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Professor  E.S,  Moore 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 


A  MAGAZINE   OF 


Literature,  Science,  Art,  and  Politics. 


VOLUME    XXV. 


BOSTON: 

FIELDS,    OSQOOD,    &    CO, 

1870, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

FIELDS,     OSGOOD,     &    CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


AP 

1 

AS 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,   &  Co,, 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


Accident,  The  Value  of Charles  Collins 172 

Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  New  York       .        .  Henri  Junius  Brown.       ....  312 

Alpine  Home,  An Angela  Tacchella 498 

Americanism  in  Literature T.  W.  Higginson 56 

Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  II.,  III.,  IV Mrs.  Celia  Tkaxter    .        .        .        16,204,579 

Blue-Jay  Family,  The T.  M.  Brewer 480 

Blue  River  Bank  Robbery,  The W.  G.  Woods 332 

By  Horse- Car  to  Boston W.  D.  f/owells 114 

California  Earthquakes N.  S.  Shaler 351 

Captain  Ben's  Choice Mrs.  Francis  Lee  Pratt     ....  337 

Channel  Islands,  The Mrs.  Lynn  Linton 354 

Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  The     .        .  James  Parton 712 

Drives  from  a  French  Farm,  I P.  S.  Hamerton 656 

Duel  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons,  The     ....  Richard  West 626 

Duluth,  A  Week  at J.  T.  Trowbridge 605 

English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court,  The  I.,  II., TIL, 396,554,730 

Father  Muriel's  Bell J.  K.  Hosmer 179 

French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines  .        .        .  Eugene  Benson 681 

From  Pennsylvania  Hills  to  Minnesota  Prairies     .        .  J.  T.  Trowbridge 272 

Gods  of  Wo  Lee,  The Sidney  A  ndrews 469 

In  Behalf  of  the  Birds T.  M.  Brewer 257 

Is  Marriage  Holy? Henry  James 360 

Hazlitt,  William H.  T.  Tuckerman 664 

Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic Richard  West 368 

Joseph  and  his  Friend,  I.,  II.,  III.,  IV.,  V.,  VI.   .        .  Bayard  Taylor         .        30,129,262,385,513,642 

Lauson  Tragedy,  The  I.,  II., J.  W.  De  Forrest        ....        444,  565 

Let  us  be  Cheerful Mrs.  Lynn  Linton 694 

Life  in  the  Brick  Moon Edward  Everett  Halt        ....  215 

Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder,  The        ....  Henry  James 744 

Lumberwoman,  A          .......         .         .         .'. 424 

Master  Treadwell J.  E.  Babson 699 

Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska,  The 282 

Minor  Theatres  of  London,  The Pierce  Egan 294 

Money  Problem,  Our     .......         .         .         .         ......  615 

My  Secretaryship Mrs.  J.  M.  Church 542 

Night  in  a  Typhoon,  A 343 

Oldtown  Fireside  Stories,  I Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe 688 

Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choctaws        .        .        .  Charles  Lanman 486 

Pressure  upon  Congress,  The  ......  James  Parton 145 

Quaff J.  W.  Palmer 159 

Reviving  Virginia James  Parton 432 

Right  and  Left Burt  G.  Wilder 455 

Romance  of  Real  Life,  A W.  D.  Howells 305 

Signs  and  Showcases  of  New  York       ....  Charles  Dawson  Shanly    ....  526 

Stanton,  Edwin  M Henry  Wilson 234 

Street-Cries  of  New  York Charles  Dawson  Shanly     ....  199 

Study  of  History,  The Goldwin  Smith 44 

"  The  Woman  Thou  gavest  with  me  "         .        .        .  Henry  James 66 

Through  the  Woods  to  Lake  Superior    .        .        .        .  J.  T.  Trowbridgt 4»  i 

Time  works  Wonders Burt  G.  Wilder 321 

Under  the  Midnight  Sun /.  /.  Hayes 102 

Was  he  Dead? 86 

What  to  do  with  the  Surplus Francis  A.  Walker 7* 

Wo  Lee  and  his  Kinsfolk Sidney  Andrews 223 


IV  Contents. 

POETRY. 

Advent  Preacher,  The Marian  Douglass 410 

Aspromonte T.  W.  Parsons 614 


ier'sWife Alice  Ca 


304 


Cathedral,  The J.  R.  Lowell 

Courage              Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter 423 

Descent  of  Neptune  to  aid  the  Greeks,  The         .        .         W.C.Bryant ,I3 

Even-Song Oliver  Wendell  Holme*         ....  349 

Idler's  Idyl,  An Hiram  Rich 7n 

II  Guido  Rospigliosi T.  W.  Parsons 43 

In  June Norah  Perry 680 

Legend  of  Jubal,  The George  Eliot 589 

Lost  Art T.B.Aldrich 525 

May  grown  a-Cold Wm.  Morris 553 

May-time  Pastoral,  A Bayard  Taylor 575 

My  Triumph J.  G.  Whittier 467 

Nauhaught,  the  Deacon J.  G.  Whittier 64 

Nearing  the  Snow- Line Oliver  Wendell  Holmes         ....  86 

Rhyme  slayeth  Shame Wm.  Morris 144 

Risk Charlotte  F.  Bates  ....  .198 

Song 687 

Way  to  Sing,  The Mrs.  Helen  Hunt 214 

Winter  Woods George  Cooper 171 

REVIEWS  AND  LITERARY  NOTICES. 

Alcott's  (Louisa  M.)  An  Old-fashioned  Girl 752 

Aldrich's  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy 124 

Bible  in  the  Public  Schools,  and  Clark's  Question  of  the  Hour 638 

Bjbrnson's  Tales 504 

Chinese  Classics,  The 764 

Cox's  Search  for  Winter  Sunbeams     ...............  761 

Doyle's  The  American  Colonies  previous  to  the  Declaration  of  Independence 759 

Ellking's  Memoirs  of  Major-General  Riedesel 248 

Father  Hyacinthe's  Discourses 250 

Frothingham's  (Ellen)  Goethe's  Hermann  and  Dorothea 761 

Gallon's  Hereditary  Genius 753 

Harte's  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp 633 

Hedge's  Primeval  World  of  Hebrew  Tradition 383 

Help's  Casimir  Maremma 637 

Hunt's  A  Day  by  the  Fire 639 

Identification  of  the  Artisan  and  the  Artist,  The 125 

Jarves's  Art-Thoughts 252 

Konewka's  Midsummer  Dream 246 

Leland's  Hans  Breitmann  in  Church 640 

Lindsley's  Elements  of  Tachygraphy 251 

Lowell's  Among  my  Books 757 

McCarthy's  My  Enemy's  Daughter 763 

Memoir  and  Writings  of  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli 251 

Morris's  The  Earthly  Paradise 750 

Parkman's  Discovery  of  the  Great  West 122 

Phelps's  (Elizabeth  Stuart)  Hedged  In 756 

Pope  and  the  Council,  The 384 

Pumpelly's  Across  America  and  Asia 382 

Red  as  a  Rose  is  She 512 

Ruskin's  Mystery  of  Life  and  its  Arts 635 

Sweet's  Twilight  Hours  in  the  Adirondacks 758 

Tennyson's  Holy  Grail 249 

Thackeray's  Miscellanies 247 

Thies's  Catalogue  of  the  Gray  Collection  of  Engravings 127 

Unforgiven 762 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A   Magazine  of  Literature,   Science,   Art, 
and  Politics. 


VOL.    XXV.— JANUARY,    1870.  — NO.    CXLVII. 


THE    CATHEDRAL. 

FAR  through  the  memory  shines  a  happy  day, 
Cloudless  of  care,  down-shod  to  every  sense, 
And  simply  perfect  from  its  own  resource, 
As  to  a  bee  the  new  campanula's 
Illuminate  seclusion  swung  in  air. 
Such  days  are  not  the  prey  of  setting  suns, 
Nor  ever  blurred  with  mist  of  afterthought; 
Like  words  made  magical  by  poets  dead 
Wherein  the  music  of  all  meaning  is 
The  sense  hath  garnered  or  the  soul  divined, 
They  mingle  with  our  life's  ethereal  part, 
Sweetening  and  gathering  sweetness  evermore, 
By  beauty's  franchise  disenthralled  of  time. 

I  can  recall,  nay,  they  are  present  still, 
Parts  of  myself,  the  perfume  of  my  mind, 
Days  that  seem  farther  off  than  Homer's  now, 
Ere  yet  the  child  had  loudened  to  the  boy, 
And  I,  recluse  from  playmates,  found  perforce 
Companionship  in  things  that  not  denied 
Nor  granted  wholly  ;  as  is  Nature's  wont, 
Who,  safe  in  uncontaminate  reserve, 
Lets  us  mistake  our  longing  for  her  love, 
And  mocks  with  various  echo  of  ourselves. 

These  first  sweet  frauds  upon  our  consciousness, 
That  blend  the  sensual  with  its  imaged  world, 
These  virginal  cognitions,  gifts  of  morn, 

Entered  according  t<>  the  year  i86<).  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 

of  the  District  Court  of  the   l>t\tri  .t  of  Ma  ;<n chnsetts. 
VOL.    XXV. NO.    147.  I 


The  Cathedral.  [January, 

Ere  life  grow  noisy,  and  slow-footed  thought 

Can  overtake  the  rapture  of  the  sense, 

To  thrust  between  ourselves  and  what  we  feel, 

Have  something  in  them  secretly  divine. 

Vainly  the  eye,  once  schooled  to  serve  the  brain, 

With  pains  deliberate  studies  to  renew 

The  ideal  vision  :    second-thoughts  are  prose  ; 

For  beauty's  acme  hath  a  term  as  brief 

As  the  wave's  poise  before  it  break  in  pearl. 

Our  own  breath  dims  the  mirror  of  the  sense, 

Looking  too  long  and  closely  :  at  a  flash 

We  snatch  the  essential  grace  of  meaning  out, 

And  that  first  passion  beggars  all  behind, 

Heirs  of  a  tamer  transport  prepossessed. 

Who,  seeing  once,  has  truly  seen  again 

The  gray  vague  of  unsympathizing  sea 

That  dragged  his  fancy  from  her  moorings  back 

To  shores  inhospitable  of  eldest  time, 

Till  blank  foreboding  of  earth-gendered  powers, 

Pitiless  seignories  in  the  elements, 

Omnipotences  blind  that  darkling  smite, 

Misgave  him,  and  repaganized  the  world  ? 

Yet,  by  some  subtler  touch  of  sympathy, 

These  primal  apprehensions,  dimly  stirred, 

Perplex  the  eye  with  pictures  from  within. 

This  hath  made  poets  dream  of  lives  foregone 

In  worlds  fantastical,  more  fair  than  ours ; 

So  memory  cheats  us,  glimpsing  half- revealed. 

Even  as  I  write  she  tries  her  wonted  spell 

In  that  continuous  redbreast  boding  rain  : 

The  bird  I  hear  sings  not  from  yonder  elm  ; 

But  the  flown  ecstasy  my  childhood  heard 

Is  vocal  in  my  mind,  renewed  by  him, 

Haply  made  sweeter  by  the  accumulate  thrill 

That  threads  my  undivided  life  and  steals 

A  pathos  from  the  years  and  graves  between. 

A 

I  know  not  how  it  is  with  -other  men, 

Whom  I  but  guess,  deciphering  myself,  — 

For  me,  once  felt  is  so  felt  nevermore. 

The  fleeting  relish  at  sensation's  brim 

Had  in  it  the  best  ferment  of  the  wine. 

One  spring  I  knew  as  never  any  since : 

All  night  the  surges  of  the  warm  southwest 

Boomed  intermittent  through  the  shuddering  elms,. 

And  brought  a  morning  from  the  Gulf  adrift, 

Omnipotent  with  sunshine,  whose  quick  charm 

Startled  with  crocuses  the  sullen  turf 

And  wiled  the  bluebird  to  his  whiff  of  song: 

One  summer  hour  abides,  what  time  I  perched, 

Dappled  with  noonday,  under  simmering  leaves,. 

And  pulled  the  pulny  oxhearts,  while  aloof 


1870.]  77/6-  Cathedral. 

An  oriole  clattered  and  the  robins  shrilled, 

Denouncing  me  an  alien  and  a  thief: 

One  morn  of  autumn  lords  it  o'er  the  rest, 

When  in  the  lane  I  watched  the  ash-leaves  fall. 

Balancing  softly  earthward  without  wind, 

Or  twirling  with  directer  impulse  down 

On  those  fallen  yesterday,  now  barbed  with  frost, 

While  I  grew  pensive  with  the  pensive  year  : 

And  once  I  learned  how  gracious  winter  was, 

When,  past  the  fence-rails  downy-gray  with  rime, 

I  creaked  adventurous  o'er  the  spangled  crust 

That  made  familiar  fields  seem  far  and  strange 

As  those  stark  wastes  that  whiten  endlessly 

In  ghastly  solitude  about  the  pole, 

And  gleam  relentless  to  the  nightlong  sun  : 

Instant  the  unsullied  chambers  of  my  brain 

Were  painted  with  these  sovran  images ; 

And  later  visions  seem  but  copies  pale 

From  those  unfading  frescos  of  the  past, 

Which  I,  young  savage,  in  my  age  of  flint, 

Gazed  at,  and  dimly  felt  a  power  in  me 

Parted  from  Nature  by  the  joy  in  her 

That  doubtfully  revealed  me  to  myself. 

Thenceforward  I  must  stand  outside  the  gate ; 

And  paradise  was  paradise  the  more, 

Known  once  and  barred  against  satiety.         % 

I  blame  not  in  the  soul  this  daintiness, 

Rasher  of  surfeit  than  a  humming-bird, 

In  things  indifferent  purveyed  by  sense  ; 

It  argues  her  an  immortality 

And  dateless  incomes  of  experience, — 

This  unthrift  housekeeping  that  will  not  brook 

A  dish  warmed-over  at  the  feast  of  life, 

And  finds  Twice  stale,  served  with  whatever  sauce. 

Nor  matters  much  how  it  may  go  with  me 

Who  dwell  in  Grub  Street  and  am  proud  to  drudge 

Where  men,  my  betters,  wet  their  crust  with  tears : 

Use  can  make  sweet  the  peach's  shady  side 

That  only  by  reflection  tastes  of  sun. 

But  she,  my  Princess,  who  will  sometimes  deign 

My  garret  to  illumine  till  the  walls, 

Narrow  and  dingy,  scrawled  with  hackneyed  thought 

(Poor  Richard  slowly  elbowing  Plato  out), 

Dilate  and  drape  themselves  with  tapestries 

Such  as  Nausikaa  stooped  o'er,  while,  between, 

Mirrors,  effaced  in  their  own  clearness,  send 

Her  only  image  on  through  deepening  deeps 

With  endless  repercussion  of  delight,  — 

Bringer  of  life,  witching  each  sense  to  soul, 

That  sometimes  almost  gives  me  to  believe 

I  might  have  been  a  poet,  gives  at  least 

A  brain  desaxonized,  an  ear  that  makes 


The  Cathedral.  [January, 

Music  where  none  is,  and  a  keener  pang 

Of  exquisite  surmise  outleaping  thought,  — 

Her  will  I  pamper  in  her  luxury : 

No  crumpled  rose-leaf  of  too  careless  choice 

Shall  bring  a  northern  nightmare  to  her  dreams, 

Vexing  with  sense  of  exile  ;  hers  shall  be 

The  invitiate  firstlings  of  experience, 

Vibrations  felt  but  once  and  felt  lifelong : 

O,  more  than  half-way  turn  that  Grecian  front 

Upon  me,  while  with  self-rebuke  I  spell, 

On  the  plain  fillet  that  confines  thy  hair 

In  gracious  bounds  of  seeming  unconstraint, 

The  Naught  in  overphis,  thy  race's  badge  I 

One  feast  for  her  I  secretly  designed 

In  that  Old  World  so  strangely  beautiful 

To  us  the  disinherited  of  eld,  — 

A  day  at  Chartres,  with  no  soul  beside 

To  roil  with  pedant  prate  my  joy  serene 

And  make  the  minster  shy  of  confidence. 

I  went,  and,  with  the  Saxon's  pious  care, 

First  ordered  dinner  at  the  pea-green  inn, 

The  flies  and  I  its  only  customers, 

Till  by  and  by  there*  came  two  Englishmen, 

Who  made  me  feel,  in  their  engaging  way, 

I  ^vas  a  poacher  on  their  self-preserve, 

Intent  constructively  on  lese-anglicism. 

To  them  (in  those  old  razor-ridden  days) 

My  beard  translated  me  to  hostile  French ; 

So  they,  desiring  guidance  in  the  town, 

Half  condescended  to  my  baser  sphere, 

And,  clubbing  in  one  mess  their  lack  of  phrase, 

Set  their  best  man  to  grapple  with  the  Gaul. 

"  Esker  vous  ate  a  nabitang  ?  "  he  asked  ; 

"  I  never  ate  one  ;  are  they  good  ?  "  asked  I ; 

W'hereat  they  stared,  then  laughed,  —  and  we  were  friends. 

The  seas,  the  wars,  the  centuries  interposed, 

Abolished  in  the  truce  of  common  speech 

And  mutual  comfort  of  the  mother-tongue. 

Like  escaped  convicts  of  Propriety, 

They  furtively  partook  the  joys  of  men, 

Glancing  behind  when  buzzed  some  louder  fly. 

Escaping  these,  I  loitered  through  the  town, 
With  hope,  to  take  my  minster  unawares 
In  its  grave  solitude  of  memory. 
A  pretty  burgh,  and  such  as  fancy  loves 
For  bygone  grandeurs,  faintly  rumorous  now 
Upon  the  mind's  horizon,  as  of  storm 
Brooding  its  dreamy  thunders  far  aloof, 
That  mingle  with  our  mood  but  not  disturb. 
Its  once  grim  bulwarks,  tamed  to  lovers'  walks, 


1 8/0.]  The  Cathedral. 

Look  down  unvvatchful  on  the  sliding  Eure, 
Whose  listless  leisure  suits  the  quiet  place, 
Lisping  among  his  shallows  homelike  sounds 
At  Concord  and  by  Bankside  heard  before. 
Chance  led  me  to  a  public  pleasure-ground, 
•  Where  I  grew  kindly  with  the  merry  groups, 
Blessing  the  Frenchman  for  his  simple  art 
Of  being  domestic  in  the  light  of  day. 
His  language  has  no  word,  we  growl,  for  Home  ; 
But  he  can  find  a  fireside  in  ttoe  sun, 
Play  with  his  child,  make  love,  and  shriek  his  mind, 
By  throngs  of  strangers  undisprivacied. 
He  makes  his  life  a  public  gallery, 
Nor  feels  himself  till  what  he  feels  comes  back 
In  manifold  reflection  from  without; 
While  we,  each  pore  alert  with  consciousness, 
Hide  our  best  selves  as  we  had  stolen  them, 
And  each  by-stander  a  detective  were, 
Keen-eyed  for  every  chink  of  undisguise. 

So,  musing  o'er  the  problem  which  was  best, 

With  outward  senses  furloughed  and  head  bowed 

I  followed  some  fine  instinct  in  my  feet, 

Till,  to  unbend  me  from  the  loom  of  thought, 

Looking  up  suddenly,  I  found  mine  eyes 

Confronted  with  the  minster's  vast  repose. 

Silent  and  gray  as  forest-leaguered  cliff 

Left  inland  by  the  ocean's  slow  retreat, 

That  hears  afar  the  breeze-borne  rote,  and  longs, 

Remembering  shocks  of  surf  that  clomb  and  fell, 

Spume-sliding  down  the  baffled  decuman, 

It  rose  before  me,  patiently  remote 

From  the  great  tides  of  life  it  breasted  once, 

Hearing  the  noise  of  men  as  in  a  dream. 

I  stood  before  the  triple  northern  port, 

Where  dedicated  shapes  of  saints  and  kings, 

Stern  faces  bleared  with  immemorial  watch, 

Looked  down  benignly  grave  and  seemed  to  say, 

Ye  come  and  go  incessant;  ive  remain 

Safe  in  the  hallowed  quiets  of  the  past; 

Be  reverent,  ye  who  flit  and  are  forgot, 

Of  faith  so  nobly  realized  as  this. 

I  seem  to  have  heard  it  said  by  learned  folk 
Who  drench  you  with  aesthetics  till  you  feel 
As  if  all  beauty  were  a  ghastly  bore, 
A  faucet  to  let  loose  a  wash  of  words, 
That  Gothic  is  not  Grecian,  therefore  worse ; 
But,  being  convinced  by  much  experiment 
How  little  inventiveness  there  is  in  man, 
Grave  copier  of  copies,  I  give  thanks 
For  a  new  relish,  careless  to  inquire 


77*?  Cathedral.  [January, 

My  pleasure's  pedigree,  if  it  but  please, 

Nobly,  I  mean,  nor  renegade  to  art. 

The  Grecian  gluts  me  with  its  perfectness, 

Unanswerable  as  Euclid,  self-contained, 

The  one  thing  finished  in  this  hasty  world, 

Forever  finished,  though  the  barbarous  pit,  % 

Fanatical  on  hearsay,  stamp  and  shout, 

As  if  a  miracle  could  be  encored. 

But  ah  !  this  other,  this  that  never  ends, 

Still  climbing,  luring  fancy  still  to  climb, 

As  full  of  morals  half-divined  as  life, 

Graceful,  grotesque,  with  ever  new  surprise 

Of  hazardous  caprices  sure  to  please. 

Heavy  as  nightmare,  airy-light  as  fern, 

Imagination's  very  self  in  stone, — 

With  one  long  sigh  of  infinite  release 

From  pedantries  past,  present,  or  to  come, 

I  looked,  and  owned  myself  a  happy  Goth. 

Your  blood  is  mine,  ye  architects  of  dream, 

Builders  of  aspiration  incomplete, 

So  more  consummate,  —  souls  self-confident, 

Who  felt  your  own  thought  worthy  of  record 

In  monumental  pomp !  .  No  Grecian  drop 

Rebukes  these  veins  that  leap  with  kindred  thrill, 

After  long  exile,  to  the  mother-tongue. 

Ovid  in  Pontus,  puling  for  his  Rome 

Of  men  inviriie  and  disnatured  dames 

That  poison  sucked  from  the  Attic  bloom  decayed, 

Shrank  with  a  shudder  from  the  blue-eyed  race 

Whose  force  rough-handed  should  renew  the  world, 

And  from  the  dregs  of  Romulus  express 

Such  wine  as  Dante  poured,  or  he  who  blew 

Roland's  vain  blast,  or  sang  the  Campeador 

In  verse  that  clanks  like  armor  in  the  charge,  — 

Homeric  juice,  if  brimmed  in  Odin's  horn. 

And  they  could  build,  if  not  the  columned  fane 

That  from  the  height  gleamed  seaward  many-hued, 

Something  more  friendly  with  their  ruder  skies  : 

The  gray  spire,  molten  now  in  driving  mist, 

Now  lulled  with  the  incommunicable  blue  ; 

The  carvings  touched  with  snow  to  meanings  new, 

Or  commented  with  fleeting  grace  of  shade  ; 

The  painted  windows,  frecking  gloom  with  glow, 

Dusking  the  sunshine  which  they  seem  to  cheer, 

Meet  symbol  of  the  senses  and  the  soul; 

And  the  whole  pile,  grim  with  the  Northman's  thought 

Of  life  and  death,  and  doom,  life's  equal  fee, — 

These  were  before  me  :  and  I  gazed  abashed, 

Child  of  an  age  that  lectures,  not  creates. 

I  Mastering  our  swallow-nests  on  the  awful  Past 

And  twittering  round  the  work  of  larger  men, 


70.] 


As  we  had  builded  what  we  but  deface. 

Far  up  the  great  bells  wallowed  in  delight, 

Tossing  their  clangors  o'er  the  heedless  town, 

To  call  the  worshippers  who  never  came, 

Or  women  mostly,  in  loath  twos  and  threes. 

I  entered,  reverent  of  whatever  shrine 

Guards  piety  and  solace  for  my  kind 

Or  gives  the  soul  a  moment's  truce  of  God,  . 

And  shared  decorows  in  the  solemn  rite 

My  sterner  fathers  held  idolatrous. 

The  service  over,  I  was  tranced  in  thought : 

Solemn  the  deepening  vaults,  and  most  to  me, 

Fresh  from  the  fragile  realm  of  deal  and  paint, 

Or  brick,  sham-pious  with  a  marble  front; 

Solemn  the  lift  of  high-embowered  roof, 

The  clustered  stems  that  spread  in  boughs  disleaved, 

Through  which  the  organ  blew  a  dream  of  storm,  — 

Though  not  more  potent  to  sublime  with  awe 

And  shut  the  heart  up  in  tranquillity, 

Than  aisles  to  me  liimiliar  that  o'erarch 

The  conscious  silences  of  windless  woods, 

Centurial  shadows,  cloisters  of  the  elk  : 

Yet  here  was  sense  of  undefined  regret, 

Irreparable  loss,  uncertain  what : 

Was  all  this  grandeur  but  anachronism, — 

A  shell  divorced  of  its  informing  life, 

Where  the  priest  housed  him  like  a  hermit-crab, 

An  alien  to  that  faith  of  elder  days 

That  gathered  round  it  this  fair  shape  of  stone  ? 

Is  old  Religion  but  a  spectre  now, 

Haunting  the  solitude  of  darkened  minds, 

Mocked  out  of  memory  by  the  sceptic  day  ? 

Is  there  no  corner  safe  from  peeping  doubt 

Since  Gutenberg  made  thought  cosmopolite  . 

And  stretched  electric  threads  from  mind  to  mind  ? 

Nay,  did  Faith  build  this  wonder  ?  or  did  Fear, 

That  makes  a  fetish  and  misnames  it  God 

(Blockish  or  metaphysic,  matters  not), 

Contrive  this  coop  to  shut  its  tyrant  in, 

Appeased  with  playthings,  that  he  might  not  harm  ? 

I  turned  and  saw  a  beldame  on  her  knees  ; 

With  eyes  astray,  she  told  mechanic  beads 

Before  some  shrine  of  saintly  womanhood, 

Bribed  intercessor  with  the  far-off  judge, — 

Such  my  first  thought,  by  kindlier  soon  rebuked, 

Pleading  for  whatsoever  touches  life 

With  upward  impulse  :  be  He  nowhere  else, 

God  is  in  all  that  liberates  and  lifts  ; 

And  happy  they  that  wander  not  lifelong 

"Beyond  near  succor  of  the  household  faith, 

The  guarded  fold  that  shelters,  not  confines  ! 

Their  steps  find  patience  in  familiar  paths 


The  Cathedral.  [January, 

Printed  with  hope  by  loved  feet  gone  before 
Of  parent,  child,  or  lover,  glorified 
By  simple  magic  of  dividing  Time. 
My  lids  were  moistened  as  the  woman  knelt, 
And,  was  it  will,  or  some  vibration  faint 
Of  sacred  Nature,  deeper  than  the  will, 
My  heart  occultly  felt  itself  in  hers, 
Through  mutual  intercession  gently  leagued. 

Or  was  it  not  mere  sympathy  of  brain  ? 
A  sweetness  intellectually  conceived 
In  simpler  creeds  to  me  impossible  ? 
A  juggle  of  that  pity  for  ourselves 
In  others,  which  puts  on  such  pretty  masks 
And  snares  self-love  with  bait  of  charity  ? 
Something  of  all  it  might  be,  or  of  none  : 
Yet  for  a  moment  I  was  snatched  away 
And  had  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen  ; 
For  one  rapt  moment;   then  it  all  came  back, 
This  age  that  blots  out  life  with  question-marks, 
This  nineteenth  century  with  its  knife  and  glass 
That  make  thought  physical,  and  thrust  far  off 
The  Heaven,  so  neighborly  with  man  of  old, 
To  voids  sparse-sown  with  alienated  stars. 

'Tis  irrecoverable,  that  ancient  faith, 

Homely  and  wholesome,  suited  to  the  time, 

With  rod  or  candy  for  child-minded  men  : 

No  theologic  tube,  with  lens  on  lens 

Of  syllogism  transparent,  brings  it  near,  — 

At  best  resolving  some  new  nebula, 

And  blurring  some  fixed-star  of  hope  to  mist. 

Science  was  Faith  once  ;  Faith  were  Science  now, 

Would  she  but  lay  her  bow  and  arrows  by 

And  arm  her  with  the  weapons  of  the  time. 

Nothing  that  keeps  thought  out  is  safe  from  thought, 

For  there  's  no  virgin-fort  but  self-respect, 

And  Truth  defensive  hath  lost  hold  on  God. 

Shall  we  treat  Him  as  if  He  were  a  child 

That  knew  not  His  own  purpose  ?  nor  dare  trust 

The  Rock  of  Ages  to  their  chemic  tests, 

Lest  some  day  the  all-sustaining  base  divine 

Should  fail  from  under  us,  dissolved  in  gas  ? 

The  armed  eye  that  with  a  glance  discerns 

In  a  dry  blood-speck  between  ox  and  man, 

Stares  helpless  at  this  miracle  called  life, 

This  shaping  potency  behind  the  egg, 

This  circulation  swift  of  deity, 

Where  suns  and  systems  inconspicuous  float 

As  the  poor  blood-disks  in  our  mortal  veins. 

Each  age  must  worship  its  own  thought  of  God, 

More  or  less  earthy,  clarifying  still 


1870.]  77/6'  CatJicdrat 

With  subsidence  continuous  of  the  dregs  ;  * 

Nor  saint  nor  sage  could  fix  immutably 

The  fluent  image  of  the  unstable  Best, 

Still  changing  in  their  very  hands  that  wrought : 

To-day's  eternal  truth  To-morrow  proved 

Frail  as  frost-landscapes  on  a  window-pane. 

Meanwhile  Thou  smiledst,  inaccessible, 

At  Thought's  own  substance  made  a  cage  for  Thought, 

And  Truth  locked  fast  with  her  own  master-key  ; 

Nor  didst  thou  reck  what  image  man  might  make 

Of  his  own  shadow  on  the  flowing  world  ; 

The  climbing  instinct  was  enough  for  thee. 

Or  wast  Thou,  then,  an  ebbing  tide  that  left 

Strewn  with  dead  miracle  those  eldest  shores, 

For  men  to  dry,  and  dryly  lecture  on, 

Thyself  thenceforth  incapable  of  flood  ? 

Idle  who  hopes  with  prophets  to  be  snatched 
By  virtue  in  their  mantles  left  below  ; 
Shall  the  soul  live  on  other  men's  report, 
Herself  a  pleasing  fable  of  herself? 
Man  cannot  be  God's  outlaw  if  he  would, 
Nor  so  abscond  him  in  the  caves  of  sense 
But  Nature  still  shall  search  some  crevice  out 
With  messages  of  splendor  from  that  Source 
Which,  dive  he,  soar  he,  baffles  still  and  lures. 
This  life  were  brutish  did  we  not  sometimes 
Have  intimation  clear  of  wider  scope, 
Hints  of  occasion  infinite,  to  keep 
The  soul  alert  with  noble  discontent 
And  upward  yearnings  of  unstilled  desire  ; 
Fruitless,  except  we  now  and  then  divined 
A  mystery  of  Purpose,  gleaming  through 
The  secular  confusions  of  the  world, 
Whose  will  we  darkly  accomplish,  doing  ours. 
No  man  can  think  nor  in  himself  perceive, 
Sometimes  at  waking,  in  the  street  sometimes, 
Or  on  the  hill-side,  always  unforewarned, 
A  grace  of  being,  finer  than  himself, 
That  beckons  and  is  gone,  a  larger  life 
Upon  his  own  impinging,  with  swift  glimpse 
Of  spacious  circles  luminous  with  mind 
To  which  the  ethereal  substance  of  his  own 
Seems  but  gross  cloud  to  make  that  visible, 
Touched  to  a  sudden  glory  round  the  edge. 
Who  that  hath  known  these  visitations  fleet 
Would  strive  to  make  them  trite  and  ritual  ? 
I,  that  still  pray  at  morning  and  at  eve, 
Loving  those  roots  that  feed  us  from  the  past, 
And  prizing  more  than  Plato  things  I  learned 
At  that  best  academe,  a  mother's  knee, 
Thrice  in  my  life  perhaps  have  truly  prayed, 


io  The  Cathedral.  [January, 

»          Thrice,  stirred  below  my  conscious  self,  have  felt 
That  perfect  disenthralment  which  is  God; 
Nor  know  I  which  to  hold  worst  enemy, — 
Him  who  on  speculation's  windy  waste 
Would  turn  me  loose,  stript  of  the  raiment  warm 
By  Faith  contrived  against  our  .nakedness, 
Or  him  who,  cruel-kind,  would  fain  obscure, 
With  painted  saints  and  paraphrase  of  God, 
The  soul's  east-window  of  divine  surprise. 
Where  others  worship,  I  but  look  and  long ; 
For,  though  not  recreant  to  my  fathers'  faith, 
Its  forms  to  me  are  weariness,  and  most 
That  drony  vacuum  of  compulsory  prayer, 
Still  pumping  phrases  for  the  ineffable, 
Though  all  the  valves  of  memory  gasp  and  wheeze. 
Words  that  have  drawn  transcendent  meanings  up 
From  the  best  passion  of  all  bygone  time, 
Steeped  through  with  tears  of  triumph  and  remorse, 
Sweet  with  all  sainthood,  cleansed  in  martyr-fires, 
Can  they,  so  consecrate  and  so  inspired, 
By  repetition  wane  to  vexing  wind? 
Alas  !  we  cannot  draw  habitual  breath 
In  the  thin  air  of  life's  supremer  heights, 
WTe  cannot  make  each  meal  a  sacrament, 
Nor  with  our  tailors  be  immortal  souls, — 
We  men,  too  conscious  of  earth's  comedy, 
Who  see  two  sides,  with  our  posed  selves  debate, 
And  only  on  great  days  can  be  sublime  ! 
Let  us  be  thankful  when,  as  I  do  here, 
We  can  read  Bethel  on  a  pile  of  stones, 
And,  seeing  where  God  has  been,  trust  in  Him. 

