its most obvious feature,
it will be found that ),11'. Rossetti must be credited with an intensity of
feeling which is overcast almost always with a
ort of morbidness, and
which usual1y trenches on the bound of undue sensuousness of tone.
Picturesqueness, indeed, is, as might have been expected, one of our
author's strong points. For one thing, because he looks on nature with
tbe eyes of a man whose busines
in the world it is to see and make pict-
ures: and it might be not easy to find, outside of the delightful poems
of
rr. 'Yilliam Barnes, w llO has so extraordinar.v an eye for the land-
scape-picturesque, any more decided recent successes in this way than
)11'. Rossetti has made. Then, for another thing, he looks un Efe with
the feeling of a born painter, whose natural instrument of expression is
color, and who can with more ease indicate and subtly hint than he can
clearly enunciate with intel1ectual precision what lIe wishes to convey to
U
. Thn
he is no doubt at a rlisad vantage with most of his critics, and
lIas for the necessary injusticf', to eaJ] it so, which these do him, only
the somewhat imperfect compensation of pleasing with an excess of
vague pleasure a certain number of his more impressible readers of like
mind with himse1f. The sensuousness, too, of which we speak, making
it natural for him to seek palpable, tangible images in which to embody
his conception, is anotùer allied caU3e of his strength as a pictorial
writer.
To whaten>r the reader turns he will, we think, as we haye said, come
at last to the conclusion tbat Mr. Rossetti is e
8entiall.v a subjective poet
who deals with the passion of 10ve, and who ha.s at commanù a set of
properties which have the advantage of being comparatively new and
striking to most readers and have the disadvantage of being thought by
most rem1ers to be merely properties. And the love to wlJich he con-
fine
himself win be found to be at bottom a sensuous and sexual love,
568
JOH
Y DA VIS LONG,
[1861-88
refined to some extent by that sort of worship of one's mistress as saint
and divmity which the early Italians made a fasbion, certainly, whether
or not it was ever a faith by which they lived. It is, we take it, to his long
study in this school tbat
Ir. Rossetti owes much of tbis turn tbat his
thoughts take. . Besides its sensuousness and its sort of ecstasy,
sadness and dejection characterize l\fr. Rossetti's love, which sheds tears
and looks backwards with regret, and forwards without cheerfulness,
and yearningly into tbe mould of the grave, as often as it looks back-
wards upon remembered raptures and forwards to an eternity of locked
embraces and speechless gazing upon the beloved. His love is, on the
whole, rather depressing. It is, however, past doubt that, although tbe
world at large is not going to gi ve 111'. Rossetti anything like tbe place
tbat has been claimed for him-though it is even probaLle that the fash-
ion of his poetry win ,Ter.,' soon pass away and be gone for good, and
the opinion of his genius fall to an opinion that he is a man of the tem-
perament of genius lacking power to give effect, in words at least, to a
nature and gifts rare rather tban strong or valuable, nevertheless it will
be admitted that he is an elaborately skilful love-poet of narrow range,
who affords an occasional touch that makes the reader hesitate and con-
sider whether he has not now amI again struggled out and really emerged
as a poet worthy of the name.
j;ol)l1 iDabí
JLOl1g.
BOR
in Buckfielù, 1[e., 1838.
AT THE FIRESIDE.
A T nightfall by the firelight's cheer
My little :\Iargaret sits me ncar,
And begs me tell of things that were
'Yhen I was little, just like her.
Ah, little lips, you touch the spring
Of sweetest sad remembering;
And hearth and heart flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago!
I at my father's fireside sit,
Youngest of all who circle it,
And beg him tell me what did he
'Vhen he was little, just like me.
1861-88]
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
<enna :IDea1t 1Ðroctor.
Bonr; in Henniker, N. H., 1838.
REA VEN, 0 LORD, I CANNOT LOSE.
N O\V summer finùs her perfect prime!
Sweet blows the wind from western calms;
On every bower red roses clim h ;
The meadows sleep in mingled halms.
Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by,
But lilies float and daisies throng,
Nor srace of blue anù sunny sky
That is not cleft with soaring song.
o flowery morns, 0 tuneful eyes,
Fly swift! my soul ye cannot till!
Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves,
The driftmg snows on plain and hill.
Alike, to me, fall frosts and dews;
But Heaven, 0 Lord, I cannot lose!
"Tarm hands to-day are clasped in mine;
Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share;
And over hope's horizon line,
The future dawns, serenely fair.
Yet still, though fervent vow denies,
I know the rapture will not stay;
Some wind of grief or doubt will rise
And turn my rosy sky to gray.
I shall awake, in rainy morn,
To find my hearth left lone anrl drear;
Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn,
I let my life burn on as clear,
Though friends grow cold or fond love woos;
But Heaven, 0 Lord, I cannot lose!
In golden hours the angel Peace
Comes down nnd broods me with her wings:
I gain from sorrow sweet release;
I mate me with divinest things;
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise
And far the radiant angel flees-
l\Iy song is lost in mournful sighs,
My wine of triumph left bnt lees.
In vain for me her pinions shine,
And pure, celestial days begin;
Earth's passion-flowers I still must twine,
Nor hraid one beauteous lily in.
Ab! is it good or ill I choose?
But Heaven, 0 Lord, I cannot lose!
569
570
EDNA DEA.N PROCTOR.
So wait I. Every (lay that dies
"\Vith flush alHl fragnmce born of June,
I know shall more resplendent rise
"
here SUlIlmer needs nor sun nor moon.
And every bud, on love's low tree,
"\Vhose mocking crimson flames and ffills,
In fullest flower I yet shall see
High blooming by the Jasper wallso
Nay, every sin that (lims my days,
\nd wild regrets that veil the sun,
Shall fade before those dazzling rays,
And my long glory be begun!
Let the years come to hless or hruise;
Thy Heaven, 0 Lorù, I shall not lose!
MOSCOW.
[A Russian Journey. 1872.]
A T FIRST SIGHT.
^ CROSS the steppe we journeyed,
The brown, fir-darkened plain
That rolls to east and rolls to west,
Broad as the billowy main,
When lo! a sudden slrlCllllor
Came shimmering through the air,
As if the clouds should melt and ll'ave
The heights of heaven bare,-
A maze of rain how domes and spires
Full glorious on the sky,
With wafted chimes from many a to,,-er
As the south wind went uy.
And a thousand crosses lightly hung
That shone like morning stars-
'Twas the Kremlin wall! Otwas Jloscow,
The jewel of the Czars!
THE SHRINES.
^ BOYE each gate a hlessed Saint
Asks favor of the skic
,
And the hosts of the foe do fuil and faint
At the gleam of their watchful eyes;
And Pole, and Tartar, and haughty Gaul,
Flee, dIsmayed, from the KremlIn wall.
[1861-88
1861-88]
CHARLES BA R.LYA RD.
571
Here lie our ancient Czars, asleep,-
han and Feodor,-
'While loving angels round them keep
Sweet peace forevermore!
Only when Easter bells ring loud,
They sign the cross ùeneath the shroud.
o Troitsa's altar is divine,-
St. Sergius! hear our prayers!
And Kiëff, Olga's lofty shrine,
The name of "The Holy" ùears;
But )[oscow blends all rays in one-
They are the stars, and she the SUll !
<2tlJarlcø 13arnart1.
BORN in Boston, :\Iass., 1838.
'"
SCENE FRO)! "THE COUYTY FAIR."
[The County Petir. A picture of New England life. Written for Mr. Neil Burges.'J.
First performed at the Walnut Street '[!teatl'e, Philadelphia, 8 October, 1888. From
the manuscript, u.ith the permission of Mr. Burge.'Js, owner of the unpublished Plcty.]
ACT n.-In Act 1., Abigail Prue, a spinster of mature years (personated by )Ir. Neil
Burgess), has taken into her home "Taggs," a city waif sent to her from a mission in
New York. The child knew in the city a horse-jockey who had been in jail for h01"se-
stealing. the young fellow being also brother to Sally, a girl who had been adopted
by Miss Prue. The boy, released from jail, comes to the farm to find work. and meets
Taggs. He fears to apply for work, fiS he has been in jail, when Taggs undertakes to
recommend him to the good graces of her benefactress.
Hating sent the boy, 'who goes by the name of ., Tu! THE TANXER," to the barn, TAGGS
calls l\IISS PavE from the house. The SCEYE is .MIss PaVE's b'ont yard.
TAGGS. [rnllin
at the door of the house,] I say, )[iss Abby! There's a man
here wants a job.
ABBY. [From V'itltin.] Send him to Joel.
TAGGs. It wouldn't do any good, for the man has lost his recommend.
ABBY. [Bnteringfrom lwu.'1e, her hands cm'ered 1rith jiour, as if busy -in the kitchen.]
Send him away. I can't keep a lllan who has lost his character.
TAGGS. Oh! but, Miss Abby, he's a friend of mine.
ABBY. Friend of yours? 'Yhat kind of a man is he, Taggs?
T AGGS. ". ell, you Imow bow good our minister is ?
ABBY. Good! 'Vhy he's one of the salt of the earth.
T AGGS. "\Vell, our minister can't touch him.
ABBY. Can't touch him! 'Why, wbat's the matter with lam Y
T AGGS. He's so good.
572
CHARLES BARNARD.
[1861-88
ABBY. He must he a saint.
TAGGs. You don't understand, Miss Abby. Why-he was the Right Bower of
our Mission.
ABBY. [JIystijìed.] The Right Bower! The Right Bower! Seems to me I've
heard of that before. Suppos(' that's what you'd call it in
ew York City. Now
we should call him a by brother.
TAGGs. That's it. He used to lay round the corners and preach to the gang.
Why, Miss Abby, he used to give a Thanksgiving dinner to all the newsboys in
Kew York.
ABBY. That's a man after my own heart. I know I shall like him. [Douh{lully.]
But, Taggs, isn't it rather strange that a lllan who can make all that money on a
farm in New York City should be looking for a job here 1 I'm afraid I could not
afford- How came he to come up here, anyway? ,
TAGGS, 'Yell-you see-marm-the chaplin of the prison said-
ABBY. Prison. 'Vhat prison ?
T AGG!.'I. 'Vhere he made tracks.
ABBY. Made tracks?
TAGGs. Where he gave tracks-to the prisoners. The chaplin said he ought to
go into the country for his country's good.
ABBY. Oh! I know I shall like him. 'Vhat's his name?
T AGGS. His name is Tim-
ABBY. [rexetl.] How often have I told you not to call nicknames ?
TAGGs. His name is Timothy.
ABBY. Timothy what? r Calling to nouse.] Sally. Come here. There's a gen-
tleman here who wishes to see me, and I don't want to see him alone.
TAGGs. He's in the barn. Miss Abhy. I'll call him. [Runs up and calls off.]
Come on, Tim. It's all right.
ABBY. How you disgrace me, Taggs. People will think you haven't any hring-
ing-up whatever. [.Lhide.] How I wish -r could get into the house and change my
apron. It's been turned twice already. I'm sure my back hair is coming down.
"
hat will the gentleman think?
[TIM, dressed in rags, enters, and stands behind ABBY, bowing to h13r.]
T AGGS. [Presenting TIM.] This is Miss Abby.
SALLY. [Correcting ner.] )Iiss .\bígail Prue, Taggos.
TAGGs. [1'0 Abby, but with meaning to Tim.] This is l\Iistt'r Timothy Tanner.
[TIM nods to her to show he hcts caught his new name.]
ABBY. I think, Taggs, you have sai(l enough. Go into the kitchen and put that
mince-meat on the back of the stove, and look at the rice-pudding in the oven.
[Exit TAGGS reluctantly.]
ABBY. [Presenting Tim to Sally.] This is ::\Iiss Sally,
Ir. Tanner.
SALLY. Glad to know you, sir.
ABBY. [To Tim,] Taggs has told me all about you, sir.
Tnl. Yes, yes. [Aside.] I woneler what the devil she told her.
ABBY. Seems as tho' we was 'most acquainted already.
Tn!. Yes, yes.
ABBY. It was so good in you to take your friend's advice in prison.
Tn!. [Aim'med.] In prison?
ABBY. Yes. He advised you to go into the country, didn't he?
Tnl. Oh, yes'Ill, yes'm. [Aside.] Darn that girL
1861-88]
CHARLES BARNARD.
573
ABBY. [A.'1ide.] How impulsive he is! Don't look much like a saint. But, then,
looks don't count for much. [Dil.eet.] It was so good in you to go to the prison
in the first place.
Tn.!. [Completely eOllt'lIsed.] Was it?
ABBY. Yon know it was. Only your modesty makes you say that. It must have
torn your heart-strings to have left your good work there,
Tul. [Not kllOU:illg 1rhnt shemenns.] Yes'm. It was rather hard to get away.
ABBY. [lVith entlt1lsiasm.] How I wish I could have been there with you! Our
minister may say what he likes, but there's no chance to do any good in the woods.
How large did you say your class was?