Brave  Peter  Fischer  there  in  Nuremberg, 
Moulding  Saint  Sebald's  miracles  in  bronze, 
Put  saint  and  stander-by  in  that  quaint  garb 
Familiar  to  him  in  his  daily  walk, 
Not  doubting  God  could  grant  a  miracle 
Then  and  in  Nuremberg,  if  so  He  would; 
But  never  artist  for  three  hundred  years 
Hath  dared  the  contradiction  ludicrous 
Of  supernatural  in  modern  clothes. 
Say  it  is  drift,  not  progress,  none  the  less, 
With  the  old  sextant  of  the  fathers'  creed, 
We  shape  our  courses  by  new-risen  stars, 
And,  still  lip-loyal  to  what  once  was  truth, 
Smuggle  new  meanings  under  ancient  names, 
Unconscious  perverts  of  the  Jesuit,  Time. 
Change  is  the  mask  that  all  Continuance  wears 
To  keep  us  youngsters  harmlessly  amused  ; 
Meanwhile  some  ailing  or  more  watchful  child, 
Sitting  apart,  sees  the  old  eyes  gleam  out, 
-  Stern,  and  yet  soft  with  humorous  pity  too. 


1870.]  The  Cathedral  \  \ 

Whilere,  men  burnt  men  for  a  doubtful  point, 

As  if  the  mind  were  quenchablc  with  fire, 

And  Faith  danced  round  them  with  her  war-paint  on, 

Devoutly  savage  as  an  Iroquois  ; 

Now  Calvin  and  Servetus  at  one  board 

Snuff  in  grave  sympathy  a  milder  roast, 

And  o'er  their  claret  settle  Comte  unread. 

This  is  no  age  to  get  cathedrals  built  — 

Did  God,  then,  wait  for  one  in  Bethlehem  ? 

Worst  is  not  yet:  lo,  where  his  coming  looms, 

Of  Earth's  anarchic  children  latest  born, 

Democracy,  a  Titan  who  has  learned 

To  laugh  at  Jove's  old-fashioned  thunderbolts  — 

Could  he  not  also  forge  them,  if  he  would  ? 

He,  better  skilled,  with  solvents  merciless, 

Loosened  in  air  and  borne  on  every  wind, 

Saps  unperceived  :  the  calm  Olympian  height 

Of  ancient  order  feels  its  bases  yield, 

And  pale  gods  look  for  help  to  gods  as  pale. 

What  will  be  left  of  good  or  worshipful, 

Of  spiritual  secrets,  mysteries, 

Of  fair  religion's  guarded  heritage,  — 

Heirlooms  of  soul,  passed  downward  unprofaned 

From  eldest  Ind  ?    This  western  giant  coarse, 

Scorning  refinements  which  he  lacks  himself, 

Loves  not  nor  heeds  the  ancestral  hierarchies, 

Each  rank  dependent  on  the  next  above 

In  orderly  gradation  fixed  as  fate. 

For  him  no  tree  of  knowledge  is  forbid, 

Or  sweeter  if  forbid.     How  save  the  ark, 

Or  holy  of  holies,  unprofaned  a  day 

From  his  unscrupulous  curiosity 

That  handles  everything  as  if  to  buy, 

Tossing  aside  what  fabrics  delicate 

Suit  not  the  rough-and-tumble  of  his  ways  ? 

What  hope  for  those  fine-nerved  humanities  . 

That  made  earth  gracious  once  with  gentler  arts, 

Now  the  rude  hands  have  caught  the  trick  of  thought 

And  claim  an  equal  suffrage  with  the  brain  ? 

The  born  disciple  of  an  elder  time 

To  me  sufficient,  friendlier  than  the  new, 

I  thank  benignant  nature  most  for  this,  — 

A  force  of  sympathy,  or  call  it  lack 

Of  character  firm-planted,  loosing  me 

From  the  pent  chamber  of  habitual  self 

To  dwell  enlarged  in  alien  modes  of  thought, 

Haply  distasteful,  wholesomer  for  that, 

And  through  imagination  to  possess, 

As  they  were  mine,  the  lives  of  other  men. 

This  growth  original  of  virgin  soil, 


12  The  Cathedral.  [January, 

By  fascination  felt  in  opposites, 

Pleases  and  shocks,  entices  and  perturbs. 

In  this  brown-fisted  rough,  this  shirt-sleeved  Cid, 

This  backwoods  Charlemagne  of  empires  new, 

Whose  blundering  heel  instinctively  finds  out 

The  goutier  foot  of  speechless  dignities, 

Who,  meeting  Caesar's  self,  would  slap  his  back, 

Call  him  "  Old  Horse,"  and  challenge  to  a  drink, 

My  lungs  draw  braver  air,  my  breast  dilates 

With  ampler  manhood,  and  I  front  both  worlds, 

Of  sense  and  spirit,  as  my  natural  fiefs, 

To  shape  and  then  reshape  them  as  I  will. 

It  was  the  first  man's  charter  ;  why  not  mine  ? 

How  forfeit  ?  when  deposed  in  other  hands  ? 

Thou  shudder'st,  Ovid  ?     Dost  in  him  forebode 

A  new  avatar  of  the  large-limbed  Goth, 

To  break,  or  seem  to  break,  tradition's  clew, 

And  chase  to  dreamland  back  thy  gods  dethroned  ? 

I  think  man's  soul  dwells  nearer  to  the  east, 

Nearer  to  morning's  fountains  than  the  sun  ; 

Herself  the  source  whence  all  tradition  sprang, 

Herself  at  once  both  labyrinth  and  clew. 

The  miracle  fades  out  of  history, 

But  faith  and  wonder  and  the  primal  earth 

Are  born  into  the  world  with  every  child. 

Shall  this  self-maker  with  the  prying  eyes, 

This  creature  disenchanted  of  respect 

By  the  New  World's  new  fiend,  Publicity, 

Whose  testing  thumb  leaves  everywhere  its  smutch, 

Not  one  day  feel  within  himself  the  need 

Of  loyalty  to  better  than  himsdf, 

That  shall  ennoble  him  with  the  upward  look  ? 

Shall  he  not  catch  the  Voice  that  wanders  earth, 

With  spiritual  summons,  dreamed  or  heard, 

As  sometimes,  just  ere  sleep  seals  up  the  sense, 

We  hear  our  Mother  call  from  deeps  of  time, 

And,  waking,  find  it  vision, — none  the  less 

The  benediction  bides,  old  skies  return, 

And  that  unreal  thing,  pre-eminent, 

Makes  air  and  dream  of  all  we  see  and  feel  ? 

Shall  he  divine  no  strength  unmade  of  votes, 

Inward,  impregnable,  found  soon  as  sought, 

Not  cognizable  of  sense,  o'er  sense  supreme  ? 

His  holy  places  may  not  be  of  stone, 

Nor  made  with  hands,  yet  fairer  far  than  aught 

By  artist  feigned  or  pious  ardor  reared, 

Fit  altars  for  who  guards  inviolate 

God's  chosen  seat,  the  sacred  form  of  man. 

Doubtless  his  church  will  be  no  hospital 

For  superannuate  forms  and  mumping  shams, 

No  parlor  where  men  issue  policies 


J8/0.]  The  Cathedral.  13 

Of  life-assurance  on  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Nor  his  religion  but  an  ambulance 

To  fetch  life's  wounded  and  malingerers  in, 

Scorned  by  the  strong ;  yet  he,  unconscious  heir 

To  the  influence  sweet  of  Athens  and  of  Rome, 

And  old  Judaea's  gift  of  secret  fire, 

Spite  of  himself  shall  surely  learn  to  know 

And  worship  some  ideal  of  himself, 

Some  divine  thing,  large-hearted,  brotherly, 

Not  nice  in  trifles,  a  soft  creditor, 

Pleased  with  his  world,  and  hating  only  cant. 

And,  if  his  Church  be  doubtful,  it  is  sure 

That,  in  a  world,  made  for  whatever  else, 

Not  made  for  mere  enjoyment,  in  a  world 

Of  toil  but  half-requited,  or,  at  best, 

Paid  in  some  futile  currency  of  breath, 

A  world  of  incompleteness,  sorrow  swift 

And  consolation  laggard,  whatsoe'er 

The  form  of  building  or  the  creed  professed, 

The  Cross,  bold  type  of  shame  to  homage  turned, 

Of  an  unfinished  life  that  sways  the  world, 

Shall  tower  as  sovereign  emblem  over  all. 

The  kobold  Thought  moves  with  us  when  we  shift 

Our  dwelling  to  escape  him;  perched  aloft 

On  the  first  load  of  household-stuff  he  went  ; 

For,  where  the  mind  goes,  goes  old  furniture. 

I,  who  to  Chartres  came  to  feed  my  eye 

And  give  to  Fancy  one  clear  holiday, 

Scarce  saw  the  minster  for  the  thoughts  it  stirred 

Buzzing  o'er  past  and  future  with  vain  quest. 

Here  once  there  stood  a  homely  wooden  church, 

By  slow  devotion  nobly  changed  for  this 

That  echoes  vaguely  to  my  modern  steps. 

By  suffrage  universal  it  was  built, 

As  practised  then,  for  all  the  country  came 

From  far  as  Rouen,  to  give  votes  for  God, 

Each  vote  a  block  of  stone  securely  laid 

Obedient  to  the  master's  deep-mused  plan. 

Will  what  our  ballots  rear,  responsible 

To  no  grave  forethought,  stand  so  long  as  this  ? 

Delight  like  this  the  eye  of  after  days 

Brightening  with  pride  that  here,  at  least,  were  men 

Who  meant  and  did  the  noblest  thing  they  knew  ? 

Can  our  religion  cope  with  deeds  like  this  ? 

We,  too,  build  Gothic  contract-shams,  because 

Our  deacons  have  discovered  that  it  pays, 

And  pews  sell  better  under  vaulted  roofs 

Of  plaster  painted  like  an  Indian  squaw. 

Shall  not  that  western  G*oth,  of  whom  we  spoke, 

So  fiercely  practical,  so  keen  of  eye, 

Find  out  some  day  that  nothing  pays  but  God, 


The  Cathedral.  [January, 

Served  whether  on  the  smoke-shut  battle-field, 

In  work  obscure  done  honestly,  or  vote 

For  truth  unpopular,  or  faith  maintained 

To  ruinous  convictions,  or  good  deeds 

Wrought  for  good's  sake,  mindless  of  heaven  or  hell  ? 

I  know  not ;  but,  sustained  by  sure  belief 

That  man  still  rises  level  with  the  height 

Of  noblest  opportunities,  or  makes 

Such,  if  the  time  supply  not,  I  can  wait. 

I  gaze  round  on  the  windows,  pride  of  France, 

Each  the  bright  gift  of  some  mechanic  guild 

Who  loved  their  city  and  thought  gold  well  spent 

To  make  her  beautiful  with  piety. 

I  pause,  transfigured  by  some  stripe  of  bloom, 

And  my  mind  throngs  with  shining  auguries, 

Circle  on  circle,  bright  as  seraphim, 

With  golden  trumpets  silent,  that  await 

The  signal  to  blow  news  of  good  to  men. 

Then  the  revulsion  came  that  always  comes 

After  these  dizzy  elations  of  the  mind  : 

I  walked  forth  saddened  ;  for  all  thought  is  sad, 

And  leaves  a  bitterish  savor  in  the  brain, 

Tonic,  it  may  be,  not  delectable, 

And  turned,  -reluctant,  for  a  parting  look 

At  those  old  weather-pitted  images 

Of  bygone  struggle,  now  so  sternly  calm. 

About  their  shoulders  sparrows  had  built  nests, 

And  fluttered,  chirping,  from  gray  perch  to  perch, 

Now  on  a  mitre  poising,  now  a  crown, 

Irreverently  happy.     While  I  thought 

How  confident  they  were,  what  careless  hearts 

Flew  on  those  lightsome  wings  and  shared  the  sun, 

A  larger  shadow  crossed;   and,  looking  up, 

I  saw  where,  nesting  in  the  hoary  towers, 

The  sparrow-hawk  slid  forth  on  noiseless  air, 

With  sidelong  head  that  watched  the  joy  below, 

Grim  Norman  baron  o'er  this  clan  of  Kelts. 

Enduring  Nature,  force  conservative, 

Indifferent  to  our  noisy  whims  !     Men  prate 

Of  all  heads  to  an  equal  grade  cashiered 

On  level  with  the  dullest,  and  expect 

(Sick  of  no  worse  distemper  than  themselves) 

A  wondrous  cure-all  in  equality  ; 

Meanwhile,  long-suffering,  imperturbable, 

Thou  quietly  complet'st  thy  syllogism, 

And  from  the  premise  sparrow  here  below 

Draw'st  sure  conclusion  of  the  hawk  above, 

Pleased  with  the  soft^billed  songster,  pleased  no  less 

With  the  fierce  beak  of  natures  aquiline. 

Thou,  beautiful  Old  Time,  now  hid  away 


187°-]  The  Cathedral. 

In  the  Past's  valley  of  Avilion, 

Perchance,  like  Arthur,  till  thy  wound  be  healed, 

Then  to  reclaim  the  sword  and  crown  again  ! 

Thrice  beautiful  to  us  ;  perchance  less  fair 

To  who  possessed  thee,  as  a  mountain  seems 

To  dwellers  round  its  bases  but  a  heap 

Of  barren  obstacle  that  lairs  the  storm 

And  the  avalanche's  silent  bolt  holds  back 

Leashed  with  a  hair,  —  meanwhile  some  far-off  clown, 

Hereditary  delver  of  the  plain, 

Sees  it  an  unmoved  vision  of  repose, 

Nest  of  the  morning,  and  conjectures  there 

The  dance  of  streams  to  idle  shepherds'  pipes, 

And  fairer  habitations  softly  hung 

On  breezy  slopes,  or  hid  in  valleys  cool, 

For  happier  men.     No  mortal  ever  dreams 

That  the  scant  isthmus  he  encamps  upon 

Between  two  oceans,  one,  the  Stormy,  passed, 

And  one,  the  Peaceful,  yet  to  venture  on, 

Has  been  that  future  whereto  prophets  yearned 

For  the  fulfilment  of  Earth's  cheated  hope, 

Shall  be  that  past  which  nerveless  poets  moan 

As  the  tost  opportunity  of  song. 

0  Power,  more  near  my  life  than  life  itself 
(Or  what  seems  life  to  us  in  sense  immured), 
Even  as  the  roots,  shut  in  the  darksome  earth, 
Share  in  the  tree-top's  joyance,  and  conceive 
Of  sunshine  and  wide  air  and  winged  things 
By  sympathy  of  nature,  so  do  I 

Have  evidence  of  Thee  so  far  above, 

Yet  in  and  of  me  !     Rather  Thou  the  root 

Invisibly  sustaining,  hid  in  light, 

Not  darkness,  or  in  darkness  made  by  us. 

If  sometimes  I  must  hear  good  men  debate 

Of  other  witness  of  Thyself  than  Thou, 

As  if  there  needed  any  help  of  ours 

To  nurse  Thy  flickering  life,  that  else  must  cease, 

Blown  out,  as  'twere  a  candle,  by  men's  breath, 

My  soul  shall  not  be  taken  in  their  snare, 

To  change  her  inward  surety  for  their  doubt 

Muffled  from  sight  in  formal  robes  of  proof: 

While  she  can  only  feel  herself  through  Thee, 

1  fear  not  Thy  withdrawal ;  more  I  fear, 

Seeing,  to  know  Thee  not,  hoodwinked  with  thought 
Of  signs  and  wonders,  while,  unnoticed,  Thou, 
Walking  Thy  garden  still,  commun'st  with  men, 
Missed  in  the  commonplace  of  miracle. 


i6 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[January, 


AMONG    THE    ISLES    OF    SHOALS. 
II. 


"T^HESE  islands  bore  some  of  the 
first  footprints  of  New  England 
Christianity  and  civilization.  They 
were  for  a  long  time  the  abode  of  intel- 
ligence, refinement,  and  virtue,  but  were 
afterwards  abandoned  to  a  state  of 
semi-barbarism."  The  first  intelligence 
of  the  place  comes  to  us  from  the  year 
1614,  when  John  Smith  is  supposed  to 
have  discovered  them.  The  next  date 
is  of  the  landing  of  Christopher  Leavitt, 
in  1623.  In  1645,  three  brothers,  Rob- 
ert, John,  and  Richard  Cutts,  emigrated 
from  Wales,  and  on  their  way  to  the 
continent  paused  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
and,  finding  them  so  pleasant,  made  their 
settlement  here.  Williamson  mentions 
particularly  Richard  Gibson,  from 
Topsham,  England,  and  various  other 
men  from  England  and  Wales.  Many 
people  speedily  joined  the  little  colony, 
which  grew  yearly  more  prosperous. 
In  1650,  the  Rev.  John  Brock  came  to 
live  among  the  islanders,  and  remained 
with  them  twelve  years.  All  that  we 
hear  of  this  man  is  so  fine,  he  is  repre- 
sented as  having  been  so  faithful,  zeal- 
ous, intelligent,  and  humane,  that  it  is  no 
wonder  the  community  flourished  while 
he  sat  at  the  helm.  It  was  said  of  him, 
"  He  dwells  as  near  Heaven  as  any 
man  upon  earth."  Cotton  Mather  thus 
quaintly  praises  him  :  "  He  was  a  good 
grammarian,  chiefly  in  this,  that  he  still 
spoke  the  truth  from  his  heart.  He 
was  a  good  logician,  chiefly  in  this, 
that  he  presented  himself  unto  God  with 
a  reasonable  service.  He  was  a  good 
arithmetician,  chiefly  in  this,  that  he 
so  numbered  his  days  as  to  apply  his 
heart  unto  wisdom.  He  was  a  good 
astronomer,  chiefly  in  this,  that  his 

conversation  was   in   Heaven So 

much  belonged  to  this  good  man,  that 
so  learned  a  life  may  well  be  judged 
worthy  of  being  a  written  one"  After 
him  came  a  long  procession  of  the 


clergy,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  up  to 
the  present  time,  when  "divine  ser- 
vice," so  called,  has  seemed  a  mere 
burlesque  as  it  has  been  often  carried 
on  in  the  little  church  at  Star.  On  the 
Massachusetts  records  there  is  a  para- 
graph to  the  effect  that,  in  the  year 
1653,  Philip  Babb  of  Hog  Island  was 
appointed  constable  for  all  the  islands 
of  Shoals,  Star  Island  excepted.  To 
Philip  Babb  we  shall  have  occasion  to 
refer  again.  "  In  May,  1661,"  says 
Williamson,  "being  places  of  note  and 
great  resort,  the  General  Court  incorpo- 
rated the  islands  into  a  town  called  Ap- 
pledore,  and  invested  it  with  the  pow- 
ers and  privi^ges  of  other  towns." 
There  were  then  about  forty  families 
on  Hog  Island,  but  between  that  time 
and  the.  year  1670  these  removed  to 
Star  Island  and  joined  the  settlement 
there.  This  they  were  induced  to  do 
partly  through  fear  of  the  Indians,  who 
frequented  Duck  Island,  and  thence 
made  plundering  excursions  upon  them, 
carrying  off  their  women  while  they 
were  absent  fishing,  and  doing  a  variety 
of  harm  ;  but,  as  it  is  expressly*  stated 
that  people  living  on  the  mainland  sent 
their  children  to  school  at  Appledore 
that  they  might  be  safe  from  the  Ind- 
ians, the  statement  of  their  depredations 
at  the  Shoals  is  perplexing.  Probably 
the  savages  camped  on  Duck  to  carry 
on  their  craft  of  porpoise-fishing,  which 
to  this  day  the)'  still  pursue  among  the 
islands  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Maine. 
Star  Island  seemed  a  place  of  greater 
safety,  and  probably  the  greater  advan- 
tages of  landing  and  the  convenience 
of  a  wide  cove  at  the  entrance  of  the 
village,  with  a  little  harbor  wherein  the 
fishing-craft  might  anchor  with  some 
security,  were  also  inducements.  Wil- 
liam Pepperell,  a  native  of  Cornwall, 
England,  emigrated  to  the  place  in  the 
year  1676,  and  lived  there  upwards  of 


1 870.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


twenty  years  and  carried  on  a  large 
fishery.  "He  was  the  father  of  Sir 
William  Pepperell,  the  most  famous 
man  Maine  ever  produced."  For  more 
than  a  century  previous  to  the  Revolu- 
tionary War  there  were  at  the  Shoals 
from  three  to  six  hundred  inhabitants, 
and  the  little  settlement  flourished 
steadily.  They  had  their  church  and 
school-house,  and  a  court-house  ;  and 
the  usual  municipal  officers  were  annu- 
ally chosen  and  the  town  records  regu- 
larly kept.  From  three  to  four  thou- 
sand quintals  offish  were  yearly  caught 
and  cured  by  the  islanders ;  and,  beside 
their  trade  with  Spain,  large  quantities 
offish  were  also  carried  to  Portsmouth, 
for  the  West  India  market.  In  1671 
the  islands  belonged  to  John  Mason  and 
Sir  Ferdinando  Gorges.  This  indom- 
itable old  Spaniard  always  greatly  in- 
terested me.  He  must  have  been  a 
person  of  great  force  of  character, 
strong,  clear-headed,  full  of  fire  and 
energy.  He  was  appointed  governor- 
general  of  New  England  in  1637. 
Williamson  has  much  to  say  of  him  : 
"  He  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  whose 
acquaintance  was  familiar,  possessing 
minds  equally  elastic  and  adventurous, 
turned  their  thoughts  at  an  early  peri- 
od of  life  towards  the  American  hemi- 
sphere." And  so  he  came  over,  and, 
among  other  places,  set  his  lordly  feet 
upon  these  rocks.  I  can  imagine  his 
proud,  dark,  haughty  figure  standing 
on  the  lonely  shore,  in  the  quaint  dress 
of  the  times  ;  with  plumed  hat,  short 
cloak,  long  boots,  and  a  bright  sword 
.sheathed  in  its  scabbard  by* his  side. 
Perhaps  the  spell  of  the  place  may 
have  touched  him  for  a  moment,  and 
made  him  pause  in  the  midst  of  his 
.ambitious  dreams ;  and,  looking  out 
with  "  a  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean," 
which  challenges  thought,  whether  men 
are  disposed  to  think  or  not,  he  may 
have  felt  the  emptiness  of  his  brilliant 
schemes  and  the  paltriness  of  the  mo- 
tives that  controlled  his  life.  William- 
son thus  laments  over  him  :  "  Fame 
and  wealth,  so  often  the  idols  of  supe- 
rior intellects,  were  the  prominent  ob- 
jects of  this  aspiring  man.  Constant 
VOL.  XXV.  —  NO-  147.  2 


and  sincere  in  his  friendships,  he  might 
have  had  extensively  the  estimation  of 
others,  had  not  selfishness  been  the 
centre  of  all  his  efforts.  His  life  and 
name,  though  by  no  means  free  from 
blemishes,  have  just  claims  to  the  grate- 
ful recollections  of  the  Eastern  Ameri- 
cans and  their  posterity." 

From  1640  to  1775,  says  a  report 
to  the  "  Society  for  Propagating  the 
Gospel  among  the  Indians  and  Others 
in  North  America,"  the  church  at  the 
Shoals  was  in  a  flourishing  condition 
and  had  a  succession  of  ministers, — 
Messrs.  Hull,  Brock,  Belcher,  Moody, 
Tucke,  and  Shaw,  all  of  whom  were 
good  and  faithful  men  ;  two,  Brock 
and  Tucke,  being  men  of  learning  and 
ability,  with  peculiarities  of  talent  and 
character  admirably  fitting  them  for 
their  work  on  these  islands.  Tucke 
was  the  only  one  who  closed  his  life 
and  ministry  at  the  Shoals.  He  was  a 
graduate  of  Harvard  College  of  the 
class  of  1723,  was  ordained  at  the 
Shoals  July  20,  1732,  and  died  there 
August  12,  1773,  —  his  ministry  thus 
covering  more  than  forty  years.  His 
salary  in  1771  was  paid  in  merchantable 
fish,  a  quintal  to  a  man,  when  there  were 
on  the  Shoals  from  ninety  to  one  hun- 
dred men,  and  a  quintal  of  fish  was 
worth  a  guinea.  His  grave  was  acci- 
dentally discovered  in  1800,  and  the 
Hon.  Dudley  Atkins  Tyng,  who  in- 
terested himself  most  charitably  and 
indefatigably  for  the  good  of  these  isl- 
ands, placed  over  it  a  slab  of  stone, 
with  an  inscription  which  still  remains 
to  tell  of  the  fine  qualities  of  the  man 
whose  dust  it  covers  ;  but  year  by  year 
the  rain-drops  with  delicate  touches 
wear  away  the  deeply  cut  letters,  for 
the  stone  lies  horizontal  :  even  now 
they  are  scarcely  legible,  and  soon 
the  words  of  praise  and  appreciation 
will  exist  only  in  the  memory  of  a  few 
of  the  older  inhabitants. 

At  the  time  of  Mr.  Tucke's  death, 
the  prosperity  of  the  Shoals  was  at  its 
height.  But  in  less  than  thirty  years 
after  his  death  a  most  woful  condition 
of  things  was  inaugurated. 

The    settlement    flourished    till   the 


i8 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[January, 


breaking  out  of  the  war,  when  it  was 
found  to  be  entirely  at  the  mercy  of 
the  English,  and  obliged  to  furnish 
them  with  recruits  and  supplies.  The 
inhabitants  were,  therefore,  ordered  by 
government  to  quit  the  islands;  and  as 
their  trade  was  probably  broken  up, 
and  their  property  exposed,  most  of 
them  complied  with  the  order,  and  set- 
tled in  the  neighboring  seaport  towns, 
where  their  descendants  may  be  found 
to  this  day.  Some  of  the  people  set- 
tled in  Salem,  and  the  Mr.  White,  so 
horribly  murdered  there  many  years 
ago,  was  born  at  Appledore.  Those 
who  remained,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
were  among  the  most  ignorant  and  de- 
graded of  the  people,  and  they  \vent 
rapidly  down  into  untold  depths  of 
misery.  "  They  burned  the  meeting- 
house, and  gave  themselves  up  to  quar- 
relling, profanity,  and  drunkenness,  till 
they  became  almost  barbarians  "  ;  or,  as 
Mr.  Morse  expresses  it,  "  were  given  up 
to  work  all  manner  of  wickedness  with 
greediness."  In  no  place  of  the  size 
has  there  been  a  greater  absorption  of 
"rum,"  since  the  world  was  made. 
Mr.  Reuben  Moody,  a  theological  stu- 
dent, lived  at  the  Shoals  for  a  few 
months  in  the  year  1822,  and  his  de- 
scription of  the  condition  of  things  at 
that  time  is  really  frightful.  He  had  no 
place  to  open  a  school  :  one  of  the 
islanders  provided  him  with  a  room, 
fire,  etc. ;  giving  as  a  reason  for  his 
enthusiastic  furtherance  of  Mr.  Moody's 
plans,  that  his  children  made  such  a 
disturbance  at  home  that  he  could  n't 
sleep  in  the  day-time  !  An  extract 
from  Mr.  Moody's  journal  affords  an 
idea  of  the  morals  of  the  inhabitants  at 
this  period  :  — 

'•  May  is/.  —  I  yet  continue  to  witness 
the  Heaven-daring  impieties  of  this  peo- 
ple. Yesterday  my  heart  was  shocked 
at  seeing  a  man  about  seventy  years  of 
age,  as  devoid  of  reason  as  a  maniac, 
giving  way  to  his  passions  ;  striving  to 
express  himself  in  more  blasphemous 
language  than  he  had  the  ability  to 
utter,  and  being  unable  to  express  the 
malice  of  his  heart  in  words,  he  would 
run  at  every  one  he  saw.  All  was  tu- 


mult and  confusion,  —  men  and  women 
with  tar-brushes,  clenched  fists,  and 
stones  ;  one  female  who  had  an  infant 
but  eight  clays  old,  with  a  stone  in  her 
hand  and  an  oath  on  her  tongue,  threat- 
ened to  clash  out  the  brains  of  her  an- 
tagonists  After  I  arrived  among 

them  some  of  them  dispersed,  some 
led  their  wives  into  the  house,  others 
drove  them  off,  and  a  calm  succeeded." 

In  another  part  of  the  journal  is  an 
account  of  an  old  man  who  lived  alone, 
and  drank  forty  gallons  of  rum  in  twelve 
months.  In  less  than  three  months 
six  hundred  gallons  were  consumed  by 
forty-seven  men.  This  statement  shows 
what  was  the  great  trouble  at  the 
Shoals  ;  and  though  time  has  modified, 
it  has  not  eliminated  the  apparently 
hereditary  bane  whose  antidote  is  not 
yet  discovered.  The  misuse  of  strong 
drink  still  proves  a  whirlpool  more  aw- 
ful than  the  worst  terrors  of  the  pitiless 
ocean  that  hems  the  islanders  in. 

As  may  be  seen  by  Mr.  Moody's 
journal,  the  clergy  had  a  hard  time  of 
it  among  the  heathen  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  ;  but  they  persevered,  and  many 
brave  women  at  different  times  have 
gone  among  the  people  to  teach  the 
school  and  reclaim  the  little  children 
from  wretchedness  and  ignorance. 
Miss  Peabody  of  Newburyport,  who 
came  to  live  with  them  in  1823,  did 
wonders  for  them  during  the  three 
\rnrs  of  her  stay.  She  taught  the 
school,  visited  the  families,  and  on 
Sundays  read  to  such  audiences  as  she 
could  collect,  took  seven  of  the  poorer 
female  children  to  live  with  her  at  the 
parsonage,  instructed  all  who  would 
learn  in  the  arts  of  carding,  spinning, 
weaving,  knitting,  sewing,  braiding 
mats,  etc.  Truly  she  remembered  what 
Satan  finds  for  "  idle  hands  to  do,"  and 
kept  all  her  charges  busy  and  conse- 
quently happy.  All  honor  to  her  mem- 
ory :  she  was  a  wise  and  faithful  ser- 
vant. There  is  still  an  affectionate  re- 
membrance of  her  among  the  present 
inhabitants  of  Star,  whose  mothers  she 
helped  out  of  their  degradation  into  a 
better  life.  I  saw  in  one  of  the  houses 
not  long  ago  a  sampler,  blackened  by 


8;o.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Skoals. 


age,  but  carefully  preserved  in  a  frame  ; 
and  was  told  that  the  dead  grandmother 
of  the  family  had  made  it  when  a  little 
girl,  under  Miss  Peabody's  supervision. 
In  1835,  tlie  Kcv-  (>rigen  Smith  went  to 
live  at  Star,  and  remained  perhaps  ten 
years,  doing  much  good  among  the 
people.  He  nearly  succeeded  in  ban- 
ishing the  great  demoralizer,  liquor, 
and  restored  law  and  order.  He  is 
reverently  remembered  by  the  island- 
ers. In  1855,  an  excellent  man  by  the 
name  of  Mason  occupied  the  post  of 
minister  for  the  islanders,  and  from  his 
report  to  the  "  Society  for  Propagating 
the  (iospel  among  the  Indians  and 
Others  in  North  America,"  I  make  a 
few  extracts.  He  says :  "  The  kind  of 
business  which  the  people  pursue  and 
by  which  they  subsist  affects  unfavor- 
ably their  habits,  physical,  social,  and 
religious.  Family  discipline  is  neglect- 
ed, domestic  arrangements  very  imper- 
fect, much  time  apparently  wasted  is 
spent  in  watching  for  favorable  indica- 
tions to  pursue  their  calling A 

bad  moral  influence  is  excited  by  a 
portion  of  the  transient  visitors  to  the 
Shoals  during  the  summer  months." 
This  is  very  true.  He  speaks  of  the 
people's  appreciation  of  the  efforts 
made  in  their  behalf;  and  says  that 
they  raised  subscriptions  among  them- 
selves for  lighting  the  parsonage,  and 
for  fuel  for  the  singing-school  (which,  by 
the  way,  was  a  most  excellent  institu- 
tion) and  mentions  their  surprising  him 
by  putting  into  the  back  kitchen  of  the 
parsonage  a  barrel  of  fine  flour,  a  buck- 
et of  sugar,  a  leg  of  bacon,  etc.  "  Their 
deep  poverty  abounded  unto  the  riches 
of  their  liberality,"  he  says  ;  and  this 
little  act  shows  that  they  were  far  from 
being  indifferent  or  ungrateful.  They 
were  really  attached  to  Mr.  Mason, 
and  it  is  a  pity  he  could  not  have  re- 
mained with  them. 

Within  the  last  few  years  they  have 
been  trying  bravely  to  help  themselves, 
and  they  persevere  with  their  annual 
fair  to  obtain  money  to  pay  the  teacher 
who  saves  their  little  children  from  ut- 
ter ignorance  ;  and  many  of  them  show 
a  growing  ambition  in  fitting  up  their 


houses  and  making  their  families  more 
comfortable.  Of  late,  continually  re- 
curring fires,  kindled  in  drunken  mad- 
the  islanders  themselves,  or  by 
the  reckless  few  who  have  joined  the 
settlement,  have  swept  away  nearly  all 
the  old  houses,  which  have  been  re- 
placed by  smart  new  buildings,  painted 
white,  with  green  blinds,  and  with  mod- 
ern improvements,  so  that  yearly  the 
village  grows  less  picturesque  ;  which 
is  a  charm  one  can  afford  to  lose,  when 
the  external  smartness  is  indicative  of 
better  living  among  the  people.  Twenty 
years  ago  Star  Island  Cove  was  charm- 
ing, with  its  tumble-down  fish-houses, 
and  ancient  cottages  with  low-shelving 
roofs,  and  porches  covered  with  the 
golden  lichen  that  so  loves  to  embroi- 
der old  weather-worn  wood.  Now  there 
is  not  a  vestige  of  those  dilapidated 
buildings  to  be  seen ;  almost  every- 
thing is  white  and  square  and  new ; 
and  they  have  even  cleaned  out  the 
cove  and  removed  the  great  accumula- 
tion of  fish-bones  which  made  the 
beach  so  curious. 

The  old  town  records  are  quaint 
and  interesting,  and  the  spelling  and 
modes  of  expression  so  peculiar  that  I 
have  copied  a  few.  Mr.  John  Much- 
amore  was  the  moderator  of  a  meet- 
ing called  "March  ye  7th  day,  1748. 
By  a  Legall  town  meeting  of  ye  Free 
holders  and  Inhabitence  of  gosport, 
dewly  quallefide  to  vote  for  Tiding  men 
Collers  of  fish,  Corders  of  wood.  Ad- 
dition to  ye  minister's  sallery  Mr  John 
Tucke,  100  Ibs  old  tenor." 

In  1755,  it  was  "  Agred  in  town  meat- 
ing  that  if  any  person  shall  spelth  [split] 
any  fish  above  hie  water  marck  and 
leave  their  heads  and  son  bones  [sound- 
bones]  their,  shall  pay  ten  Ibs  new  tenon 
to  the  town,  and  any  that  is  above  now 
their,  they  that  have  them  their,  shall 
have  them  below  hie  warter  in  fortinets 
time  or  pay  the  same."  In  another  place 
"  it  is  agreed  at  ton  meating  evry  per- 
son that  is  are  kow  [has  a  cow]  shall 
carry  them  of  at  15  clay  of  may,  keep 
them  their  til  the  15  day  of  October  or 
pay  20  shillings  lawful  money."  And 
'•  if  any  person  that  have  any  hogs.  If 


20 

they  do  any  damg,  horn  [whom]  they 
do  the  damg  to  shall  keep  the  hog  for 
sattisfaxcon." 

The  cows  seem  to  have  given  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  Here  is  one  more  ex- 
tract on  the  subject  :  — 

"This  is  a  Leagel  vot  by  the  ton 
meeting,  that  if  any  presson  or  pressons 
shall  leave  their  Cowks  out  after  the  fif- 
teenth day  of  May  and  they  do  any 
Dameg,  they  shall  be  taken  up  and  the 
owner  of  the  kow  shall  pay  teen  shil- 
lings old  tenor  to  the  kow  constabel 
and  one  half  he  shall  have  and  the  oth- 
er shall  give  to  the  pour  of  the  place. 

"MR  DAINEL  RANDEL 

onstabel." 


Among  the  Isles  of  Skoals. 


[January, 


"On  March  nth  1762.  A  genarel 
free  Voot  past  amongst  the  inhabents 
that  every  fall  of  the  year  when  Mr 
Revd-  John  Tucke  has  his  wood  to  Car- 
ry home  evary  men  will  not  com  that  is 
abel  to  com  shall  pay  forty  shillings 
ould  tenor." 

•    But  the  most  delightfully  preposter- 
ous entry  is  this  :  — 

"March  12th  1769.  A  genarel  free 
voot  past  amongst  the  inhabents  to  cus 
[cause]  tow  men  to  go  to  the  Revd  Mr 
John  Tucke  to  hear  wether  he  was  will- 
ing to  take  one  Quental  of  fish  each 
man,  or  to  take  the  price  of  Quental  in 
ould  tenor  which  he  answered  this  that 
he  thought  it  was  easer  to  pay  the  fish 
than  the  money  which  he  consented  to 
taik  the  fish  for  the  year  insuing." 

"  On  March  ye  25  1771.  "then  their 
was  a  mealing  called  and  it  was  gurned 
until  the  23"'  day  of  apirel. 

"  MR  DEEKEN  WILLAM  MUCHMORE 

"  Moderator." 

Among  the  "offorsers"  of  "Gos- 
«  pored"  were,  besides  "Moderator" 
and  "  Town  Clarke,"  "  Seelekt  meen," 
"  Counstauble,"  "  Tidon  meen  "  (Tith- 
ing-men)  •'  Coulears  offish,"  —  "  Cou- 
iear"  meaning,  I  suppose,  culler,  or 
person  appointed  to  select  fish,  —  and 
44  Sealers  of  Whood,"  oftener  expressed 
corders  of  wood. 

In  1845  we  read  that  Asa  Caswell 
was  chosen  highway  "  sovair." 

Very  ancient  tradition  says  that  the 


method  of  courtship  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  was  after  this  fashion :  —  If  a 
youth  fell  in  love  with  a  maid,  he  lay  in 
wait  till  she  passed  by,  and  then  pelted 
her  with  stones,  after  the  manner  of  our 
friends  of  Marblehead  ;  so  that  if  a  fair 
Shoaler  found  herself  the  centre  of  a 
volley  of  missiles,  she  might  be  sure 
that  an  ardent  admirer  was  expressing 
himself  with  decision  certainly,  if  not 
with  tact !  If  she  turned  and  exhibited 
any  curiosity  as  to  the  point  of  the 
compass  whence  the  bombardment  pro- 
ceeded, her  doubts  were  dispelled  by 
another  shower ;  but  if  she  went  on  hej- 
way  in  maiden  meditation,  then  was  her 
swain  in  despair,  and  life,  as  is  usual  in 
such  cases,  became  a  burden  to  him. 

Within  my  remembrance  an  occa- 
sional cabbage  -  party  made  an  agree- 
able variety  in  the  life  of  the  villagers. 
I  never  saw  one,  but  have  heard  them 
described.  Instead  of  regaling  the 
guests  with  wine  and  ices,  pork  and 
cabbage  were  the  principal  refresh- 
ments offered  them  ;  and  if  the  cabbage 
came  out  of  the  garden  of  a  neighbor, 
the  spice  of  wickedness  lent  zest  to  the 
entertainment, — stolen  fruit  being  al- 
ways the  sweetest. 

It  would  seem  strange  that,  while  they 
live  in  so  healthy  a  place,  where  the  at- 
mosphere is  absolutely  perfect  in  its 
purity,  they  should  have  suffered  so 
much  from  ill  health,  and  that  so  many 
should  have  died  of  consumption,  the 
very  disease  for  the  cure  of  which  phy- 
sicians send  invalids  hither.  The  rea- 
sons are  soon  told.  The  first  and  most 
important  is  this,  that,  as  nearly  as  they 
could,  they  have  in  past  years  hermeti- 
cally sealed  their  houses,  so  that  the 
air  of  heaven  should  not  penetrate  with- 
in. An  open  window,  especially  at  night, 
they  would  have  looked  upon  as  mad- 
ness, a  temptation  of  Providence  ;  and 
during  the  winter  they  have  deliber- 
ately poisoned  themselves  with  every 
breath,  like  two  thirds  of  the  rest  of  the 
world.  I  have  seen  a  little  room  con- 
taining a  whole  family,  fishing-boots 
and  all,  bed,  furniture,  cooking-stove 
in  full  blast,  and  an  oil  lamp  with  a 
wick  so  high  that  the  deadly  smoke 


1 870.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


21 


rose  steadily,  filling  the  air  with  what 
Browning  might  call  "  filthiest  gloom," 
and  mingling  with  the  incense  of  an- 
cient tobacco-pipes  smoked  by  both 
sexes  (for  nearly  all  the  old  women 
used  to  smoke) ;  every  crack  and  cranny 
was  stopped,  and  if  by  any  chance  the 
door  opened  for  an  instant,  out  rushed 
a  fume  in  comparison  with  which  the 
gusts  from  the  lake  of  Tartarus  might 
be  imagined  sweet.  Shut  in  that  dead- 
ly air  a  part  of  the  family  slept,  some- 
times all.  What  wonder  that  their 
chests  were  hollow,  their  faces  haggard, 
and  that  apathy  settled  upon  them  ! 
Then  their  food  was  hardly  selected 
with  reference  to  health,  saleratus  and 
pork  forming  two  of  the  principal  in- 
gredients in  their  daily  fare.  Within  a 
few  years  past  they  have  probably  im- 
proved in  these  respects.  Fifteen 
years  ago  I  was  passing  a  window  one 
morning,  at  which  a  little  child  two 
years  old  was  sitting,  tied  into  a  high 
chair  before  a  table  drawn  close  to  the 
window,  gating  his  breakfast  alone  in 
his  glory.  In  his  stout  little  fist  he 
grasped  a  large  iron  spoon,  and  fed  him- 
self from  a  plate  of  beans  swimming  in 
fat,  and  with  the  pork  cut  up  in  squares 
for  his  better  convenience.  By  the  side 
of  the  plate  stood  a  tin  mug  of  bitter- 
strong  black  coffee  sweetened  with  mo- 
lasses. I  spoke  to  his  mother  within  ; 
"  Arn't  you  afraid  such  strong  coffee 
will  kill  your  baby  ?  "  "  O  no,"  she  an- 
swered, and  held  it  to  his  lips  :  "there, 
drink  that,"  she  said,  "  that  '11  make 
you  hold  your  head  up ! "  The  poor 
child  died  before  he  grew  to  be  a  man, 
and  all  the  family  have  fallen  victims  to 
consumption. 

Very  few  of  the  old  people  are  left 
at  the  present  time,  and  the  village  is 
very  like  other  fishing-villages  along  the 
coast.  Most  of  the  peculiar  character- 
istics of  the  race  are  lost  in  the  present 
generation  of  young  women,  who  are 
addicted  to  the  use  of  hoops  and  water- 
falls, and  young  men,  who  condescend 
to  spoil  their  good  looks  by  dyeing  their 
handsome  blond  beards  with  the  fash- 
ionable mixture  which  inevitably  pro- 
duces a  lustre  like  stove-blacking.  But 


there  are  sensible  fellows  among  them, 
fine  specimens  of  the  hardy  New  Eng- 
land fisherman,  Saxon-bearded,  broad- 
shouldered,  deep-chested,  and  bronzed 
with  shade  on  shade  of  ruddy  brown. 
The  neutral  blues  and  grays  of  the  salt- 
water make  perfect  backgrounds  for 
the  pictures  these  men  are  continually 
showing  one  in  their  life  about  the 
boats.  Nothing  can  be  more  satisfac- 
tory than  the  blendings  and  contrasts 
of  color  and  the  picturesque  effect  of 
the  general  aspect  of  the  natives  in 
their  element.  The  eye  is  often  struck 
with  the  richness  of  the  color  of  some 
rough  hand,  glowing  with  blended  red, 
brown,  and  orange,  against  the  gray 
blue  water,  as  it  grasps  an  oar  perhaps, 
or  pulls  in  a  rope.  It  is  strange  that 
the  sun  and  wind,  which  give  such  fine 
tints  to  the  complexions  of  the  lords 
of  creation,  should  leave  such  hideous 
traces  on  the  faces  of  women.  When 
they  are  exposed  to  the  same  salt  wind 
and  clear  sunshine  they  take  the  hue  of 
dried  fish,  and  become  objects  for  men 
and  angels  to  weep  over.  To  see  a 
bona-fide  Shoaler  "  sail  a  boat "  (when 
the  craft  is  a  real  boat  and  no  tub)  is 
an  experience.  The  vessel  obeys  his 
hand  at  the  rudder  as  a  trained  horse 
a  touch  on  the  rein,  and  seems  to  bow 
at  the  flash  of  his  eye,  turning  on  her 
heel  and  running  up  into  the  wind, 
"  luffing  "  to  lean  again  on  the  other 
tack,  obedient,  graceful,  perfectly  beau- 
tiful, yielding  to  breeze  and  to  billow, 
yet  swayed  throughout  by  a  stronger 
and  more  imperative  law.  The  men  be- 
come strongly  attached  to  their  boats, 
which  seem  to  have  a  sort  of  human 
interest  for  them,  —  and  no  wonder. 
They  lead  a  life  of  the  greatest  hard- 
ship and  exposure,  during  the  winter 
especially,  setting  their  trawls  fifteen 
or  twenty  miles  to  the  eastward  of  the 
islands,  drawing  them  next  day  if  the 
stormy  winds  and  waves  will  permit, 
and  taking  the  fish  to  Portsmouth  to 
sell.  It  is  desperately  hard  work,  trawl- 
ing at  this  season,  with  the  bitter  wind 
blowing  in  their  teeth,  and  the  flying 
spray  freezing  upon  everything  it  touch- 
es,—  boats,  masts,  sails,  decks,  clothes, 


22 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[January, 


completely  cased  in  ice,  and  fish  frozen 
solid  as  soon  as  taken  from  the  water. 
The  inborn  politeness  of  these  fisher- 
men to  stranger- women  is  something 
delightful  to  witness.  I  remember 
once  landing  in  Portsmouth,  and  being 
obliged  to  cross  three  or  four  schooners 
just  in  (with  their  freight  of  frozen  fish 
lying  open-mouthed  in  a  solid  mass  on 
deck)  to  reach  the  wharf.  No  courtly 
gentlemen  could  have  displayed  more 
beautiful  behavior  than  did  these  rough 
fellows,  all  pressing  forward,  with  real 
grace,  because  the  feeling  which 
prompted  them  was  a  true  and  lofty 
feeling,  to  help  me  over  the  tangle  of 
ropes  and  sails  and  anchors  to  a  safe 
footing  on  shore.  There  is  a  ledge 
forty-five  miles  east  of  the  islands, 
called  Jeffrey's  Ledge,  where  the 
Shoalers  go  for  spring  fishing.  Dur- 
ing a  northeast  storm  in  May,  part  of 
the  little  fleet  came  reeling  in  before 
the  gale  ;  and,  not  daring  to  trust  them- 
selves' to  beat  up  into  the  harbor  (a 
poor  shelter  at  best),  round  the  rocky 
reefs  and  ledges,  the  fishermen  an- 
chored under  the  lee  of  Appledore,  and 
there  rode  out  the  storm.  They  were 
in  continual  peril ;  for,  had  their  cables 
chafed  apart  with  the  shock  and  strain 
of  the  billows  among  which  they 
plunged,  or  had  their  anchors  dragged, 
which  might  have  been  expected  (the 
bottom  of  the  sea  between  the  islands 
and  the  mainland  being  composed  of 
mud,  while  all  outside  is  rough  and 
rocky),  they  would  have  inevitably  been 
driven  to  their  destruction  on  the  oppo- 
site coast.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  watch 
them  as  the  early  twilight  shut  down 
over  the  vast  weltering  desolation  of 
the  sea,  to  see  the  slender  masts  waving 
helplessly  from  one  side  to  another,  — 
sometimes  almost  horizontal,  as  the 
hulls  turned  heavily  this  way  and  that, 
and  the  long  breakers  rolled  in  endless 
succession  against  them.  They  saw  the 
lights  in  our  windows  a  half-mile  away  ; 
and  we  in  the  warm,  bright,  quiet  room, 
sitting  by  a  fire  that  danced  and  shone, 
fed  with  bits  of  wreck  such  as  they  might 
scatter  on  Rye  Beach  before  morning, 
could  hardly  think  of  anything  else  than 


the  misery  of  those  poor  fellows,  wet, 
cold,  hungry,  sleepless,  full  of  anxiety 
till  the  morning  should  break  and  the 
wind  should  lull.  No  boat  could  reach 
them  through  the  terrible  commotion 
of  waves.  But  they  rode  through  the 
night  in  safety,  and  the  morning 
brought  relief.  One  brave  little  schoon- 
er "toughed  it  out"  on  the  distant 
ledge,  and  her  captain  told  me  that  no 
one  could  stand  on  board  of  her,  the 
pressure  of  the  wind  down  on  her 
decks  was  so  great  that  she  shuddered 
from  stem  to  stern,  and  he  feared  she 
would  shake  to  pieces,  for  she  was  old 
and  not  very  seaworthy.  Some  of  the 
men  had  wives  and  children  watching 
them  from  lighted  windows  at  Star. 
What  a  fearful  night  for  them  !  They 
could  not  tell  from  hour  to  hour,  through 
the  thick  darkness,  if  yet  the  cables 
held  ;  they  could  not  see  till  daybreak 
whether  the  sea  had  swallowed  up  their 
treasures.  I  wonder  the  wives  were 
not  white-haired  when  the  sun  rose 
and  showed  them  those  little  specks 
yet  rolling  in  the  breakers  !  The  wo- 
men are  excessively  timid  about  the 
water,  more  so  than  landswomen. 
Having  the  terror  and  might  of  the 
ocean  continually  encircling  them,  they 
become  more  impressed  with  it  and 
distrust  it,  knowing  it  so  well.  Very 
few  accidents  happen,  however  :  the 
islanders  are  a  cautious  people.  Years 
ago,  when  the  white  sails  of  their  little 
fleet  of  whale-boats  used  to  flutter  out  of 
the  sheltered  bight  and  stand  out  to  the 
fishing-grounds  in  the  bay,  how  many 
eyes  followed  them  in  the  early  light  and 
watched  them  in  the  distance  through 
the  clay,  till  toward  sunset  they  spread 
their  wings  to  fly  back  with  the  evening 
wind  !  How  pathetic  the  gathering  of 
women  on  the  headlands,  when  out  of 
the  sky  swept  the  squall  that  sent  the 
small  boats  staggering  before  it,  and 
blinded  the  eyes  already  drowned  in 
tears,  with  the  sudden  rain  that  hid  sky 
and  sea  and  boats  from  their  eager  gaze  ! 
What  wringing  of  hands,  what  despair- 
ing cries  which  the  wild  wind  bore  away 
while  it  caught  and  fluttered  the  home- 
ly draperies  and  unfastened  the  locks 


.£r  the  hies  of  S/wals. 


of  maid  and  mother,  to  blow  them  about 
their  pale  faces  and  anxious  eyes  !  .\  ow 
no  longer  the  little  tied  -ues  forth,  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  islanders  have 
stout  schooners,  and  go  trawling  with 
profit  if  not  with  pleasure.  A  few  soli- 
taries fish  in  small  dories,  and  earn 
a  slender  livelihood  thereby.  The  sea 
has  helped  these  poor  people,  by  bring- 
ing fuel  to  their  very  doors  :  the  waves 
continually  deposit  driftwood  in  every 
cove  and  fissure  of  the  rocks.  But 
sad,  anxious  lives  they  have  led,  espe- 
cially the  women,  many  of  whom  have 
grown  old  before  their  time  with  hard 
work  and  bitter  cares. 

The  local  pronunciation  of  the  Shoal- 
ers  is  very  peculiar,  and  a  shrewd  sense 
of  humor  is  one  of  their  leading  char- 
acteristics. Could  De  Ouinccy  have 
lived  among  them,  I  think  he  might 
have  been  tempted  to  write  an  essay 
on  swearing  as  a  fine  art,  for  it  has 
reached  a  pitch  hardly  short  of  sublim- 
ity in  this  favored  spot.  They  seemed 
to  have  had  a  genius  for  it,  and  some  of 
them  really  devoted  their  best  powers 
to  its  cultivation.  The  language  was 
taxed  to  furnish  them  with  prodigious 
forms  of  speech  wherewith  to  express 
the  slightest  emotion  of  pain,  anger, 
pleasure,  or  amusement  ;  and  though 
the  blood  of  the  listener  was  sometimes 
chilled  in  his  veins,  overhearing  their 
unhesitating  profanity,  the  prevailing 
sentiment  was  likely  to  be  one  of  ama/e- 
ment  mingled  with  intense  amusement, 
—  the  whole  thing  was  so  grotesque 
and  monstrous,  and  their  choice  and 
arrangement  of  words  so  comical,  and 
generally  so  very  much  to  the  point. 
The  real  Shoals  phraseology  existing 
in  past  years  was  something  not  to  be 
described  ;  it  is  impossible  by  any  pro- 
cess known  to  science  to  convey  an 
idea  of  the  intonations  of  their  speech, 
quite  different  from  Yankee  drawl  or 
sailor-talk,  perfectly  unique  in 
Why  they  should  have  called  a  swallow 
a  "swallick,"  and  a  .sparrow  a 
rick,"  I  never  could  understand.  Any- 
;hat  ends  in  y  or  c  they  still 
pronounce  ay,  with  great  breadth  :  for 
instance,  "  Benny  "  is  Bennaye;  "  Billy," 


Billayc ;  and  so  on.  A  man  by  the 
name  <  tlie  modern  "  mission- 

ary." was  always  spoken  of  as  Beebay, 
when  he  was  n't  called  by  a  less  respect- 
ful title.  Their  sense  of  fun  showed  it- 
self in  the  nicknames  with  which  they 
designated  any  person  possessing  the 
slightest  peculiarity.  For  instance, 
twenty  years  ago  a  minister  of  the 
Methodist  persuasion  came  to  live 
among  them  ;  his  wife  was  unreason- 
ably tall  and  thin.  With  the  utmost 
promptitude  and  decision  the  irrever- 
ent christened  her  •'  Legs,"  and  never 
spoke  of  her  by  any  other  name. 
4<Laigs  has  gone  to  Portsmouth,"  or 
"  Laigs  has  got  a  new  gown,"  etc.  !  A 
spinster  of  very  dark  complexion  was 
called  "  Scip,"  an  abbreviation  of  Scipio, 
a  name  supposed  to  appertain  particu- 
larly to  the  colored  race.  Another  was 
called  "  Squint,"  because  of  a  defect  in 
the  power  of  vision  ;  and  not  only  were 
they  spoken  of  by  these  names,  but  called 
so  to  their  faces  habitually.  One  man 
earned  for  himself  the  title  of"  Brag,"  so 
that  no  one  ever  thought  of  calling  him 
by  his  real  name.  His  wife  was  Mrs. 
Brag  ;  and  constant  use  so  robbed  these 
names  of  their  offensiveness,  that  the 
bearers  not  only  heard  them  with  equa- 
nimity, but  would  hardly  have  known 
themselves  by  their  true  ones.  One  man 
was  called  "  King"  ;  one  of  two  broth- 
ers "  Bunker,"  and  the  other  "  Shot- 
head";  an  ancient  scold  was  called 
"  Zeke,"  a  flabby  old  woman  "  Flut,"  and 
so  on  indefinitely.  Grandparents  are 
addressed  as  Grans,  and  Gwammaye, 
Grans  being  an  abbreviation  of  grand- 
sire.  "  Tell  yer  grans  his  dinner 's 
ready,"  calls  some  woman  from  a  cot- 
tage door.  A  woman,  describing  how 
ill  her  house  was  put  together,  said : 
"Lor,  'twa'  n't  never  built,  'twas  only 
hove  together."  "  I  don'  know  whe'r 
or  no  it 's  best  or  no  to  go  fishing  whiles 
mornin',"  says  some  rough  fellow,  med- 
itatirtg  upon  the  state  of  winds  and  wa- 
ters. Of  his  boat  another  says,  '•  She 
strikes  a  sea  and  comes  down  like  a 
pillow,"  describing  her  smooth  sailing. 
Some  one  relating  the  way  the  civil 
authorities  used  to  take  political  mat- 


Among  tJie  Isles  of  Skoals. 


[January, 


ters  into  their  own  hands,  said  that  "  if 
a  man  did  n't  vote  as  they  wanted  him 
to,  they  took  him  and  hove  him  up 
agin  the  meetin'-'us,"  by  way  of  bring- 
ing him  to  his  senses.  Two  boys  in 
bitter  contention  have  been  known  to 
call  each  other  "  Nasty-faced  chowder- 
heads  ! "  With  pride  a  man  calls  his 
boat  a  "pretty  piece  of  wood,"  and  to 
test  the  sailing -capacities  of  their 
schooners  I  have  been  told  that  they 
used  to  have  a  method  peculiar  if  not 
unique.  Trying  a  vessel  in  a  heavy 
sea,  they  melted  a  quantity  of  lard  in  a 
frying-pa*n  on  the  tiny  stove  in  the  cab- 
in, and  if,  in  the  plunging  of  her  stormy 
course,  the  fat  was  "  hove  "  out  of  the 
frying-pan  and  the  pan  remained  on  the 
stove,  she  was  considered  to  be  a  first- 
rate  sailor.  "  Does  she  heave  the  fat  ? " 
anxiously  inquires  the  man  at  the  helm 
of  the  watchers  at  the  frying-pan  below ; 
and  if  the  answer  is  in  the  affirmative, 
great  is  the  rejoicing,  and  the  character 
of  the  craft  is  established. 

Nearly  all  the  Shoalers  have  a  singu- 
lar gait,  contracted  from  the  effort  to 
keep  their  equilibrium  while  standing 
in  boats,  and  from  the  unavoidable 
gymnastics  which  any  attempt  at  loco- 
motion among  the  rocks  renders  neces- 
sary. Some  stiff-jointed  old  men  have 
been  known  to  leap  wildly  from  broad 
stone  to  stone  on  the  smooth,  flat  pave- 
ments of  Portsmouth  town,  finding  it 
out  of  the  question  to  walk  evenly  and 
decorously  along  the  straight  and  easy 
way.  This  is  no  fable.  Such  is  the 
force  of  habit.  Most  of  the  men  are 
more  or  less  round-shouldered,  and  sel- 
dom row  upright,  with  head  erect  and 
shoulders  thrown  back.  They  stoop  so 
much  over  the  fish-tables,  —  cleaning, 
splitting,  salting,  packing,  —  that  they 
acquire  a  permanent  habit  of  stoop- 
ing. 

Twenty  years  ago,  an  old  man  by  the 
name  of  Peter  was  alive  on  Star  Isl- 
and. He  was  said  to  be  a  hundred 
years  old  ;  and  anything  more  grisly  in 
the  shape  of  humanity  it  has  never 
been  my  lot  to  behold.  So  lean  and 
brown  and  ancient,  he  might  have  been 
Methuselah,  for  no  one  knew  how  long 


he  had  lived  on  this  rolling  planet. 
Years  before  he  died  he  used  to  paddle 
across  to  our  light-house,  in  placid  sum- 
mer days,  and,  scanning  him  with  a 
child's  curiosity,  I  used  to  wonder  how- 
he  kept  alive.  A  few  white  hairs  clung 
to  his  yellow  crown,  and  his  pale  eyes, 
"where  the  very  blue  had  turned  to 
white,"  looked  vacantly  and  wearily 
out,  as  if  trying  faintly  to  see  the  end 
of  the  things  of  this  world.  Somebody, 
probably  old  Nabbaye,  in  whose  cot- 
tage he  lived,  always  scoured  him  with 
soft  soap  before  he  started  on  his  voy- 
age, and  in  consequence  a  most  pre- 
ternatural shine  overspread  his  blank 
forehead.  His  under  jaw  had  a  disa- 
greeably suggestive  habit  of  dropping, 
he  was  so  feeble  and  so  old,  poor 
wretch  !  Yet  would  he  brighten  with  a 
faint  attempt  at  a  smile  when  bread 
and  meat  were  put  into  his  hands,  and 
say,  over  and  over  again,  "  Ye  're  a 
Christian,  ma'am,  thank  ye,  ma'am, 
thank  ye,"  thrust  all  that  was  given 
him,  no  matter  what,  between  his  one 
upper  garment  —  a  checked  shirt  —  and 
his  bare  skin,  and  then,  by  way  of  ex- 
pressing his  gratitude,  would  strike  up 
a  dolorous  quaver  of  — 

"  Over  the  water  and  over  the  lea 
And  over  the  water  to  Charlie," 

in'  a  voice  as  querulous  as  a  Scotch- 
bagpipe. 

Old  Nabbaye,  and  Bennaye,  her  hus- 
band, with  whom  Peter  lived,  were  a 
queer  old  couple.  Nabbaye  had  a 
stubbly  and  unequal  growth  of  sparse 
gray  hair  upon  her  chin,  which  gave 
her  a  most  grim  and  terrible  aspect,  as 
I  remember  her,  with  the  grizzled  locks 
standing  out  about  her  head  like  one  of 
the  Furies.  Yet  she  was  a  good  enough 
old  woman,  kind  to  Peter  and  Bennaye, 
and  kept  her  bit  of  a  cottage  tidy  as 
might  be.  I  well  remember  the  grit  of 
the  shining  sand  on  her  scoured  floor 
beneath  my  childish  footsteps.  The 
family  climbed  at  night  by  a  ladder  up 
into  a  loft,  which  their  little  flock  of 
fowls  shared  with  them,  to  sleep.  Go- 
ing by  the  house  one  evening,  some  one 
heard  Nabbaye  call  aloud  to  Bennaye  up 
aloft,  "  Come,  Bennaye,  fetch  me  down 


8;o.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


them  heens'  aigs  ! "  To  which  Ben- 
naye  made  answer,  "  I  can't  find  no 
aigs  !  I  've  looked  een  the  bed  and 
een  under  the  bed,  and  I  can't  find  no 
aigs  ! » 

Till  Bennaye  grew  very  feeble,  every 
summer  night  he  paddled  abroad  in  his 
dory  to  fish  for  hake,  and  lonely  he 
looked,  tossing  among  the  waves,  when 
our  boat  bore  down  and  passed  him 
with  a  hail  which  he  faintly  returned, 
as  we  plunged  lightly  through  the  track 
of , the  moonlight,  young  and  happy,  re- 
joicing in  the  beauty  of  the  night,  while 
poor  Bennaye  only  counted  his  gains 
in  the  grisly  hake  he  caught,  nor  con- 
sidered the  rubies  the  light-house  scat- 
tered on  the  waves,  or  how  the  moon 
sprinkled  down  silver  before  him.  He 
did  not  mind  the  touch  of  the  balmy 
wind  that  blew  across  his  weather-beat- 
en face  with  the  same  sweet  greeting 
that  so  gladdened  us,  but  fished  and 
fished,  watching  his  line  through  the 
short  summer  night,  and,  when  a  blush 
of  dawn  stole  up  in  the  east  among  the 
stars,  wound  up  his  tackle,  took  his 
oars,  and  paddled  home  to  Nabbaye 
with  his  booty,  —  his  "fare  of  fish"  as 
the  natives  have  it.  Hake-fishing  after 
this  picturesque  and  tedious  fashion  is 
done  away  with  now  ;  the  islands  are 
girdled  with  trawls,  which  catch  more 
fish  in  one  night  than  could  be  ob- 
tained in  a  week's  hard  labor  by 
hand. 

When  the  dust  of  Bennaye  and  Nab- 
baye was  mingled  in  the  thin  earth 
that  scarce  can  cover  the  multitude  of 
the  dead  on  Star  Island,  a  youthful  cou- 
ple, in  whom  I  took  great  interest,  oc- 
cupied their  little  house.  The  woman 
was  remarkably  handsome,  with  a  beau- 
tiful head  and  masses  of  rich  black 
hair,  a  face  regular  as  the  face  of  a 
Greek  statue,  with  eyes  that  sparkled 
and  cheeks  that  glowed,  —  a  beauty  she 
soon  exchanged  for  haggard  and  hol- 
low looks.  As  their  children  were 
born  they  asked  my  advice  on  the 
christening  of  each,  and,  being  youth- 
ful and  romantic,  I  suggested  Frederick 
as  a  sounding  title  for  the  first-born 
boy.  Taylor  being  the  reigning  Presi- 


dent, his  name  was  instantly  added, 
and  the  child  was  always  addressed  by 
his  whole  name.  Going  by  the  house 
one  day,  my  ears  were  assailed  by  a 
sharp  outcry :  "  Frederick  Taylor,  if 
you  don't  come  into  the  house  thjs 
minute,  I  '11  slat  your  head  off !  'I  The 
tender  mother  borrowed  her  expres- 
sion from  the  fishermen,  who  disen- 
gage mackerel  and  other  delicate- 
gilled  fish  by  "  slatting "  them  off  the 
hook. 

All  this  family  have  gone,  and  the 
house  in  which  they  lived  has  fallen  to 
ruin  ;  only  the  cellar  remains,  just 
such  a  rude  hollow  as  those  scattered 
over  Appledore. 

The  people  along  the  coast  rather 
look  down  upon  the  Shoalers  as  being 
beyond  the  bounds  of  civilization.  A 
young  islander  was  expressing  his 
opinion  on  some  matter  to  a  native  of 
Rye,  who  answered  him  with  great 
scorn  :  "  You  don't  know  nothin'  about 
it !  What  do  you  know  ?  You  never 
see  an  apple-tree  all  blowed  out !  "  A 
Shoaler,  walking  with  some  friends 
along  a  road  in  Rye,  excited  inex- 
tinguishable laughter  by  clutching  his 
companion's  sleeve  as  a  toad  hopped 
innocently  across  the  way,  and  crying : 
"  Mr.  Berraye,  what  kind  of  a  bug  do 
you  call  that  ?  D — d  if  I  ever  see 
such  a  bug  as  that,  Mr.  Berraye  ! "  in 
a  comical  terror.  There  are  neither 
frogs  nor  toads  at  the  Shoals.  "Set 
right  down  and  help  yourselves,"  said 
an  old  fellow  at  whose  door  some 
guests  from  the  Shoals  appeared  at 
dinner-time.  "  Eat  all  you  can.  I 
ain't  got  no  manners  ;  the  girl 's  got 
the  manners,  and  she  ain't  to  hum." 

One  old  Shoaler,  long  since  gone  to 
another  world,  was  a  laughable  and  cu- 
rious character.  A  man  more  wonder- 
fully fulfilling  the  word  "  homely "  in 
the  Yankee  sense,  I  never  saw.  He 
had  the  largest,  most  misshapen  cheek- 
bones ever  constructed,  an  illimitable 
upper  lip,  teeth  that  should  not  be  men- 
tioned, and  little  watery  eyes.  Skin 
and  hair  and  eyes  and  mouth  were  of 
the  same  pasty  yellow,  and  that  gro- 
tesque head  was  set  on  a  little  thin 


26 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[January, 


and  shambling  body.  He  used  to  be 
head  singer  at  the  church,  and  "  pitched 
the  tune  "  by  whistling  when  the  parson 
had  read  the  hymn.  Then  all  who  could 
joined  in  the  singing,  which  must  have 
b^n  remarkable,  to  say  the  least.  So 
great  a -power  of  brag  is  seldom  found 
in  one  human  being  as  that  which  per- 
meated him  from  top  to  toe,  and  found 
vent  in  stories  of  personal  prowess 
and  bravery  unexampled  in  history. 
He  used  to  tell  a  story  of  his  encoun- 
ter with  thirteen  "  Spanish  grandeers  " 
in  New  Orleans,  he  having  been  a 
sailor  a  great  part  of  his  life  :  He  was 
innocently  peering  into  a  theatre,  when 
the  grandeers  fell  upon  him  out  of  the 
exceeding  pride  of  their  hearts.  "  Wall, 
sir,  I  turned,  and  I  laid  six  o'  them 
grandeers  to  the  right  and  seven  to  the 
left,  and  then  I  put  her  for  the  old  brig, 
and  I  heerd  no  more  on  'em  ! " 

He  considered  himself  unequalled 
as  a  musician,  and  would  sing  you 
ballad  after  ballad,  sitting  bent  forward 
with  his  arms  on  his  knees,  and  his 
wrinkled  eyelids  screwed  tight  together, 
grinding  out  the  tune  with  a  quiet 
steadiness  of  purpose  that  seemed  to 
betoken  no  end  to  his  capacities.  Bal- 
lads of  love  and  of  war  he  sang,  —  the 
exploits  of  "Brave  Wolf,"  or,  as  he 
pronounced  it,  "Brahn  Wolf,"  and  one 
famous  song  of  a  naval  battle,  of  which 
only  two  lines  remain  in  my  memory :  — 

"  With  sixteen  brass  nineteens  the  Lion  did  prowl, 
With  nineteen  brass  twenties  the  Tiger  did  howl." 