TIM. }\Iy class
SALL Y. Your class. Oh! How nice! I've got five boys in my class. How lllany
have you in yours
Tm. [Still mY.'1tffied.] )Iy class?
ABBY. Yes. Your class. Taggs was saying you had a Bible-class in Sunday-
school.
Tn.!. Oh, yes, yes. My class. Well, you see. marm, it was larger at times than
at others.
ABBY. rAfter a llwment's reflection.] :Mr. Tanner, that's been just my experience.
I've always noticed that just before Christmas or a picnic our Sunday-school was
larger than ever. I feel I shaH be justified-
[Turns and, picking up dinner-lwrn, blows a blast upon it.]
Tn.I. [Crossing to 'rigid in alarm. .Aside.] I'm darned if she ain't calling the
police!
[Enter JOEL, Abby's farm manager, at back.]
Here I am blowing my lungs out. I thought you were in the
ABBY. Oh, Joel!
south medder.
JOEL. No, Miss Abby, I was in the kitclH'n garden.
ABBY. [Presenting Tim.] This is )11'. Tanner, Joel.
JOEL. Glad to know you, sir.
ABBY, Mr. Tanner has come up into the country for his health. Any little
arrangement that you can make with him will he all right.
JOEL. [Surprised at Tim's ajpeamnce.] We haven't much, 'Iiss Abby, that a sick
man can do.
Tn.I. Oh! I'm not sick. All I want is a change of air, and I can do as good a
day's work as the next man.
ABBY. Joel, don't you think you'd better hitch up amI get :Mr. Tanner's trunk?
TIM. l\ly trunk
ABBY. Yes; your trunk. I didn't know but you might need it.
Tn!. I didn't bring any trunk, ,Miss Ahhy.
ABBY. [Sur]i1"ised.] Didn't bring any trunk!
Tul. No, mann; but I'll send for it.
ABBY. [SaÛ.
tìed at thi-'1, 'moves tOlrards house. Suddenly calls him in a mysterious
manner. 1 1\11'. Tanner, I'd like to see you one moment in private. [Tim dra1.Cs
near, bllt greatly alarmed.] From what Tagg-s said, I'm not quite able to judge of
your past life, for Taggs didn't tel1 me quite enough.
Tn.!. [Aside.] 'Vasn't her fault if she didn't.
ABBY. 'Vhat I hope to find out is- r Ile..dtatc8.] In fact-I think it is absoll1telv
necessary I should know. It's a rather delicate matter to speak of, tho'. 'Youlll
you-do YOl1- Do you prefer a feather ùeù or a mattress?
574
MARY ,JIAPES DODGE.
[1861-88
Tn!. [Greatly relieved.] Either, marm. I'm used to 'most anything. [Aside.]
If she'd given me the barn, I should have thought I was cutting it fat.
ABBY. [To Joel and Tannel'.] You've just time to look round the farm before
dinner. l To Sally.] Sally, go upstairs and air the bedclothes in the north attic.
[To Joel.] Now, Joel, don't keep me waiting when I blow tile horn, because it's
picked-fish dinner to-day.
[Exit to house.]
;taarp
lapC
JDotJge.
BOUN ill New York, N, Y., 1838.
THE TWO :MYSTERIES.
[Along the Way. 1879.]
\
TE know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and stiH;
" V The folded hanùs, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill ;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.
We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;
"\Ve know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,
Nor why we're left to wonder
till, nor why we do not know.
But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day-
Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say.
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;
Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see!
Then might they say-these vanished ones-and blessèd is the thought;
" So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you naught;
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of dcath-
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath."
The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,
So those who enter death must go as little children sent.
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead;
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.
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1861-881
MARY :JIAPES DODGE.
575
THE STARS.
T HEY 'wait all day unseen by us, unfelt;
Patient they bide behind the <lay's full glare;
And we, who watched the dawn when they were there,
Thought we had seen them in the daylight melt,
'Vhile the slow sun upon the earth-line knelt.
Because the teeming sky seemed void and bare,
'Vhen we explored it through the dazzled air,
We had no thought that there all day they dwelt.
Yet were they over us, alive and true,
In the vast shades far up abm'e the blue,-
The brooding shades beyond our daylight ken-
Serene and patient in their conscious light,
Ready to sparkle for our joy again,-
The eternal jewels of the short-liveù night.
MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.
[Theopltilu8 and Others. 1876.]
O CR! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, Je say? An' didn't I howld
on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that
thin ye could clutch me wid yer two bands. To think 0' me toilin' like
a nager for tbe six year I've been in Ameriky-bad luck to the day I
iver left the owld counthry I-to be bate by the likes 0' them! (faix, an'
I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I wilJ, Ann Ryan; an' ye'd better be list-
nin' than drawin' yer remarks). An' is it meseIf, with five good charac ' -
tel'S from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the haythens? The
saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner'n put up wid it a day
longer. Sure, an' I was the graneborn not to be lavin' at once-t when
the missus kim into me kitchen wid bel' perIaver about the new waiter-
man which was brought out from Californy. "He'll be here the night,"
says she. " And, Kitty, it's mese1f looks to you to be kind and patient
wid him; for he's a furriner," says she, a kind 0' 100kin' off. "Sure,
an' it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum," says
I, a kind 0' stiff; for I minded me how these French waiters, wiù their
paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn't company for no gur-
ri1 brought up dacent anù honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was
comin' tin the rnissus walked into me kitchen, smilin', and says, kind 0'
sheared, "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty; an' ye'll bave too much sinse to
mind his bein' a little strange." 'Vid that she shoots the doore; and I,
mishtrustin' if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper
576
,J{AR Y .J.1fAP ES JJODG E.
[1861-88
collar, looks up, and-Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another
breath, but there stud a rale hay then Chineser, a-grinnin' like he'd
just come off a tay-box. If ye'll belave me, the crayture was that
yeller it 'ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stitch was on him but a
black night-gown over his trousers, anù tbe front of his head shaved
claner nor a copper-biler, and a black tall a-hangin' down from it
behind, wid his two feet stook into tbe baythenestest shoes ye ever set
e,res on. Och I but I "as upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin'
the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two
dollars, and playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid
haythens, and taitch 'em all in our power-the saints save us I Well,
the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be
tellin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on wid his
eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-hanclles; an' he widdout a speck or
smitch 0' wbishkers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yarù long. But
it's dyin' ye'd be to see tbe missus a-Iarnin' him, an' he grinnin', an' wag-
gin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black
toof, tbe
hay then cbate!) and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny,
imitatin' that sharp, ye'd be shurprised, and ketchin' an' copyin' things
the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the
knowledge 0' the family-bad luck to him!
Is it ate wid him? Anah, an' would I be sittin' wid a hay then, an'
he a-atin' wid drum-sticks ?-yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknowllst to
me, I warrant ye, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, tiH the
thougbt lllade me that sick I could <lie. An' didn't the crayture proffer
to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me foldin' down me clane
clothes for the ironin', an' fill his hay then mouth wid water, an' afore I
could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen
tablecloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity
baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd be doin' till ye'd be
dishtracted, It's yerself knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever
I've bin in this counthrJT. 'V ell, owin' to that, I fell into a way 0'
sìippin' me sboes off when I'd be settin' down to pale the praities, or the
likes 0' that; and, do ye mind, that llaythen would ùo the same thing
after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or t()mater
es. The
saints in heaven couldn't ha' made him belave he cud kape the shoes on
him when he'ù be paylin' anything.
Did I lave for that? Faix, an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into
throuble wid my missus, the hay then ! Ye're aware yerself how the
boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n'll go into any-
thing dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup 0'
sup-ar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper, and put it in me bit of a box
tucked under the ironin'-blanket the how it cuddent be bodderin' any
1861-88]
MAllY MAPES DODGE.
577
one. 'V ell, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn, the miss us
was a-spakin' pleasant an' respec'ful wid me in me kitchen, when the
grocer buy comes In, and stands fornenst bel' wid his boondles; an' she
motions like to Fing 'Ving (which I never would call him by that name
ner any otber but just baythen)-she motions to him, she does, for to
take the boondles, an' empty out the sugar an' what not where they
belongs. If ye'll belave me, Ann Ryan, wbat did that blatherin' Chi-
neseI' do but take out a sup 0' sugar, an' a han'ful 0' tay, an' a bit o'
chaze, right afore the miss us, wrap 'em into bits 0' paper, an' I spache-
less wid shurprize, an' be the next minute up wid the ironin'-blanket"
and pullin' out me box wid a show 0' bein' sly to put them in. Och..
the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an' the missus sayin', '
O
Kitty!" in a way that ud cruddle your blood. "He's a hay then nager,"
sals I. ., I've found yer out," says she. "I'll arrist him," says I.
"It's yerself ought to be arristed," says she. "Y er won't," says I "I
wiB," says she. And so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent
take from no lady, an' I give her warnin" an' left tbat instant, an' she
a-pointin' to the doore.
ENFOLDINGS.
THE snowflake that softly, all night, is whitening tree-top and pathway;
The avalanche suddenly rushing with darkness and death to the hamlet.
The ray stealing in through the lattice to waken the day-loving baby;
The pitiless horror of light in the sun-smitten reach of the desert.
The seed with its pregnant surprise of welcome young leaflet and blossom;
The despair of the wilderness tangle, and treacherous thicket of forest.
The happy west wind as it startles some noon-laden flower from its drcaming;
The hurricane crashing its way through the homes and the life of the valley.
The play of the jetIets of flame when the children laugh out on the hearthstone,
The town or the prairie consumed in a terrible, hissing combustion.
The glide of a wave on the sands with its myriad sparkle in breaking;
The roar and the fury of ocean, a limitless maelstrom of ruin.
The leaping of heart unto heart with bliss that can neyer ue spoken;
The passion that mad(lens, and shows how God may he thrust from His creatures.
For this do I tremble amI start when the rose on the yinc taps my shoulder,
For this when the storm beats mc down my soul groweth bolder and unlòer.
VOl,. IX.-37
578
THOMA.S RAYNESFORD LOUNSBUR
[1861-88
SHADOW-EVIDENCE.
S WIFT o'er the sunny grass,
I saw a shadow pass
",Yith suùtle charm;
So quick, so full of life,
'Yith thrilling joy so rife,
I started lest, unknown,
My step-ere it was flown-
Had ùone it harm.
Why look up to the hlue
The hiI'd was gone, I knew,
Far out of sight.
Steady anrl keen of wing,
The slight, impassioned thing,
Intent on a goal unknown,
Had heW its course alone
In silent flight.
Dear little hird, and fleet,
Flinging down at my feet
Shadow for song:
More sure am I of thee-
{;' nseen, unheard by mc-
Than of some things felt and known,
And guarded as my own,
All my life long.
1Jott\a
ma1?nC
fOtn ILOU1tØbUf1?
BORN in Ovid, N. Y., 18:-38,
LITERARY AND PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF COOPER.
[James Fenimore Oooper. 1883.]
M ORE than sixty years have gone by since Cooper began to write;
more than thirty since he ceased to live. If his reputation has
not advanced during the period that has passed since his death, it has
certainly not receded. Nor does it seem likely to undergo much change
in the future. rrbe world has pretty well made up its mind as to the
value of his work. The estimate in which it is held will not be materi-
ally raised or lowered by anything which criticism can now utter. This
will itself be criticised for being too obvious j for it can do little but
18Gl-88]
TROJIAS RAYNESFORD LOUNSBURY.
579
repeat, with variation of phrase, wbat has been constantly said and often
better said before. There is, however, now a chance of its meeting with
fairer consideration. The cloud of depreciation which seems to settle
upon the achievement of every man of letters soon after death, it was
Cooper's fortune to encounter during life, This was partly due to the
literary reaction which had taken place against the form of fiction be
adopted, but far more to the personal animosities he aroused. 'Ye are
now far enough removed from the prejudices and passions of bis time to
take an impartial view of the man, and to state, without bias for or
against him, the conclusions to which the world bas very generaJly
come as to his merits and defects as a writer.
At the outset it is to he said that Cooper is one of tbe people's novel-
ists as opposed to the novelists of highly-cultivated men. This does not
imply that he has not been, and is not still, a favorite with many of
the latter. The names of those, indeed, who have expressed exce
ive
admiration for bis writings far surpass in reputation and even critical
ability those who have spoken of him depreciatingly. Still the general
statement is true that it is with the masses he bas found favor chieAy.
The sale of his works has known no abatement since his death. It goes
on constantly to an extent that will surprise anyone who has not made
an examination of this particular point. His tales continue to be read
or rather devoured by the uncultivated many. They are often COll-
temptuously criticised by the cultivated few, who sometimes affect to
look upon an.v admiration they may have once had for them as belong-
ing exclusively to tbe undisciplined taste of childhood.
This state of things may be thought decisive against the permanent
reputation of the novelist. The opinion of the cultivated few, it is said,
must prevail over that of the uncultivated many. rrrue as this is in
certain cases, it is just as untrue in others. It is, in fact, often absurdly
false when tbe general reading public represents the uncultivated man.y.