At  the  close  of  each  verse  he  invaria- 
bly dropped  his  voice,  and  said,  instead 
of  sung,  the  last  word,  which  had  a 
most  abrupt  and  surprising  effect,  to 
which  a  listener  never  could  become 
accustomed.  The  immortal  ballad  of 
Lord  Bateman  he  had  remodelled  with 
beautiful  variations  of  his  own.  The 
name  of  the  coy  maiden,  the  Turk's 
only  daughter,  Sophia,  was  Susan  Fry- 
an,  according  to  his  version,  and  Lord 
Bateman  was  metamorphosed  into  Lord 
Bakum.  When  Susan  Fryan  crosses 
the  sea  to  Lord  Bakum's  castle  and 
knocks  so  loud  that  the  gates  do  ring, 
he  makes  the  bold  young  porter,  who 
was  so  ready  for  to  let  her  in,  go  to  his 


master,  who  sits  feasting  with  a  new 
bride,  and  say  :  — 

"  Seven  long  years  have  I  tended  your  gate,  sir, 

Seven  long  years  out  of  twenty-three, 

But  so  fair  a  creetur  as  now  stands  waitin' 

Never  before  with  my  eyes  did  see. 

"  O,  she  has  rings  on  every  finger, 

And  round  her  middle  if  she  's  one  she  has  three  ; 
O,  I  'm  sure  she 's  got  more  good  gold  about  her 
Than  would  buy  your  bride  and  her  companie  !  " 

The  enjoyment  with  whicn  he  gave  this 
song  was  delightful  to  witness.  Of  the 
many  he  used  to  sing,  one  was  a  doleful 
story  of  how  a  youth  of  high  degree  fell 
in  love  with  his  mother's  fair  waiting- 
woman,  Betsy,  who  was  in  consequence 
immediately  transported  to  foreign 
lands.  But  alas  for  her  lover,  — 

"  Then  he  fell  sick  and  like  to  have  died  ; 
His  mother  round  his  sick-bed  cried, 
But  all  her  crying  it  was  in  vain, 
For  Betsy  was  a-ploughing  the  raging  main  !  " 

The  word  "  main  "  was  brought  out  with 
startling  effect.  Another  song  about  a 
miller  and  his  sons  I  only  half  remem- 
ber:— 

"  The  miller  he  called  his  oldest  son, 
Saying,  '  Now  my  glass  it  is  almost  run, 
If  I  to  you  th<*  mill  relate, 
What  toll  do  you  resign  to  take  ?  ' 

"  The  son  replied  :  '  My  name  is  Jack, 
And  out  of  a  bushel  I  '11  take  a  peck.' 
'Go,  go,  you  fool,'  the  old  man  cried, 
And  called  the  next  t»>  his  bedside. 

"  The  second  said  :  '  My  name  is  Ralph, 
And  out  of  a  bushel  I  '11  take  a  half.' 
'  Go,  go,  you  fool,'  the  old  man  cried, 
And  called  the  next  to  his  bedside. 

"  The  youngest  said  :  '  My  name  is  Paul, 
And  out  of  a  bushel  I  '11  take  it  all  !  " 
'  You  are  my  son,'  the  old  man  cried, 
And  shot  up  his  eyes  and  died  in  peace." 

The  manner  in  which  this  last  verse 
was  delivered  was  inimitable,  the  "died 
in  peace  "  being  spoken  with  great  sat- 
isfaction. The  singer  had  an  ancient 
violin,  which  he  used  to  hug  under  his 
wizened  chin,  and  from  which  he  drew 
such  dismal  tones  as  never  before  were 
heard  on  sea  or  land.  He  had  no  more 
idea  of  playing  than  one  of  the  codfish 
he  daily  split  and  salted,  yet  he  chris- 
tened with  pride  all  the  shrieks  and 
wails  he  drew  out  of  the  wretched  in- 
strument with  various  high-sounding 
titles.  After  he  had  entertained  his 


1 870.] 


Among'  iJic  hies  of  SJtoals. 


audience  for  a  while  with  these  aim- 
less sounds  he  was  wont  to  say,  '•  Wall, 
now  I  '11  give  yer  Prince  Esterhazy's 
.March,''  and  forthwith  began  again  pre- 
cisely the  same  intolerable  squeak. 

After  he  died,  other  stars  in  the  musi- 
cal world  appeared  in  the  horizon,  but 
none  equalled  him.  They  all  seemed 
to  think  it  necessary  to  shut  their  eyes 
and  squirm  like  nothing  human  during 
the  process  of  singing  a  song,  and  they 
"  pitched  the  tune  "  so  high  that  no  hu- 
man voice  ever  could  hope  to  reach  it 
in  safety.  "Tew  high,  Bill,  tew  high," 
one  would  say  to  the  singer,  with  slow 
solemnity;  so  Bill  tried  again.  "Tew 
high  agin,  Bill,  tew  high."  "  Wull, you 
strike  it,  Obed,"  Bill  would  say  in  de- 
spair ;  and  Obed  would  "  strike,"  and 
hit  exactly  the  same  impossible  altitude, 
whereat  Bill  would  slap  his  knee  and 
cry  in  glad  surprise,  "  D — d  if  he  ain't 
got  it  !  "  and  forthwith  catch  Obed  and 
launch  on  his  perilous  flight,  and  grow 
red  in  the  face  with  the  mighty  effort  of 
getting  up  there  and  remaining  there 
through  the  intricacies  and  variations 
of  the  melody.  One  could  but  wonder 
whence  these  queer  tunes  came,  how 
they  were  created  ;  some  of  them  re- 
minded one  of  the  creaking  and  groan- 
ing of  windlasses  and  masts,  the  rat- 
tling of  rowlocks,  the  whistling  of  winds 
among  cordage,  yet  with  less  of  music 
in  them  than  these  natural  sounds.  The 
songs  of  the  sailors  heaving  up  the  an- 
chor are  really  beautiful  often,  the  wild 
chant  that  rises  sometimes  into  a  grand 
chorus,  all  the  strjong  voices  borne  out 
on  the  wind  in  the  cry  of 

"  Yo  bo,  the  roaring  river  !" 

But  these  Shoals  performances  are  lack- 
ing in  any  charm,  cxcent  that  of  the 
broadest  fun. 

The  process  of  dunning,  which  made 
the  Shoals  fish  so  famous  a  century  ago, 
is  almost  a  lost  art,  though  the  chief 
fisherman  at  Star  still  "duns"  a  few 
yearly.  A  real  dunfish  is  handsome, 
cut  in  cleat  transparent  strips,  the  color 
of  brown  sherry  wine.  The  process  is 
a  tedious  one  :  the  fish  are  piled  in  the 
storehouse  and  undergo  a  period -of 


"  sweating  "  after  the  first  drying,  then 
are  carried  out  into  sun  and  wind,  dried 
again  slightly,  and  again  piled  in  the 
warehouse,  and  so  on  till  the  process  is 
complete.  Drying  fish  in  the  common 
fashion  is  more  difficult  than  might  be 
imagined  :  it  is  necessary  to  watch  and 
tend  them  continually  as  they  lie  on 
the  picturesque  "•  flakes,"  and  if  they 
are  exposed  at  too  early  a  stage  to  a  sun 
too  hot  they  burn  as  surely  as  a  loaf  of 
bread  in  an  intemperate  oven,  only  the 
burning  does  not  crisp,  but  liquefies 
their  substance. 

For  the  last  ten  years  fish  have  been 
caught  about  the  Shoals  by  trawl  and 
seine  in  such  quantities  that  they  are 
thinning  fast,  and  the  trade  bids  fair  to 
be  much  less  lucrative  before  many 
years  have  elapsed.  The  process  of 
drawing  the  trawl  is  very  picturesque 
and  interesting,  watched  from  the  rocks 
or  from  the  boat  itself.  The  buoy  be- 
ing drawn  in,  then  follow  the  baited 
hooks  one  after  another.  First  perhaps 
a  rockling  shows  his  bright  head  above 
water;  a  pull,  and  in  he  comes  flapping, 
with  brilliant  red  fins  distended,  gaping 
mouth  and  indigo-colored  eyes,  and 
richly  mottled  skin  ;  a  few  futile  somer- 
sets, and  he  subsides  into  slimy  de- 
jection. Next,  perhaps,  a  big  whelk  is 
tossed  into  the  boat ;  then  a  leaden  gray 
haddock,  with  its  dark  stripe  of  color  on 
each  side ;  then  perhaps  follow  a  few 
bare  hooks ;  then  a  hake,  with  horrid, 
cavernous  mouth  ;  then  a  large  purple 
star-fish  ;  or  a  clattering  crab  ;  then  a 
ling,  a  yellow -brown,  wide -mouthed 
piece  of  ugliness  never  eaten  here, 
but  highly  esteemed  on  the  coast  of 
Scotland ;  then  more  cod  or  haddock, 
or  perhaps  a  lobster,  bristling  with  in- 
dignation at  the  novel  situation  in 
which  he  finds  himself;  then  a  cusk, 
long,  smooth,  compact,  and  dark  ;  then 
a  catfish.  Of  all  fiends  commend  me 
to  the  catfish  as  the  most  fiendish ! 
Black  as  night,  with  thick  and  hideous 
skin,  which  looks  a  dull,  mouldy  green 
beneath  the  water,  a  head  shaped  as 
much  like  a  cat's  as  a  fish's  head  can 
be,  in  which  the  devil's  own  eyes  seem 
to  glow  with  a  dull,  malicious  gleam,  — 


28 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[January, 


and  such  a  mouth  !  What  terrible  ex- 
pressions these  cold  creatures  carry  to 
and  fro  in  the  vast  dim  spaces  of  the 
sea !  All  fish  have  a  more  or  less  im- 
becile and  wobegone  aspect,  but  this 
one  looks  absolutely  evil,  and  Schiller 
might  well  say  of  him  that  he  "grins 
through  the  grate  of  his  spiky  teeth," 
and  sharp  and  deadly  are  they ;  every 
man  looks  out  for  his  boots  when  a 
catfish  comes  tumbling  in,  for  they  bite 
through  leather,  flesh  and  bones.  They 
seize  a  ballast-stone  between  their  jaws, 
and  their  teeth  snap  and  fly  in  all  direc- 
tions. I  have  seen  them  bite  the  long 
blade  of  a  sharp  knife  so  fiercely,  that 
when  it  was  lifted  and  held  aloft  they 
kept  their  furious  gripe,  and  dangled, 
flapping  all  their  clumsy  weight,  hang- 
ing by  their  teeth  to  the  blade.  Scul- 
pins  abound  and  are  a  nuisance  on  the 
trawls.  Ugly  and  grotesque  as  are  the 
full-grown  fish,  there  is  nothing  among 
the  finny  tribe  more  dainty,  more 
quaint  and  delicate  than  the  baby  scul- 
pin.  Sometimes  in  a  pool  of  crystal  wa- 
ter one  comes  upon  him  unawares, — a 
fairy  creature,  the  color  of  a  blush-rose, 
striped  and  freaked  and  pied  with  silver 
and  gleaming  green,  hanging  in  the  al- 
most invisible  water  as  a  bird  in  air, 
with  broad  transparent  fins  suffused 
with  a  faint  pink  color,  stretched  wide 
like  wings  to  upbear  the  supple  fo/m. 
The  curious  head  is  only  strange,  not 
hideous  as  yet,  and  one  gazes  marvel- 
ling at  all  the  beauty  lavished  on  a 
thing  of  so  little  worth. 

Wolf-fish,  first  cousins  to  the  catfish, 
are  found  also  on  the  trawls,  and  dog- 
fish, with  pointed  snouts  and  sand-paper 
skins,  abound  to  such  an  extent  as  to 
drive  away  everything  else  sometimes. 
Sand-dabs,  a  kind  of  flounder,  fasten 
their  sluggish  bodies  to  the  hooks,  and 
a  few  beautiful  red  fish,  called  bream, 
are  occasionally  found  ;  also  a  few  blue- 
fish  and  sharks  ;  frequently  halibut,  — 
though  these  latter  are  generally  caught 
on  trawls  which  are  made  especially  for 
them.  Sometimes  a  monstrous  crea- 
ture of  horrible  aspect,  called  the  nurse- 
fish,  is  caught  on  a  trawl,  — an  immense 
fish  weighing  twelve  hundred  pounds, 


with  a  skin  like  a  nutmeg-grater,  and 
no  teeth  ;  a  kind  of  sucker,  hence  its 
name.  I  asked  a  Shoaler  what  the 
nurse-fish  looked  like,  and  he  answered 
promptly,  "  Like  the  Devil ! "  One 
weighing  twelve  hundred  pounds  has 
"two  barrels  of  liver,"  as  the  natives 
phrase  it,  which  is  very  valuable  for 
the  oil  it  contains.  One  of  the  fish- 
ermen described  a  creature  which  they 
call  mud- eel,  —  a  foot  and  a  half  long, 
with  a  mouth  like  a  rat,  and  two  teeth. 
The  bite  of  this  water-snake  is  poison- 
ous, the  islanders  aver,  and  tell  a  story 
of  a  man  bitten  by  one  at  Mount  Des- 
ert last  year,  "  who  did  not  live  long 
enough  to  get  to  the  doctor."  They 
bite  at  the  hooks  on  the  trawl,  and  are 
drawn  up  in  a  lump  of  mud,  and  the 
men  cut  the  ropes  and  mangle  their 
lines  to  get  rid  of  them.  Huge  sun- 
fish  are  sometimes  harpooned,  lying  on 
the  top  of  the  water,  — a  lump  of  flesh 
like  cocoanut  meat  encased  in  a  skin 
like  rubber  cloth,  with  a  most  dim  and 
abject  hint  of  a  face  roughly  outlined 
on  the  edge,  absurdly  disproportionate 
to  the  size  of  the  body.  Sword-fish 
are  also  harpooned,  weighing  eight 
hundred  pounds  and  upward ;  they 
are  very  delicate  food.  A  sword-fish 
swimming  leaves  a  wake  a  mile  long 
on  a  calm  day,  and  bewilders  the  imagi- 
nation into  a  belief  in  sea-serpents. 
There  's  a  legend  that  a  torpedo  was 
caught  here  once  upon  a  time,  and  the 
thrasher,  fox-shark,  or  sea-fox  occa- 
sionally alarms  the  fisherman  with  his 
tremendous  flexible  tail,  that  reaches 
"from  the  gunnel  to  the  mainmast- 
top"  when  the  creature  comes  to  the 
surface.  Also  they  tell  of  skip-jacks 
that  sprang  on  board  their  boats  at 
night  when  they  were  hake -fishing, 
"  little  things  about  as  large  as  mice, 
long  and  slender,  with  beaks  like 
birds."  Sometimes  a  huge  horse-mack- 
erel flounders  in  and  drives  ashore  on 
a  ledge,  for  the  gulls  to  scream  over 
for  weeks.  Mackerel,  herring,  porgies, 
and  shiners  used  to  abound  Before  the 
seines  so  thinned  them.  Bonito  and 
blue-fish  and  dog-fish  help  drive  away 
the"  more  valuable  varieties.  It  is  a 


8;o.] 


Among  tJie  Isles  of  Shoals. 


29 


lovely  sight  to  see  a  herring-net  drawn 
in,  especially  by  moonlight,  when  every 
fish  hangs  like  a  long  silver  drop  from 
the  close-set  meshes.  Perch  are  found 
in  inexhaustible  quantities  about  the 
rocks,  and  lump  or  butter  fish  are  some- 
times caught ;  pollock  are  very  plentiful, 
—  smooth,  graceful,  slender  creatures  ! 
It  is  fascinating  to  watch  them  turning 
somersets  in  the  water  close  to  the  shore 
in  full  tides,  or  following  a  boat  at  sun- 
set, and  breaking  the  molten  gold  of  the 
sea's  surface  with  silver-sparkling  fin 
and  tail.  The  rudder-fish  is  sometimes 
found,  and  alewives  and  menhaden. 
Whales  are  more  or  less  plentiful  in 
summer,  "  spouting  their  foam- fountains 
in  the  sea."  Beautiful  is  the  sparkling 
column  of  water  rising  suddenly  afar 
off  and  falling  noiselessly  back  again. 
Not  long  ago  a  whale  twisted  his  tail 
in  the  cable  of  the  schooner  "Vesper," 
lying  to  the  eastward  of  the  Shoals,  and 
towed  the  vessel  several  miles,  at  the 
rate  of  twenty  knots  an  hour,  with  the 
water  boiling  all  over  her  from  stem  to 
stern ! 

Last  winter  some  of  the  Shoalers 
were  drawing  a  trawl  between  the 
Shoals  and  Boone  Island,  fifteen  miles 
to  the  eastward.  As  they  drew  in  the 
line  and  relieved  each  hook  of  its  bur- 
den, lo !  a  horror  was  lifted  half  above 
the  surface,  —  part  of  a  human  body, 
which  dropped  off  the  hooks  and  was 
gone,  while  they  shuddered  and  stared 
at  each  other,  aghast  at  the  hideous 
sight. 

Porpoises  are  seen  at  all  seasons.  I 
never  saw  one  near  enough  to  gain  a 
knowledge  of  its  expression,  but  it  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  that  these  fish  led 
a  more  hilarious  life  than  the  greater 
part  of  their  race,  and  I  think  they 
must  carry  less  dejected  countenances 
than  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  sea. 


They  frisk  so  delightfully  on  the  sur- 
face, and  ponderously  plunge  over  and 
over  with  such  apparent  gayety  and 
satisfaction !  I  remember  being  out 
one  moonless  summer  night  beyond 
the  light-house  island,  in  a  little  boat 
filled  with  gay  young  people.  The  sea 
was  like  oil,  the  air  was  thick  and 
warm,  no  star  broke  the  upper  dark- 
ness, only  now  and  then  the  light-house 
threw  its  jewelled  track  along  the  wa- 
ter, and  through  the  dense  air  its  long 
rays  stretched  above,  turning  solemnly 
like  the  luminous  spokes  of  a  gigantic 
wheel,  as  the  lamps  slowly  revolved. 
There  had  been  much  talk  and  song 
and  laughter,  much  playing  with  the 
warm  waves  (or  rather  smooth  undula- 
tions of  the  sea,  for  there  was  n't  a 
breath  of  wind  to  make  a  ripple),  which 
broke  at  a  touch  into  pale  green  phos- 
phorescent fire.  Beautiful  arms,  made 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  thrust  down  into 
the  liquid  darkness,  shone  flaming  sil- 
ver and  gold ;  from  the  fingers  playing 
•beneath,  fire  seemed  to  stream  ;  emer- 
ald sparks  clung  to  the  damp  draperies  ; 
and  a  splashing  oar-blade  half  revealed 
sweet  faces  and  bright  young  eyes. 
Suddenly  a  pause  came  in  talk  and 
song  and  laughter,  and  in  the  unaccus- 
tomed silence  we  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  something.  At  once  out  of  the  dark- 
ness came  a  slow  tremendous  sigh  that 
made  us  shiver  in  the  soft  air,  as  if  all 
the  woe  and  terror  of  the  sea  were 
condensed  in  that  immense  and  awful 
breath ;  and  we  took  our  oars  and 
pulled  homeward,  with  the  weird  fires 
flashing  from  our  bows  and  oar-blades. 
"  Only  a  porpoise  blowing,"  said  the 
initiated,  when  we  told  our  tale.  It 
may  have  been  "  only  a  porpoise  blow- 
ing," but  the  leviathan  himself  could 
hardly  have  made  a  more  prodigious 
sound. 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[January, 


JOSEPH    AND    HIS    FRIEND. 

"  The  better  angel  is  a  man  right  fair  ; 
The  worser  spirit  a  woman  colored  ill." 

Shakespeare,  Sonnets, 


CHAPTER   I. 

RACHEL  MILLER  was  not  a  lit- 
tle surprised  when  her  nephew 
Joseph  came  to  the  supper-table,  not 
from  the  direction  of  the  barn  and 
through  the  kitchen,  as  usual,  but  from 
the  back  room  up  stairs,  where  he 
slept.  His  work-day  dress  had  dis- 
appeared ;  he  wore  his  best  Sunday 
suit,  put  on  with  unusual  care,  and 
there  were  faint  pomatum  odors  in  the 
air  when  he  sat  down  to  the  table. 

Her  face  said — and  she  knew  it  — 
as  plain  as  any  words,  "  What  in  the 
world  does  this  mean  ?  "  Joseph,  she 
saw,  endeavored  to  look  as  though 
coming  down  to  supper  in  that  cos> 
tume  were  his  usual  habit ;  so  she 
poured  out  the  tea  in  silence.  Her 
silence,  however,  was  eloquent ;  a  hun- 
dred interrogation -marks  would  not 
have  expressed  its  import ;  and  Den- 
nis, the  hired  man,  who  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  experienced 
very  much  the  same  apprehension  of 
something  forthcoming,  as  when  he  had 
killed  her  favorite  speckled  hen  by 
mistake. 

Before  the  meal  was  over,  the  ten- 
sion between  Joseph  and  his  aunt  had 
so  increased  by  reason  of  their  mutual 
silence,  that  it  was  very  awkward  and 
oppressive  to  both  ;  yet  neither  knew 
how  to  break  it  easily.  There  is  al- 
i  great  deal  of  unnecessary  reti- 
cence in  the  intercourse  of  country  peo- 
ple, and  in  the  case  of  these  two  it  had 
been  specially  strengthened  by  the  want 
of  every  relationship  except  that  of 
blood.  They  were  quite  ignorant  of 
the  fence,  the  easy  thrust  and  parry 
of  society,  where  talk  becomes  an  art ; 
silence  or  the  bluntest  utterance  were 
their  alternatives,  and  now  the  one 
had  neutrali/.ed  the  other.  Both  felt 


this,  and  Dennis,  in  his  dull  way,  felt 
it  too.  Although  not  a  party  concerned, 
he  was  uncomfortable,  yet  also  inter- 
nally conscious  of  a  desire  to  laugh. 

The  resolution  of  the  crisis,  however, 
came  by  his  aid.  When  the  meal  was 
finished  and  Joseph  betook  himself  to 
the  window,  awkwardly  drumming  upon 
the  pane,  while  his  aunt  gathered  the 
plates  and  cups  together,  delaying  to 
remove  them  as  was  her  wont,  Den- 
nis said,  with  his  hand  on  the  door- 
knob :  "  Shall  I  saddle  the  horse  right 
off?" 

"  I  guess  so,"  Joseph  answered,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation. 

Rachel  paused,  with  the  two  silver 
spoons  in  her  hand.  Joseph  was  still 
drumming  upon  the  window,  but  with 
very  irregular  taps.  The  door  closed 
upon  Dennis. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  with  singular  calm- 
ness, "  a  body  is  not  bound  to  dress 
particularly  fine  for  watching,  though  I 
would  as  soon  show  him  that  much  re- 
spect, if  need  be,  as  anybody  else. 
Don't  forget  to  ask  Maria  if  there  's 
anything  I  can  do  for  her." 

Joseph  turned  around  with  a  start,  a 
most  innocent  surprise  on  his  face. 

"  Why,  aunt,  what  are  you  talking 
about  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  going  to  Bishop's,  to 
watch  ?  They  have  nearer  neighbors, 
to  be  sure,  but  when  a  man  dies,  every- 
body is  free  to  offer  their  services.  He 
was  always  strong  in  the  faith." 

Joseph  knew  that  he  was  caught, 
without  suspecting  her  manoeuvre.  A 
brighter  color  ran  over  his  face,  up  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair.  "Why,  no  !  "  he 
exclaimed  ;  "  I  am  going  to  Warriner's 
to  spend  the  evening.  There  's  to  be 
a  little  company  there, — a  neighborly 
gathering.  I  believe  it  's  been  talked 
of  this  long  while,  but  I  was  only  in- 


I 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


vited  to-day.  I  saw  Bob,  in  the  road- 
field.'' 

Rachel  endeavored  to  conceal  from 
her  nephew's  eye  the  immediate  im- 
pression of  his  words.  A  constrained 
smile  passed  over  her  face,  and  was 
instantly  followed  by  a  cheerful  relief 
in  his. 

"Isn't  it  rather  a  strange  time  of 
year  for  evening  parties  ?  "  she  then 
asked,  with  a  touch  of  severity  in  her 
voice. 

"  They  meant  to  have  it  in  cherry- 
time,  Bob  said,  when  .Anna's  visitor 
.me  from  town." 

"  That,  indeed  !  I  see  !  "  Rachel  ex- 
claimed. "  It 's  to  be  a  sort  of  celebra- 
tion for  —  what  's-her-name  ?  Blessing, 
I  know,  —  but  the  other  ?  Anna  War- 
rinor  was  there  last  Christmas,  and  I 
don't  suppose  the  high  notions  are  out 
of  her  head  yet.  Well,  I  hope  it  '11  be 
some  time  before  they  take  root  here  ! 
Peace  and  quiet,  peace,  and  quiet, 
that 's  been  the  token  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  but  town  ways  are  the  reverse." 

'•All  the  young  people  are  going," 
Joseph  mildly  suggested,  '"  and  so  —  :' 

"  O,  I  don't  say  you  should  n't  go, 
:ime,"  Rachel  interrupted  him  ; 
';  for  you  ought  to  be  able  to  judge  for 
yourself  what  's  fit  and  proper,  and 
what  is  not.  I  should  be -sorry,  to  be 
sure,  to  see  you  doing  anything  and 
going  anywhere  that  would  make  your 
mother  uneasy  if  she  were  living  now. 
It's  so  hard  to  be  conscientious,  and 
to  mind  a  body's  bounden  duty,  with- 
out seeming  to  interfere." 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  just 
touched  the  corner  of  her  apron  to  her 
eyes.  The  mention  of  his  mother  al- 
ways softened  Joseph,  and  in  his  ear- 
nest desire  to  live  so  that  his  life  might 
be  such  as  to  give  her  joy  if  she  could 
share  it,  a  film  of  doubt  spread  itself 
over  the  smooth,  pure  surface  of  his 
mind.  A  vague  consciousness  of  his  in- 
ability to  express  himself  clearly  upon 
the  question  without  seeming  to  slight 
her  memory  affected  his  thoughts. 

'•  But.  remember,  Aunt  Rachel,"  he 
said,  at  last,  "  I  was  not  old  enough, 
then,  to  go  into  society.  She  surely 


meant  that  I  should  have  some  inde- 
pendence, when  the  time  came.  I  am 
doing  no  more  than  all  the  young  men 
of  the  neighborhood." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know,"  she  replied,  in  a 
melancholy  tone  ;  "  but  they  've  got 
used  to  it  by  degrees,  and  mostly  in 
their  own  homes,  and  with  sisters  to 
caution  them  ;  whereas  you  're  younger 
according  to  your  years,  and  innocent 
of  the  ways  and  wiles  of  men,  and  — 
and  girls." 

Joseph  painfully  felt  that  this  last 
assertion  was  true.  Suppressing  the 
impulse  to  exclaim,  "Why  am  I  young- 
er '  according  to  my  years  '  ?  why  am  I 
so  much  more  '  innocent '  —  which  is, 
ignorant  —  than  others  ?  "  he  blundered 
out,  with  a  little  display  of  temper, 
"  Well,  how  am  I  ever  to  learn  ?  " 

"  By  patience,  and  taking  care  of 
yourself.  There  's  always  safety  in 
waiting.  I  don't  mean  you  should  n't 
go  this  evening,  since  you've  prom- 
ised it,  and  made  yourself  smart.  But, 
mark  my  words,  this  is  only  the  begin- 
ning. The  season  makes  no  difference; 
townspeople  never  seem  to  know  that 
there's  such  things  as  hay-harvest 
and  corn  to  be  worked.  They  come  out 
for  merry-makings  in  the  busy  time, 
and  want  us  country  folks  to  give  up 
everything  for  their  pleasure.  The 
tired  plough-horses  must  be  geared  up 
for  ;em,  and  the  cows  wait  an  hour  or 
two  longer  to  be  milked  while  they  're 
driving  around  ;  and  the  chickens 
killed  half-grown,  and  the  washing  and 
baking  put  off  when  it  comes  in  their 
way.  They 're  mighty  nice  and  friend- 
ly while  it  lasts  ;  but  go  back  to  'em 
in  town,  six  months  afterwards,  and 
see  whether  they  '11  so  much  as  ask 
you  to  take  a  meal's  victuals  !  '' 

Joseph  began  to  laugh.  "It  is  not 
likely,"  he  said,  "  that  I  shall  ever  go 
to  the  Blessings  for  a  meal,  or  that  this 
Miss  Julia  —  as  they  call  her  —  will 
ever  interfere  with  our  harvesting  or 
milking." 

"  The  airs  they  put  on  !  "  Rachel 
continued.  "  She  '11  very  likely  think 
that  she 's  doing  you  a  favor  by  so 
much  as  speaking  to  you.  WThen  the 


Joseph  and  Ids  Friend. 


[January, 


Bishops  had  boarders,  two  years  ago, 
one  of  'em  said,  —  Maria  told  me  with 
her  own  mouth,  —  '  Why  don't  all  the 
farmers  follow  your  example  ?  It  would 
be  so  refining  for  them  ! '  They  may 
be  very  well  in  their  place,  but,  for 
my  part,  I  should  like  them  to  stay 
there." 

"There  comes  the  horse,"  said  Jo- 
seph. "  I  must  be  on  the  way.  I  ex- 
pect to  meet  Elwood  Withers  at  the 
lane-end.  But  —  about  waiting,  Aunt 
—  you  hardly  need  —  " 

"  O,  yes,  I  '11  wait  for  you,  of  course. 
Ten  o'clock  is  not  so  very  late  for  me." 

"  It  might  be  a  little  after,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Not  much,  I  hope  ;  but  if  it  should 
be  daybreak,  wait  I  will  !  Your  moth- 
er could  n't  expect  less  of  me." 

When  Joseph  whirled  into  the  saddle, 
the  thought  of  his  aunt,  grimly  waiting 
for  his  return,  was  already  perched  like 
an  imp  on  the  crupper,  and  clung  to 
his  sides  with  claws  of  steel.  She, 
looking  through  the  window,  also  felt 
that  it  was  so ;  and,  much  relieved, 
went  back  to  her  household  duties. 

He  rode  very  slowly  down  the  lane, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
There  was  a  rich  orange  flush  of  sun- 
set on  the  hills  across  the  valley ; 
masses  of  burning  cumuli  hung,  self- 
suspended,  above  the  farthest  woods, 
and  such  depths  of  purple-grey  opened 
beyond  them  as  are  wont  to  rouse  the 
slumbering  fancies  and  hopes  of  a 
young  man's  heart ;  but  the  beauty  and 
fascination  and  suggestiveness  of  the 
hour  could  not  lift  his  downcast,  ab- 
sorbed glance.  At  last  his  horse,  stop- 
ping suddenly  at  the  gate,  gave  a 
whinny  of  recognition,  which  was  an- 
swered. 

Klwotul  Withers  laughed.  "  Can  you 
tell  me  where  Joseph  Asten  lives  ? " 
he  cried,  —  "  an  old  man,  very  much 
Lowed  and  bent." 

Joseph  also  laughed,  with  a  blush,  as 
he  met  the  other's  strong,  friendly  face. 
"  There  is  plenty  of  time,"  he  said, 
leaning  over  his  horse's  neck  and  lift- 
ing the  latch  of  the  gate. 

"  All  right ;  but  you  must  now  wake 


up.    You  're  spruce  enough  to  make  a 
figure  to-night." 

"  O,  no  doubt !  "  Joseph  gravely  an- 
swered ;  "  but  what  kind  of  a  figure  ?  " 

"  Some  people,  I  've  heard  say,"  said 
Elwood,  "  may  look  into  their  looking- 
glass  every  day,  and  never  know  how 
they  look.  If  you  appeared  to  yourself 
as  you  appear  to  me,  you  would  n't  ask 
such  a  question  as  that." 

"  If  I  could  only  not  think  of  myself 
at  all,  Elwood,  —  if  I  could  be  as  un- 
concerned as  you  are  —  " 

"  But  I  'm  not,  Joseph,  my  boy  !  " 
Elwood  interrupted,  riding  nearer  and 
laying  a  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 
"  I  tell  you,  it  weakens  my  very  mar- 
row to  walk  into  a  room  full  o'  girls, 
even  though  I  know  every  one  of  'em. 
They  know  it,  too,  and,  shy  and  quiet 
as  they  seem,  they  're  unmerciful. 
There  they  sit,  all  looking  so  different, 
somehow,  —  even  a  fellow's  own  sisters 
and  cousins,  —  filling  up  all  sides  of  the 
room,  rustling  a  little  and  whispering  a 
little,  but  you  feel  that  every  one  of  'em 
has  her  eyes  on  you,  and  would  be  so 
glad  to  see  you  flustered.  There  's  no 
help  for  it,  though  ;  we  've  got  to  grow 
case-hardened  to  that  much,  or  how 
ever  could  a  man  get  married  ? " 

"  Elwood  !  "  Joseph  asked,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "were  you  ever  in 
love  ? " 

"Well,"  — and  Elwood  pulled  up  his 
horse  in  surprise,  —  "  well,  you  do  come 
out  plump.  You  take  the  breath  out 
of  my  body.  Have  I  been  in  love  ? 
Have  I  committed  murder  ?  One  's 
about  as  deadly  a  secret  as  the  oth- 
er!" 

The  two  looked  each  other  in  the 
face.  Elwood's  eyes  answered  the 
question,  but  Joseph's,  —  large,  shy, 
and  utterly  innocent,  —  could  not  read 
the  answer. 

"  It  's  easy  to  see  you  've  never 
been,"  said  the  former,  dropping  his 
voice  to  a  grave  gentleness.  "  If  I 
should  say  Yes,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Then,  how  do  you  know  it,  —  I 
mean,  how  did  you  first  begin  to  find 
it  out  ?  What  is  the  difference  between 
that  and  the  feeling  you  have  towards 


1 870.] 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


33 


any  pleasant  girl  whom  you  like  to  be 
with  ?  " 

"  All  the  difference  in  the  world  !  " 
Ehvood  exclaimed  with  energy  ;  then 
paused,  and  knitted  his  brows  with  a 
perplexed  air ;  "  but  I  '11  be  shot  if  I 
know  exactly  what  else  to  say  ;  I  never 
thought  of  it  before.  How  do  I  know 
that  I  am  Ehvood  Withers  ?  It  seems 
just  as  plain  as  that,  —  and  yet  —  well, 
for  one  thing,  she 's  always  in  your 
mind,  and  you  think  and  dream  of  just 
nothing  but  her;  and  you'd  rather 
have  the  hem  of  her  dress  touch  you 
than  kiss  anybody  else  ;  and  you  want 
to  be  near  her,  and  to  have  her  all  to 
yourself,  yet  it 's  hard  work  to  speak  a 
sensible  word  to  her  when  you  come 
together, — but,  what's  the  use?  A 
fellow  must  feel  it  himself,  as  they  say 
of  experiencing  religion  ;  he  must  get 
converted,  or  he  '11  never  know.  Now 
I  don't  suppose  you  've  understood  a 
word  of  what  I  've  said  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  Joseph  answered  ;  "  indeed, 
I  think  so.  It 's  only  an  increase  of 
what  we  all  feel  towards  some  persons. 
I  have  been  hoping,  latterly,  that  it 
might  come  to  me,  but  —  but  —  " 

"  But  your  time  will  come,  like  every 
man's,"  said  Ehvood  ;  "  and,  maybe, 
sooner  than  you  think.  When  it  does, 
you  won't  need  to  ask  anybody ;  though 
I  think  you  're  bound  to  tell  me  of  it, 
after  pumping  my  own  secret  out  of 
me." 

Joseph  looked  grave. 

14  Never  mind;  I  wasn't  obliged  to 
let  you  have  it.  I  know  you  're  close- 
mouthed  and  honest-hearted,  Joseph  ; 
but  I  '11  never  ask  your  confidence  un- 
less you  can  give  it  as  freely  as  I  give 
mine  to  you." 

"  You  shall  have  it,  Elwood,  if  my 
time  ever  comes.  ArW  I  can't  help 
wishing  for  the  time,  although  it  may 
not  be  right.  You  know  how  lonely  it 
is  on  the  farm,  and  yet  it 's  not  always 
easy  for  me  to  get  away  into  company. 
Aunt  Rachel  stands  in  mother's  place 
to  me,  and  maybe  it 's  only  natural  ;hat 
she  should  be  over- concerned  ;  any 
way,  seeing  what  she  has  done  for  my 
sake,  I  am  hindered  from  opposing  her 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  147.  3 


wishes  too  stubbornly.  Now,"  to-night, 
my  going  did  n't  seem  right  to  her,  and 
I  shall  not  get  it  out  of  my  mind  that 
she  is  waiting  up,  and  perhaps  fretting, 
on  my  account." 

"  A  young  fellow  of  your  age  must  n't 
be  so  tender,"  Elwood  said.  "  If  you 
had  your  own  father  and  mother,  they  'd 
allow  you  more  of  a  range.  Look  at 
me,  with  mine !  Why,  I  never  as 
much  as  say  'by  your  leave.'  Quite 
the  contrary  ;  so  long  as  the  work  is  n?t 
slighted,  they  're  rather  glad  than  not 
to  have  me  go  out ;  and  the  house  is 
twice  as  lively  since  I  bring  so  much 
fresh  gossip  into  it.  But  then,  I  've 
had  a  rougher  bringing  up." 

"  I  wish  I  had  had  !  "  cried  Joseph. 
"Yet,  no,  when  I  think  of  mother,  it 
is  wrong  to  say  just  that-  What  I 
mean  is,  I  wish  I  could  take  things  as 
easily  as  you,  —  make  my  way  boldly 
in  the  world,  without  being  held  back 
by  trifles,  or  getting  so  confused  with 
all  sorts  of  doubts.  The  more  anxious 
I  am  to  do  right,  the  more  embarrassed 
I  am  to  know  what  is  the  right  thing. 
I  don't  believe  you  have  any  such  troub- 
les." 

"Well,  for  my  part,  I  do  about  as 
other  fellows  ;  no  worse,  I  guess,  and 
likely  no  better.  You  must  consider, 
also,  that  I  'm  a  bit  rougher  made,  be- 
sides the  bringing  up,  and  that  makes 
a  deal  of  difference.  I  don't  try  to 
make  the  scales  balance  to  a  grain  ;  if 
there  's  a  handful  under  or  over,  I  think 
it 's  near  enough.  However,  you  '11  be 
all  right  in  a  while.  When  you  find 
the  right  girl  and  marry  her,  it  '11  put  a 
new  face  on  to  you.  There  's  nothing 
like  a  sharp,  wide-awake  wife,  so  they 
say,  to  set  a  man  straight.  Don't  make 
a  mountain  of  anxiety  out  of  a  little 
molehill  of  inexperience.  I  'd  take  all 
your  doubts  and  more,  I  'm  sure,  if  I 
could  get  such  a  two  -  hundred  -  acre 
farm  with  them." 

"  Do  you  know,"  cried  Joseph  ea- 
gerly, his  blue  eyes  flashing  through 
the  gathering  dusk,  "  I  have  often 
thought  very  nearly  the  same  thing  !  If 
I  were  to  love,  —  if  I  were  to  marry  —  " 

"  Hush  !  "   interrupted  Elwood  ;    "  I 


34 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


[January, 


know  you  don't  mean  others  to  hear 
you.  Here  come  two  down  the  branch 

The  horsemen,  neighboring  farmers' 
sons,  joined  them.  They  rode  togeth- 
the  knoll  towards  the  Warriner 
mansion,  the  lights  of  which  glimmered 
at  intervals  through  the  trees.  The 
gate  was  open,  and  a  dozen  vehicles 
could  be  seen  in  the  enclosure  between 
the  house  and  barn.  Bright,  gliding 
forms  were  visible  on  the  portico. 

"Just  see,"  whispered  Elwood  to 
Joseph;  "what  a  lot  of  posy-colors! 
You  may  be  sure  they  're  every  one 
watching  us.  No  flinching,  mind  ; 
straight  to  the  charge  !  We  '11  walk 
up  together,  and  it  won't  be  half  as 
hard  for  you." 

CHAPTER   II. 

Tn  consider  the  evening  party  at 
Warriner's  a  scene  of  "  dissipation  " 
—  as  some  of  the  good  old  people  of 
the  neighborhood  undoubtedly  did  — 
was  about  as  absurd  as  to  call  butter- 
milk an  intoxicating  beverage.  Any- 
thing more  simple  and  innocent  could 
not  well  be  imagined.  The  very  awk- 
wardness which  everybody  felt,  and 
which  no  one  exactly  knew  how  to 
overcome,  testified  of  virtuous  igno- 
rance. The  occasion  was  no  more 
than  sufficed  for  the  barest  need  of 
human  nature.  Young  men  and  wo- 
men must  come  together  for  acquaint- 
ance and  the  possibilities  of  love,  and, 
fortunately,  neither  labor  nor  t! 
verer  discipline  of  their  elders  can  pre- 
vent them. 

Where    social    recreation   thus    only 
under    discouraging  conditions, 
ease  and  grace  and  self-possession  can- 
cxpected.    Had  there  been  more 
form,  in   fact,  there  would   have  been 
conventional   disposi- 
tion of  the  guests  would  have  reduced 
the  loose  elements  of  the  company  to 
the  shy  country 

nature  would  have  taken  refuge  in 
fixed  laws  and  found  a  sense  of  free- 
dom therein.  But  there  were  no  gen- 
erally understood  rules  ;  the  young- 


people  were  brought  together,  delight- 
ed yet  uncomfortable,  craving  yet 
shrinking  from  speech  and  jest  and 
song,  and  painfully  working  their  sev- 
eral isolations  into  a  warmer  common 
atmosphere. 

On  this  occasion,  the  presence  of  a 
stranger,  and  that  stranger  a  lady,  and 
that  lady  a  visitor  from  the  city,  was  an 
additional  restraint.  The  dread  of  a 
critical  eye  is  most  keenly  felt  by  those 
who  secretly  acknowledge  their  own 
lack  of  social  accomplishment.  Anna 
Warriner,  to  be  sure,  had  been  loud  in 
her  praises  of  "dear  Julia,"  and  the 
guests  were  prepared  to  find  all  possi- 
ble beauty  and  sweetness ;  but  they 
expected,  none  the  less,  to  be  scruti- 
nized and  judged. 

Bob  W'arriner  met  his  friends  at 
the  gate  and  conducted  them  to  the 
parlor,  whither  the  young  ladies,  who 
had  been  watching  the  arrival,  had  re- 
treated. They  were  disposed  along 
the  walls,  silent  and  cool,  except  Miss 
Blessing,  who  occupied  a  rocking-chair 
in  front  of  the  mantel-piece,  where  her 
figure  was  in  half  shadow,  the  lamp- 
light only  touching  some  roses  in  her 
hair.  As  the  gentlemen  were  present- 
ed, she  lifted  her  face  and  smiled  upon 
each,  graciously  offering  a  slender  hand. 
In  manner  and  attitude,  as  in  dress, 
she  seemed  a  different  being  from  the 
plump,  ruddy,  self-conscious  girls  on 
the  sofas.  Her  dark  hair  fell  about 
her  neck  in  long,  shining  ringlets  ;  the 
fairness  of  her  face  heightened  the 
brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  the  lids  of  which 
were  slightly  drooped  as  if  kindly  veil- 
ing their  beams  ;  and  her  lips,  although 
thin,  were  very  sweetly  and  delicately 
curved.  Her  dress,  of  some  white, 
foamy  texture,  hung  about  her  like  a 
trailing  cloud,  and  the  cluster  of  rose- 
buds on  her  bosom  lay  as  if  tossed 
there. 

The  young  men,  spruce  as  they  had 
imagined  themselves  to  be,  suddenly 
felt  that  their  clothes  were  coarse  and 
ill-fitting,  and  that  the  girls  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, in  their  neat  gingham  and 
muslin  dresses,  were  not  quite  so  airy 
and  charming  as  on  former  occasions. 


8;o.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


35 


Miss  Blessing,  descending  to  them  out 
of  an  unknown  higher  sphere,  made 
their  deficiencies  unwelcomely  evident : 
she  attracted  and  fascinated  them,  yet 
was  none  the  less  a  disturbing  influ- 
ence. They  made  haste  to  find  seats, 
after  which  a  constrained  silence  fol- 
lowed. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
Blessing's  amiable  nature.  She  looked 
about  with  a  pleasant  expression,  half 
smiled  —  but  deprecatingly,  as  if  to 
say,  "  i'ray,  don't  be  offended  !  "  —  at 
the  awkward  silence,  and  then  said,  in 
a  clear,  carefully  modulated  voice  :  "  It 
.•.itiful  to  arrive  at  twilight,  but 
/.iirming  it  must  be  to  ride  home 
in  the  moonlight ;  so  different  from  our 
lamps  ! » 

The  guests  looked  at  each  other,  but 
as  she  had  seemed  to  address  no  one 
in  particular,  so  each  hesitated,  and 
there  was  no  immediate  reply. 

"liut  is  it  not  awful,  tell  me,  Eliz- 
abeth, when  you  get  into  the  shad- 
ows of  the  forests  ?  we  are  so  apt  to 
associate  all  sorts  of  unknown  dan- 
gers with  forests,  you  know,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

The  young  lady  thus  singled  out 
made  haste  to  answer :  "  O,  no !  I 
rather  like  it,  when  I  have  company." 

El  wood  Withers  laughed.  "  To  be 
sure!''  he  exclaimed;  "the  shade  is 
full  of  opportunities." 

Then  there  were  little  shrieks,  and 
some  giggling  and  blushing.  Miss 
Blessing  shook  her  fan  warningly  at 
the  speaker. 

"  Ho-w  wicked  in  you  !  I  hope  you 
will  have  to  ride  home  alone  to-night, 
after  that  speech.  But  you  are  all 
courageous,  compared  with  its.  \Ve 
are  really  so  restricted  in  the  city,  that 
it 's  a  wonder  we  have  any  indepen- 
dence at  all.  In  many  ways,  we  are 
like  children." 

"  O  Julia,  dear  !  "  protested  Anna 
Warriner,  "  and  such  advantages  as 
you  have  !  I  shall  never  forget  the 
clay  Mrs.  Rockaway  called  —  her  hus- 
band 's  cashier  of  the  Commercial 
Bank  "  (this  was  said  in  a  parenthesis 
to  the  other  guests) — "and  brought 


you  all  the  news  direct  from  head-quar- 
ters, as  she  said." 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Blessing  answered, 
slowly,  casting  down  her  eyes,  "  there 
must  be  two  sides  to  everything,  of 
course  ;  but  how  much  we  miss,  until 
we  know  the  country  !  Really,  I  quite 
envy  you." 

Joseph  had  found  himself,  almost 
before  he  knew  it,  in  a  corner,  beside 
Lucy  Henderson.  He  felt  soothed  and 
happy,  for  of  all  the  girls  present  he 
liked  Lucy  best.  In  the  few  meet- 
ings of  the  young  people  which  he  had 
attended,  he  had  been  drawn  towards 
her  by  an  instinct  founded,  perhaps, 
on  his  shyness  and  the  consciousness 
of  it ;  for  she  alone  had  the  power,  by 
a  few  kindly,  simple  words,  to  set  him 
at  ease  with  himself.  The  straightfor- 
ward glance  of  her  large  brown  eyes 
seemed  to  reach  the  self  below  the 
troubled  surface.  However  much  his 
ears  might  have  tingled  afterwards,  as 
he  recalled  how  frankly  and  freely  he 
had  talked  with  her,  he  could  only  re- 
member the  expression  of  an  interest 
equally  frank,  upon  her  face.  She 
never  dropped  one  of  those  amused 
side-glances,  or  uttered  one  of  those 
pert,  satirical  remarks,  the  recollection 
of  which  in  other  girls  stung  him  to 
the  quick. 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted, 
for  when  Miss  Blessing  spoke,  the 
others  became  silent.  What  Elwood 
Withers  had  said  of  the  phenomena 
of  love,  however,  lingered  in  Joseph's 
mind,  and  he  began,  involuntarily,  to 
examine  the  nature  of  his  feeling  for 
Lucy  Henderson.  Was  she  not  often 
in  his  thoughts  ?  He  had  never  before 
asked  himself  the  question,  but  now  he 
suddenly  became  conscious  that  the 
hope  of  meeting  her,  rather  than  any 
curiosity  concerning  Miss  Blessing, 
had  drawn  him  to  Warriner's.  Would 
he  rather  touch  the  edge  of  her  dress 
than  kiss  anybody  else  ?  That  question 
drew  his  eyes  to  her  lips,  and  with  a. 
soft  shock  of  the  heart,  he  became 
aware  of  their  freshness  and  sweetness 
as  never  before.  To  touch  the  edge  of 
her  dress  !  Elwood  had  said  nothing 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[January, 


of  the  lovelier  and  bolder  desire  which 
brought  the  blood  swiftly  to  his  cheeks. 
He  could  not  help  it  that  their  glances 
met,  —  a  moment  only,  but  an  unmeas- 
ured time  of  delight  and  fear  to  him, — 
and  then  Lucy  quickly  turned  away  her 
head.  He  fancied  there  was  a  height- 
ened color  on  her  face,  but  when  she 
spoke  to  him  a  few  minutes  afterwards 
it  was  gone,  and  she  was  as  calm  and 
•composed  as  before. 

In  the  mean  time  there  had  been 
other  arrivals ;  and  Joseph  was  pres- 
ently called  upon  to  give  up  his  place 
to  some  ladies  from  the  neighboring 
town.  Many  invitations  had  been  is- 
sued, and  the  capacity  of  the  parlor  was 
soon  exhausted.  Then  the  sounds  of 
merry  chat  on  the  portico  invaded  the 
stately  constraint  of  the  room  ;  and 
Miss  Blessing,  rising  gracefully  and 
not  too  rapidly,  laid  her  hands  together 
and  entreated  Anna  Warriner,  — 

"  O,  do  let  us  go  outside  !  I  think  we 
are  well  enough  acquainted  now  to  sit 
on  the  steps  together." 

She  made  a  gesture,  slight  but  irre- 
sistibly inviting,  and  all  arose.  While 
they  were  cheerfully  pressing  out 
through  the  hall,  she  seized  Anna's 
arm  and  drew  her  back  into  the  dusky 
nook  under  the  staircase. 

"  Quick,  Anna  !  "  she  whispered  ; 
"  who  is  the  roguish  one  they  call  El- 
wood  ?  frtoishe?" 

"  A  farmer  ;  works  his  father's  place 
on  shares." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Blessing,  in 
a  peculiar  tone  ;  "  and  the  blue-eyed, 
handsome  one,  who  came  in  with  him  ? 
He  looks  almost  like  a  boy." 

"Joseph  Asten  ?  Why,  he's  twen- 
ty-two or  three.  He  has  one  of  the 
finest  properties  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  money  besides,  they  say ;  lives 
alone,  with  an  old  dragon  of  an  aunt 
as  housekeeper.  Now,  Julia  dear, 
there's  a  chance  for  you  !  " 

-  IMiuw,  you  silly  Anna  !  "  whispered 
Miss  Blessing,  playfully  pinching  her 
ear;  "  you  know  I  prefer  intellect  to 
wealth." 

for  that  "  —  Anna  began,  but 
her  friend  was  already  dancing  down 


the  hall  towards  the  front  door,  her 
gossamer  skirts  puffing  and  floating  out 
until  they  brushed  the  walls  on  either 
side.  She  hummed  to  herself,  "  O 
Night !  O  lovely  Night  !  "  from  the 
Desert,  skimmed  over  the  doorstep, 
and  sank,  subsiding  into  an  ethereal 
heap,  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
portico.  Her  eyelids  were  now  fully 
opened,  and  the  pupils,  the  color  of 
which  could  not  be  distinguished  in 
the  moonlight,  seemed  wonderfully 
clear  and  brilliant. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Elwood  —  O,  excuse  me, 
I  mean  Mr.  Withers,"  she  began,  "you 
must  repeat  your  joke  for  my  benefit. 
I  missed  it,  and  I  feel  so  foolish  when 
I  can't  laugh  with  the  rest." 

Anna  Warriner,  standing  in  the  door, 
opened  her  eyes  very  wide  at  what 
seemed  to  her  to  be  the  commence- 
ment of  a  flirtation  ;  but  before  Elwood 
Withers  could  repeat  his  rather  stupid 
fun,  she  was  summoned  to  the  kitchen 
by  her  mother,  to  superintend  the  prep- 
aration of  the  refreshments. 

Miss  Blessing  made  her  hay  while 
the  moon  shone.  She  so  entered  into 
the  growing  spirit  of  the  scene  and 
accommodated  herself  to  the  speech 
and  ways  of  the  guests,  that  in  half 
an  hour  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  al- 
ways known  her.  She  laughed  with 
their  merriment,  and  flattered  their 
sentiment  with  a  tender  ballad  or  two, 
given  in  a  veiled  but  not  unpleasant 
voice,  and  constantly  appealed  to  their 
good-nature  by  the  phrase  :  "  Pray, 
don't  mind  me  at  all ;  I  'm  like  a  child 
let  out  of  school ! "  She  tapped  Eliza- 
beth Fogg  on  the  shoulder,  stealthily 
tickled  Jane  McNaughton's  neck  with 
a  grass-blade,  and  took  the  roses  from 
her  hair  to  stick  into  the  buttonholes 
of  the  young  men. 

"Just  see  Julia!"  whispered  Anna 
Warriner  to  her  half-dozen  intimates ; 
"didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  the  life  of 
society  ?  " 

Joseph  had  quite  lost  his  uncomfort- 
able sense  of  being  watched  and  criti- 
cised ;  he  enjoyed  the  unrestraint  of 
the  hour  as  much  as  the  rest.  He  was 
rather  relieved  to  notice  that  Elwood 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


37 


Withers  seemed  uneasy,  and  almost 
willing  to  escape  from  the  lively  circle 
around  Miss  Blessing.  By  and  by  the 
company  broke  into  smaller  groups, 
and  Joseph  again  found  himself  near 
the  pale  pink  dress  which  he  knew. 
What  was  it  that  separated  him  from 
her  ?  What  had  slipped  between  them 
during  the  evening  ?  Nothing,  appar- 
ently ;  for  Lucy  Henderson,  perceiving 
him,  quietly  moved  nearer.  He  ad- 
vanced a  step,  and  they  were  side  by 
side. 

"  Do  you  enjoy  these  meetings,  Jo- 
seph ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  think  I  should  enjoy  everything," 
he  answered,  *'  if  I  were  a  little  older, 
or  —  or —  " 

"Or  more  accustomed  to  society? 
Is  not  that  what  you  meant?  It  is 
only  another  kind  of  schooling,  which 
we  must  all  have.  You  and  I  are  in 
the  lowest  class,  as  we  once  were,  — 
do  you  remember  ?  " 

u  I  don't  know  why,"  said  he,  "  —  but 
I  must  be  a  poor  scholar.  See  Elwood, 
for  instance ! " 

'•  Klwood  !  "  Lucy  slowly  repeated  ; 
'•he  is  another  kind  of  nature,  alto- 
gether." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Jo- 
seph was  about  to  speak,  when  some- 
thing wonderfully  soft  touched  his 
cheek,  and  a  delicate,  violet-like  odor 
swept  upon  his  senses.  A  low,  musical 
laugh  sounded  at  his  very  ear. 

"There!  Did  I  frighten  you?" 
said  Miss  Blessing.  She  had  stolen 
behind  him,  and,  standing  on  tiptoe, 
reached  a  light  arm  over  his  shoulder, 
to  fasten  her  last  rosebud  in  the  upper 
buttonhole  of  his  coat. 

"  I  quite  overlooked  you,  Mr.  Asten," 
she  continued.  "  Please  turn  a  little 
towards  me.  Now  !  —  has  it  not  a 
charming  effect?  I  do  like  to  see 
some  kind  of  ornament  about  the  gen- 
tlemen, Lucy.  And  since  they  can't 
wear  anything  in  their  hair,  —  but,  tell 
me,  wouldn't  a  wreath  of  flowers  look 
well  on  Mr.  Asten's  head." 

'•  I  can't  very  well  imagine  such  a 
thing,"  said  Lucy. 

"  No  ?    Well,  perhaps  I  am  foolish  : 


but  when  one  has  escaped  from  the 
tiresome  conventionalities  of  city  life, 
and  comes  back  to  nature,  and  delight- 
ful natural  society,  one  feels  so  free  to 
talk  and  think  !  Ah,  you  don't  know 
what  a  luxury  it  is,  just  to  be  one's  true 
self!" 

Joseph's  eyes  lighted  up,  and  he 
turned  towards  Miss  Blessing,  as  if 
eager  that  she  should  continue  to 
speak. 

"  Lucy,"  said  Elwood  Withers,  ap- 
proaching ;  "  you  came  with  the  Mc- 
Naughtons,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  are  they  going  ?  " 

"  They  are  talking  of  it  now ;  but  the 
hour  is  early,  and  if  you  don't  mind  rid- 
ing on  a  pillion,  you  know  my  horse  is 
gentle  and  strong—  " 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Withers!"  inter- 
rupted Miss  Blessing.  "  I  depend  up- 
on you  to  keep  Lucy  with  us.  The 
night  is  at  its  loveliest,  and  we  are  all 
just  fairly  enjoying  each  other's  society. 
As  I  was  saying,  Mr.  Asten,  you  can- 
not conceive  what  a  new  world  this 
is  to  me:  oh,  I  begin  to  breathe  at 
last !  " 

Therewith  she  drew  a  long,  soft  in- 
spiration, and  gently  exhaled  it  again, 
ending  with  a  little  flutter  of  the  breath, 
which  made  it  seem  like  a  sigh.  A 
light  laugh  followed. 

"  I  know,  without  looking  at  your 
face,  that  you  are  smiling  at  me,"  said 
she.  "  But  you  have  never  experienced 
what  it  is,  to  be  shy  and  uneasy  in  com- 
pany ;  to  feel  that  you  are  expected  to 
talk,  and  not  know  what  to  say,  and 
when  you  do  say  something,  to  be 
startled  at  the  sound  of  your  voice ; 
to  stand,  or  walk,  or  sit,  and  imagine 
that  everybody  is  watching  you  ;  to  be 
introduced  to  strangers,  and  be  as  awk- 
ward as  if  both  spoke  different  lan- 
guages, and  were  unable  to  exchange 
a  single  thought.  Here,  in  the  coun- 
try, you  experience  nothing  of  all 
this." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Blessing,"  Joseph  re- 
plied, "it  is  just  the  same  to  us  —  to 
me  —  as  city  society  is  to  you." 

"  How  glad  I  am  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
clasping  her  hands.  "It  is  very  selfish- 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[January, 


in   me  to  say  it,  but  I  can't  help  being 
sincere  towards   the    Sincere.     I  shall 
1  ever  so  much  more  freedom  in 
talking  with  you,  Mr.  Asten,  since  we 
,'jrience  in  common.    Don't 
you  think,  if  we  all  knew  each  other's 
natures  truly,  we  should  be  a  great  deal 
more  at  ease,  —  and  consequently  hap- 
pier ? " 

She  spoke  the  last  sentence  in  a  low, 
sweet,  penetrating  tone,  lifted  her  face 
to  meet  his  gaze  a  moment,  the  eyes 
large,  clear,  and  appealing  in  their  ex- 
pression, the  lips  parted  like  those  of 
a  child,  and  then,  without  waiting  for 
his  answer,  suddenly  darted  away,  cry- 
ing, "  Yes,  Anna  dear  !  " 

"  What  is  it,  Julia  ? "  Anna  Warriner 
asked. 

"  O,  did  n't  you  call  me  ?  Somebody 
surely  called  some  Julia,  and  I  'm  the 
only  one,  am  I  not?  I've  just  ar- 
ranged Mr.  Asten's  rosebud  so  prettily, 
and  now  all  the  gentlemen  are  deco- 
rated. I  'm  afraid  they  think  I  take 
great  liberties  for  a  stranger,  but  then, 
you  all  make  me  forget  that  I  am 
strange.  Why  is  it  that  everybody  is 
so  good  to  me  ?  " 

She  turned  her  face  upon  the  others 
with  a  radiant  expression.  Then  there 
were  earnest  protestations  from  the 
young  men,  and  a  few  impulsive  hugs 
from  the  girls,  which  latter  Miss  Bless- 
ing returned  with  kisses. 

Elwood  \Vithers  sat  beside  Lucy 
Henderson,  on  the  steps  of  the  portico. 
"Why,  we  owe  it  to  you  that  we're 
here  to-night,  Miss  Blessing  I"  he  ex- 
claimed. "We  don't  come  together 
half  often  enough  as  it  is  ;  and  what 
better  could  we  do  than  meet  again, 
somewhere  else,  while  you  are  in  the 
country  ? '' 

how  delightful !  how  kind  !  "  she 
••And  while   the   lovely  moon- 
light lasts  !     Shall  I  really  have  anoth- 
er evening  like  this  ?  " 

The  proposition  was  heartily  second- 
<1  the  only  difficulty  was,  how  to 
e  between  the  three  or  four  invi- 
tations which  were    at  once    proffered. 
i. Milling  better  to  do  than  to 
accept  all,  in  turn,  and  the  young  peo- 


ple pledged  themselves  to  attend.  The 
new  element  which  they  had  dreaded 
in  advance,  as  a  restraint,  had  shown 
itself  to  be  the  reverse  :  they  had  never 
been  so  free,  so  cheerfully  excited. 
Miss  Blessing's  unconscious  ease  of 
manner,  her  grace  and  sweetness,  her 
quick,  bright  sympathy  with  country 
ways,  had  so  warmed  and  fused  them, 
that  they  lost  the  remembrance  of  their 
stubborn  selves  and  yielded  to  the  mag- 
netism of  the  hour.  Their  manners, 
moreover,  were  greatly  improved,  sim- 
ply by  their  forgetting  that  they  were 
expected  to  have  any. 

Joseph  was  one  of  the  happiest  shar- 
ers in  this  change.  He  eagerly  gave 
his  word  to  be  present  at  the  entertain- 
ments to  come  :  his  heart  beat  with 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  other  such 
evenings.  The  suspicion  of  a  tenderer 
feeling  towards  Lucy  Henderson,  the 
charm  of  Miss  Blessing's  winning  frank- 
ness, took  equal  possession  of  his 
thoughts  ;  and  not  until  he  had  said 
good  night  did  he  think  of  his  com- 
panion on  the  homeward  road.  But 
Elwood  Withers  had  already  left,  car- 
rying Lucy  Henderson  on  a  pillion  be- 
hind him. 

"  Is  it  ten  o'clock,  do  you  think  ?  " 
Joseph  asked  of  one  of  the  young  men, 
as  they  rode  out  of  the  gate. 

The  other  burst  into  a  laugh  :  "  Ten  ? 
It 's  nigher  morning  than  evening  !  " 

The  imp  on  the  crupper  struck  his 
claws  deep  into  Joseph's  sides.  He 
urged  his  horse  into  a  gallop,  crossed 
the  long  rise  in  the  road  and  dashed 
along  the  valley-level,  with  the  cool, 
dewy  night  air  whistling  in  his  locks. 
After  entering  the  lane  leading  upward 
to  his  home,  he  dropped  the  reins  and 
allowed  the  panting  horse  to  choose  his 
own  gait.  A  light,  sparkling  through  the 
locust-trees,  pierced  him  with  the  sting 
of  an  unwelcome  external  conscience, 
in  which  he  had  no  part,  yet  which  he 
could  not  escape. 

Rachel  Miller  looked  wearily  up  from 
her  knitting  as  he  entered  the  room. 
She  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  smile, 
but  the  expression  of  her  face  suggest- 
ed imminent  tears. 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  Jiis  Friend. 


39 


"  Aunt,  why  did  you  wait  ?  "  said  he, 
speaking  rapidly.  '•  I  forgot  to  look  at 
my  watch,  and  I  really  thought  it  was 
no  more  than  ten  —  " 

He  paused,  seeing  that  her  eyes 
were  fixed.  She  was  looking  at  the 
tall,  old-fashioned  clock.  The  hand 
pointed  to  half  past  twelve,  and  every 
cluck  of  the  ponderous  pendulum  said, 
distinctly,  "  Late  !  late  !  late  !  " 

He  lighted  a  candle  in  silence,  said, 
"  Good  night,  Aunt !  "  and  went  up  to 
his  room. 

"  Good  night,  Joseph  !  "  she  solemn- 
ly responded,  and  a  deep,  hollow  sigh 
reached  his  ear  before  the  door  was 
closed. 

I  AFTER  III. 

,-H  ASTEN'S  nature  was  shy  and 
sensitive,  but  not  merely  from  a  habit 
of  introversion.  He  saw  no  deeper 
into  himself,  in  fact,  than  his  moods 
and  sensations,  and  thus  quite  failed  to 
recognize  what  it  was  that  kept  him 
apart  from  the  society  in  which  he 
should  have  freely  moved.  He  felt  the 
difference  of  others,  and  constantly 
probed  the  pain  and  embarrassment  it 
gave  him,  but  the  sources  wherefrom 
it  grew  were  the  last  which  he  would 
have  guessed. 

A  boy's  life  may  be  weakened  for 
growth,  in  all  its  fibres,  by  the  watch- 
fulness of  a  too  anxious  love,  and  the 
guidance  of  a  too  exquisitely  nurtured 
conscience.  He  may  be  so  trained  in 
the  habits  of  goodness,  and  purity,  and 
duty,  that  every  contact  with  the  world 
is  like  an  abrasion  upon  the  delicate 
surface  of  his  soul.  Every  wind  visits 
him  too  roughly,  and  he  shrinks  from 
the  encounters  which  brace  true  man- 
liness, and  strengthen  it  for  the  exer- 
•  cise  of  good. 

The  rigid  piety  of  Joseph's  mother 
was  warmed  and  softened  by  her  ten- 
derness towards  him,  and  he  never  felt 
it  as  a  yoke.  His  nature  instinctively 
took  the  imprint  of  hers,  and  she  was 
happy  in  seeing  so  clear  a  reflection  of 
herself  in  his  innocent  young  heart. 
She  prolonged  his  childhood,  perhaps 
without  intending  it,  into  the  years 


when  the  unrest  of  approaching  man- 
hood should  have  le  '  him  to  severer 
studies  and  lustier  sports.  Her  death 
transferred  his  guardianship  to  other 
hands,  but  did  not  change  its  charac- 
ter. Her  sister  Rachel  was  equally 
good  and  conscientious,  possibly  with 
an  equal  capacity  for  tenderness,  but 
her  barren  life  had  restrained  the  habit 
of  its  expression.  Joseph  could  not 
but  confess  that  she  was  guided  by  the 
strictest  sense  of  duty,  but  she  seemed 
to  him  cold,  severe,  unsympathetic. 
There  were  times  when  the  alternative 
presented  itself  to  his  mind,  of  either 
allowing  her  absolute  control  of  all  his 
actions,  or  wounding  her  to  the  heart 
by  asserting  a  moderate  amount  of 
independence. 

He  was  called  fortunate,  but  it  was 
impossible  for  him  consciously  to  feel 
his  fortune.  The  two  hundred  acres 
of  the  farm,  stretching  back  over  the 
softly  swelling  hills  which  enclosed  the 
valley  on  the  east,  were  as  excellent 
soil  as  the  neighborhood  knew ;  the 
stock  was  plentiful ;  the  house,  barn, 
and  all  the  appointments  of  the  place 
were  in  the  best  order,  and  he  was  the 
sole  owner  of  all.  The  \vork  of  his  own 
hands  was  not  needed,  but  it  was  a 
mechanical  exhaustion  of  time, — an 
enforced  occupation  of  body  and  mind, 
which  he  followed  in  the  vague  hope 
that  some  richer  development  of  life 
might  come  afterwards.  But  there 
were  times  when  the  fields  looked  very 
dreary,  —  when  the  trees,  rooted  in 
their  places,  and  growing  under  condi- 
tions which  they  were  powerless  to 
choose  or  change,  were  but  tiresome 
types  of  himself,  —  when  even  the  beck- 
oning heights  far  down  the  valley  failed 
to  touch  his  fancy  with  the  hint  of  a 
broader  world.  Duty  said  to  him, 
"  You  must  be  perfectly  contented  in 
your  place  !  "  but  there  was  the  miser- 
able, ungrateful,  inexplicable  fact  of 
discontent. 

Furthermore,  he  had  by  this  time 
discovered  that  certain  tastes  which  he 
possessed  were  so  many  weaknesses 
—  if  not,  indeed,  matters  of  reproach  — 
in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors.  The  de- 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


40 

light  and  the  torture  of  finer  nerves  — 
an  inability  to  use  coarse  and  strong 
phrases,  and  a  shrinking  from  all  dis- 
play of  rude  manners— were  peculiari- 
ties which  he  could  not  overcome,  and 
must  endeavor  to  conceal.  There  were 
men  of  sturdy  intelligence  in  the  com- 
munity ;  but  none  of  refined  culture, 
through  whom  he  might  have  measured 
and  understood  himself;  and  the  very 
qualities,  therefore,  which  should  have 
been  his  pride,  gave  him  only  a  sense 
of  shame. 