On matters which come legitimately within the scope of their judgment
the verdict of the great mass of men is infinitely more trustworthy tban
that of any smaller boù,y of men, no matter how cultivated. Of plenty
of that narrow judgment of select circles which mistakes the cackle of
its little coterie for the voice of the world, Cooper was made the subject,
and sometimes the victim, during his lifetime. There were any number
of writers, now never heard of, wbo were going to outlive him, according
to literary prophecies then current, which had everything oracular in
their utterance except ambiguity. Especially is this true of the notice
of his stories of the f;ea. As I have turned o\'er tbe pages of defunct
criticism, I bave come across the names of several authors whose tales
descriptive of ocean life were, according to man,v contemporary esti-
mates, immensely superior to anything of the kind Cooper bad produced
580
THOMAS RAYNESFORIJ LOUNSBURY.
[1861-88
or could produce. Some of these writers enjoyed for a time high repu-
tation.
,fost of them are now as utterly forgotten as tbe men who
celebrated their praiseF:.
But, however unfair as a whole may be the estimate of culti\Tated men
in any particular case, their adverse opinion is pretty certain to have a
foundation of justice in its details. This is unquestionably true in the
present instance. Characteristics there are of Cooper's writings wbich
would and do repel many. Defects exist both in manner and matter.
Part of the unfavorable judgment be ha..o;; received is due to the preva-
lence of minor faults, disagreeable rather than positively bad. These, in
many cases, sprang from the quantity of what he did and the rapidity
with which he did it. The amollnt that Cooper wrote is something that
in fairness must alwa.ys be taken into consideration. lIe who has
crowded into a single volume the experience of a life must concede that
be stands at great advantage as regards matters of detail, and especially
as regards perfection of form, with him who bas manifested incessant
literary activity in countless ways. It was tbe immense quantity that
Cooper wrote and the haste and inevitable carelessness which wait upon
great proùuction, that are responsible for many of his minor fauIts.
Incongruities in tbe conception of his tales, as well as in tbeir execu-
tion, often make their appearance. Singular blunders can be found
which e8caped even his own notice in the final revision he gave his
works.
In the matter of language this rapidity and carelessness often degen-
erated into downright slovenliness. It was bad enough to resort to tbe
same expedients and to repeat the same scenes. StilI from this charge
few prolific novelists can be freed. But in Cooper there were often
words and phrases which he worked to death.
There were other faults in the matter of language that to some will
seem far worse. I confess to feeling little admiration for tbat grammar-
school training which consists in teaching the pupil how much more he
knows about our tongue than the great masters who have moulded it;
which practical1y sets up the claim that the only men who are able to
write English properly are the men who have never shown any capacity
to write it at aU; and which seeks, in a feeble way, to cramp m
age by
setting up distinctions that never existed, and laying down rules which
it requires uncommon ignorance of the language to make or to heed.
Still there are lengtbs to which the mOF:t strenuous stickler for freedom
of speech does not venture to go. There are prejudices in favor of the
exclusive legitimacy of certain constructions that he feels bound to
respect. He recognizes, as a general rule, for instance, that when the
subject is in the singular it is desirable that the verb should be in the
same number. For conventionalities of syntax of this kind Cooper was
1861-88]
TIIOJIAS R.A YNESFORD LO UNSB UR Y.
581
very apt to exhibit disregard, not to say disdain. He too often passed
the bounds that divide liberty from license. It scarcely needs to be
as:::erted that in most of tbese cases the violation of idiom arose from
haste or carelessness. But there were some blunders which can only be
imputed to pure unadulterated ignorance.
Tbere are imperfections far more seriolls than these mistakes in lan-
guage. He rarely attained to beauty of style. The rapidity with which
he wrote forbids tbe idea that he e\Ter s.trove earnestly for it. Even the
essential but minor grace of clearness is sometimes denied him. He had
not, in truth, the instincts of the born literary artist. Satisfied with pro-
ducing the main effect, he was apt to be careless in the consistent work-
ing out of details. Plot, in any genuine sense of tbe word" plot," is to
be found in very few of his stories. He seems rarely to have planned
all the e\-ents beforehand; or, if he did, an,\
thing was likely to divert
him from his original intention. The incidents often appear to have
been suggested as the tale was in process of composition. Hence the
constant presence of incongruities with the frequent result of bringing
about a bungling anù incomplete ùevelopment. The introduction of
certain characters is sometimes so beralded as to lead us to expect from
them far more than they actua11.v perform. Thus, in "The Two Admi-
rals," Mr. Thomas 'Y ychecombe is brought in with a fulness of descrip-
tion that justifies the rearler in entertaining a rational expectation of
finding in him a satisfactory scoundrel, capable, desperate, fuB of
resources, needing the bighest d;splay of energ.y and ability to be over-
come. This reasonable antici ration is disappointed. At the very mo-
ment when respectable determined villany is in request, he fades away
into a poltroon of the mo
t insignificant type, who is not able to Lold his
own against an ordinary house-steward.
rrbe prolixity of Cuoper's introductions is a fault so obvious to every
one that it needs here reference merely and not discussion. A similar
remark may be made as to his moralizing. which was apt to be cheap
and commonplace. lIe was much disposed to waste his own time and
to exhaust tht, patience of his reader by establishing with great fulness
of demonstration and great positiyeness of assertion the truth of princi-
ples which most of the human race are humbly content to regard as
axioms. A greater because even a more constantly recurring fault is
thp gross improbability to be found in tbe details of his stories. rrhere
is too much fiction in his :fiction. 'Ye are C'ontinual1y exasperated by
the inadequacy of the motive assigned: we are irritated by the unna.tu-
ral if not ridiculous conduct of tbe characters. These are perpetually
doing unreasonable things, or òoiDt! reasonable things at un
uitable
times. They take the very p3th that must lead them into the danger
they are seeking to suun. They engage in making love when they
582
THO,JfAS RAYNESFORD LOUNBBURY.
[1861-88
ought to be flying for their li\'es. His heroes, in particular, exhibit a
capacity for going to sleep in critical situations, which may not transcend
extraordinary human experience, but does orclinar,Y buman belief. Nor
is improbabilit.v always confined to details. It pervades sometimes the
central idea of the story.
His failure in characterization ,vas undoubtedly greatest in the women
he drew. Cooper's ardent admirers bave always resented this charge.
E
ch one of them points to some single heroine that fulfils the highest
requirements that critiei
m could demand. It seems to me that clo
e
study of his writings must confirm the opinion generally entertained.
All his utterances show that the theoretical view be had of the rights,
the duties, and the abilities of women, .were of the most narrow and con-
ventional type. Unhappily it was a limitation of his nature that he
could not invest with charm characters with whom be was not in moral
and intellectual sympathy. There was, in bis eyes, but one praiseworthy
type of womanly excellence. It did not lie in his power to represent
any other; on one occasion he unconsciously satirized his inability even
to conceive of any other. In" )Iercec1es of Castile" the heroine is thus
described by bel' aunt: "Her very nature," she says, "is made up of
religion and female decorum." It is evident tbat the author fancied
tbat in this commendation he was exhausting praise. Tbese are the
entiments of a man with whom devoutness and deportment have
become the culminating conception of the possiùilities that lie in the
female character. Ilis heroines naturally conformed to his belief. They
are usually spoken of as spotless beings. They are maùe up of retiring
sweetness, artlessness, and simplicity. They are timid, shrinking, help-
less. They shuc1{ler with terror on any decent pretext. But if they fail
in higher qualities, they embody in themselves all conceivable comùina-
tions of the proprieties and min01" morals. They always give utterance
to tbe most unexceptionable sentiments. rrhey always do the extremely
correct tbing. The dead perfection of their virtues has not the alloy of
a single redeeming fault. The reader naturalJy wearies of these uninter-
estingly discreet and admirable creatures in fiction as he would in real
life. He feels that they would he a good deal more attractive if they
were a gOOll deal less angeliC'. \Yith all their faultlessness, moreover,
they do not attain an ideal which is constantly realized by their living
but faulty sisters. They do not show tbe faith, the devotion, the self-for-
getfulness, and self-sacrifice which women exhibit daily without being
conscious that they have done anything e
peC'ia1]y creditable. They
experience, so far as their own words an{l acts furnish eyidence of their
feelings, a sort of lukewarm emotion which they dignify with the name
of love. But they not merely suspect without the slightest provocation,
they give up the men to whom they have pledged tbe devotion of their
1861-88]
THOJL4S RA. Y,NESFORD LO U
7'VSB UR Y:
583
lives, for reasons for which no one would think of abandoning an ordi-
nary acquaintance. In "The Spy" the heroine distrusts her lover's
integrity because another woman does not conceal bel' fondness for him.
In "The Heidenmauer" one of the fema
e ch3racters resigns the man
she loves because on one occasion, when beated by wine and maddened
by passion. be had done violence to the sacred elemeuts. There was
never a woman in real life, wbose heart and brain were sound, that con-
formed her conduct to a model so contemptible. It is just to say of
Cooper tbat as he advanced in years he improved upon this feeble con-
ception. The female characters of his earlier tales are never able to do
anything successfully but to faint. In his later ones they are given
more strength of mind as well as nobility of character. But at best, the
height they reach is little loftier than that of tbe pattern woman of the
regular religious nove1. The reader cannot help picturing for all of them
the same dreary and rather inane future. He is as sure, as if their career
had been actually unrolled before his eyes, of the part they will perform
in life. They wiII all become leading members of Dorcas societies; they
will find perpetual delight in carrying to the poor bundles of tracts and
packages of tea; they wiII scour the highwa}?s and byways for dirty,
ragged, hatless, shoeless, and godless cbildren, whom they will hale into
the Sunday-school; they will shine with unsurpassed skill in the manu-
facture of slippers for tbe rector; they will exhibit a fiery enthusiasm in
the decoration and adornment of the church at Christmas and Ea::;ter
festivals. Far be the thought that would deny praise to the mild rapt-
ures and delicate aspirations of g-entle natures such as Cooper drew.
But in nO\'els, at least, one longs for a rutldier life than flo.ws in the veins
of these pale, bleached-out perfo;onifications of the proprieties. 'Vomen
like them may be far more useful mem hers of Rociety tban the stormier
characters of fiction that are dear to the carnal-minded. They may very
possibly be far more agreeable to live with; but they are nut usually tbe
women for whom men are wil1ing or anxious to die.
These are imperfections that have led to the undue depreciation of
Cooper among many hig-hly cultivated men. Taken by themselves they
might seem enough to ruin his reputation beyond redemption. It is a
proof of his real greatnes:-; that he triumphs oyer defects which would
utterly de
troy the fame of a writer of inferior power. It is with novels
as with men. rrhere are those with grcat faults \\ hich plea
e us and
impress us far more than tho
e in which the component parts are bctter
balanced. Whatever its other demerits. Cooper's oe8t work never sins
against tbe first law of fictitions composition, that the story shall be full
of snstaine<l interest. It has power, and power always fascinates, even
though acc0mpanied with much that would naturally excite repulsion or
dislike. Moreover, puorlyas he ::;ometimes told his story, he had a story
584
THOMAS RAYNESFORD LOUNSBURY.
[1861-88
to tell. The permanence and universality of his reputation are largely
due to tbis fact. In many modern creations full of subtle chann and
beauty, tbe narrative, the material framework of the fiction, has been
made so subordinate to the delineation of character and motive, that tbe
reader ceases to feel much iuterest in what men do in the study which is
furnished him of why they do it. In this highly rarefied air of philo-
sophic analysis, incident anll ('vent wither and die. 'V ork of this kind is
apt to have within its sphere an unbounde<l popularity; but its sphere
is limited, and can never include a tithe of that vast public for which
Cooper wrote and wbich has always cherished and kept alive his mem-
ory, whilc tbat of men of perbaps far finer moultl has quite faded away.
It is only fair, also, to judge him by his successes and not by his fail-
ures j by the work he did best, and not by what he did moderately well.
His strength lies in the description of scenes, in the narration of events.
In the best of these he h
s had no superior, and very few equals. The
reader will look in vain for the revelation of sentiment, or for the exhibi-
tion of passion. The love-story is rarely well done; but the love-story
plays a subordinate part in the composition. The momcnt his imagina-
tion is set on fire with the conception of ad venture, vividness and power
come un bidden to his pen. The pictures he then draws are as real to
the mind as if they were actually seen by the eye. It is doubtless due
to the fact tbat tbese fits of inspiration came to him only in certain kinds
of composition, that the excellence of many of his stories lies largely in
detached scenes. Still his best works are a moving panorama, in which
the mind is no sooner sated with one picture than its place is taken by
another equally fitted to fix the attention and to stir tbe heart. The
genuineness of his p()\ver, in such cases, is shown by the perfect sim-
plicity of the agencies employed. There is no pomp of words; there is
an entire lack of even the attempt at meretricious adornment j there is
not the slightest appearance of effort to impress the reader. I n his por-
trayal of these scenes Cooper is like nature. in that he accomplishes his
greatest effects with the fewest means. If. as we are sometimes told,
these things are easily done, the pertinent question always remains, why
are they not done?
IOl'
over, while in his higher characters he has almOF
t absolutely
failed, he has succeeded in drawing a whole group of strongly-marked
lower ones. Birch, in "The Spy," Long Tom Coffin and Boltrope in
" The Pilot," the squatter in "The Prairie," Cap in "The Pathfinder,"
and several others there are, anyone of which would be enough of itself
to furnish a respectable reputation to many a novelist wbo fancies him-
self far superior to Cooper as a delineator of character. He had neither
the skill nor power to draw. the ,'aried figures with which Scott, with all
the reckless prodigality of genius, crowded his canvas. Yet in the gor-
1861-88]
THO.JIAS R
1YNES}f'ORD LOUNSBURY,
585
geou
gallery of the great master of romantic fiction, alive with men and
women of every rank in life and of every variety of nature, there is, per-
baps, no one person who so profoundly impresses the imagination as
Cooper's crowning creation. the man of the forests. It is not that Scott
could not have done what his follower did, had he so chosen; only that
as a matter of fact he did not. Leather Stocking is one of tbe few origi-
nal characters. perhaps the only great original charactel', that American
fiction has added to the literature of the world.
The more uniform excellence of Cooper, however, lies in the pictures
he gives of the Efe of nature. Forest, ocean. and stream are the things
for which he really cares; and men and women are the accessories,
inconvenient anù often uncomfortable, that must be endured. Of tbe
former he speaks with a 100Ting particularity tbat lets nothing escape the
attention. Yet minute as are often his descriptions, he did not faIl into
that too easily besetting sin of the novelist, of overloading his picture
with detail::5. 'ro advance the greater he sacrificed the less. Cooper
looked at nature with the eye of a painter and not of a photographer.
He fills the imagination even more than he does the si
ht. Hence the
permanence of the impression which be leaves upon the mind. His
descriptions, too, produce a greater effect at the time and cling longer
to the memory because they falI natnrally into the narrative, and form a
real part in the development of the story j they are not merely dragged
in to let tbe reader know what the writer can do. "If Cooper," said
Balzac, "had succeeded in the painting of character to the
ame extent
that he did in tbe painting of the phenomena of nature, he would bave
uttered the last word of our art." Thi
author I have quoted several
times, because far better even than George Sand, or indeed any who have
criticised the American no\'elist, he seems to me to bave seen clearly
wberein the latter succeeded and wherein he failed.
To this it is just to add one word which Cooper himself would have
regarded as the highest tribute tbat could be paid to what he did.
'Vbatever else we may say of his writingR, their influence is always a
healthy influence. Narrow and prejudiced he sometimes was in his
opinions j but he hated wbatever was mean and low in character. It is
with beautiful things and with noble things that he teaches us to sym-
pathize. Here are no incitements to pa
ion, no prurient suggestions of
sensual delights. The air which breathes through all his fictions is as
pure as that which sweeps the streets of his mountain home. It is as
healthy as nature itself. To read one of his hest works after many of
the novels of the day, i
like passing from the ht'ateù and
tifling atmos-
phere of crowded rooms to the purity, the fl'et:>dom, and the bouncllcss-
ne
s of the forest.
In these foregoing pages I have attemptt.\<l to portray an author who
586
THOMAS RAYNESFORD LOUNSBURY.
[1861-88
was something more tban an author, who in any community would
bave been a marked man had he never written a word. I have not
sought to hide his foibles and his fault
, his intolerance and his dogma-
tism, the irascibility of bis temperament, the pugnacity of bis nature, tbe
illiberality and injustice of many of bis opinions, the unreasonableness
as well as the imprudence of the course he often pursued. To bis friends
and admirers these points will seem to have been insisted upon too
strongly. rrheir feelings may, to a cert.ain extent, be just. Cooper is,
indeed, a striking instance of how much more a man loses in the esti-
mation of the world by tbe exhibition of foibles, than he will by that
of vice
.
His faults, in fact, were faults of temper rather than of character.
Like the defects of his writings, too, they lay upon the surface, and were
seen and read of all men. But granting everything that can be urged
against him, impartial consideration must award him an ample excess
of the higher virtues. His failings were the failings of a man who pos-
sessed in the fullest measure vigor of mind, intensity of conviction, and
capability of passion. Disagree with him Olle could hardly help; one
could never fail to respect him. :Many of the common charges against
him are due to pure ignorance. Of these, perhaps, the most common
and the most absolutely baseless is the one which imputes to him exces-
sive literary vanity. Pride, even up to the point of arrogance, he had;
but e\'en tbis was only in a small degree connected with his reputation
as an anthor. In tbe nearly one bundred volumes he wrote, not a single
line can be found which implies that- he had an undue opinion of his
own powers. On the contrary, there are many that would lead to tbe
conclusion that his appreciation of himself and of his achievement was
far lower than even the coldest estimate would form. The prevalent
misconception on this point was in part due to his excessive :::ensitiveness
to criticism and his resentment of it when hostile. It was partly due,
also, to a certain outspokenness of nature which led bim to talk of him-
self as freely as be would talk of a stranger. But his whole conlluct
sbowed the falseness of any such impression. From all the petty tricks
to which literary vanity resorts, he \yas absolutely free. He utterly
disdained anything that savored of mallæuvring for reputat
on. He
indulged in no devices to revive the decaying attention of tbe public.
He sought no favors from those who were in a position to confer the
notoriety which so many mistake for fame. He went, in fact, to the
other extreme, and refused an aiù that be might with perfect propriety
ha ve recei ved.
The fearlessness and the truthfulness of his nature are conspicuous in
almost every incillent of his career. lIe fought for a principle as (1es-
perately as other men fight for life. The storm of detraction through
1861-88]
7HOJI.AS RA Y.NESFORD LO
T
VSB UR Y.
587
which he went never once shook the almost haughty independence of
his conduct, or swerved him in tbe slightest from the course be had
chosen. The only thing to whicb be unquestioningly submitted was
the truth. His loyalty to that was of a kind almost Quixotic. lIe was
in later years dissatisfied with himself, because, in his novel of ,. The
Pilot," be had put tbe character of Paul Jones too high. He thought
tbat the hero had been credited in that work with loftier motives than
tbose by whicb he was actually animated. Feelings such as these
formed the groundwork of his character, and made him intolerant of
tbe devious ways of many wbo were satisfied with conforming to a
lower code of morality. There was a royalty in bis nature that dis-
dained even the sem blance of deceit. 'Yith other authors one feels that
the man is inferior to his work. 'Vith him it is the yery reverse. High
qualities, such as these, so different from tbe easy-going virtne!'3 of com-
mon men, are more than an offset to infirmities of temper, to unfairness
of judgment, or to unwisdom of conduct. ilis life was the best answer
to many of the charges brought against his country and his countrymen;
for whatever he may have fancied, tbe hostility he encountered was due
far less to the matter of bis criticisms than to their manner. Against
the common cant, that in republican governments the tyranny of public
sentiment will always bring conduct to the same monotonous level,
and opinion to the same subservient uniformity, Democracy can point
to this dauntless son who never flinched from any course because it
brought odium, who never flattered popular prejudices, and who never
truckled to a popular cry. America has Lad among her representatives
of the irritable race of writers many who have shown far more ability to
get on pleasantly with their fel10ws than Cooper. :She has hall several
gifted witb higber spiritual insight tban he, with broader and juster
views of life, with finer ideals of literary art, and, above all, with far
greater delicacy of taste. But sbe counts on the scanty roll of her men
of letters the name of no one wbo acted from purer patriotism or loftier
principle. She finds among them all no manlier nature, and no more
heroic sou1.
THE FUTURE OF OrR TONG DE.
[History of the English Language. 1879.]
W HAT is to be the future of our tongue? Is it steadily tending to
become corrupt, as constantly asserted by so many who are ]abo-
riously devoting their lives to preserve it in its purity? The fact need
not be denied, if by it is meant tbat, within certain limits, the speech is
588
THOMAS RAYNEfiFORD LOUNSBURY:
[1::'61-88
always moving away from established usage. The history of language is
the history of corruption. The purest of speakers uses every day, with
perfect propriety, words and forms, which, looked at from tbe point of
view of the past, are improper, if not scandalous. But the blunders of
one age become good usage in the following, and in process of time
grow to be so consecrated by custom and consent tbat a return to prac-
tices theoretically correct would seem like a return to barbarism. "\Vbile
this furnishes no excuse for lax and slovenly methods of expression, it
is a guaranty that the Ïtlllulgence in them by some, or the adoption of
them by a11, win not necessarily be attended by any serious injury to
the speech. Vulgarity and tawdriness and affectation, and numerous
other characteristics which are manifested by the users of lauguage, are
bad enough; but it is a gross error to suppose that they have of them-
selves any permanently serious effect upon the purity of national speech.
Tbey are results of imperfect training; and, while the great masters
continue to be admired and read and studied, they are results that last
but for a time. The causes which bring about the decline of a lan-
guage are of an entirely different type. It is not the use of particular
words or idioms, it is not the adoption of peculiar rhetorical devices,
that contribute either to the permanent weU-being or corruption of any
tongue. These are the mere accidents of speecb, the fasbion of a time
wbich passes away with the causes that gave it currency: far back of
these lie the real sources of decay. Language is no better and no worse
than the men who speak it. rrhe terms of which it is composed bave
no independent vitality in themselves: it is the meaning which the
men who use them pnt into them, that gives thema11 their power. It
is neyer language in itself that hecomes weak or corrupt: it is only
when those who use it become weak or corrupt, tbat it shares in their
degradation. Nothing hut respect need be felt or expressed for that
solicitude which stri\res to maintain the purity of speech: yet when
unaccompanied by a far-reaching knowledge of its history, but, above
all, by a thorough comprehension of tbe principles which underlie 1 he
growth of language, efforts of this kind are as certain to be fun of error
as they are lacking in result. There has never been a time in the his-
tory of
fodern English in which tbere have not been men who fancied
that they foresaw its decay. From the sixteenth to the nineteenth
century on, our literature, whene'"er it touches upon tbe character of the
"ehicle by which it is conveyeù, is fuU of the severest criticism; and its
pages are crowded with unavailing protests against the introduction of
tbat which now it hardly seems possible for us to do without, and, along
with these, with mournful complaints of the degeneracy of the present,
and with melancholy forebodings for the future. So it always has
been: so it is always likely to be. Yet the real truth is, tbat the lan-
1861-88]
1'HO,JíAS RA Y-,-YESFORD LO UXSB UR y:
589
guage can be Bafely trusted to take care of itself, if tbe men w bo speak
it take care of themselves; for with their degree of development, of
cultivation, and of character, it will always be found in absolute harmon.\T.
In fact, it is not from the agencies that are commonly supposed to be
corrupting that our speech at the present time suffers: it is in much
more danger from ignorant efforts made to preserve what is called its
purity. Rules have been and still are laid down for tbe use of it, whicb
never had any existence outside of the minds of grammarians and verbal
critics. By tbese rules, so far as they are oLser\
ed, freedom of expres-
sion is cramped, idiomatic peculiarity destroyed, and false tests for
correctness set up, wbich give the ignorant opportunity to point out
supposed error in others; while the real error lies in tbeir own imper-
fect acquaintance with the best usage. One illustration will be sufficient
of multitudes that might be cited. There is a rule of Latin syutax that
two or more substantives joined by a copulative require the yerb to be in
the plural. This bas been foisted into tbe grammar of EngI1sh, of which
it is no more true than it is of modern German. There is nothing in
tbe usage of the past, from the very earliest times, to authorize it,
nothing in the usage of the present to justify it, except so far as the
rule itself has tended to make general the practice it imposes. The
grammar of English, as exhibited in tbe utterances of its best writers
and speakers, has, from the very earliest period, allowed the widest dis-
cretion as to the use either of the singular or the plural in such cases.
The importation and imposition of rules foreign to its idiom, like the
one just mentioned, does more to hinder the free development of the
tongue, and to dwarf its freedom of expression, than the widest preva-
lence of slovenliness of speech, or of Rffectation of style j for these latter
are always temporary in their character, and are sure to he left behind
by the advance in popular cultivation, or forgotten through the change
in popular tastè.
Of the languages of Christendom, English is the one now spoken by
far the largest number of persons; and from present appearances there
would seem to be but little limit to its possible extension. Yet that
it or any other tongue will ever become a uni\Tersallanguage is so much
more than doubtful, tbat it may be called impossible j and, even were
it pm-sible, it is a question if it would be desirable. However that
may be. its spread will depend in tbe future, as it has in the past, not
so much upon the character of the language itself, as upon the charac-
ter of the men who speak it. It is not necessarily because it is in real-
ity superior to other tongues, that it has become more widely cÀtended
than they, but because it has been and still is the speech of two great
nations which have been among the foremost in civilization anù power,
tbe most greedy in the grasping of territory, the most sucecs::;ful in the
590
JOHN HA Y.