Two  memories  haunted  him,  after 
the  evening  at  Warriner's  ;  and,  though 
so  different,  they  were  not  to  be  dis- 
connected. No  two  girls  could  be 
more  unlike  than  Lucy  Henderson  and 
Miss  Julia  Blessing ;  he  had  known 
one  for  years,  and  the  other  was  the 
partial  acquaintance  of  an  evening;  yet 
the  image  of  either  one  was  swiftly  fol- 
lowed by  that  of  the  other.  When  he 
thought  of  Lucy's  eyes,  Miss  Julia's 
hand  stole  over  his  shoulder  ;  when  he 
recalled  the  glossy  ringlets  of  the  latter, 
he  saw,  beside  them,  the  faintly  flushed 
cheek  and  the  pure,  sweet  mouth  which 
had  awakened  in  him  his  first  daring 
desire. 

Phantoms  as  they  were,  they  seemed 
to  have  taken  equal  possession  of  the 
house,  the  garden,  and  the  fields. 
While  Lucy  sat  quietly  by  the  window, 
Julia  skipped  lightly  along  the 
adjoining  hall.  One  lifted  a  fallen  rose- 
branch  on  the  lawn,  the  other  snatched 
the  reddest  blossom  from  it.  One 
leaned  against  the  trunk  of  the  old 
hemlock-tree,  the  other  fluttered  in  and 
out  among  the  clumps  of  shrubbery; 
but  the  lonely  green  was  wonderfully 
brightened  by  these  visions  of  pink  and 
white,  and  Joseph  enjoyed  the  fancy 
without  troubling  himself  to  think  what 
it  meant. 

The  house  was  seated  upon  a  gentle 
knoll,  near  the  head  of  a  side-valley 
sunk  like  a  dimple  among  the  hills 
which  enclosed  the  river  -  meadows, 
scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  It 
was  nearly  a  hundred  years  old,  and 
its  massive  walls  were  faced  with 
checkered  bricks,  alternately  red  and 


[January, 


black,  to  which  the  ivy  clung  with  te- 
nacious feet  wherever  it  was  allowed  to 
run.  The  gables  terminated  in  broad 
double  chimneys,  between  which  a 
railed  walk,  intended  for  a  lookout,  but 
rarely  used  for  that  or  any  other  pur- 
pose, rested  on  the  peak  of  the  roof. 
A  low  portico  paved  with  stone  ex- 
tended along  the  front,  which  was  fur- 
ther shaded  by  two  enormous  syca- 
more-trees as  old  as  the  house  itself. 
The  evergreens  and  ornamental  shrubs 
which  occupied  the  remainder  of  the 
little  lawn  denoted  the  taste  of  a  later 
generation.  To  the  east,  an  open,  turfy 
space,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood 
a  superb  weeping- willow,  divided  the 
house  from  the  great  stone  barn  with 
its  flanking  cribs  and  "  overshoots  "  ; 
on  the  opposite  side  lay  the  sunny 
garden,  with  gnarled  grape-vines  clam- 
bering along  its  walls,  and  a  double  row 
of  tall  old  box-bushes,  each  grown  into 
a  single  solid  mass,  stretching  down  the 
centre. 

The  fields  belonging  to  the  property, 
softly  rising  and  following  the  undula- 
tions of  the  hills,  limited  the  landscape 
on  three  sides ;  but  on  the  south  there 
was  a  fair  view  of  the  valley  of  the 
larger  stream,  with  its  herd-speckled 
meadows,  glimpses  of  water  between 
the  fringing  trees,  and  farm  -  houses 
sheltered  among  the  knees  of  the  far- 
ther hills.  It  was  a  region  of  peace 
and  repose  and  quiet,  drowsy  beauty, 
and  there  were  few  farms  which  were 
not  the  ancestral  homes  of  the  families 
who  held  them.  The  people  were  satis- 
fied, for  they  lived  upon  a  bountiful  soil ; 
and  if  but  few  were  notably  rich,  still 
fewer  were  absolutely  poor.  They  had 
a  sluggish  sense  of  content,  a  half-con- 
scious feeling  that  their  lines  were  cast 
in  pleasant  places  ;  they  were  orderly, 
moral,  and  generally  honest,  and  their 
own  types  were  so  constantly  repro- 
duced and  fixed  both  by  intermarriage 
and  intercourse,  that  any  variation 
therein  wr.s  a  thing  to  be  suppressed 
if  possible.  Any  sign  of  an  unusual 
taste,  or  a  different  view  of  life,  excited 
their  suspicion,  and  the  most  of  them 
were  incapable  of  discriminating  be- 


1 870.] 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


tween  independent  thought  on  moral 
and  social  questions,  and  "  tree-think- 
ing "  in  the  religious  significance  which 
they  attached  to  the  word.  Political  ex- 
citements, it  is  true,  sometimes  swept 
over  the  neighborhood,  but  in  a  miti- 
gated form  ;  and  the  discussions  which 
then  took  place  between  neighbors  of 
opposite  faith  were  generally  repetitions 
of  the  arguments  furnished  by  their  re- 
spective county  papers. 

To  one  whose  twofold  nature  con- 
•formed  to  the  common  mould,  —  into 
whom,  before  his  birth,  no  mysterious 
element  had  been  infused,  to  be  the  ba- 
sis of  new  sensations,  desires,  and  pow- 
ers, —  the  region  was  a  paradise  of 
peaceful  days.  Even  as  a  boy  the 
probable  map  of  his  life  was  drawn  : 
he  could  behold  himself  as  young  man, 
as  husband,  father,  and  comfortable  old 
man,  by  simply  looking  upon  these  va- 
rious stages  in  others. 

If,  however,  his  senses  were  not  slug- 
gish, but  keen  ;  if  his  nature  reached 
beyond  the  ordinary  necessities,  and 
hungered  for  the  taste  of  higher  things  ; 
if  he  longed  to  share  in  that  life  of  the 
world,  the  least  part  of  which  was 
known  to  his  native  community  ;  if,  not 
content  to  accept  the  mechanical  faith 
of  passive  minds,  he  dared  to  repeat 
the  long  struggle  of  the  human  race  in 
his  own  spiritual  and  mental  growth  ; 
then,  —  why,  then,  the  region  was  not 
a  paradise  of  peaceful  days. 

Rachel  Miller,  now  that  the  danger- 
ous evening  was  over,  was  shrewd 
enough  to  resume  her  habitual  manner 
towards  her  nephew.  Her  curiosity  to 
know  what  had  been  done,  and  how  Jo- 
seph had  been  affected  by  the  merry- 
making, "rendered  her  careful  not  to 
frighten  him  from  the  subject  by  warn- 
ings or  reproaches.  He  was  frank  and 
communicative,  and  Rachel  found,  to 
her  surprise,  that  the  evening  at  \Var- 
riner's  was  much,  and  not  wholly  un- 
pleasantly, in  her  thoughts  during  her 
knitting -hours.  The  farm  -  work  was 
briskly  forwarded  ;  Joseph  was  active 
in  the  field,  and  decidedly  brighter  in 
the  house;  and  when  he  announced 
the  new  engagement,  with  an  air  which 


hinted  that  his  attendance  was  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  she  was  only  able  to 
say :  — 

"  I  'm  very  much  mistaken  if  that 's 
the  end.  Get  a-going  once,  and  there  's 
no  telling  where  you  '11  fetch  up.  I 
suppose  that  town's  girl  won't  stay 
much  longer,  —  the  farm- work  of  the 
neighborhood  could  n't  stand  it,  —  and 
so  she  means  to  have  all  she  can  while 
her  visit  lasts." 

"  Indeed,  Aunt,"  Joseph  protested, 
"  Elwood  Withers  first  proposed  it,  and 
the  others  all  agreed." 

"  And  ready  enough  they  were,  I  '11 
be  bound." 

"  Yes,  they  were,"  Joseph  replied, 
with  a  little  more  firmness  than  usual. 
"  All  of  them.  And  there  was  no  re- 
spectable family  in  the  neighborhood 
that  was  n't  represented." 

Rachel  made  an  effort  and  kept  si- 
lence. The  innovation  might  be  tem- 
porary, and  in  that  case  it  were  prudent 
to  take  no  further  notice  ;  or  it  might 
be  the  beginning  of  a  change  in  the 
ways  of  the  young  people,  and  if  so, 
she  needed  further  knowledge  in  order 
to  work  successfully  against  it  in  Jo- 
seph's case. 

She  little  suspected  how  swiftly  and 
closely  the  question  would  be  brought 
to  her  own  door. 

A  week  afterwards  the  second  of  the 
evening  parties  was  held,  and  was  even 
more  successful  than  the  first.  Every- 
body was  there,  bringing  a  cheerful 
memory  of  the  former  occasion,  and 
Miss  Julia  Blessing,  no  longer  dreaded 
as  an  unknown  scrutinizing  element, 
was  again  the  life  and  soul  of  the  com- 
pany. It  was  astonishing  how  correct- 
ly she  retained  the  names  and  charac- 
teristics of  all  those  whom  she  had  al- 
ready met,  and  how  intelligently  she 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  gossip  of  the 
neighborhood.  It  was  remarked  that 
her  dress  was  studiously  simple,  as  if 
to  conform,  to  country  ways,  yet  the 
airy,  graceful  freedom  of  her  manner 
gave  it  a  character  of  elegance  which 
sufficiently  distinguished  her  from  the 
other  girls. 

Joseph  felt   that  she  looked  to  him, 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[January, 


as  by  an  innocent,  natural  instinct,  for 
a  more  delicate  and  intimate  recogni- 
tion than  she  expected  to  find  else- 
.  laments  of  sentences,  par- 
enthetical expressions,  dropped  in  her 
lively  talk,  were  always  followed  by  a 
quick  glance  which  said  to  him  :  "  We 
have  one  feeling  in  common  ;  I  know 
;i  understand  me."  He  was  fas- 
cinated, but  the  experience  was  so  new 
that  it  was  rather  bewildering.  H-e 
was  drawn  to  catch  her  seemingly  ran- 
dom looks,  —  to  wait  for  them,  and  then 
shrink  timidly  when  they  came,  feeling 
all  the  while  the  desire  to  be  in  the 
quiet  corner,  outside  the  merry  circle 
of  talkers,  where  sat  Lucy  Hender- 
son. 

When,  at  last,  a  change  in  the  diver- 
sions of  the  evening  brought  him  to 
Lucy's  side,  she  seemed  to  him  grave 
and  preoccupied.  Her  words  lacked 
the  pleasant  directness  and  self-posses- 
sion which  had  made  her  society  so 
comfortable  to  him.  She  no  longer 
turned  her  full  face  towards  him  while 
speaking,  and  he  noticed  that  her  eyes 
were  wandering  over  the  company  with 
a  peculiar  expression,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  listen  with  them.  It  seemed 
to  him,  also,  that  Elwood  Withers,  who 
was  restlessly  moving  about  the  room, 
was  watching  some  one,  or  waiting  for 
something. 

"  I  have  it !  "  suddenly  cried  Miss 
Blessing,  floating  towards  Joseph  and 
Lucy  ;  "  it  shall  be  jw/,  Mr.  Asten  !  " 

'•  Yes,"  echoed  Anna  Warriner,  fol- 
lowing;  "if  it  could  be,  how  delight- 
ful ! " 

sh,  Anna  dear!  Let  us  keep 
the  matter  secret !  ''  whispered  Miss 
Blessing,  assuming  a  mysterious  air ; 
"we  will  slip  away  and  consult;  and, 
of  course,  Lucy  must  come  with  us." 

lie  resumed,  when  the  four 

found  themselves  alone  in  the  old-fash- 

ilining-room,  "  we  must,  first  of 

all,  explain   everything  to   Mr.  Asten. 

The  (;ucstion  is,  where  we  shall  meet, 

next  week.     McXaughtons  are  build- 

.uldition  (I  believe  you  call  it)  to 

.:-!<!  a  child  has  the  measles 

at  another  place,  and  something  else  is 


wrong  somewhere  else.  We  cannot 
interfere  with  the  course  of  nature  ;  but 
neither  should  we  give  up  these  charm- 
ing evenings  without  making  an  effort 
to  continue  them.  Our  sole  hope  and 
reliance  is  on  you,  Mr.  Asten." 

She  pronounced  the  words  with  a 
mock  solemnity,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
looking  into  his  face  with  bright,  eager, 
laughing  eyes. 

"If  it  depended  on  myself—"  Jo- 
seph began. 

4<  O,  I  know  the  difficulty,  Mr.  As^ 
ten  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  and,  really, 
it's  unpardonable  in  me  to  propose 
such  a  thing.  But  is  n't  it  possible  — 
just  possible  —  that  Miss  Miller  might 
be  .persuaded  by  us  ?  " 

"Julia  dear  !  "  cried  Anna  Warriner, 
"  I  believe  there  's  nothing  you  'd  be 
afraid  to  undertake." 

Joseph  scarcely  knew  what  to  say. 
He  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  color- 
ing slightly,  and  ready  to  turn  pale  the 
next  moment,  as  he  endeavored  to  im- 
agine how  his  aunt  would  receive  such 
an  astounding  proposition. 

u  There  is  no  reason  why  she  should 
be  asked,"  said  Lucy.  "  It  would  be  a 
great  annoyance  to  her." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Miss  Blessing  : 
"then  I  should  be  so  sorry!  But  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  your  lovely  place 
the  other  clay,  as  we  were  driving  up 
the  valley.  It  was  a  perfect  picture, — 
and  I  have  such  a  desire  to  see  it  near- 
er!" 

"  Why  will  you  not  come,  then  ?  " 
Joseph  eagerly  asked.  Lucy's  words 
seemed  to  him  blunt  and  unfriendly, 
although  he  knew  they  had  been  in- 
tended for  his  relief. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  pleasure  ;  yet, 
if  I  thought  your  aunt  would  be  an- 
noyed—" 

"  I  am  sure  she  will  be  glad  to  make 
your  acquaintance,"  said  Joseph,  with  a 
reproachful  side-glance  at  Lucy. 

Miss  Blessing  noticed  the  glance. 
"/  am  more  sure,"  she  said,  playfully, 
"that  she  will  be  very  much  amused  at 
my  ignorance  and  inexperience.  And 
I  don't  believe  Lucy  meant  to  frighten 
me.  As  for  the  party,  we  won't  think 


iS/o.]                               //  Guido  Rospigliosi.  43 

of  that,  now ;  but  you  will  go  with  us,  He   did   not  doubt  but    that    Miss 

Lucy,  won't  you,  —  with  Anna  and  my-  Blessing,  whose   warm,  impulsive   na- 

self,  to   make   a   neighborly   afternoon  ture  seemed  to  him  very  much  what 

call  ?  "  his  own  might  be  if  he  dared  to  show 

Lucy  felt  obliged  to  accede  to  a  re-  it,  would  fulfil   her  promise.     Neither 

quest  so  amiably  made,  after  her   ap-  did  he  doubt  that  so  much  innocence 

parent   rudeness.     Yet   she   could  not  and  sweetness  as  she  possessed  would 

force  herself  to  affect  a  hearty  acquies-  make  a  favorable  impression  upon  his 

cence,   and  Joseph   thought    her    sin-  aunt ;  but  he  judged  it  best  not  to  in- 

gularly  cold.  form  the  latter  of  the  possible  visit. 


IL    GUIDO    ROSPIGLIOSI. 


"  La  concubina  di  Titone  antico 

.  s'imbiancava  al  balzo  d'oricnte, 
Fuor  delle  braccia  del  suo  dolce  amico : 
Di  gemme  la  sua  fronte  era  lucente  —  " 

PURGATORIO,  IX. 

T^ORTH  from  the  arms  of  her  beloved  now, 
J-  Whitening  the  orient  steep,  the  Concubine 
Of  old  Tithonus  comes  !  —  her  lucent  brow 

Glistening  with  gems,  her  fair  hands  filled  with  flowers, 
And  from  her  girdle  scatters  wealth  of  pearls 

Round  ocean's  rocks  and  every  vessel's  prow 
That  cuts  the  laughing  billows'  crested  curls : 

Behind  her  step  the  busy,  sober  Hours, 
With  much  to  do,  and  they  must  move  apace : 

Wake  up,  Apollo  !  must  the  women  stir, 
And  thou  be  lagging  ?  brighten  up  thy  face ! 

Those  eyes  of  Phaeton  more  brilliant  were  — 
Hurry,  dull  God !     Hyperion,  to  thy  race  ! 

Thy  steeds  are  galloping,  but  thou  seem'st  slow  — 
Hesper,  glad  wretch,  hath  newly  fed  his  torch, 
.     And  flies  before  thee,  and  the  world  cries,  Go  ! 
Light  the  dark  woods,  the  drenched  mountain  scorch  — 

Phrebus  !  Aurora  calls  ;  why  linger  so  ? 


44 


The  Study  of  History. 


[January, 


THE    STUDY    OF    HISTORY. 
A  LECTURE  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  CORNELL  UNIVERSITY. 


WHEN  Austria  offered  to  recog- 
nize the  French  Republic,  the 
victorious  general  of  France  replied 
that  the  Republic  stood  in  no  more 
need  of  recognition  than  the  sun  in 
heaven.  Perhaps  it  is  equally  need- 
less to  vindicate  the  claim  of  the  study 
of  history  to  a  place  in  a  course  of  edu- 
cation. 

To  some  of  those  who  have  come  to 
be  educated  here,  the  study  may  be 
professionally  useful.  I  refer  to  those 
destined  for  the  profession  of  journal- 
ism, some  of  whom  are  pretty  sure  to 
be  included  in  any  large  assemblage 
of  the  youth  of  so  journalistic  a  coun- 
try as  this.  It  is  quite  possible  that,  as 
society  advances,  it  may  call  for  some 
political  guidance  more  responsible  and 
more  philosophical  than  that  of  the 
anonymous  journalist.  But  at  present 
the  journalist  reigns.  His  pen  has 
superseded  not  only  the  sceptre  of 
kings,  but  the  tongue  of  the  parliamen- 
tary or  congressional  debater,  whose 
speeches,  predetermined  and  forestalled 
as  they  are  by  the  discussions  of  the 
press,  are  read  with  a  languid  interest ; 
a  result  which  the  enemies  of  rhetor- 
ical government,  considering  that  the 
pen  is  usually  somewhat  more  under 
control  and  more  accurate  than  the 
tongue,  may  regard  with  a  pensive  sat- 
isfaction. The  right  education  of  the 
journalist  is  a  matter  of  as  much  im- 
portance to  the  public,  in  a  country  like 
this,  as  the  right  education  of  princes  is 
in  a  monarchical  country.  But  if  it  is 
so  important  to  the  public,  it  is  equally 
important  to  the  journalist  himself.  A 
calling  which  society  sanctions  or  de- 
mands, and  which  morality  does  not 
proscribe,  must  be  pursued  ;  and  any 
inherent  evils  which  there  may  be  in  it 
must  be  laid  to  the  account  of  society, 
not  to  that  of  the  individual  writer. 
But  those  who  have  seen  anything  of 


anonymous  journalism  will,  I  believe, 
generally  be  of  opinion  that  all  the 
safeguards  which*  high  training  can 
afford  are  necessary  to  protect  the 
anonymous  journalist  against  the  peril 
of  falling  into  great  degradation,  —  to 
save  him  from  becoming  an  organ  of 
narrow  and  malignant  passions,  possi- 
bly even  of  something  worse.  It  is 
more  difficult,  to  say  the  least,  to  sin 
against  light.  A  man  who  has  been 
raised  by  the  study  of  history  and  its 
cognate  subjects  to  the  point  of  view 
where  the  eye  and  the  heart  take  in 
humanity,  will  not  find  it  quite  so  con- 
genial to  him  to  wallow  in  the  mire  of 
party  fanaticism  or  of  scurrilous  per- 
sonalities. 

Another  calling  seems  likely  to  be 
opened,  for  which  the  studies  of  a 
school  of  political  science,  such  as  the 
plan  of  our  institution  contemplates, 
would  form  a  qualification.  A  move- 
ment is  being  made  in  favor  of  the  in- 
stitution of  a  permanent  civil  service. 
I  do  not  wish  to  express  an  opinion  on 
any  political  question  relating  to  this 
country,  at  least  frorh  this  chair.  But 
I  am  so  sensible  of  the  advantages 
which  we  derive  in  England  from  the 
existence  of  such  a  service,  by  which 
the  whole  of  the  ordinary  administra- 
tion of  the  country  is  not  only  placed  in 
well-trained  hands,  but  taken  almost  en- 
tirely out  of  the  influence  of  party  and 
out  of  the  category  of  party  spoils,  that 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  measure 
will  commend  itself  to  the  national 
mind,  and  that  the  movement  will  be 
crowned  with  success.  In  that  case, 
our  school  of  Political  Science  will 
become  a  school  of  preparation  for  the 
civil  service.  The  subjects  of  the  school 
will  be  history,  studied  from  the  politi- 
cal point  of  view ;  jurisprudence,  in- 
cluding what  is  called,  rather  by  antici- 
pation than  with  reference  to  the  ex- 


8;o.] 


The  Study  of  History. 


45 


isting  state  of  things,  international 
law  ;  and  political  economy,  embracing 
not  only  the  general  laws  of  wealth 
as  demonstrated  and  illustrated  by 
Adam  Smith  and  his  successors,  but 
the  most  useful  facts  relating  to  com- 
merce and  production,  especially  with 
reference  to  this  country. 

To  the  mass  of  the  students,  howev- 
er, the  study  of  history  must  commend 
itself,  not  as  one  of  professional  utility, 
but  as  part  of  a  course  of  self-culture. 
To  the  mass  of  students  the  study  even 
of  physical  science  can  commend  it- 
self on  no  other  ground,  since  the  num- 
ber of  those  who  will  ever  make  a  pro- 
fessional use  of  geology,  chemistry,  or 
anatomy  must  be  limited.  And  if  a 
knowledge  of  physical  science  is  neces- 
sary to  self-culture,  as  unquestionably 
it  is,  equally  necessary  is  a  knowledge 
of  history.  If  it  is  essential  to  our  intel- 
lectual development,  to  our  moral  well- 
being,  to  our  due  discharge  of  the  part 
assigned  to  us  in  life,  that  we  should 
be  placed  in  our  right  relations  to  the 
material  world  and  the  lower  orders  of 
animals,  it  is  surely  at  least  as  essen- 
tial that  we  should  be  placed  in  our 
right  relations  to  humanity.  If  our 
-;  of  observation  require  to  be 
cultivated  by  scientific  pursuits,  so  do 
our  powers  of  moral  reasoning  and  our 
moral  sympathies  require  to  be  culti- 
vated by  their  appropriate  training, 
which  is  the  study  of  history.  In  a 
country  like  this,  —  with  republican  in- 
stitutions which  assume  the  active  co- 
operation of  all  citizens  in  the  work  of 
government,  and  which,  without  that 
co-operation,  lose  their  vitality  and  de- 
generate into  a  cover  for  wire-pullers 
and  jobbers,  —  political  studies,  and  the 
study  of  humanity  generally,  have  an 
especial  claim  on  the  attention  of  the 
citizen,  both  as  a  matter  of  interest  and 
of  duty. 

It  is  useless,  of  course,  for  the  advo- 
cates of  any  particular  kind  of  culture  to 
address  themselves  to  those  writers  on 
education,  or,  as  I  should  rather  say, 
against  education,  who.  if  they  mean 
what  they  sometimes  say,  would  cast 
all  culture  aside,  and,  under  color  of 


making  education  practical  (as  though 
everything  that  did  us  good  were  not 
practical),  would  reduce  all  your  uni- 
versities and  colleges  to  mere  organs 
of  industrial  and  commercial  instruc- 
tion ;  one  result  of  which  would  be 
that,  as  the  intellectual  tastes  and  ap- 
petites of  a  great  nation  could  not  real- 
ly be  confined  within  a  circle  traced  by 
its  least  cultivated  members,  America 
would  have  to  import  all  the  products 
of  the  higher  intellect  and  the  imagina- 
tion, and  would  thus  remain  intellect- 
ually the  slave  of  Europe,  to  the  great 
detriment  of  Europe  as  well  as  to  her 
own.  One  of  the  organs  of  this  ex- 
treme utilitarianism  proclaimed,  the 
other  day,  as  a  proof  of  the  uselessness 
or  worse  than  uselessness  of  high  cul- 
ture, that  there  were  thousands  of  col- 
lege graduates  who  were  unable  to 
earn  their  own  bread.  It  was  meant, 
I  suppose,  that  they  were  unable  to 
earn  their  bread  by  manual  labor ;  a 
statement  scarcely  true  in  itself,  —  since, 
if  they  were  not  crippled  in  any  of  their 
limbs  by  their  knowledge  of  classics 
and  mathematics,  they  might  still  take 
up  a  spade,  list  as  soldiers,  or  go  into 
service  as  porters,  —  and  which,  if  true, 
would  not  be  of  much  significance,  since, 
whatever  may  be  the  case  among  tribes 
in  a  state  of  nature,  in  civilized  coun- 
tries men  are  able  to  earn  their  bread, 
and  their  butter  too,  with  their  brains 
as  well  as  with  their  hands.  Even  a 
being  so  helpless  and  useless,  to  the 
merely  bucolic  eye,  as  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton, provided  for  himself  pretty  well 
in  a  less  intellectual  age  than  the  pres- 
ent. The  development  of  the  mental 
faculties  therefore  pays  just  as  well  as 
that  of  the  muscular  powers.  It  is 
as  the  means  of  self-support  for  those 
who  are  undergoing  a  course  of  high 
education,  not  as  a  substitute  for  high 
education,  that  manual  labor  is  encour- 
aged in  this  institution.  If  classics 
have  been  rated  too  highly  as  instru- 
ments of  mental  training,  if  they  have 
been  studied  in  an  irrational  way  and 
with  too  much  attention  to  philological 
or  paleographical  details,  if  they  have 
been  allowed  to  take  up  too  much  time, 


46 


The  Study  of  History. 


[January, 


or  even  if,  upon  a  deliberate  review 
of  the  question,  apart  from  the  blind 
violence  of  iconoclasts,  we  should  be 
led  to  the  conclusion  that  their  day  is 
past,  it  does  not  follow  that  high  cul- 
ture altogether  is  to  be  discarded  as 
folly,  and  that  all  our  places  of  high 
education  are  to  be  turned  into  tech- 
nological institutes,  model  farms,  and 
workshops.  Certainly,  if  any  voice  in 
the  matter  is  to  be  allowed  to  public 
policy,  and  if  public  policy  points  to 
anything  beyond  the  mere  accumula- 
tion of  wealth,  there  will  be  some  hesi- 
tation and  reflection  before  the  prepon- 
derance of  material  objects,  already 
great  enough,  is  increased  by  throwing 
the  whole  weight  of  public  education 
into  the  material  scale. 

Wealth  is  a  proper  object  of  individ- 
ual pursuit  so  long  as  it  is  pursued  hon- 
orably, which,  when  pursued  very  pas- 
sionately and  exclusively,  it  is  apt,  as 
every  newspaper  you  take  up  shows 
you,  not  to  be.  I  have  no  ascetic  fan- 
cies on  that  subject,  nor  do  I  deprecate 
the  frank  avowal  of  the  attainment  of 
wealth  as  an  object  of  education.  Only 
let  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  we  need 
not  alone  the  art  of  making  wealth,  but 
the  art  of  enjoying  it ;  and  that,  as  the 
capacity  of  the  stomach  is  so  limited, 
if  that  is  the  only  organ  of  enjoyment, 
wealth  will  be  but  poorly  enjoyed.  But 
the  individual  pursuit  of  wealth  is  a 
matter  in  which  the  state  has  little 
interest.  The  only  thing  in  which  the 
state  has  an  interest,  and  which  makes 
it  worth  the  while  of  the  state  to  found 
and  endow  universities,  is  the  improve- 
ment of  the  students  as  members  of 
the  community,  with  due  reference,  of 
course,  to  its  industrial  objects,  but 
also  with  due  reference  to  those  other 
objects  without  which  a  community  of 
men  would  be  no  higher,  and  enjoy  no 
more  happiness,  than  a  community  of 
beavers  or  bees.  The  common  welfare 
is  not  promoted  by  enabling  A  to  rise 
•  '*  head,  and  to  wrench  the  prize 
of  life  out  of  his  hands.  Perhaps  some 
day  a  doubt  may  arise  whether  even 
individual  welfare  is  promoted  by  stim- 
ulating cupidity  and  ambition  in  the 


breast  of  youth  ;  and  the  world,  though 
it  refuses  to  accept  from  theology,  may 
accept  from  biological  and  social  sci- 
ence, the  doctrine  that  contentment  is 
happiness.  However  this  may  be,  the 
mere  satisfaction  of  personal  desires  is 
not  a  public  object ;  and  when  our 
charter  tells  us  that  this  institution  is 
founded  to  promote  the  "liberal  and 
practical  education  "  of  those  for  whom 
it  is  intended,  if  the  term  "practical" 
points  to  the  industrial  and  commercial 
objects  of  the  individual  student,  the 
term  "  liberal "  points  to  the  object  of 
the  state.  Knowledge  which  is  directly 
convertible  into  money  stands  in  little 
need  of  artificial  encouragement. 

An  objection  has  been  sometimes 
taken  to  history,  on  the  ground  of  its 
uncertainty.  This  objection  comes 
from  physical  science,  the  extreme  de- 
votees of  which  sometimes  affect  to  cast 
doubt  on  all  human  testimony,  and 
to  maintain  that  nothing  is  worthy  of 
belief  but  that  which  can  be  reproduced 
by  experiment,  —  forgetting  that  they 
have  no  better  ground  than  human 
testimony  for  believing  that  the  exper- 
iment has  been  made  before  with  the 
same  result.  It  is  true  our  historical 
judgments  are  continually  being  mod- 
ified ;  our  conceptions  of  history  as  a 
whole  are  changing;  some  supposed 
facts  are  being  eliminated,  while  others 
are  coming  to  light  in  the  course  of 
historical  research.  But  may  not  some- 
thing analogous  be  said  of  physical 
science  ?  Are  not  her  theories  also 
continually  undergoing  change  ?  Where 
are  the  astronomical  conceptions  of 
yesterday  ?  They  have  given  way  to 
the  nebular  hypothesis,  which,  in  its 
turn,  may  possibly  be  overthrown  or 
absorbed  by  some  other  hypothesis,  — 
leaving,  no  doubt,  a  residuum  of  truth, 
just  as  successive  theories  of  history 
leave,  some  more,  some  less,  of  a  resid- 
uum of  truth,  though  no  one  of  them 
can  be  said  to  be  final.  History  is  the 
scene  of  controversy  :  but  is  not  sci- 
ence also  ?  Ask  Darwin  and  Agassiz, 
and  the  other  combatants  on  either 
side  of  the  controversy  as  to  the  origin 
of  species.  I  remember  a  passage  in 


1 87Q.] 


The  Study  of  Plistory. 


47 


a  letter  \vritten  by  the  late  Sir  G.  C. 
Lewis,  a  philosopher  certainly  not  want- 
ing in  scepticism  as  to  historical  facts 
and  the  testimony  on  which  they  rest. 
He  then  held  the  office  of  Home  Secre- 
tary, one  of  the  duties  of  which  is  to  ad- 
vise the  sovereign  in  the  exercise  of  the 
prerogative  of  mercy,  and  he  had  been 

into  the  case  of  Swethurst,  a  man 
convicted  of  poisoning  on  evidence  of 
doubtful  validity.  Sir  George  Lewis 
remarked  that  the  professors  of  moral 
philosophy  showed  more  forbearance 
than  policy  in  not  retorting  on  the  pro- 
fessors of  physical  science  the  charge 
of  uncertainty,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
been  consulting  all  the  highest  scien- 

•uhorities  on  the  scientific  parts 
of  the  case,  and  they  had  contradicted 
each  other  all  round.  Absolute  and 
final  certainty  is  the  prerogative  of  no 
study,  except  the  formal  sciences  of 
logic  and  mathematics.  It  has  been 
trulv  said  that  the  most  important  facts 
in  history  are  the  best  ascertained.  It 
is  not  about  the  great  steps  in  the 
progress  of  humanity,  or  about  their 
connection  with  each  other,  that  we  are 
in  doubt.  It  is  about  personal  details, 
which,  though  not  devoid  of  moral  in- 
terest, are  of  secondary  importance, 
and  the  discussion  of  which  would  be 
trivial  if  it  did  not  exercise  the  judicial 
faculties  of  the  historian.  History  may 
safely  permit  Scotchmen  to  maintain 
forever  the  innocence  of  Mary,  Oueen 
of  Scots,  though  it  might  not  be  so  safe 
to  concede  the  general  principle,  on 
which  the  defence  rests,  that  a  pretty 
Scotchwoman  cannot  do  wrong.  Nor 
ought  we  to  overrate  the  proportion 
borne  by  the  controverted  to  the  un- 
controverted  facts.  Mr.  Lowe,  in  one 
of  those  mob  orations  against  mental 
culture  by  which  he  endeavored  to 
atone  to  the  masses  for  his  oligarchical 
opposition  to  the  extension  of  the  suf- 
frage, scoffed  at  history,  because,  as  he 
said,  everything  was  unsettled  in  it, 
and  if  you  asked  two  men  for  an  ac- 
count of  Cromwell,  their  accounts  would 
be  so  different,  that  you  would  not  know 
that  they  were  speaking  of  the  same 
man.  But  this  is  a  great  exaggeration. 


The  two  accounts  would  coincide  as  to 
all  the  leading  facts  :  they  would  differ 
as  to  the  moral  quality  or  political  ex- 
pediency of  certain  actions  ;  just  as 
the  judgments  of  a  Republican  and  a 
Democrat  would  differ  as  to  the  moral 
quality  and  political  expediency  of  cer- 
tain actions  of  General  Grant,  whose 
existence  and  history  are  nevertheless 
substantial  facts.  And  these  diver- 
gences of  opinion  are  being  diminished 
by  the  gradual  prevalence  of  more  com- 
prehensive views  of  history  and  of  a 
sounder  morality.  The  most  extreme 
judgments  on  Cromwell's  character 
would  not  be  so  wide  apart  now  as 
were  those  of  the  Cavaliers  and  Round- 
heads in  his  own  day. 