[1861-88
planting of colonies. But as political reasons have lifted tbe tongue
into its present prominence, so in tbe future to political reasons will be
owing its progress or dec<lY. Thus, back of everything that tends to the
extension of language, lie the material strength, the intellectual develop-
ment and the moral character, which make the users of a language
worthy enough anel powerful enough to impose it upon others. No
speech can <10 more than express the ideas of those who employ it at the
time. It cannot Ii ve upon its past meanings, or upon the past concep-
tions of great men which have been recorded in it, any more than the
race which uses it can live upon its past glory or its past achievements.
Proud, therefore, as we may now wen be of our tongue, we may rest
assured that, if it ever attain to univer::;al sovereignty, it win do so
only because the ideas of the men who speak it are fit to become
the ruling ideas of the world, and the men themselves are strong
enough to carry them over the world j and that, in the last analysis,
depends, like everything else, upon the development of the individual j
depends, 1I0t upon the territory we buy or steal, not upon the gold we
mine, or the grain we grow, but upon the men we produce. If we fail
there, no national greatness, however splendid to outward view, can be
anything but temporary and illusory j and, when once national greatness
disappears, no past achievements in literature, however glorious, will
perpetuate our language a
a living speech, though they may help for
a while to retard its decay.
j;olJtt
a1!.
BORN in Salem, Ind., 1838.
LIBERTY.
[Lotos Leaves. 1875.]
"""{'XTHAT man is there so hold that he should say
, \' 'I Th us and thus only would I have the Sea n ?
For whether lying calm and heautiful
Clasping the earth in love, or throwing back
The smile of heaven fmm waves of amethyst;
Or whether, freshened by the busy winds,
It bears the trade and navies of the world
To ends of use or stern activity j
Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way
To elemental fury. howls and roars
At all its rocky harriers, in wild lust
ii
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1861-88]
JOHN HA
591
Of ruin drinks the hlood of living things
And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore j-
Always it is the Sea, and men how down
Before its vast and varied majesty.
So all in .ain will timorous ones essay
To set the metes and hounds of Lil>erty.
For Freedom is its own eternal law.
It makes its own conditions, aud in storm
Or calm alike fulfils the unerring 'Vill.
Let us not then despise it, whcn it lies
Still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm
Of gnat-like evils hover round its head;
:Kor douht it when in mad, disjointed times
It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry
Shrills o'er the quaking earth and in the flame
Of riot and war we see its awful form
Rise by the scaffold where the crimson axe
lUngs down its grooves the knell of shuddering Kings.
For always in thine eyes, 0 Liberty!
Shines that high light wherehy the world is saved,
And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee.
RED-LETTER DAYS IN SPAIN.
[Castilian Days. 1871.]
\\TITH the long days and cooler airs of tbe autumn begin tbe differ-
\' Vent fairs. These are relics of the times of tyranny and exclusive
privilege, when for a few days each year, by tbe intervention of tbe
Churcn, or as a reward for civic service, full liberty of barter and sale
was allowed to all citizens. This custom, more or less modified, may be
found in most cities of Europe. The boulevards of Paris swarm with
little boothi; at Christmas-time, w hicb begin and end their lawless com
mercial life within the week. In Vienna, in Leipsic, and otber cities,
the same waste-weir of irregular trade is periodically opened. These
fairs begin in :Madrid with the autumnal equinox, and continue for
some weeks in October. They disappear from tbe Alcalá to break out
with renewed virulence in the avenue of Atocba, and girdle tbe city at
last with a belt of booths. 'Vhile they last they give great animation
and spirit to the street-life of the town. You can scarcely make your
way among the beaps of gaudy shawls and handkercbiefs, cheap laces
anù iIlegitimate jewels, tbat cumber the pavement. 'Vhen the Jews
were driven out of Spain, they left behind tbe true genius of bargaining.
592
JOH
V HA
[1861-88
A nut-brown maid is attracted by a bril1iant red and yeIlow scarf. She
asks tbe sleepy mercbant nodding before his wares, "'Vhat is this rag
wortb ?" lie answers with profound indifference, .1 Ten reals."
"Hombre! Are you dreaming or crazy?" She drops tbe coveted
neck-gear and moves on, apparently borror-stricken.
The chapman calls bel' back peremptorily: "Don't be rash! Tbe
scarf is worth twenty reals, but for tbe sake of Santissima
faria I offered
it to you for h a1f-p rice. Very weIl ! You are not suited. 'Vhat will
you give?"
" Caramba I Am I a buyer and seller as well? The thing is worth
tbree reals; more is a robbery."
" Jesus!
faria! J osé! and all tbe family! Go thou witb God ! We
cannot trade. Sooner than sell for less than eigbt reals I win raise tbe
cover of my brains! Go tbou! It is eight of tbe morning, and still
thou dreamest."
She lays down the scarf reluctantly, saying, " Five?" But the out.
raged mercer snorts scornfully, "Eight is my last word! Go to!"
She moves away, thinking how well tbat scarf would look in tbe
Apollo Gardens, and casts over her sboulder a Parthian glance and bid,
" Six! "
" Take it! It is madness, but I cannot waste my time in bargaining."
Both congratulate themsel ves on tbe operation. He would have
taken five, and she would bave given seven. How trade would suffer if
we bad windows in our breasts!
The true Carni val survives in its JlaÏve purity only in Spain. It has
faded in Rome into a romping day of clown's play. In Paris it is little
more than a busier season for dreary and professional vice. Elsewhere
all over the world tbe Carnival gayeties are confined to tbe salon. But
in .Madrid the whole city, from grandee to cordwainer, goes with child-
like earnestness into the enjoyment of the bour. The Corso begins in
tbe Prado on the last Sunday before Lent, and lasts four days. From
noon to night the great drive is filled witb a double line of carriages two
miles long, and between them are the landaus of the favored hundreds
who bave the privilege of driving up and down free from the law of the
road. This right is acquired by the payment of ten dollars a day to
city cbarities, and produces some fifteen thousand dollars every Carni-
val. In these carriages all tbe society of :Madrid may be seen; and on
foot, darting in and out among the hoofs of the horses. are the young
men of Castile in e\Tery conceivable variety of absurd and fantastic dis-
guise. There art=' of course pirates and Indians and Turks, monks,
prophets, and kings, but the favorite costumes seem to be tbe devil and
the Englisbman. Sometimes the Yankee is attemptell, with indifferent
success. He wears a ribbon-wreathed Italian bandit's bat, an embroi-
1861-88]
JOlIN ELl Y.
593
dered jacket, slashed buckskin trousers, and a wide crimson belt-a
dress you woulJ at once recognize as univerf:al ill Boston.
:l\Iost of the maskers know by name at least the occupants of the car-
riages. There is always room for a mask in a coach. They leap in,
swanning over the back or the sides, and in their shrill monotonous
scream they make the most startling revelations of the inmost secrets of
your sou1. There is always something impres
ive in the talk of an
unknown voice, but especiaIIy is this so in ,Madrid, where everyone
scorns his own business, and devotes bimself ri
orously to bis neigh-
bor's. These shrieking young monks and devilkins often surprise a
half-formed thought in the heart of a fair Castilian and drag it out into
Llay and derision. No one has the right to be offended. Duchesses are
called Tu! Isabel! by chin-dimpled school-boys, anù the proudest beau-
ties in Spain accept bonbons from plebeian hands. It is true, most of tbe
maskers are of tbe better class. Some of the costumes are very rich
and expensive, of satin and velvet heavy with golLl. I have seen a dis-
tinguished diplomatist in the guise of a gigantic canary-bird, bopping
briskly about in the mud with bedraggled tail-feathers, shrieking weII-
bred sarcasms with his yellow bealc
The charm of the :Madrid Carnival is tbis, that it is respected and
believed in. The best and fairest pass the day in the Corso, and gaIIant
young gentlemen think it worth while to dress elaborately for a few
hours of harmless and spzort"tueUe intrigue. A society that enjoys a holi-
day so thorou{.!hly has
omething in it better than the blasé cynicism of
more civilized capitals. These young feHows talk like the lovers of the
old romances. I have never heard prettier periods of devotion than
from some gentle s
tyage, stretched out on the front seat of a landau
under the peering eyes of his lady, safe in his disguise if not self.
betrayed, pouring out his young soul in passionate praise and prayer;
around them the laughter and the cries, the cracking of whips, the roll
of wheels, the presel!ce of countIes:::, thousant1s, and yet these two young
hearts alone under the pale winter sky. The rest of the Continent has
outgrown the true Carniva1. It is pleasant to
ee this gay relic of sim-
pler times, when youth was younf!. No one here is too" S\ycU" for it.
Yon may find a duke in the di
guise of a chimney-sweep, or a butcher-
boy in the dre
s of a Crusader. There are none so great tbat their dig-
nity would suffer by a day's reckless foolery, and there are none so poor
tbat they cannot take the price of a dinner to buy a mask and cheat
their misery by mingling for a time with their betters in the wi ld license
of the Carnival.
VOL. IX o -38
l>94
JOHY HA Y.
A \VO:\lAN.S LOVE.
[Pike County Ballads. and Oilier Pieces. 1871.]
A SEXTIKEL angel sitting high in glory
HC'ard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!
"I loverl -amI, blind with passionate love, I fell.
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell.
For God is just, amI death for sin is well.
" I do not rage against his high <:1ecree,
Kor for myself <:10 ask that grace shall he;
But for my love on earth who mourns for me.
" Great Spirit! Let me see my love again
Anù comfort him one hollI', and I were fain
To })ay a thousand years oÌ fire and pain."
Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repl'nt
That wild vow! Look, the dial finger's hent
Down to the last honr of thy punishment! "
But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!
I cannot rise to peace anrl leave him so.
0, let me soothe him in his bitter woe! "
The brazen gates grounrl sullenly ajar,
And upward, joyous, like a rising star,
She rose and vanished in the ether far.
But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.
She sobbed, "J found him hy the summer sea
Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee-
She curled his hair and kissed him. 'V oe is me! "
She" cpt, " Now let my punishment begin!
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in
To expiate my sorrow and my sin."
The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!
To be deceived in your true heart's desire
Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"
[1861-88
1861-88J
JOH..:V HA Y.
A TRIUMPH OF ORDER.
A SQUAD of regular infantry,
In the Commune's closing days,
Hail captured a crowd of rebels
By the wall of Père-la-Chaise.
There were de
perate men, wild women,
And ilark-eyed Amazon girls,
And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek
And yellow clustering curls.
The captain seized the little waif,
And said, .. What dost thou here? "
"Sa}lI'ÙJti, Citizen captain!
I'm a Communist, my dear! "
,
" Very well! Then you die with the others! "
., Very well! That's my affair!
But first let me take to my mother,
'Vho lives by the wine-shop there,
" l\Iy father's watch. You See it,
A gay old thing, is it not?
It would please the old la(ly to have it,
Then I'll come hack here, and he shot."
" That is the last we shall see of him, "
The grizzled captain grinned,
As the little mall skimmed down the hill,
J.Jike a swallow down the wind,
For the joy of killing had lost its zest
In the glut of those awful days,
And Death writhed gorged like a greedy snake
From the Arch to Père-la-Chaise.
But before the last platoon had fired,
The child's shrill voice was heard!
" IIoup-1Û! the old girl made such a row,
I feared I should break my word."
Against the hullet-pitted wall
He took his place with the rest,
A hutton was lost from his ragged blouse,
'Vhich showed his soft, white breast.
"Now blaze away, my children!
'Vith your little one-two-three! "
The Chassepots tore the stout :young lleart,
And saved :::;ociety!
595
596
JA
llES RYDER RANDALL.
[1861-88
THE STIRRUP-CUP.
MY short and happy day is done;
1 The long and lonely night comes on,
And at my door the pale horse stands
To carry me to unknown lands.
His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,
Sound dreadful as a gathering storm;
And I must leave this sheltering rouf
Anù joys of life so soft and warm.
Tender and warm the joys of life-
Good friends, the faithful and the true;
Iy rosy children and my wife,
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view:
The night comes on, the lights burn blue;
And at my door the pale horse stands
To ùear me forth to unknown lands.
j;an1cø 1ärner mannall.
BORS in Baltimor , )Id., 1839.
)IY
IARYLAND.
[Written, at Poydras College, La., April, 18Gl.-From the Author's JIB. text. 1888.]
THE despot's heel is on thy shore,
)Iary land!
His torch is at thy temple door,
)[arylalHl!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
)[aryland, my )[aryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
l\Iaryland!
)Iy :Uother State, to thee I kneel,
)Iarylall<l!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
Anù gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
l\Iaryhmd, my Marylanù!
1861-88]
JA.JIES RYDER RANDALL.
597
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
l\IaryIand!
. Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Mary lùnd !
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
Anù all thy slumbcrers with the just,
:Maryland, my )Iarylaml!
Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Mary land!
Come with thy panoplied array,
:Maryland!
'Yith Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
'Vith 'Watson's blood at )Iontcrey,
'Vith fearless Lowe and dashing )[ay,
:Mary land, my :\Iary laml !
Dear Mothcr, hurst the tJTant's chain,
[ar)'land !
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sistcrs on the plain,-
"Sic semper!" 'tis the prouù refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!
Arise in majesty again,
:Marylaud, my )Iarylaml!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Mary land!
Come! for thy dalliance does thce wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
:Maryland, my )larylaml!
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bmycly meek,
l\Iaryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapcake,
l\[arylallll, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not yicld the Vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
:Maryland!
598
JAJIES RYDER RANDALL.
[1861-88
Bettcr the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the sonl,
l\Iaryland, my
Iarylalld!
I hear the distant thunder-hum,
)Iaryland!
The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum-
She breathes! She hurns! She'll come! She'll come!
::\Iarylalld, my Maryland!
JOHN PELHAl\L
JUST as the spring came laughing through the strife,
'Vith all its gorgeous cheer,
In the bright April of historic life
Fell the great cannoneer.
The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath
His bleeding country wecps;
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,
Our :young :Marcellus sleeps.
Nobler and grander thad the child of Rome
Curbing his chariot steeds,
The knightly scion of a Southern home
Dazzled the land with ùeeds.
Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt,
The champion of the truth,
He bore his banner to the very front
Of our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,
The fiery pang of shells.-
And there's a wail of immemorial woe
In Alabama dells.
The pennon drops that led the sabred band
Along the crimson fieW;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand
Oyer the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face;
'Vhile rounù the lips and eyes,
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace
Of a divine surprise.
1861-88]
.ABRAM JOSEPH R Y A.LV:
599
o mothcr of a blessed soul on high!
Thy tears may soon be shed;
Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,
Among the Southern dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
Fevered with swift renown,-
He, with the martyr's amaranthine wreath
Twining the victor's crown!
WHY THE ROBIN'S BREAST WAS RED.
THE Saviour, bowed beneath his cross, climbed up the dreary hill,
And from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill;
The cruel Roman thrust him on with unrelenting hand,
Till, staggering slowly 'mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.
A little bird that warbled near, that memorable day,
Flitted around and stl'Ove to wrench one single thorn away;
The cruel spike impaled his breast,-and thus, 'tis sweetly said,
The Robin has his silver vest incarna\.lined with red.
Ah, Jesu! Jesu! Son of man! l\Iy dolor and my sighs
Reveal the lesson taught by this winged Ishmael of the skies,
I, in the palace of delight or cavern of despair,
Have plucked no thorns from thy dear brow, but planted thousands there I
btant j;o
cplJ mran.
BORX in
orfolk, Va., 18t19. DIED in Louisville, Ky., 1886.
THE CONQU ERED BAXNER.
FURL that Banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary:
Furl it, fold it.-it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And therc's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In thc blood which heroes gave it,
And its foes now scorn alII 1 brave it:
Furl it, hide it,-lct it rest!
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered,
And the valiant hosts are scattered
600
ABRAJI JOSEPH R Y.AX.
Over whom it floated high.
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it,
Hard to think there's none to hola it,
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh!
Furl that Banner-furl it saùly;
Once ten thousanòs hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildl
', m11111y,
:;wore it should foreyer wave-
Swore that foeman's swon1 should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
And that flag should fll)at foreyer
O'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fOllllly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that Banner-it is trailing,
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people iu their Woe.
For, though conquered, they adore Ít-
Love the cold, dead hanù
that bore it,
'Veep for those who fell before it,
Pardou those who trailed aud tore it;
And oh, wil(lly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so.
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story
Though its fold s are in the ùust!
For its fame Oil hrightest pages,
Penned by poets aI1I1 by sages,
Shall go sOUlHling down the ages-
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently-it is holy,
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not-unfold it never;
Let it droop there, furled forever,-
For its people's hopes are fled!
[1861-88
1861-88]
1VILLI.dM WALTER PHELPS.
601
!\IY BEADS.
S "
EET, Llessèd beads! I would not part
'Vith one of you for richest gem
That gleams in kingly diadem;
Ye know the history of my heart.
For I have told you every grief
In all t.he days of twenty years,
And I have moistened :you with tears,
And in your decades found relief.
Ah! time has fled, alHl friends have failed,
And joys have died; hut in my needs
Ye were IllY friend:,>. my blessed beads!
And ye consoled me w hen I wailed.
For many and many a time in grief,
:My weary fingers wandered round
Your circled chain, and always found
In some Haill\Iary sweet relief.
How many a story you might tell
Of inner life, to all unknown;
I trusted you and you alone,
But ah, ye keep my secrets well!
Ye are the only chain I wear-
A sign that I am hut the slave,
In life, in death, l,eyond the grave,
Of Jesus and IIis )lother fair.
ffltlUant roaltct PIJClp
.
BOR
in New York, N. Y., 1839.
THE THEORY OF CO:\DIEIWIAL PANICS.
[From a Speech in the U. S. II. of Ro, 1 April, 187-1.]
,TES, I admit with it-even with an honest currenc.v-we shaH still
l have panics. A world which does its business on a credit basis
cannot escape them; and this basis is one which grows wider as the
world grows older.
The demands on credit must increase; for the world does not contain
mohey enough to effect its business, and credit in one of it
mu1tiform
shapes must continue to be tbe principal instrument of exchange. Only
602
WILLIAJI WALTER PHELPS.
[1861-88
in rude barbarism does money discharge all the functions of exchange;
and as civilization increases tbe business of the world, credit by bill, by
note, by check, b
y book account, is forced into greater exercise.
To-day our people are carrying on aU their business with promises to
pay. If forced to pay money, they have only enough of it to pay for fifteen
one-hundredths of their business. And yet this vast system of creùit
stands the strain, this complicate industry goes on for years, until its
delicate support is broken. That support is trust: the trust my friend
has that his bank will pay his check; the trust I have tbat my friends
debited in my ledger for money loaned will pay when I ask them. This
enables the bank-check and the book credit, or any currency, to take
the place of money.
\Vhen this support is broken, when citizens begin to doubt the sol-
vency of banks and bankers, and neighbors the solvency of each other,
then comes a panic-the child of distrust-and all, refusing every form
of credit, note, or draft, or bin, or check, demand money. Currency is
valueless; the delicate machinery of creòit which the ages bave per-
fected ceases to work, and man, in the frenzy of distrust, remitted to his
original barbarism, will take only gold. Until tbe panic is hopeless, if
law interferes, they will obey it, and take the legal money, which the law
enforces. If the panic is hopeless, the creditor, doubting the ultimate
solvency even of the government, refuses its legal-tender, and peace comes
only in the utter ruin of bankruptcy. The trouble is the people have
asked fifteen minions of legalized money to do the work of one hundred
millions, and it cannot.
This shows the cause of panics-the possibility in the human heart
suddenly to lose its normal trust in its kinù. And the human heart is
the same and will act to the same causes, whether the legal money is
gold or whether it is paper. \Ve shall be liable to panics always; for we
can never make the exchanges of our present ci vilization for money, but
must always use credit mainly. And when we use credit, and the human
heart remains as it is, we are always subject to the incursion of that
distrust which will sudùenly palsy the activity of currenc.y, and panic
will reign. All we claim is that the liability to this incursion of distrust,
this panic, is naturally greater under an irredeemable currency. The
evils of an irredeemable currency, to which I have already alluded, tend
strongly to produce it, tend strongly to aggravate and perpetuate it when
produced. The reign of paper money gives us speculation and extrav-
agance. Both use up money rapidly, extravagance consumes, specula-
tion wastes it, or buries it in unprofitable investment. rrhis twofold
drain is felt, anù a people whose morale has been sapped by an artificial
prosperity are forced to look about them. They recognize and exagger-
ate consequences which they have no courage to endure: and in speedy
1861-88]
WILLIAM WALTER PHELPS.
603
lO'ss O'f hO'pe and faith they rush to' save all that to' them has wO'rtb-
mO'ney. And tbe lO'ss O'f trust, wbich leads men tempO'rarily to' despise
credit and seek O'nly gO'ld, is panic. Paper mO'ney has prO'duced it;
paper mO'ney will aggravate it. Had 'we a redeemable currency, a
currency tbat the sO'l vent wO'rld has, tbe insane want O'f mO'ney wO'uld
be met. Tbe gO'ld O'f a thrifty pO'pulatiO'n, ever lO'O'king fO'r the mO'st
prO'fitable market, wO'uld cO'me to' O'ur relief. The profits O'ffered wO'uld
O'vercO'me all obstacles and drain tbe world, were it necessary. But it is
not. It is an unreasoning panic. 'rhe arrival O'f a little gO'ld, tbe news
of it O'n a westering sbip, breaks tbe spell, and cO'nfidence reigns again.
A BAD AMERICAN TYPE.
[From a Speech at the EOOs Banquet, St. Louis, 24 JIarch, 1874.]
H E was withO'ut educatiO'n, culture, 0'1' morality. He had respect
neither for GO'd nO'r man. He had no faith in the purity O'f wO'men
0'1' tbe hO'nO'r O'f bis feHO'ws. But he bad the ambition O'f wealtb, and he
determined to' get mO'ney at any cost. The markets O'f a cO'untry demO'r-
alized by a IO'ng war gave tbe O'ppO'rtunity, and be seized it, unscrupu-
lO'usly using all tbe agencies which the experience O'f centuries had dis-
cO'vered. He gained a fO'rtune by rO'bbery and went unpunished. With
it he bought men and wO'men, until finally he sat in his gilded palace,
bO'asting-believing that he O'wned the legislature that made, the cO'urts
that interpreted, and the governO'r that executed the laws O'f his State.
On the base O'f a great raihvay, which he took frO'm its owners by fraud,
he built a pyramid O'f splendid profligacy so high that the wO'rld saw
and wO'ndered. The luxury O'f Sardanapalus, the viccs O'f NerO'. were
his. The peddler drO've his four-in-hand. The coward marched at the
bead of a noble regiment. lle whO' knew not his O'wn tongue controlled
the artists O'f the continent. In his O'wn tlwntre he sO'ugbt rest, amI
watcbed the evO'lutions O'f dancing girls and listened to' the vO'ices O'f
singing men and singing women. IIe sent his own steamerH out O'f pO'rt
and enticed intO' their lavish hO'spitality many of the great of the land.
He even hired as
assins to maim his enemies. amI drove in the sunligbt
surrO'unùed by a bevy of his mistresses. This man debauched the mO'ral
sense O'f the yO'ung, disgraced bis cO'untry, and died as the foO'l dies-
shO't by a prO'fligate rival fO'r a wantO'n's charms. He died and left nO'th-
ing except the cO'ntempt of the gO'od anel tbe execratiO'ns O'f the weak
whO'm bis example had ruined. A bad type of American civ,lizatiO'n,
one of the wO'rst prO'ducts O'f O'ur sO'il and institutions.
ü04
WILLIA.M 1VALTER PHELPS.
[1861-88
IRELAXD'S WANT.
[From a Specclt at J-àterson, .LV. J., 3.LYorembe1', 1887.]
I RELAND wants its own legislature and ought to have it. Do not
Irishmen know their own needs and wants better than Englishmen?
"Thy should they not be allowed to make the laws which supply them,
and why may they not choose the officers who shall govern them?
Officers from among themselvcR. who li\Te in the same atmosphere and
wllose official fidelity shall be secured by a direct responsibility to those
whom they govern. Il'islnneu do not ask for national independence.
That cry was of the olden times. They see that no new nation, how-
ever valorous, is able to step into the map of Europe nowadays, and stay
there, unless mighty in size and resourcE's. Europe is a series of armed
camps, and neutral independence is secure only to those who have large
ones. \,",hat could Ireland do as a nation against Germany or France,
or Rm:sia, or even, in the event of quarrel, against Great Britain her-
self? But besides, m-en if Irishmen see a possibility of separate national
existence, they do not want it. rrhey know what Ireland has con-
tributed in the past to Great Britain. They know that the treasures of
that great empire, the accumulations of centuries, are largely the result
of Irish effort, and belong in part to them. \Vhy shoulù they surrender
this magnificent heritage? \Vhy shoukl they give their share of Brit-
ish f!lory to their associates? The eloquence of Sheridan. the learning
of Burke, the wit of Swift, the l.vres of Gol(lsmith "and :Moore; ay! the
swords of Nelson anù 'Yellington are but suggestions of 'what Ireland
gave to Great Britain. And she does not purpose to leave that great
empire, which her children have so la,'gely helped to develop and adorn.
Ireland purposes to stay in the empire to which she belongs, and in it to
haye her right.
\Vithout Home Rule, Ireland is a constant menace and weakens the
imperial arm. Irishmen wait until it shall be raised in foreign war.
They do not forget that England's extremity is Ireland's opportunity.
They lurk ready to seize it. But give them Home Hule, and instead of
weakness they hring strength to the imperial arm. \Vhen there is no
foe in the rear, then there is a united front to the enemy. Besides, there
is nothing else to be done. They have tried everything else for Reven
bundred and fift,v years. Let them now try this. They have found that
a redcoat may shoot a rebel, but the
T have found that a redcoat cannot
shoot an idea. Let them try the idea of self-government and see the
result. They have tried it in Canada and in New South \Yales. \Vhy
should Ireland be excluded?