The  position  that  man  is  to  be  stud- 
ied historically,  if  it  be  taken  to  mean 
that  man  is  to  be  studied  only  in  his- 
tory, is  untrue.  A  simple  inspection 
of  historical  phenomena  could  never 
enable  us  to  discern  good  from  evil  in 
human  action,  or  furnish  any  standard 
of  progress  :  we  could  never  have  at- 
tained the  idea  of  progress  itself  in  that 
way.  But  taken  in  the  sense  that  a 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  humanity 
is  essential  to  a  right  view  of  any 
question  respecting  man,  the  position 
is  a  most  momentous  and  pregnant 
truth,  and  one  the  perception  of  which 
has  already  begun  profoundly  to  mod- 
ify moral  and  political  philosophy,  and 
may  further  modify  them  to  an  almost 
indefinite  extent.  This  prevalence  of 
the  historical  method  in  the  study  of 
man  is  clearly  connected  with  the  prev- 
alence of  the  Darwinian  theory  respect- 
ing the  formation  of  species  in  natural 
science,  as  well  as  with  our  new  views 
of  geology  and  cosmogony,  and  with 
the  discovery  of  those  sidereal  motions 
which  indicate  that  progress  is  the  Jaw 
not  only  of  the  earth  but  of  the  heavens. 
The  whole  amounts  to  a  great  recon- 
stitution  of  the  sum  of  our  knowledge, 
and  of  our  conceptions  of  the  universe 
both  material  and  moral,  on  which,  as 
I  believe,  a  rational  theology  will  in 
time  be  based.  We  have  hitherto 
formed  arbitrary  notions  of  the  Deity, 
and  deduced  theological  systems  from 


48 


The  Study  of  History. 


[January, 


them.  We  shall  now  begin  to  form 
our  notions  of  the  Deity  from  his 
manifestations  of  himself  in  the  uni- 
verse and  in  man.  Ethics  will  proba- 
bly undergo  an  analogous  change,  and, 
instead  of  being  deduced  from  arbitrary 
principles,  will  be  based  on  a  real  exam- 
ination of  human  nature  ;  and  when  so 
reformed  the  study  will  become  fruitful, 
and  enable  us  to  frame  practical  rules 
for  the  formation  of  character,  and  ef- 
fective cures  for  the  maladies  of  our 
moral  nature,  in  place  of  general  pre- 
cepts and  barren  denunciations. 

Whatever  may  be  the  special  results, 
to  moral  science,  of  the  study  of  man 
by  the  historical  method,  it  has  already 
had  the  general  effect  of  binding  us 
more  closely  to  humanity  as  a  whole, 
of  causing  the  monastic  idea  of  sep- 
arate salvation  to  give  way  to  the  idea 
of  salvation  with  and  in  humanity,  and 
of  making  us  feel  more  distinctly  that 
the  service  of  humanity  is  the  service 
of  God.  It  has  at  the  same  time  taught 
us  a  more  grateful  appreciation  of  the 
past,  and  repressed  the  self-conceit 
which  exaggerates  the  powers  and  the 
importance  of  the  generation  of  work- 
ers to  which  we  happen  to  belong.  In 
new  countries  especially,  where  there 
arc  no  monuments  to  plead  for  the  past, 
the  study  of  history  is  eminently  need- 
ed, to  repress  this  collective  egotism  to 
which  each  generation  is  liable,  and 
which  leads  not  only  to  errors  of  taste 
and  sentiment,  but  to  more  serious 
mischief.  At  the  head  of  one  of  your 
leading  organs  of  public  opinion,  I  see 
a  woodcut  representing  the  past  and 
the  future.  The  past  is  symbolized 
by  temples,  pyramids,  and  the  ancient 
implements  of  husbandry ;  the  future 
by  railroads,  steam-vessels,  factories, 
and.  improved  agricultural  machines. 
The  two  are  divided  from  each  other 
by  a  timepiece,  on  which  the  American 
Eagle  is  triumphantly  perched,  with  his 
tail  to  the  past  and  his  head  to  the 
future.  A  figure  representing,  I  pre- 
sume, Young  America,  in  an  attitude 
of  enthusiasm,  is  rushing  into  the  fu- 
ture with  the  star-spangled  banner  in 
his  hand.  This  symbolism  is  false, 


even  in  the  case  of  the  most  advanced 
nation,  inasmuch  as  it  contravenes  the 
fact  that  the  history  of  man  is  a  con- 
tinuous development,  to  which  no  one 
generation  or  epoch  contributes  much 
more  than  another ;  each  transmitting  to 
the  future,  with  but  little  addition,  the 
accumulated  heritage  which  it  has  re- 
ceived from  the  past ;  so  that,  when  we 
have  done  all,  we  are  but  unprofitable 
servants  of  humanity.  The  symbolism 
is  also  doubtful,  as  I  venture  to  think, 
inasmuch  as  it  assumes,  in  accordance 
with  the  popular  impression,  that  an 
acceleration  of  our  material  progress 
is  to  be  the  characteristic  of  the  coming 
age.  Owing  to  the  marvellous  expan- 
sion of  material  wealth,  and  of  the 
knowledge  which  produces  it,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  to  the  perplexity  into 
which  the  spiritual  world  has  been  cast 
by  the  decay  of  ancient  creeds  and  the 
collapse  of  ancient  authorities  on  the 
other,  men  are  at  present  neglecting  or 
abandoning  in  despair  the  questions 
and  interests  symbolized  by  the  tem- 
ples, and  turning  to  those  symbolized 
by  the  railroads  and  the  reaping-ma- 
chines. But  the  higher  nature  will  not 
in  the  end  be  satisfied  with  that  which 
appeals  only  to  the  lower  nature ;  and 
problems  touching  the  estate  and  des- 
tiny of  man  may  soon  present  them- 
selves, no  longer  under  the  veil  of 
Byzantine  or  mediaeval  mysticism,  but 
in  a  rational  and  practical  form,  which 
would  make  the  coming  age  one  of 
spiritual  inquiry  rather  than  of  material 
invention.  To  those  who  keep  the 
experience  of  history  in  view,  the  pre- 
dominance of  material  interests  in  this 
generation  itself  suggests  their  proba- 
ble subordination  in  the  next. 

To  the  statesman,  and  to  all  who 
take  part  in  politics  in  a  free  country, 
history  is  useful,  not  only  as  a  record 
of  experience,  —  in  which  point  of  view 
indeed  its  value  maybe  overrated,  since 
the  same  situation  never  exactly  recurs, 
—  but  because,  displaying  the  gradual 
and  at  the  same  time  unceasing  progress 
of  humanity,  it  inspires  at  once  hope 
and  moderation ;  at  once  condemns 
the  conservatism,  as  chimerical  as  any 


1 870.] 


The  Study  of  History. 


49 


Utopia,  which  strives  to  stereotype  the 
institutions  of  the  past,  and  the  revo- 
lutionary fanaticism  which,  breaking  al- 
together with  the  past  and  regardless 
of  the  conditions  of  the  present,  at- 
tempts to  leap  into  the  far-off  future 
and  makes  wreck,  for  the  time,  of  pro- 
gress in  that  attempt.  To  adopt  the 
terms  of  a  more  general  philosophy, 
history  teaches  the  politician  to  con- 
sider circumstance  as  well  as  will, 
though  it  does  not  teach  him  to  leave 
will  out  of  sight  and  take  account  of 
circumstance  alone. 

I  here  deal  with  history  politically. 
Not  that  I  deem  politics  the  highest  of 
all  subjects,  or  the  political  part  of  his- 
tory the  deepest  and  the  most  vitally 
interesting.  If  the  ultimate  perfectibil- 
ity of  human  nature  which  Christianity 
assumes  and  proclaims  is  to  be  accepted 
as  a  fact,  as  I  think  all  rational  inquiry 
into  human  nature  tends  to  show  that 
it  is,  the  time  will  come,  though  it  may  be 
countless  ages  hence,  when  the  political 
and  legal  union,  which  implies  imperfec- 
tion and  is  based  upon  force,  will  finally 
give  place  to  a  union  of  affection,  and 
when  politics  and  jurisprudence  will 
fall  into  one  happy  grave.  But  for  the 
purpose  of  these  lectures  I  take  the 
political  portion  of  the  complex  move- 
ment of  humanity  apart  from  the  rest, 
and  subordinate  to  it  the  other  portions, 
—  intellectual,  economical,  and  social,  — 
touching  on  these  merely  as  they  affect 
political  characters  and  events.  One 
advantage  of  this  course  is  that  we 
shall  escape  the  necessity  of  dealing 
with  any  religious  question,  and  thus 
perhaps  avoid  collision  with  some  good 
people,  who,  though  they  are  thoroughly 
convinced  that  to  burn  men  alive  for 
their  opinions  is  a  mistake,  are  not  yet 
thoroughly  convinced  that  perfect  free- 
dom of  thought  and  speech,  unchecked 
by  any  penalties,  legal  or  social,  by  fag- 
ots or  by  frowns,  is  the  sole  guaranty 
of  truth,  and  the  only  hope  of  escape 
from  the  perplexity  and  distress  into 
which  all  who  do  not  bury  their  heads 
in  the  sand  to  escape  danger  must  see 
that  the  religious  world  has  unhappily 
fallen. 

VOL.  xxv.  — NO.  147.  4 


The  nation  of  the  political  history  of 
which  I  am  to  treat  is  England.  Eng- 
lish history  is  the  subject  of  my  profes- 
sorship. But,  apart  from  this,  few  would 
deny  to  England  the  foremost  place,  on 
the  whole,  in  the  history  of  political 
development,  whatever  they  may  think 
of  her  achievements  in  other  spheres. 
The  Constitution  which  she  has  worked 
out  through  so  many  ages  of  continuous 
effort  will  after  all  prove,  I  doubt  not, 
merely  transitional :  it  is  simply  the 
bridge  over  which  society  is  passing 
from  feudalism  to  democracy.  But  it 
has  now  been  adopted  in  its  main  fea- 
tures by  all  the  civilized  nations  of 
Europe,  among  which  I  do  not  include 
the  half-Oriental  as  well  as  half-barba- 
rous despotism  of  Russia.  It  was  adopt- 
ed by  France  in  1789.  Since  that  time 
the  Bonapartes  have  labored  to  estab- 
lish in  their  own  power  a  personal  gov- 
ernment after  the  model  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  the  great  historical  antagonist 
of  the  Teutonic  monarchy.  But  the 
present  Emperor  finds  himself  com- 
pelled by  the  spirit  of  the  age  and  the 
force  of  example,  as  the  condition  of 
his  son's  succession,  to  lay  down  his 
personal  power  and  reduce  his  mon- 
archy to  the  English  form.  The  funda- 
mental connection  between  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  American  constitution 
cannot  fail  to  be  seen.  If  on  the  one 
hand  the  hereditary  element  has  been 
left  behind  by  society  in  its  transition 
to  the  New  World  (as  it  has  been 
dropped  by  the  more  recent  framers  of 
constitutions  in  Europe  so  far  as  the 
Upper  Chamber  is  concerned),  on  the 
other  hand  the  monarchical  element 
has  been  here  reinvested  with  a  large 
portion  of  the  power  of  which  in  Eng- 
land it  has  under  decorous  forms  been 
entirely  deprived  ;  and  if  the  American 
form  of  government  is  compared  with 
the  English  form  in  this  respect,  the 
American  form  may  be  said  to  be  an 
elective  and  terminable  monarchy,  while 
the  English  form  is  a  republic. 

Treating  merely  of  a  segment  of  his- 
tory, and  from  a  special  point  of  view,  I 
am  hardly  called  upon  to  discuss  the 
universal  theories  of  history  which  have 


77/6-  Study  of  History. 


[January, 


been  r,  .ounded  :   I  will,  hovv- 

indicate   my   position   with 
10  them.     They  are  theo< 

the  existence  of  spiritual  life,  — 
some  of  them  retain  and  even 

;hc  name  spiritual,  without  any 

mining, —  and  involving  the  as- 
sumption that  the  history  of  mankind 
is  a  necessary  evolution,  of  which  hu- 
man volitions  are  merely  the  steps,  just 
as  physical  occurrences  are  the  steps  of 
a  necessary  evolution  or  development 
in  the  material  world  ;  and  they  seem 
to  me  to  be  the  characteristic  products 
of  minds  which,  having  been  formed  too 
exclusively  under  the  influence  of  phys- 
ical science,  cannot  conceive  any  limits 
to  physical  method,  and  at  the  same 
time  are  eager  to  complete,  as  they 
think,  a  great  intellectual  revolution, 
by  extending  it  from  the  material  world 
to  humanity,  and  reorganizing  moral 
and  political  philosophy  in  supposed 
accordance  with  physical  science. 

I  am  ready  to  enter  into  the  verifica- 
tion of  any  hypothesis,  however  novel, 
and  from  whatever  quarter  it  may  come, 
provided  that  it  covers  the  facts.  But 
the  authors  of  these  theories  of  history 
do  not  attempt,  so  far  as  I  am  aware, 
to  account  for  the  phenomena  of  voli- 
tion, for  the  distinction  which  we  find 
ourselves  compelled  to  make  between 
voluntary  and  involuntary  actions,  or 
for  morality  generally,  which  implies 
that  human  will  is  free,  —  not  free  in 

nse  of  being  arbitrary,  but  free 
in  the  sense  of  being  self-determined, 
not  determined  by  antecedent  circum- 
stance, like  the  occurrences  of  the 
material  world.  Is  the  subversion  of 
public  right  by  a  military  usurper  a 
necessary  incident  in  an  historic  evo- 
lution ?  Is  the  commission  of  so  many 
murders  per  annum  the  effect  of  an 
irreversible  law  denoted  by  criminal 
statistics  ?  Then  why  denounce  the 
usurper  and  the  murderer  ?  Why  de- 
nounce them  any  more  than  the  plague 
or  the  earthquake  ?  It  is  possible  that 
a  physical  explanation  of  all  these  mor- 
al phenomena  may  be  in  store  for  us, 
and  that  our  consciousness  of  self-de- 
termination in  our  actions,  commonly 


denoted  by  the  term  "  free-will,"  may 
prove  to  be  an  illusion  ;  but  I  repeat 
that,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  no  attempt 
to  supply  such  an  explanation  has  yet 
been  made.  Nor  am  I  aware  that  any 
attempt  has  been  made  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  the  personality  of  man,  and 
explain  what  this  being  is,  ^hich,  being 
bound  by  necessary  laws,  yet  rises  to 
the  contemplation  and  scrutiny  of  those 
laws,  and  can  even,  as  the  necessarian 
school  admits,  modify  their  action, 
though  we  are  told  he  cannot  change 
it,  —  as  though  modification  were  not 
change.  The  theory  tacitly  adopted  is 
that  of  the  Calvinist  writers,  who  have 
labored  to  reconcile  the  moral  justice 
of  God  in  rewarding  the  good  and  pun- 
ishing the  wicked  with  the  doctrine  of 
predestination,  but  whose  arguments 
have  never,  I  believe,  given  real  satis- 
faction even  to  their  own  minds,  much 
less  to  minds  which  are  not  Calvinist, 
and  the  chief  of  whom  has,  it  seems 
to  me,  recently  received  specific  con- 
futation at  the  hands  of  your  fellow- 
countryman,  Mr.  Hazard,  whose  book 
"  On  the  Will "  I  mention  with  pleas- 
ure as  a  work  of  vigorous  and  original 
thought,  and  so  esteemed  by  judges 
whose  opinion  is  of  more  value  than 
mine. 

The  theory  of  Comte  is  that  the  hu- 
man mind  collectively  (and,  if  I  under- 
stand him  rightly,  that  of  every  individ- 
ual man  in  like  manner)  is  compelled, 
by  its  structure  and  by  its  relation  to 
the  circumstances  in  which  it  is  placed, 
to  pass  through  three  successive  phas- 
es,—  the  theological,  the  metaphysical, 
and  the  positive,  —  drawing  with  it  so- 
ciety, which  in  corresponding  succes- 
sion is  constituted,  first  on  a  theologi- 
cal, then  on  a  metaphysical,  and  finally 
on  a  positive  basis.  The  term  "  posi- 
tive" will  be  found,  on  examination,  to- 
mean  nothing  more  than  scientific.  The 
ascendency  of  science  is,  according  to 
this  theory,  the  extinction  of  religion ; 
the  metaphysical  era  in  which,  as  Comte 
asserts,  man  attributes  phenomena,  not, 
to  God,  but  to  nature  and  other  met- 
aphysical entities,  being  the  twilight 
between  the  theological  night  and  the 


1 870.] 


The  Study  of  History. 


scientific  dawn.  I  mean,  by  religion,  a 
religion  with  a  God  :  for,  to  fill  the  void 
in  the  human  breast,  Comte  invented  a 
religion  without  a  God,  which  will  be 
found,  saving  this  one  omission,  a 
close  and  even  servile  imitation  of  the 
Catholic  Church  (to  which  Comtc  was 
accustomed)  with  its  sacraments  and 
ceremonies,  and  above  all  with  a  priest- 
ly despotism  as  oppressive  and  as  de- 
structive of  free  inquiry  as  the  Papacy 
itself. 

I  think  I  should  be  prepared  to  show 
that  this  hypothesis  does  not  corre- 
spond with  the  facts  of  history  in  detail. 
But  I  again  submit  that  this  is  unneces- 
sary :  the  hypothesis  is  untenable  on  the 
face  of  it,  antecedently  to  any  process 
of  verification.  The  ascendency  of  sci- 
ence is  not  the  extinction  of  religion, 
nor  is  there  any  incompatibility  be- 
tween the  theological  and  the  scientific 
view  of  the  universe.  Between  Poly- 
theism, which  splits  up  the  universe 
into  the  domains  of  a  multitude  of 
gods,  and  science,  which  demonstrates 
its  unity,  there  is  an  incompatibility; 
but  between  monotheism  and  science 
there  is  none.  The  two  propositions, 
that  there  is  an  intelligent  Creator,  and 
that  his  intelligence  displays  itself  in  a 
uniformity  of  law  throughout  his  crea- 
tion, —  the  first  of  which  is  the  basis 
of  religion,  the  second  that  of  science, 
—  are  as  far  as  possible  from  being  in- 
consistent with  each  other.  The  most 
intense  belief  in  God  and  the  highest 
science  dwelt  together  in  the  minds  of 
Pascal  and  Newton.  Therefore  the 
two  terms  of  the  supposed  series,  "  the- 
ological," and  "  positive  "  or  scientific, 
do  not  bear  to  each  other  the  relation 
which  the  hypothesis  requires, — they 
are  not  mutually  exclusive  ;  and  the  hy- 
pothesis falls  to  the  ground.  So  far  is 
science  from  extinguishing  theology, 
that  its  discoveries  as  to  the  order  and 
motion  of  the  universe  seem  likely,  in 
conjunction  with  an  improved  philoso- 
phy of  history  and  a  more  rational  psy- 
chology, to  render  far  mpre  palpable 
to  us  than  they  have  ever  been  before, 
the  existence  and  the  presence  of  God  ; 
so  that  Byzantine  theosophy  and  the 


mythology  of  the  Middle  Ages  will 
clear  away  only  to  leave  theology 
stronger,  and  society  more  firmly 
founded  on  a  theological  basis  than 
ever.  Comte,  familiar  with  Catholic 
miracles  and  legends,  asserts  that  all 
religion  must  be  supernatural:  prove 
that,  instead  of  contravening  nature,  it 
results  from  nature,  and  his  attacks 
lose  all  their  force. 

The  want  of  a  well-laid  foundation 
for  Comte's  theory  is  betrayed  by  his 
lamentations  over  the  intellectual  and 
social  anarchy  of  his  age,  and  by 
his  denunciations  of  those  who,  as  he 
thinks,  prolong  that  anarchy  and  pre- 
vent his  philosophy  from  regenerating 
the  world.  If  law  reigns  absolutely, 
how  can  there  be  anarchy  ?  If  the 
•whole  evolution  of  humanity  is  neces- 
sary, why  is  that  part  of  the  evolution 
with  which  Comte  comes  into  angry 
collision,  and  which  he  styles  anarchy, 
less  necessary  than  the  rest  ?  Anarchy 
implies  a  power  in  men  of  breaking 
through  the  law ;  in  other  words,  it  im- 
plies free-will. 

The  theory  of  Mr.  Buckle,  though  not 
clearly  stated  and  still  less  clearly 
worked  out,  seems  to  me  to  be,  in  ef- 
fect, a  reproduction  of  that  of  Comte. 
He,  too,  supposes  a  necessary  intellect- 
ual evolution  which  is,  in  fact,  a  grad- 
ual exodus  of  humanity  from  religion 
into  science,  Doubt,  for  which  scepti- 
cism is  only  the  Greek  name,  is  with 
him  the  grand  spring  of  progress, 
though  it  seems  plain  that  doubt  can 
never  move  any  man  or  body  of  men  to 
action  or  production.  His  attempts  to 
deduce  the  character  and  history  of  na- 
tions from  the  physical  circumstances 
of  their  origin  are  very  unconnected, 
and  often  very  unsuccessful.  He  as- 
cribes, for  instance,  the  superstitious 
tendencies  of  the  Scotch  to  the  influ- 
ence of  their  mountain  scenery  and  its 
attendant  thunder-storms,  confounding 
the  Saxon-Scotch  of  the  Lowlands,  of 
whom  he  is  throughout  treating,  with 
the  Celts  of  the  Highlands,  who  re- 
mained an  entirely  distinct  people  down 
to  the  middle,  at  least,  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, and  whose  characteristics  are 


The  Study  of  History. 


[January, 


fundamentally  the  same  as  those  of 
their  kinsmen,  the  Irish,  Welsh,  and 
Britons,  while  the  aspect  of  nature  va- 
ries greatly  in  the  four  countries.  He 
assigns  the  frequency  and  destructive- 
ness  of  earthquakes  and  volcanic  erup- 
tions in  Italy  and  in  the  Spanish  and 
Portuguese  peninsula  as  the  explana- 
tion of  what  he  assumes  to  be  the  fact 
that  these  are  the  two  regions  in  which 
superstition  is  most  rife  and  the  super- 
stitious classes  most  powerful.  But  we 
have  no  reason  for  believing  that  the 
ancient  inhabitants  of  Italy  were  pe- 
culiarly superstitious :  the  Romans, 
though  in  the  better  period  of  their 
history  a  religious  people,  were  never 
superstitious  in  the  proper  sense  of  the 
term,  as  compared  with  other  ancient 
nations,  and  the  more  educated  class 
became,  in  the  end,  decided  free- 
thinkers. In  later  times  the  Papacy, 
supported  by  the  forces  of  the  Catholic 
kingdoms,  forced  superstition  on  the 
people  ;  but  we  may  safely  say  that 
./Etna  and  Vesuvius  and  the  earth- 
quakes of  Calabria  had  very  little  to  do 
with  the  growth  of  the  Papal  power. 
Jn  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  penin- 
sula there  are  no  volcanoes,  and  the 
only  historic  earthquakes  are  those  of 
Lisbon  and  Malaga,  both  long  subse- 
quent to  the  culmination  of  superstition 
among  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese. 
The  Celtiberians,  the  earliest  inhabit- 
ants of  the  peninsula  known  to  history, 
do  not  seem  to  have  been  more  super- 
stitious than  the  other  Celts ;  and  the 
influence  of  the  bishops  under  the  Visi- 
gothic  monarchy,  like  that  of  the  bish- 
ops in  the  empire  of  Charlemagne, 
was  more  political  than  religious,  and 
denotes  rather  the  strength  of  the  Ro- 
man element  in  that  monarchy  than 
the  prevalence  of  superstition.  Span- 
ish superstition  and  bigotry  had  their 
source  in  the  long  struggle  against  the 
Moors,  the  influence  of  which  Mr. 
Buckle  afterwards  recognizes,  though 
he  fails  to  connect  it  with  any  physical 
cause,  as  well  as  to  compare  it  with  its 
historic  analogue,  the  struggle  of  the 
Russians  against  the  Tartars,  which 
has  left  similar  traces  in  the  fanaticism 


of  the  Russian  people.  In  the  same 
passage  to  which  I  have  just  referred, 
Mr.  Buckle  adduces  another  circum- 
stance, indicative,  as  he  says,  of  the 
connection  between  the  physical  phe- 
nomena of  earthquakes  and  volcanoes 
and  the  predominance  of  the  imagina- 
ation.  "  Speaking  generally,"  he  says, 
"  the  fine  arts  are  addressed  to  the 
imagination,  the  sciences  to  the  intel- 
lect :  now  it  is  remarkable  that  all 
the  greatest  painters  and  nearly  all 
the  greatest  sculptors  modern  Europe 
has  possessed  have  been  produced  by 
the  Italian  and  Spanish  peninsulas." 
Here  again  he  fails  to  notice  that, 
though  the  action  of  the  alleged  cause 

—  the  awful  character  of  the  physical 
phenomena  —  has   been   constant,  the 
supposed     effect    has    been    confined 
within    very    narrow    limits    of    time. 
The  ancient   Romans  were   not  great 
painters  ;  their  excellence  in  any  works 
of   the    imagination    was    small    com- 
pared with  that  of  the  Greeks,  whose 
country  is  remarkably  free  from  phys- 
ical   phenomena    of    an     overwhelm- 
ing kind.     Italian   art  sprang  up  with 
the  wealth,  taste,  and   intellectual   ac- 
tivity of  the  great  Italian  cities  of  the 
Middle  Ages  ;  it  sprang  up,  not  among 
the  Calabrian  peasantry,  but  among  the 
most  advanced  portions  of  the  popula- 
tion, and  those  least  under  the  moral  in- 
fluence of  physical  phenomena  ;  it  had 
its  counterpart  in  the  art  which  sprang 
up  in  the  great  cities  of  Germany  and 
Flanders  ;  and  it  was  accompanied  by 
a  scientific  movement   as   vigorous  as 
the  resources  of  the  age  would  permit, 

—  the  two   meeting  in   the  person  of 
Leonardo  Da  Vinci.     Spanish  art  was 
a  concomitant  of  the  splendor  of  the 
Spanish   monarchy,   and  its    rise   was 
closely  connected  with  the  possession 
by  Spain  of  part  of  Italy  and  the  Neth- 
erlands, from  which  countries  not  a  lit- 
tle  of  it   was   derived.      Spanish   and 
Italian  art  are  now  dead  ;  while  Eng- 
land, which  in  those  days  had  no  paint- 
ers, now,  under  the  stimulus  of  wealth 
and  culture,  without  any  change  in  the 
physical     circumstances,     produces     a 
school  of  painting,  with  the  names  of 


1870.] 


The  Study  of  History. 


53 


Turner,  Millais,  and  Hunt  at  its  head, 
which  is  the  full  equivalent  in  art  of 
Tennyson's  poetry.  To  what  influence 
of  physical  phenomena  are  we  to  trace 
the  marvellous  burst  of  Christian  im- 
agination in  the  cathedrals  of  the 
North,  or  the  singular  succession  of 
great  musical  composers  in  Germany 
during  the  last  century  ? 

The  greater  part  of  Mr.  Buckle's 
work  is  taken  up  with  an  analysis  of 
certain  portions  of  history, — erudite, 
acute,  and  sometimes  instructive,  but 
exhibiting  no  novelty  in  its  method, 
assigning  to  persons  great  influence 
over  events,  bestowing  praise  and 
blame  with  a.  vehemence  curiously  at 
variance  with  the  necessarian  theory 
of  character  and  action,  and  having,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  no  very  clear  thread  of 
philosophical  connection,  unless  it  be  a 
pervading  hostility  to  the  clergy,  the 
consequence  of  Mr.  Buckle's  antago- 
nism to  the  State  Church  of  England, 
and  another  proof  of  the  effect  of  state 
churches  in  driving  criticism  to  ex- 
tremes and  producing  antipathy  to  re/- 
ligion. 

Mr.  Buckle,  while  he  generally  coin- 
cides with  Comte,  has  to  himself  the 
doctrine  that  morality  does  not  ad- 
vance, and  that  the  progress  of  hu- 
manity is  purely  scientific.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  he  had  ever  turned 
his  attention  to  the  movement  which 
followed  the  preaching  of  Christianity. 
Comte,  on  the  contrary,  maintains  with 
great  beauty  and  force  that  the  progress 
of  society  depends  on  the  prevalence  of 
the  unselfish  over  the  selfish  affections, 
though  his  disciples  are  mistaken  in 
thinking  that  their  master  was  the  first 
author  of  the  precept  to  love  one  an- 
other. 

The  force  of  those  influences  which 
Mr.  Buckle,  if  he  had  carried  out  his 
theory  consistently,  would  have  traced 
everywhere  is,  of  course,  not  denied. 
They  form,  as  it  were,  the  body  of  his- 
tory ;  but  there  is  also,  or  appears  to  be, 
a  living  soul.  Circumstances,  however 
great  their  influence  upon  action  may 
be,  do  not  act ;  it  is  man  that  acts. 
If  I  walk  from  this  building  to  the  uni- 


versity, the  relative  positions  of  the  two 
places,  the  curves  of  the  road  between 
them,  and  the  structure  of  my  body, 
are  conditions  and  limitations  of  my 
walking  ;  but  they  do  not  take  the 
walk,  nor  would  an  account  of  them 
be  a  complete  account  of  the  matter. 
Without  a  thorough  and  rational  inves- 
tigation of  human  nature  as  the  point 
of  departure,  all  these  theories  are 
mere  collections  of  remarks,  more  or 
less  suggestive,  more  or  less  crude : 
the  fundamental  problem  remains  un- 
solved. 

It  is  time  that  the  minds  of  all  who 
make  humanity  their  study  should  be 
turned,  in  the  light  of  reason,  to  that 
aggregate  of  phenomena,  not  dreamed 
of  in  the  philosophy  of  the  physicists, 
which  is  included  in  the  term  "spiritual 
life,"  —  the  spiritual  convictions,  affec- 
tions, aspirations  of  man,  and  his  ten- 
dency to  form  a  spiritual  union  or  church 
with  God  for  its  head  and  bond,  and  to 
merge  other  unions  gradually  in  this. 
Is  all  this  to  be  explained  away  as  mere 
illusion,  with  the  mythology  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  and  other  superstitions ;  or 
are  the  superstitions  only  incrusta- 
tions, from  which  the  spiritual  life  will 
in  the  end  work  itself  clear  ?  Supposing 
special  prayers  for  physical  miracles, 
and  invocations  of  Divine  help,  where 
the  duty  is  set  before  us  of  helping  our- 
selves, to  be  irrational,  —  does  it  follow, 
as  the  physicists  tacitly  assume,  that 
all  communion  of  the  spirit  with  God 
is  a  hallucination  also  ?  Granting  that 
the  natural  evidences  of  the  immortality 
of  the  soul  ordinarily  adduced  are  un- 
satisfactory, as  assuredly  they  are,  — 
does  spiritual  life  contain  in  itself  no 
assurance  of  ultimate  victory  over  the 
material  or  quasi-material  laws  by  which 
the  rest  of  our,  being  is  bound,  and 
through  which  we  are  subject  to  death  ? 
Supposing  spiritual  life  to  be  a  reality, 
it  would  obviously  be  necessary  to  con- 
struct the  philosophy  of  history  on  a 
plan  totally  different  from  any  which 
the  physicists  have  proposed. 

Pending  this  inquiry  we  may  fairly 
require,  in  the  name  of  science  herself, 
that  some  caution  shall  be  exercised  by 


54 


The  Study  of  History. 


[January, 


:  :ts  in  laying  down  the  law  as  to 
the  order  of  the  universe,  and  the  char- 
acter and  purposes  of  its  maker.  One  of 
the  most  eminent  of  the  number,  and  one 
from  whom  I  should  have  least  expect- 
ed any  rash  excursions  into  the  un- 
known, undertook  to  assure  us  the  oth- 
er day,  on  the  strength  of  merely  phys- 
ical investigations,  that  the  Author  and 
Ruler  of  the  universe  was  an  inexorable 
Power,  playing,  as  it  were,  a  game  of 
chess  against  his  creatures,  respecting 
and  rewarding  the  strong,  but  ruthlessly 
checkmating  the  weak.  In  the  physical 
world  taken  by  itself,  this  may  be  true  ; 
but  in  the  spiritual  world  it  is  contrary 
to  all  the  phenomena  or  apparent  phe- 
nomena, and  therefore  apparently  not 
true.  God  there  manifests  himself  not 
as  a  ruthless  chess-player,  but  as  a  God 
of  love,  to  whom  the  weak  are  as  pre- 
cious as  the  strong.  It  is  assumed  nat- 
urally enough  by  those  whose  minds 
have  been  turned  only  to  one  kind  of 
phenomena  and  one  sphere  of  thought, 
that  the  appearance  of  man  as  an  ani- 
mal in  the  world  was  the  consummation 
of  the  order  of  nature,  and  that  our  ani- 
mal structure  must  therefore  contain 
in  itself  a  complete  key  to  humanity. 
Yet  physiology  has  up  to  this  time 
made  but  little  progress  in  tracing  the 
connection  between  man's  animal  struc- 
ture and  his  spiritual  aspirations,  or  even 
his  larger  and  more  unselfish  affections. 
You  see  books  professing  to  treat  of 
mind  physiologically ;  but  the  authors 
of  those  books,  though  they  are  always 
sneering  at  what  they  call  metaphysics, 
that  is,  the  evidence  of  consciousness, 
really  draw  their  knowledge  of  the  ex- 
istence of  mind  and  of  the  several  men- 
tal functions  from  no  other  source. 
The  physiological  part  of  these  works 
amounts  to  little  more  than  a  very 
general  demonstration  of  the  connec- 
tion between  mind  and  the  brain  and 
between  mental  aberration  and  cerebral 
disease,  which  may  itself  be  said  almost 
to  be  a  part  of  consciousness.*  It  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  other  and 

"  It  Is  confidently  stated  that  in  all  cases  of  men- 
tal disease  there  is  lesion  or  dilapidation  of  the  brain. 
:c!y  omcthing  very  like  mental  disease  may 


more  fruitful  discoveries  will  be  made 
in  these  regions,  as  well  as  with  regard 
to  the  connection  between  physical 
temperament  and  moral  tendencies. 
But  it  is  not  reasonable  to  pronounce 
what  the  discoveries  will  be  before  they 
have  been  made.  For  my  own  part,  I 
wait  for  further  light. 