By only thirty votes was Home Rule defeated in tùe British Parlia-
1861-88J
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
G05
ment, and but yesterday two millions of English subjects-more than
haH of England's voters-voted with ., tbe Irish rebel
."
Does not sueh progress seem incredible? And how long can such
progress march before reaching consummation. when back of it moves
the conscience of the Anglo-Saxon wodd, incarnate and voiced on this
continent by the greatest citizen of the republic, and on the other by
the greatest subject of the empire-Blaine and Gladstone?
lankind
will not suffer that among the peoples of the earth the Iri
h shall be the
only one that must forC\'er lack a government of the people, for the peo-
ple, and by the people. The consummation can be retanled only by the
Irish themselves, should they, in the (lawn of viC'tory, forget the wisdom
and seH-restraint they have exhibited in the past. rrhey were Irish
Catholics, of supreme loyalty to the )lothcr Church. that gave their lof-
tiest commissions to Protestant patriots like Emmet and Grattan, who
give them to-day to Parnell. They are Irish representatives who plead
for Irish rights in St. Stephen's, and without a struggle accept the
repeated penalty of exclusion. O'Brien is an Irishman who is taken to
jail from a court-room where the judge has just declared his innocence.
And there are hundreds like him. It is an English sympathizer with
Ireland who is torn from the hustings for what he may
ay hefore he
says it, while his wife, learning her love of liberty from tbe grandfather
who sang and died for Grecian freedom, swoons at his feet. And there
are more of them. They are Irishmen who see and know tbese facts
and those like them. And they live in a land which
lac
ulay says is
superior in natural fertility to any area of equal size in EUl'Ope, and see
it a land of famine-live in a land of cottages, and see it spotted with
homeless women and children j see all this and bear it j Lear it though
in their stout hearts is the blood which has made the Irish soldier in
English, Frencb, or American army tbe bravest of the brave j bear it
and make no sign. except as they cry, "How lon:r, 0 Lord-how long?"
Verily they shall have their reward j Irelaud shall be free j her sons shall
walk with princes.
lÞ)c!cltíal) 1ðuttcr\\1ortl).
Boux in Warren, R. I., 1839.
THE FIRST CHRIST:\L\S }
NEW EKGI.JAND.
[Poems for Christmas, Easter, m/(llÙu: rem.'s. 1883.]
'-rIlEY thought they had come to their port that day,
But not yet was their journey done;
606
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
And they drifted away from Provincetown Bay
In the fireless light of the sun. .
'Vith rain and sleet were the tall masts iced,
And gloomy anù chill was the air;
But they looked froIll the crystal sails to Christ,
And they came to a haruor fair.
The white hills silent lay,-
For tlwre were no ancient bells to ring,
1\'0 priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of haron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold winter ùay.
The snow came down on the vacant seas,
And white on the lone rocks lay;
But rang the axe 'mong the evergreen trees,
And followed the Sabbath day.
Then rose the sun in a crimson haze,
And the workmen said at aa wn :
"Shall our axes swing on this day of days,
.When the Lord of life was born?"
The white hills silcnt lay,-
For there were no andent bells to ring,
:No })riests to chant, no choirs to sing,
:No chapel of haron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas Day.
"The 01(1 towns' bells we seem to 1lear:
They are ringing sweet on the Dee;
They are ringing SW('f>t nn the Harlem Meer,
And sweet on the ZUyt!er Zee.
The pines are frosted with snow and sleet.
Shall we our axcs wield,
'Yhen the chimes at Lincoln are ringing sweet,
And the bells of Austerfield? "
The air was cold and gray,-
And there were no ancient bells to ring,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel üf baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas Day.
Then the master said: "Your axes wield,
Rememher ye l\lalaharre Bay;
And the covenant there with the Lord ye scaled;
Let your axes ring to-day.
You may talk of the old towns' bel1s to-night,
""'hen your work for the Lord is done,
And your boats return, and the Rhallop's light
Shall follow the light of the sun.
The sky IS cold and gray,-
And here arc no ancient bells to TIng,
No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
[1861-88
1861-88]
SARAH CHA UNCEY WOOLSEY.
Ko chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
This gray, cold Christmas Day.
" If Christ was born on Christmas Day,
And the day by Him is blest,
Then low at His feet the evergreens lay,
And cradle His church in the .West.
Immanuel waits at the temple gates
Of the nation to-day ye found,
And the Lord delights in no formal rites;
To-ùay let your axes sound! "
The sky was cold and gray,-
And there were no ancient bells to ring,
Ko priests to chant, no choirs to sing,
Ko chapel of bamn, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas day.
Their axes rang through the evergreen trees,
Like the bells on the Thames and Tay;
And they cheerily sung by the windy seas,
And they thought of
Ialaharre Bay.
Ou the lonely heights of Burial Hill
The old Precisioners sleep;
But did ever men with a nobler will
A holier Christmas keep
.When the sky was cold and gray,-
And there were no ancient bells to ring,
No })fiests to chant, no choirs to sing,
No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,
That gray, cold Christmas Day?
aralJ
lJa1tnCCr &Iool
cr.
BORN In Cleveland, OLio.
GULF-STREA:\I.
["Verses. By Susan Coolidge. 1880.]
L O
EL Y and cold and fierce I keep my way.
Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm,
Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray,
1\latelcss, yet conscious ever of a warm
And bmoding presence close to mine all day.
What is this alien thing, 80 near, so far,
Close to my life always, but blending never?
607
G08
SARAH OHA U.l.YCEY WOOLSEY.
Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates unbar
Not at the instance of my strong endeavor
To pierce the stronghold where their secrets are?
Buoyant. impalpahle, relentles!,':, thin.
Ri,.;e the clear, mocking wallso I strive in vain
To reach the pul:,;ing heart that heats within,
Or with persistence of a co1ù disdain,
To quell the gladness which I may not win.
Forever sundered and forever one,
Linked hy a bond whose spell I may not guess,
Our hostile, yet emhracing currents run;
Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness.
Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun.
Yet e'oen in my wrath a wild regret
)[ingles; a bitterness of jealous strife
Tinges my fury as I foam and fret
Against the borclers of that calmer life,
Beside whose coun.;e my wrathful course is set.
But all my anger, all my pain and woe,
Are vain to daunt her gladness j all the while
She goes rejoicing, and I do not know,
Catching the soft irradiance of her smile,
If I am most her lover or her foe.
.
LOIIEXGRIN.
TO have touched heaven and failed to enter in!
Ah, Elsa, prone upon the lonely shore,
'Vatching the swan-wings beat alon,!! the blue,
.Watching the glimmer of the silver mail
Like flash of foam, till all are lost to view;
.What may thy sorrow or thy watch avail ?
He cometh nevermore.
All gone the new hope of thy yesterday:
The tender gaze find strong like dewy fire,
The gmcious form with airs of heaven hedight,
The Ion that warmed thy being like a sun j
Thou hadst thy choice of noonday or of night,
Now the swart shaclows gather one by one
To give thee thy desire!
To every life one heavenly chance hefallsj
To every soul a moment, big with fate,
[1861-88
1861-88]
JIAR Y CLEJIJIER HUDSON.
1Yhen, grown importunate with need and fear,
It crics for help, and lo! from close at hand
The voice Celcstial ans'n
rs, "I am here! "
Oh, blessèd souls, made wise to un(lerstand,
Iade Imwely glad to wait.
But thou, pale watchcr on the loncly shorp
T\Thc.>re the surf thunders and the foam-bells fly,
Is there no place for penitcnce and pain?
No saving grace in thy all-piteous rue
\Yill the bright visioIl nevcr come again?
Alas, the swan-wings vanish in the blue.
There cometh no reply.
Scribner's Jfagazine, 1887,
jtlarp QClctttnter t
1tn
on.
BOlO. ill Ctica,
, Y., 1t'39. DIED in 'VashingtoIl, D. C., 1884.
GOOD-NIGHT.
[Poems of Lzfe and ,Nature. 1883.J
G OOD-NIGHT, my Lovc; I lay me down,
The while the old clock of the town
Rings ont for me a deep good-night.
Thou can
t not hear the worels I S:IY,
Xur hear the tender prayer I pray,
'flint thou lIwyc.>st love me sUllllered wide
\
thou dust lo,-c me by thy sidc;
And so to thee, my heart's dclight,
I say again lo\'e's last good-night.
Hood-night. I'm wondering how 'twill bc
"
hen lifc is slipping far from me,
"-hen, dmwn hy Death's tranquillity,
Thc far-off, f
l(lcle
s morn I sel'.
Thcn wilt thon l{i
s thc f:u]illg face,
So dcaI' to thcc in carlier grace?
Am] say: ":No soul ('an takc the plaec
Thy life-long lo,.c for thee hath won!
"Good-night. .\ little fnrth('r on
I'll take thy hand, I'll kiss thine eyes,
Lit by the Hew life's rapt surprise.
The twin of soul, the truly wed,
Can lIC'.CI' part. Rest, wifely head!
Dear hcart, he not d is(j11 ic.>tcd ;
609
610
JIAR Y CLEJIMER 11 UDSON.
For fast I foUo". after thce,
To find Loye's last reality! "
Or shaU I see hut empty space
"Then mine eyes, dying, seek thy face
And wilt thou be too far from me
To hear my last goud-night to t}wC' '?
I know not. Only this I know.
" Good-night, " 'tis sweet to murmur low.
By two clear woras I'm nearer thee,-
By all their pricelcs!" legacy,
And lmrdcll foml of mcmory
That holds thy first good-night to me.
Then music, thrillc<l with deeper tone,
Told but one story-true loye's own:
And life, 01(1' l{fe, was just begun,-
Its meaning learned, two lives in one.
Good-night, deal' Love! I pray the Lord,
By e\'cry promise of his 'Y ord,
That, day and night, Jllay follow thee,
"Tith cver-fol(ling ministry,
Thy hettcr angels, holding thee
In all loud l1ay'
prospC'rity,
And in the haunting night-watch lone;
From all the evil sin hath wrought,
From tempting (ked and soiling thought,
From sorJ'o\\ aIHl from munlered faith,
From loss in lifc ;lnd loss in death,
The blessèd angels hol<l thee sure,
And leaa thee safe and save thee pure.
GOo<l-night. The old clock of thc town
Strikes night's last hour. The morning's crown
Touches the silenf'('. Dropping ùown,
Before 'tis gone, the midnight quite,
Once more, 0 Love, a dear Good-night.
EXD OF VOL. IX.
[1861-88
INDEX OF AUTHORS, ETC., IN VOL. IX.
ABBOTT, LY
IAN,........ ..,........
ADA)I
, CHARLE!:; FR.\
CIS, JR..... .. .
.ALBEE, JOH
........... " . . '" ... ...
ALDE", HEXRY :\hLLS.. ..............
ALDRH'H, 1'llO)IAS BAILEY. . . . . . . .. . . .
AR
OLD, GEORGE. . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .
HURD, HEXRY l\L\RTY
..............
HASCROFT, HUBERT HOWE...........
BARXARD. ('HARLI:S............... ...
Bo\TES. CUARLOTTE FISKE............
BEXEDlCT, FRAXI\: LEE...............
BEX.TA)UX. S.nn:EL GREEXE \VHEELER.
BLooD. HEXRV A)IE!', . . . .. ..... ......
BRo\ULEY, ::\lARY EmLl..............
BRO)ILEV. Is.\ U' HILL...............
13ROOKS, PHILLIPS . . . " . . . . . . . . . . . , . .
13ROWXE, CHARLES FARRAR...........
BROWXL:. Juxn;s IIEXRI..............
RURROl'G HS, J Oll
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
BCSHXELL, FRANCES LonSA..........
IkTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH............
CARXEGTE. AXDREW..................
CLE)IEXS, SA:\IUEL LAXGHORXE........
CoNWAY, ::\IOXl'URE DAXIEL...........
PAGE PAGE
317 HARRIS, )lIRIA
1 COLES.............. 188
23G HARRIS, W ILLIA)I TORREY... ....... 332
43 HASSARD, JOHN ROSE GREF.
"E........ 3ti9
399 HAY, JOHX... ..... . .. . . 5t1U
377 HILI" ADAJIS SHERJL\N.......... 2
9
132 ITIxSDALE, BT'RKE AARON....... . 5
8
I HOt:SE, EDW:RD IIow -\RD. . 421
19 HOWELLS, ,\ ILLlA)1 DEÅ
.. 479
27 Ht:D!:;OX, :MARY CLEmIER.. .. .. .. ,. . .. 609
371
540 IXGERSOLL, ROBERT n'REE
.. . . ... . ,., 108
19!J
461 JONES,
bIANDA THEODOSL-\........... 320
553
32G KDWALL, HARRTET ::\IcEwEx......... 193
!}!) KNOX, THO)IAs \Y ALLA(,E . . . . . . . . . . .. 2H6
24,,)
161 LARKED, AUGCSTA....,.............. 339
114 LEIGHTox, \YILLLUI...,...... 94
443 LEWIS, C'UARLTOX TH<HIAS... 1,')8
19R LOCKE, DA\"ID Ro:s::'................. 103
GO,,) I LOXG, JOHN DA \"IS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ., 568
i LoexsßcRv, THO)[,\
RAYNESFoRD...., 578
328 IXDLow, FrI'z llL'GH................ 108
290
40 l\louvrox, LOCISE C'IIAXDLER......... 24t!
::\I ULFORD, ELISHA................., 118
Dr.XXETT, JOHX RICHARD............. 3(i4
VEPEW, CHAUNCEY
lITCIIELL......... 208 NEWELL, ROBERT HEXRY.... ..... .., 415
Do DUE,
lARY l\IAPES................ 574 XICHOL!:;,
TARR lIoY'I'....."........ 212
DOIWAX, JOlIN AVL:\IER.............. 431
Ü"COXXOR, \VILLlA)f DOUULAS........ 48
EGOLESTOX, hDW.\RD.. . . . . . . .. . . . . . " 314
ELIOT, CHARLES \YILLLDI.. .. ....... 182 PHELPS, \VILLLDI \\
ALTER..... .... .. G01
PIATT, JOH
J.UIES.................. 239
FESTETITS, KATE NEELy........ ., '" 477 PIATT, SARAH ::\{OIWAX BRVAN,....... 404
FIELD:', AXXIE .\DAm:... _...... . . .. .. 181 PORTER, HORACE. .. '" 50.)
FLASU, IIExRv LnwEx........ ., .. 2t10 PROCTUR, ED
A DEAX... ... . .., ...... 5(jf)
FüRXESS, UORACE HOWARD........... G1
RANDA LT., JA:\IES RyDER............. f)!)(t
GILJIAN. ARTIlt:R ................... 4(iR REALf', RICHARD........... ... . ..... 18fi
GRAY, DAYID........................ 4:3t1 REID, \VHITELAW.... .... . .... ... .... 471
GREEY, EDWARD... .........., . . ..... 322 RICIIARD:SOX, ALBERT DEANE... ...... 81
GUERNSEY, CLARA FLORIDA...."..... 345, ROIHXSOX, TItACY... . . . . . . . . " ...... 113
LVDEX OF A FTHORS, ETG" LV rOL. IX.
PAGE
ROE, EDWARD PAYSO"'............... 531 YEXABLE, 'VILLLUI HENRY..,
RYAN, AHRAl\1 JOSEPH.... .... . .... 5991 VIXCENT, )IARVIX RICHARDSOX.. . .. . .
I ,V AL\\"ORTH, .T EAXXETTE RITCHIE HA-
SAGE, ADOXIRA)I J CDSOX. . . . . . . . . . . " 441 DER:\[AKX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
SANGSTER. MARGARET ELIZABETH..... 5-11 'VARD. 'VILLIA:\I HAyES..............
SCCDDER. HORACE ELISHA......... 5
2 1 'C\IUXG. {fEORGE E., JR..... .......
SHEPHERD, NATHANIEL GRAHAM...... 3.H \VEnn. ('UARLES JlEXRY..............
S:\IALLEY, GEORGE 'VASHBURN........ 123 , 'VHISTLER, JA:'tIES .ÅBBOTT :MCNEILL.. .
SPOFFORD, IL\RRIET PRESCOTT........ 271 'Y HITI'. HORACE.. . .. ...............
STOCKTOX. FRAXCIS RICHARD......... Hi.:; 'VHITOX, JA)lES :\IoRRls... . . .. . . .. ..
STODDARD, 'VILLLUI ()SnORX......... 3:
8 'VILKIXSOX. "-ILLIAlI[ CLEAVER.......
STGROIS, RGSSELL ' . . . .. . . .. . . .. .. 4:m \\
ILLS()X. }<'ORCEYTHE. . . .. . . " . . .. . . .
SWIXTOX, 'VILLIA)I. . . " . . .. " . " . . ... 144 1 'VILSOX, .Å["m"STA EVANS............
'V IXTER, 'V ILLIAl\1 . . . . " ............
365, ":IXTHROP, Tm:o
oR
.... " . . ., . , " , . .
311 1 " OOLF, BEXJAlIlIX Ev" ARD. . . .. . . . . .
8.1 'V OOLSEY, SARAH eHA l7:NCEY . . . . . . . . . .
557 1 'V ORlIIELEY. KATHARINE PRESCOTT.. . .
24
2;)5 YOUNG, CHARLES AUGUSTUS. '" .... . .
THAXTER, CELIA... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
TILTON, THEODORE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
TIXCKER, )IARY AGNES..............
TOURGÉE, ALBIOX 'VINEGAR... " .. .,
TOWNSEXD, )!ARY ASHLEy...........
TYLER, :\IOSES COlT.... " . . . . . . .. . . . .
A General Index of Authors and Selections will he found in the Closing Volume.
PAGE
4t:3
153
4ti:1
314
71
225
20G
214
141
137
4.)
a07
348
3
418
G07
19.5
.).).)
.-,)...J
ACK:r\ O'VLEDG MENTS.
The Editors and the Puhlishers of this work are under obligations to many Pub-
lishing Houses, without whose generous coöperation the LIBRARY OF ihIERI(,AN
LITERATURE could not ue completed upon its d
igll. Besides our general thanks
to authors, editors, etc., whose copyrighted works are represented in the course of
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matter used in the present volume:
The ..:\.}IERICAN PUBLISHING CO)IPANY, Hartford, Conn.-K1ìlìX'S Ove1'land thmugh
Asia.
Messrs. D. ApPLETON & Co., New York.-Youllg's The Sill/.
The BALTIl\IORE PUBLISHI:r;'G CO}IPANY, Daltimore.-Fatllel' Ryan's Poem.
.
Messrs. DELFUHD, CLAHKE & Co., Cl1icago and New York.-H()use's Yone fjanto;
:Kiclwls's Monte llus(t.
Messrs. BRENTANO, New York.-Robinson's Song of the Palm.
The CENTURY CmIPANY, New York,-Battles and LeadeJ"s of the Civil Wa-r
' The
Gentu-ry
1I{(grzzÙle.
Messrs. ROBERT CLAUKE &: Co., Cincinnati.- Venable's .l.IIelodie.'l f!.f' tlie fleart.
Messrs. DICK & fITZGERALD, New York.-S'll1inton's T1IJelve Decisiu Battles of the
1Var.
:Mr. G. W. DILLINnnAl\f, New Y ork.-Br01f'ne'S ,Artemus Ward's Complete 1J T ol'ks;
NellJell's Pctlrzce Bca/utijÚl,-Orpltpus C. J(er1' Papers; .11Irs. Evans 'Wilson's Beulrth.
:Messrs. DODD, MEAD & Co., New York.-Roe's Nature's 8el'ial Stm'y; D1'. l':in-
cent's God and Bread.
Messrs. E. P. DUTTON & Co., New York.-Lymal/ Abbott's In Aid of Faitli ;
Pllillips B,'ooks's LectU1'eH on Preaching.
Messrs. ESTES & LAUUIAT, Boston.-Butterm()rtll's PO('11lS for Christmas, Easter,
and Ne1f) Year's.
1\11'. C. P. F \nRELI
, New York,-Illger.'!oll's Pro.'1e Poems.
Messrs. FORDS, HOWARD & HC'LBERT, Kew York.-ToU1'gée's A Fool's Errnnd.
Mrs. DAVID GRAY, Ruffalo, N. Y.-Lette1's. P{)('ffl.<i, etc., of Drzvid Gray.
Messrs. HARPErt & TIIwTHEuS, New York.-Bl'Iledict's Jly Daugldl'" ElillO'1'"
Jla-rper's New lII0'12thly Jfagazine; Hill's VitI' Engli:Jh
' LudlouJ's Tile llashees!b Eatel'''
.Jlrs. Sangster's Home Fairies.
The HISTORY COMPANY, San Francisco.-H H. Bancroft's lJi:J(oryof tile Pacific
States of :Korth AnLe1'ic(t.
ACK,KO WLEDG ..llENTS.
:J\Iessrs. HEXRY HOLT & CO., New York.-Comeay's Demonology and Devil Lore,-
T1/C n"andaing Jew; Miss Larned's Village Photographs; Lounsbu'ry's Histo1'yof the
Englis1t Language; l1Irs. lVallcorth's Southern Silhouettes; Theo. lVinthrop's Life antl
Poems,-John Brent,- Cecil Dreeme.
)[essrs. HOUGHTO:N, :UIFFLIN & Co., Boston and New York.-Alrb'ich'8 ]lm:jorie
Dall' and OthCl' Stol'ie.'J,-_ln Old Tou:n by the Sea,-Poems, Houselwld Edition,-The
Still'water TI'agul!l
. Geo. Arnold's Poems
' 1'1/e _ltlantic ..llontldy
. Burrouglls's Birds
and Poets,-PijJltcton,- Trake-Robin,-lrinter SUllshine; .Jb's. .FieldH's ClIde'r the
Olive
. IIIlY's Castilian Days, -Pike County Ball(ld.
' JIrs. Harrið's A PeJ:t'ecL-tdonis,o
IIO/cells's A Foregone Conclusion, -1'1((3 Pm'lur Car, - Poe1lls, - J""enetian Life
' Jlrs.
fllemma Hudson's Poems
' LOUJlsbw'y's LiJ'e (if Coopa; .J.lfulfO'l'd's The .Þt
ation,. J. J.
Piatt's Idyls and LY1'ic8,-Poems of IIo,18e and IIome,-lVesterll TVindolcs
' ..l[rs. Piatt's
Dr((inatÙ' Pe/'soJls,-T1Ult lYew n
o,.ld,-Fol'tullate Isles,- Tntch in the Glass; Jlùs
ProctOJ"s POl'lJls,-A Russian Journey; ..1[rs. Sallgstpr's Poems of the Household; San-
born's alld Harris's L{fe and GeJlius of Goet1te
. Scudder's JIen and Letters,-Stories
and Romances, -StorUJs from my Attic
' ..1II's. fè.po.ff'onl's The _Imber Gods, -Poems;
JIrs. T1wxter's Cruise of the JIystery,-D1'ift- Wad,-Poem.'J" _llrs. TO'lcnsend's DOlen
the Bayou; TVebb's Vagrom J"àse,o lVilll-lon's Tlte Old Sergeallt, etc.,. Winter's Th
Jeffel'soJls, -81Ulkespeare's Engl.tITlll, - The n-andere1's.
:Uessrs. LEE & SUEP.-\UD, Boston.- C. F. Adams, Jr. 's, A College Fetich
' G-reey's
The Golden Lotlis; Locke's Struggles, etc., rif Petroleum J1: Nasby.
The J. B. LIPPINCOTT CmIPA
Y, Phila.-Furness's.A .New rrl1"wrum Edition of
Shakespem'e / Lei[I1tlort's
It the COIl1.t of King Ellu:in.
The D. LOTHROP CmIPA
Y, Boston.-.Jb's. Piatt's Poems in CompanY'lr'Íth Chil-
d ren.
)[essrs. A. C. 'IcCLt!RG & Co., Chicago.-
lliðs Jones's .A PraÍ1'ie Idyl.
Mr. Tow
sE
D
IACCOUN, :Kew York.-IIiltsdale's The Oùl
Yort1tlce.
t.
[cssrs. G. P. PeTKul's bo
s, New York.-Albee's Poems
' Gilman's Story of the
f,aracens
' Tyler's Hiðtory of _Imerican Literature.
)[cssrs. A. D. F. R.-\
DOLPII &. Co., :Kew York.-..lIiss Kimhall's Poems.
)[essrs. ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston.-..lll'S. .J.llolllton's Poems,-Random Rambles /
JIiss Tinckel"s Signo'r J[onaldini's .Þt-iece
' JIisli TVoolBeY's rerses, by Susan Coolidge.
Messrs. CHARLES DCRIBNER'S SONS, New Yorl...-Bail'd's Iliðtory of tlte Rise qf the
.lIllgll0l0ts
. Carnegie's TrÚl1nphant Democracy
. Jhs. Dodge's ..1long the Way,-The-
ophilus and Others / Stockton's The Lad!!. o}. the Tiger? etc,,-Rudder Gmnge / TVilkin-
son's Puems.
::\Iessrs. TICKNOR & Co., Boston.-JIiss TVormeley's The Other Side if War.
The TRIBUNE ASSOCIATION, New York.-Articles, Letters, Criticisms, etc., by I. H.
Blmnley,-J. R. G. IIassa1'll,-G. W: Smalley,- W. Winter.
)[cssrs. CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO., New York.-Clemens's (JIark Tuain's)
Adventures of Huckleber1'y Finn,-Libræl'Y of IIumo.r,-The Prince and t1te Pauper.
l\Ic::;!,r,.,. "TILsTAcn, BALDWIN & CO., Cincinnati.-Reid's Okio in the War.
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