It  is  certain,  as  a  matter  of  historical 
fact,  that  with  the  advent  of  Christiani- 
ty a  new  set  of  forces  came  upon  the 
scene,  and  that  under  their  operation 
commenced  a  gradual  transmutation  of 
the  character  and  aims  of  humanity, 
both  individual  and  collective.  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Charity,  the  three  great 
manifestations  of  spiritual  life,  were  not 
merely  modifications  of  existing  moral 
virtues  :  they  were  new  motive  powers. 
The  ancient  world  had  no  names  for 
them :  for  I  need  hardly  say  that 
though  the  terms  are  found  in  classical 
Greek,  their  meaning  in  classical  Greek 
is  not  their  meaning  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment. It  is  by  these  new  motive  pow- 
ers that  all  Christian  life,  individual  and 
collective,  including  a  good  deal  of  life 
which  has  ceased  to  call  itself  Chris- 
tian, is  pervaded  and  sustained,  and  of 
them  all  Christian  institutions  are  em- 
bodiments. They  have  superseded  the 
motives  which  formed  the  springs  of 
the  merely  moral  life,  as  described,  for 
instance,  in  Aristotle's  Ethics.  Before 
the  arrival  of  Christianity,  the  fulcrum 
of  those  who  moved  humanity  was  in 
the  seen,  since  that  time  it  has  been  in 
the  unseen  world.  The  ideal  of  the  an- 
cient world  was  always,  if  anywhere,  in 
the  past ;  no  hope  of  better  things  to 
come  can  be  traced  in  any  ancient  phi- 
losopher ;  Plato's  Utopia  is  primitive 
Sparta  ;  that  of  Roman  reformers  was 
primitive  Rome ;  that  of  Voltaire  is  a 
fabulous  China;  that  of  Rousseau  the 
state  of  nature  ;  but  the  ideal  of  Chris- 
tianity has  always  been  in  the  future. 
Ancient  art  embodied  at  the  utmost  con- 
ceptions of  ideal  beauty  ;  Christian  art 
embodies  spiritual  aspirations.  These 
remarks,  and  others  which  might  be 

be  produced  by  the  indulgence  of  uncontrolled  ego- 
tism, which  it  seems  difficult  to  connect  with  any  an- 
tecedent physical  condition  of  the  brain. 


The  Study  of  History. 


55 


made  in  the  same  sense,  if  they  are  cor- 
rect, are  not  priestly  dogmas,  but  histor- 
ical facts,  such  as  must  be  taken  into 
account  by  any.  one  who  is  constructing 
a  philosophy  of  history.  And  they 
stand  independent  of  any  controversies 
as  to  the  authenticity  or  historical  char- 
acter of  any  particular  Christian  docu- 
ments. 

Science  has  revealed  to  us  God  as  a 
being  acting,  not  by  mere  fiat,  but  by 
way  of  progress  and  development  in 

./  with  human  effort,  and  conduct- 
ing his  work  upwards  through  a  suc- 
cession of  immeasurable  periods  from  a 
mere  nebulous  mass  to  an  ordered  uni- 
.ind  from  inorganic  matter  to  or- 
ganic and  ultimately  to  intellectual  and 
moral  life.  There  is  nothing,  therefore, 
contrary  to  nature,  or,  to  use  Comte's 
phrase,  supernatural,  in  the  belief  that, 
in  the  fulness  of  time,  spiritual  life 
also  came  into  the  world.  There  was  a 
time  when  animal  life  made  its  appear- 
ance, —  not  abruptly,  perhaps,  but  deci- 

.  and  so  as  to  open  a  new  order 
of  things.     The  appearance  of  spiritual 

is  not  abrupt.  Apart  from  any 
question  as  to  the  Messianic  character 
of  prophecy,  we  see  a  line  of  hope,  con- 
tinually brightening  amidst  national  ca- 
lamity, along  the  course  of  Hebn 
tory.  The  Platonic  doctrine  of  ideas 
and  the  transcendental  motives  for  self- 
improvement  which  were  preached  in 
some  of  the  ancient  schools  of  philos- 
ophy may  be  called  a  rudimentary  faith. 
The  brotherhoods  of  the  philosophers, 
and  perhaps  even  the  sublimated  pa- 
triotism of  the  Roman,  were  a  rudimen- 
tary charity.  But  in  the  case  of  spiritual 
as  well  as  in  that  of  animal  life,  there 
was  a  critical  moment  when  the  appear- 
ance was  complete. 

The  spring  of  human  progress,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  since  the  advent  of 
Christianity,  has  been  the  desire  to  real- 
ize a  certain  ideal,  —  individual  and  so- 
cial. And  I  have  elsewhere  (in  Oxford 
lectures  on  the  study  of  history)  given 
reasons  for  regarding  this  ideal  as  still 
identical  with  that  proposed  by  the 
Founder  of  Christianity  and  exemplified 
in  his  life  and  in  his  relations  with  his 


disciples.  I  believe  that  intellectual 
s  will  be  found  to  be  a  part  of 
;ie  movement,  and  that  the  spring 
of  intellectual  as  weil  as  of  social  effort 
is  really  the  love  of  mankind.  Suppose 
entirely  cut  off  from  his  kind  ;  he 
would  scarcely  be  sustained  in  intellect- 
ual effort  by  the  mere  desire  of  specu- 
lative truth. 

If  spiritual  life  is  still  weak  in  the 
world,  and  but  little  progress  has  yet 
been  made  in  the  transformation  of  hu- 
manity, this  need  not  surprise  us,  know- 
ing as  we  do  that  gradual  progress  is 
the  law  of  the  universe.  Christianity 
is  as  yet  young  to  the  Pyramids.  It  has 
not  been  in  the  world  half  the  time  that 
it  takes  a  ray  of  light  to  reach  the  earth 
from  a  star  of  the  twelfth  magnitude. 
Nor  do  the  lateness  of  its  advent,  the 
lapse  of  generations  previous  to  its 
coining,  and  its  partial  diffusion  up  to 
the  present  time,  contradict  the  wisdom 
and  beneficence  of  the  Creator,  unless 
it  can  be  proved  that  the  order  of  the 
universe  is  limited  to  a  single  evolu- 
tion. The  most  recent  discoveries  of 
astronomy  as  to  the  motions  and  tenden- 
cies of  the  sidereal  systems  seem  to  in- 
dicate that  this  is  not  the  fact,  but  that 
the  phenomena  point  to  an  indefinite 
series  of  revolutions,  each  revolution  a 
mere  pulsation,  as  it  were,  in  the  being 
of  God. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  with  regard  to 
these  universal  theories  I  have  only 
to  indicate  my  own  position,  which  is 
that  of  one  who  believes  the  phys- 
ical and  necessarian  hypothesis  to  be 
unproved,  and  the  Christian  view  of 
humanity,  taken  in  a  rational  sense,  to 
be  still  in  possession  of  the  field.  My 
limited  theme  is  the  political  history  of 
England,  in  dealing  with  which  as  one 
who  has  been  connected  with  party 
politics,  I  will  endeavor  to  do  justice  to 
the  other  party  ;  and  as  an  Englishman, 
I  will  endeavor  to  show  that,  while  I 
love  England  well,  I  love  humanity  bet- 
ter, and  know  that  God  is  above  all. 
History  written  in  the  old  spirit  of  na- 
tional pride  and  exclusiveness  would  be 
particularly  out  of  place  in  this  country, 
where  the  conditions  which  in  Europe 


Americanism  in  Literatttre. 


[January, 


gave  birth  to  the  narrower  type  of  civi- 
lization, —  the  divisions  of  race,  lan- 
guage, and  territory,  —  are  absent,  and 
the  counsels  of  Providence  seem  to  point 
to  an  ampler  development  of  humanity 
in  the  form  of  a  federated  continent  hav- 
ing many  centres  of  intellectual  and  po- 
litical life,  the  guaranties  of  a  varied 
and  well-balanced  progress,  but  with 
security  for  perfect  freedom  of  inter- 
course and  uninterrupted  peace.  There 
is  no  reason  for  assuming  that  the  na- 
tion, any  more  than  the  tribe  or  clan, 
which  preceded  it,  is  the  final  organ- 
ization of  human  society,  and  that  to 
which  the  ultimate  allegiance  of  men 
will  be  due.  But  at  all  events,  if  we  are 


Christians  we  ought  to  regard  the  na- 
tion as  an  organ  of  humanity,  not  of 
inhuman  antipathies  and  selfishness. 
One  may  see  histories,  popular  in  civ- 
ilized nations,  and  used  in  the  education 
of  the  young,  which  seem  to  have  no  ob- 
ject but  that  of  inflaming  national  vanity 
and  malignity,  and  the  spirit  of  which 
is  really  not  above  that  of  the  red  In- 
dian who  garnishes  his  wigwam  with  the 
scalps  of  his  slain  enemies.  Compared 
with  such  histories,  whatever  may  be 
their  literary  merits,  the  most  wretched 
chronicle  of  a  mediaeval  monk  is  a 
noble  and  elevating  work.  The  monk 
at  least  recognizes  a  Christendom,  and 
owes  allegiance  to  a  law  of  love. 


AMERICANISM     IN     LITERATURE. 


THE  voyager  from  Europe  who 
lands  upon  our  shores  perceives 
a  difference  in  the  sky  above  his  head ; 
the  height  seems  loftier,  the  zenith 
more  remote,  the  horizon-wall  more 
steep ;  the  moon  appears  to  hang  in 
middle  air,  beneath  a  dome  that  arches 
far  beyond  it.  The  sense  of  natural 
symbolism  is  so  strong  in  us,  that  the 
mind  unconsciously  seeks  a  spiritual 
significance  in  this  glory  of  the  atmos- 
phere. The  traveller  is  not  satisfied 
to  find  the  sky  alone  enlarged,  and  not 
the  mind,  —  coelum,  non  anitmtnt.  One 
wishes  to  be  convinced  that  here  the  in- 
tellectual man  inhales  a  deeper  breath, 
and  walks  with  bolder  tread ;  that  phi- 
losopher and  artist  are  here  more  buoy- 
ant, more  fresh,  more  fertile  ;  that  the 
human  race  has  here  escaped  at  one 
bound  from  the  despondency  of  ages, 
as  from  their  wrongs. 

And  the  tru«  and  healthy  American- 
ism is  to  be  found,  let  us  believe,  in 
this  attitude  of  hope  ;  an  attitude  not 
necessarily  connected  with  culture  nor 
with  the  absence  of  culture,  but  with 
the  consciousness  of  a  new  impulse 
given  to  all  human  progress.  The 


most  ignorant  man  may  feel  the  full 
strength  and  heartiness  of  the  Ameri- 
can idea,  and  so  may  the  most  accom- 
plished scholar.  It  is  a  matter  of  re- 
gret if  thus  far  we  have  mainly  had 
to  look  for  our  Americanism  and  our 
scholarship  in  very  different  qaarters, 
and  if  it  has  been  a  rare  delight  to  find 
the  two  in  one. 

It  seems  unspeakably  important  that 
all  persons  among  us,  and  especially 
the  student  and  the  writer,  should  be 
pervaded  with  Americanism.  Ameri- 
canism includes  the  faith  that  national 
self-government  is  not  a  chimera,  but 
that,  with  whatever  inconsistencies  and 
drawbacks,  we  are  steadily  establishing 
it  here.  It  includes  the  faith  that  to  this 
good  thing  all  other  good  things  must 
in  time  be  added.  When  a  man  is 
heartily  imbued  with  such  a  national 
sentiment  as  this,  it  is  as  marrow  in 
his  bones  and  blood  in  his  veins.  He 
may  still  need  culture,  but  he  has  the 
basis  of  all  culture.  He  is  entitled  to 
an  imperturbable  patience  and  hopeful- 
ness, born  of  a  living  faith.  All  that  is 
scanty  in  our  intellectual  attainments, 
or  poor  in  our  artistic  life,  may  then  be 


1 8;o.] 


Americanism  in  Literature. 


57 


cheerfully  endured :  if  a  man  sees  his 
house  steadily  rising  on  sure  founda- 
tions, he  can  wait  or  let  his  children 
wait  for  the  cornice  and  the  frieze.  But 
if  one  happens  to  be  born  or  bred  in 
America  without  this  wholesome  confi- 
dence, there  is  no  happiness  for  him  ; 
he  has  his  alternative  between  being 
unhappy  at  home  and  unhappy  abroad  ;4 
it  is  a  choice  of  martyrdoms  for  himself, 
and  a  certainty  of  martyrdom  for  his 
friends. 

Happily,  there  are  few  among  our 
cultivated  men  in  whom  this  oxygen 
of  American  life  is  wholly  wanting. 
Where  such  exist,  for  them  the  path 
across  the  ocean  is  easy,  and  the  re- 
turn how  hard  !  Yet  our  national  char- 
acter derelops  slowly  ;  we  are  aiming 
at  something  better  than  our  English 
fathers,  and  we  pay  for  it  by  greater 
yacillations  and  vibrations  of  movement. 
The  Englishman's  strong  point  is  a 
rigorous  insularity  which  he  carries 
with  him,  portable  and  sometimes  in- 
supportable. The  American's  more 
perilous  gift  is  a  certain  power  of  as- 
similation, through  which  he  acquires 
something  from  every  man  he  meets, 
but  runs  the  risk  of  parting  with  some- 
thing in  return.  For  the  result,  great- 
er possibilities  of  culture,  balanced  by 
greater  extremes  of  sycophancy  and 
meanmtss.  Emerson  says  that  the  Eng- 
lishman of  all  men  stands  most  firmly 
on  his  feet.  But  it  is  not  the  whole  of 
man's  mission  to  be  found  standing, 
even  at  the  most  important  post. 
Let  him  take  one  step  forward,  —  and 
in  that  advancing  figure  you  have  the 
American. 

We  are  accustomed  to  say  that  the 
war  and  its  results  have  made  us  a 
nation,  subordinated  local  distinctions, 
cleared  us  of  our  chief  shame,  and  given 
us  the  pride  of  a  common  career.  This 
being  the  case,  we  may  afford  to  treat 
ourselves  to  a  little  modest  self-confi- 
dence. Those  whose  faith  in  the 
American  people  carried  them  hope- 
fully through  the  long  contest  with 
slavery  will  not  be  daunted  before  any 
minor  perplexities  of  Chinese  immi- 
grants or  railway  brigands  or  enfran- 


chised women.  We  are  equal  to  these 
things  ;  and  we  shall  also  be  equal  to 
the  creation  of  a  literature.  We  need 
intellectual  culture  inexpressibly,  but 
we  need  a  hearty  faith  still  more. 
"  Never  yet  was  there  a  great  migra- 
tion that  did  not  result  in  a  new  form 
of  national  genius."  But  we  must 
guard  against  both  croakers  and  boast- 
erts ;  and  above  all,  we  must  look  be- 
yond our  little  Boston  or  New  York  or 
Chicago  or  San  Francisco,  and  be  will- 
ing citizens  of  the  great  Republic. 

The  highest  aim  of  most  of  our  lit- 
erary journals  has  thus  far  been  to 
appear  English,  except  where  some  di- 
verging experimentalist  has  said,  "  Let 
us  be  German,"  or  "  Let  us  be  French." 
This  was  inevitable  ;  as  inevitable  as 
a  boy's  first  imitations  of  Byron  or 
Tennyson.  But  it  necessarily  implied 
that  our  literature  must,  during  this 
epoch,  be  chiefly  second-rate.  We  need 
to  become  national,  not  by  any  con- 
scious effort,  implying  attitudinizing 
and  constraint,  but  by  simply  accepting 
our  own  life.  It  is  not  desirable  to  go- 
out  of  one's  way  to  be  original,  but  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  it  may  lie  in  one's 
way.  Originality  is  simply  a  fresh  pair 
of  eyes.  If  you  want  to  astonish  the 
whole  world,  said  Rahel,  tell  the  simple 
truth.  It  is  easier  to  excuse  a  thou- 
sand defects  in  the  literary  man  who 
proceeds  on  this  faith,  than  to  forgive 
the  one  great  defect  of  imitation  in  the 
purist  who  seeks  only  to  be  English. 
As  Wasson  has  said,— "The  English- 
man is  undoubtedly  a  wholesome  figure 
to  the  mental  eye  ;  but  will  not  twenty 
million  copies  of  him  do,  for  the  pres- 
ent ?  "  We  must  pardon  something  to 
the  spirit  of  liberty.  We  must  run 
some  risks,  as  all  immature  creatures 
do,  in  the  effort  to  use  our  own  limbs. 
Professor  Edward  Channing  used  ta 
say  that  it  was  a  bad  sign  for  a  college 
boy  to  write  too  well ;  there  should  be 
exuberances  and  inequalities.  A  nation 
which  has  but  just  begun  to  create  a 
literature  must  sow  some  wild  oats. 
The  most  tiresome  raingloriousness 
may  be  more  hopeful  than  hypercriti- 
cism  and  spleen.  The  follies  of  the 


Americanism  in  Literature. 


[January, 


absurdest  spread-eagle  orator  may  be 
far  more  promising,  because  they  smack 
more  of  the  soil,  than  the  neat  London- 
ism of  the  city  editor  who  dissects  him. 

It  is  but  a  few  years  since  we  have 
dared  to  be  American  in  even  the  de- 
tails and  accessories  of  our  literary 
work  ;  to  make  our  allusions  to  natural 
objects  real,  not  conventional;  to  ig- 
nore the  nightingale  and  skylark,  awl 
look  for  the  classic  and  romantic  on 
our  own  soil.  This  change  began 
mainly  with  Emerson.  Some  of  us 
can  recall  the  bewilderment  with  which 
his  verses  on  the  humblebee,  for  in- 
stance, were  received,  when  the  choice 
of  subject  seemed  stranger  than  the 
words  themselves.  It  was  called  "a 
foolish  affectation  of  the  familiar." 
Happily  the  illusion  of  distance  forms 
itself  rapidly  in  a  new  land,  and  the 
poem  has  now  as  serene  a  place  in 
literature  as  if  Andrew  Marvell  had 
written  it.  The  truly  cosmopolitan 
writer  is  not  he  who  carefully  denudes 
his  work  of  everything  occasional  and 
temporary,  but  he  who  makes  his  local 
coloring  forever  classic  through  the 
fascination  of  the  dream  it  tells.  Rea- 
son, imagination,  passion,  are  univer- 
sal; but  sky,  climate,  costume,  and 
even  type  of  human  character,  belong 
to  some  one  spot  alone  till  they  find 
an  artist  potent  enough  to  stamp  their 
associations  on  the  memory  of  all  the 
world.  Whether  his  work  be  picture 
or  symphony,  legend  or  lyric,  is  of 
little  moment.  The  spirit  of  the  exe- 
cution is  all  in  all. 

As  yet  we  have  hardly  begun  to 
think  of  the  details  of  execution  in  any 
art.  We  do  not  aim  at  perfection  of 
detail  even  in  engineering,  much  less 
in  literature.  In  the  haste  of  Amer- 
ican life,  much  of  our  literary  work  is 
done  at  a  rush,  is  something  inserted 
in  the  odd  moments  of  the  engrossing 
pursuit.  The  popular  preacher  be- 
comes a  novelist ;  the  editor  turns  his 
paste-pot  and  scissors  to  the  compila- 
tion of  a  history  ;  the  same  man  must 
be  poet,  wit,  philanthropist,  and  geneal- 
ogist. We  find  a  sort  of  pleasure  in 
seeing  this  variety  of  effort,  just  as  the 


bystanders  like  to  see  a  street-musi- 
cian adjust  every  joint  in  his  body  to  a 
separate  instrument,  and  play  a  con- 
certed piece  with  the  whole  of  himself. 
To  be  sure,  he  plays  each  part  badly, 
but  it  is  such  a  wonder  he  should  play 
them  all !  Thus,  in  our  rather  hurried 
and  helter-skelter  literature,  the  man 
is  brilliant,  perhaps ;  his  main  work  is 
well  done;  but  his  secondary  work  is 
slurred.  The  book  sells,  no  doubt,  by 
reason  of  the  author's  popularity  in 
other  fields  ;  it  is  only  the  tone  of  our 
national  literature  that  suffers.  There 
is  nothing  in  American  life  that  can 
make  concentration  cease  to  be  a  vir- 
tue. Let  a  man  choose  his  pursuit, 
and  make  all  else  count  for  recreation 
only.  Goethe's  advice  to  Eckermann 
is  infinitely  more  important  here  than 
it  ever  was  in  Germany :  "  Beware  of 
dissipating  your  powers ;  strive  con- 
stantly to  concentrate  them.  Genius 
thinks  it  can  do  whatever  it  sees  others 
doing,  but  it  is  sure  to  repent  of  every 
ill-judged  outlay." 

In  one  respect,  however,  this  desul- 
tory activity  is  an  advantage  :  it  makes 
men  look  in  a  variety  of  directions  for 
a  standard.  As  each  sect  in  religion 
helps  to  protect  us  from  some  other 
sect,  so  every  mental  tendency  is  the 
limitation  of  some  other.  We  need  the 
English  culture,  but  we  do  not  need  it 
more  evidently  than  we  need  the  Ger- 
man, the  French,  the  Greek,  the  Ori- 
ental. In  prose  literature,  for  instance, 
the  English  contemporary  models  are 
not  enough.  There  is  an  admirable 
vigor  and  heartiness,  a  direct  and  man- 
ly tone  ;  King  Richard  still  lives :  but 
Saladin  also  had  his  fine  sword-play; 
let  us  see  him.  There  are  the  delight- 
ful French  qualities,  —  the  atmosphere 
where  literary  art  means  fineness  of 
touch.  "  Ou  il  n'y  a  point  de  delica- 
tesse,  il  n'y  a  point  de  litte'rature.  Un 
dcrit  ou  ne  se  rencontrent  que  de  la 
force  et  un  certain  feu  sans  eclat  n'an- 
nonce  que  le  caractere."  But  there 
is  something  in  the  English  climate 
which  seems  to  turn  the  fine  edge  of 
any  very  choice  scymitar  till  it  cuts 
Saladin's  own  fingers  at  last. 


1 870.] 


Americanism  in  Literature. 


59 


God  forbid  that  I  should  disparage 
this  broad  Anglo-Saxon  manhood  which 
is  the  basis  of  our  national  life.  I  knew 
an  American  mother  who  sent  her  boy 
to  Rugby  School  in  England,  in  the 
certainty,  as  she  said,  that  he  would 
there  learn  two  things,  —  to  play  cricket 
and  to  speak  the  truth.  He  acquired 
botli  thoroughly,  and  she  brought  him 
home  for  what  she  deemed,  in  compar- 
ison, the  ornamental  branches.  We 
cannot  spare  the  Englishman  from  our 
blood,  but  it  is  our  business  to  make 
him  more  than  an  Englishman.  That 
iron  must  become  steel ;  finer,  harder, 
more  elastic,  more  polished.  For  this 
end  the  English  stock  was  transferred 
from  an  island  to  a  continent,  and 
mixed  with  new  ingredients,  that  it 
might  lose  its  quality  of  coarseness, 
and  take  a  finer  and  more  even  grain. 

As  yet,  it  must  be  owned,  this  daring 
expectation  is  but  feebly  reflected  in 
our  books.  In  looking  over  any  col- 
lection of  American  poetry,  for  in- 
stance, one  is  struck  with  the  fact  that 
it  is  not  so  much  faulty  as  inadequate. 
Emerson  set  free  the  poetic  intuition 
of  America,  Hawthorne  its  imagination. 
Both  looked  into  the  realm  of  passion, 
Emerson  with  distrust,  Hawthorne  with 
eager  interest ;  but  neither  thrilled  with 
its  spell,  and  the  American  poet  of  pas- 
sion is  yet  to  come.  How  tame  and 
manageable  are  wont  to  be  the  emo- 
tions of  our  bards,  how  placid  and 
literary  their  allusions  !  There  is  no 
baptism  of  fire  ;  no  heat  that  breeds 
excess.  Yet  it  is  not  life  that  is  grown 
dull,  surely  ;  there  are  as  many  secrets 
in  every  heart,  as  many  skeletons  in 
every  closet,  as  in  any  elder  period  of 
the  world's  career.  It  is  the  interpre- 
ters of  life  who  are  found  wanting,  and 
that  not  on  this  soil  alone,  but  through- 
out the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  It  is  not 
just  to  say,  as  some  one  has  said,  that 
our  language  has  not  in  this  genera- 
tion produced  a  love-song,  for  it  has 
produced  Browning ;  but  was  it  in 
England  or  in  Italy  that  he  learned  to 
sound  the  depths  of  all  human  emo- 
tion ? 

And  it  is  not  to  verse  alone  that  this 


temporary  check  of  ardor  applies.  It 
is  often  said  that  prose  fiction  now 
occupies  the  place  held  by  the  drama 
during  the  Elizabethan  age.  Certainly 
this  modern  product  shows  something 
of  the  brilliant  profusion  of  that  won- 
drous flowering  of  genius  ;  but  here 
the  resemblance  ends.  Where  in  our 
imaginative  literature  does  one  find  the 
concentrated  utterance,  the  intense  and 
breathing  life,  the  triumphs  and  de- 
spairs, the  depth  of  emotion,  the  trag- 
edy, the  thrill,  that  meet  one  every- 
where in  those  Elizabethan  pages  ? 
What  impetuous  and  commanding  men 
are  these,  what  passionate  women ;  how 
they  love  and  hate,  struggle  and  en- 
dure ;  how  they  play  with  the  world ; 
what  a  trail  of  fire  they  leave  behind 
them  as  they  pass  by!  Turn  now  to 
recent  fiction.  Dickens's  people  are 
amusing  and  lovable,  no  doubt ;  Thack- 
eray's are  wicked  and  witty  ;  but  how 
under-sized  they  look,  and  how  they 
loiter  on  the  mere  surfaces  of  life,  com- 
pared, I  will  not  say  with  Shakespeare's, 
but  even  with  Chapman's  and  Web- 
ster's men.  Set  aside  Hawthorne  in 
America,  with  perhaps  Charlotte  Bronte 
and  George  Eliot  in  England,  and  there 
would  scarcely  be  a  fact  in  prose  liter- 
ature to  show  that  we  modern  Anglo- 
Saxons  regard  a  profound  human  emo- 
tion as  a  thing  worth  the  painting. 
Who  now  dares  delineate  a  lover,  ex- 
cept with  good-natured  pitying  sarcasm, 
as  in  "  David  Copperfield  "  or  "  Pen- 
dennis  "  ?  In  the  Elizabethan  period, 
with  all  its  unspeakable  coarseness,  hot 
blood  still  ran  in  the  veins  of  litera- 
ture ;  lovers  burned  and  suffered  and 
were  men.  And  what  was  true  of  love 
was  true  of  all  the  passions  of  the 
human  soul. 

In  this  respect,  as  in  many  others, 
France  has  preserved  more  of  the  ar- 
tistic tradition.  The  common  answer 
is,  that  in  modern  French  literature,  as 
in  the  Elizabethan,  the  play  of  feeling 
is  too  naked  and  obvious,  and  that  the 
Puritan  self-restraint  is  worth  more 
than  all  that  dissolute  wealth.  I  believe 
it ;  and  here  comes  in  the  intellectual 
worth  of  America.  Puritanism  was  a 


6o 


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[January, 


phase,  a  discipline,  a  hygiene  ;  but  we 
cannot  remain  always  Puritans.  The 
world  needed  that  moral  bracing,  even 
for  its  art ;  but,  after  all,  life  is  not 
impoverished  by  being  ennobled ;  and 
in  a  happier  age,  with  a  larger  faith,  we 
may  again  enrich  ourselves  with  poetry 
and  passion,  while  wearing  that  heroic 
girdle  still  around  us.  Then  the  next 
blossoming  of  .the  world's  imagination 
need  not  bear  within  itself,  like  all  the 
others,  the  seeds  of  an  epoch  of  decay. 
I  utterly  reject  the  position  taken  by- 
Matthew  Arnold,  that  the  Puritan  spirit 
in  America  was  essentially  hostile  to 
literature  and  art.  Of  course  the  forest 
pioneer  cannot  compose  orchestral 
symphonies,  nor  the  founder  of  a  state 
carve  statues.  But  the  thoughtful  and 
scholarly  men  who  created  the  Massa- 
chusetts Colony  brought  with  them 
the  traditions  of  their  universities,  and 
left  these  embodied  in  a  college.  The 
Puritan  life  was  only  historically  in- 
consistent with  culture  ;  there  was 
no  logical  antagonism.  Indeed,  that 
life  had  in  it  much  that  was  congenial 
to  art,  in  its  enthusiasm  and  its  truth- 
fulness. Take  these  Puritan  traits, 
employ  them  in  a  more  genial  sphere, 
adding  intellectual  training  and  a  sun- 
ny faith,  and  you  have  a  soil  suited  to 
art  above  all  others.  To  deny  it  is 
to  see  in  art  only  something  frivolous 
and  insincere.  The  American  writer  in 
whom  the  artistic  instinct  was  strong- 
est came  of  unmixed  Puritan  stock. 
Major  John  Hathorne,  in  1692,  put  his 
offenders  on  trial,  and  generally  con- 
victed and  hanged  them  all.  Nathan- 
iel Hawthorne  held  his  more  spiritual 
tribunal  two  centuries  later,  and  his 
keener  scrutiny  found  some  ground  of 
vindication  for  each  one.  The  fidelity, 
the  thoroughness,  the  conscientious 
purpose,  were  the  same  in  each.  Both 
sought  to  rest  their  work,  as  all  art  and 
all  law  must  rest,  upon  the  absolute 
truth.  The  writer  kept,  no  doubt, 
something  of  the  sombreness  of  the 
magistrate  ;  each,  doubtless,  suffered 
in  the  woes  he  studied  ;  and  as  the 
one  "  hnd  a  knot  of  suffering  in  his 
forehead  all  winter"  while  meditating 


the  doom  of  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  so 
may  the  other  have  borne  upon  his 
own  brow  the  trace  of  Martha  Corey's 
grief. 

No,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  the 
obstacle  to  a  new  birth  of  literature  and 
art  in  America  lies  in  the  Puritan  tra- 
dition, but  rather  in  the  timid  and  faith- 
less spirit  that  lurks  in  the  circles  of 
culture,  and  still  holds  something  of 
literary  and  academic  leadership  in  the 
homes  of  the  Puritans.  What  are  the 
ghosts  of  a  myriad  Blue  Laws  com- 
pared with  the  transplanted  cynicism 
of  one  "  Saturday  Review  "  ?  How 
can  any  noble  literature  germinate 
where  young  men  are  habitually  taught 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  original- 
ity, and  that  nothing  remains  for  us  in 
this  effete  epoch  of  history  but  the 
mere  recombining  of  thoughts  which 
sprang  first  from  braver  brains  ?  It 
is  melancholy  to  see  young  men 
come  forth  from  the  college  walls  with 
less  enthusiasm  than  they  carried  in  ; 
trained  in  a  spirit  which  is  in  this  re- 
spect worse  than  English  toryism,  — 
that  it  does  not  even  retain  a  feearty 
faith  in  the  past.  It  is  better  that  a 
man  should  have  eyes  in  the  back  of 
his  head  than  that  he  should  be  taught 
to  sneer  at  even  a  retrospective  vision. 
One  may  believe  that  the  golden  age  is 
behind  us  or  before  us,  but  alas  for  the 
forlorn  wisdom  of  him  who  rejects  it 
altogether !  It  is  not  the  climax  of 
culture  that  a  college  graduate  should 
emulate  the  obituary  praise  bestowed 
by  Cotton  Mather  on  the  Rev.  John 
Mitchell  of  Cambridge,  "  a  truly  aged 
young  man."  Better  a  thousand  times 
train  a  boy  on  Scott's  novels  or  the 
Border  Ballads  than  educate  him  to 
believe,  on  the  one  side,  that  chivalry 
was  a  cheat  and  the  troubadours  imbe- 
ciles, and  on  the  other  hand,  that  uni- 
versal suffrage  is  an  absurdity  and  the 
one  real  need  is  to  get  rid  of  our  voters. 
A  great  crisis  like  a  civil  war  brings 
men  temporarily  to  their  senses,  and 
the  young  resume  the  attitude  natural 
to  their  years,  in  spite  of  their  teach- 
ers ;  but  it  is  a  sad  thing  when,  in 
seeking  for  the  generous  impulses  of 


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Americanism  in  Literature. 


61 


youth,  we  have  to  turn  from  the  public 
sentiment  of  the  colleges  to  that  of  the 
•workshops  and  the  farms. 

It  is  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten,  that 
for  a  long  series  of  years  the  people  of 
our  Northern  States  were  habitually  in 
advance  of  their  institutions  of  learn- 
ing, in  courage  and  comprehensiveness 
of  thought.  There  were  long  years 
during  which  the  most  cultivated  schol- 
ar, so  soon  as  he  embraced  an  unpopu- 
lar opinion,  was  apt  to  find  the  college 
doors  closed  against  him,  and  only  the 
country  lyceum  —  the  people's  college 
—  left  open.  Slavery  had  to  be  abol- 
ished before  the  most  accomplished 
orator  of  the  nation  could  be  invited  to 
address  the  graduates  of  his  own  uni- 
versity. The  first  among  American 
scholars  was  nominated  year  after  year, 
only  to  be  rejected,  before  the  academ- 
ic societies  of  his  own  neighborhood. 
Yet  during  all  that  time  the  rural  lec- 
ture associations  showered  their  invita- 
tions on  Parker  and  Phillips  ;  culture 
shunned  them,  but  the  common  people 
heard  them  gladly.  The  home  of  real 
thought  was  outside,  not  inside,  the 
college  walls.  It  hardly  embarrassed  a 
professor's  position  if  he  defended  sla- 
very as  a  divine  institution  ;  but  he 
risked  his  place  if  he  denounced  the 
wrong.  In  those  days,  if  by  any  chance 
a  man  of  bold  opinions  drifted  into  a 
reputable  professorship,  we  listened 
sadly  to  hear  his  voice  grow  faint.  He 
usually  began  to  lose  his  faith,  his  cour- 
age, his  toleration,  —  in  short,  his 
Americanism,  —  when  he  left  the  ranks 
of  the  uninstructed. 

That  time  is  past ;  and  the  literary 
class  has  now  come  more  into  sympa- 
thy with  the  popular  heart.  It  is  per- 
haps fortunate  that  there  is  as  yet  but 
little  esprit  dc  corps  among  our  writers, 
so  that  they  receive  their  best  sympa- 
thy, not  from  each  other,  but  from  the 
people.  Even  the  memory  of  the  most 
original  author,  as  Thoreau,  or  Marga- 
ret Fuller  Ossoli,  is  apt  to  receive  its 
sharpest  stabs  from  those  of  the  same 
guild.  When  we  American  writers 
find  grace  to  do  our  best,  it  is  not  so 
much  because  we  are  sustained  by  each 


other,  as  that  we  are  conscious  of  a 
deep  popular  heart,  slowly  but  surely 
answering  back  to  ours,  and  offering  a 
worthier  stimulus  than  the  applause  of 
a  coterie.  If  we  once  lose  faith  in  our 
audience,  the  muse  grows  silent.  Even 
the  apparent  indifference  of  this  audi- 
ence to  culture  and  high  finish  may  be 
in  the  end  a  wholesome  influence,  re- 
calling us  to  those  more  important 
things,  compared  to  which  these  are 
secondary  qualities.  The  indifference 
is  only  comparative  ;  our  public  prefers 
good  writing,  as  it  prefers  good  elocu- 
tion ;  but  it  values  energy,  heartiness, 
and  action  more.  The  public  is  right ; 
it  is  the  business  of  the  writer,  as  of 
the  speaker,  to  perfect  the  finer  graces 
without  sacrificing  things  more  vital. 
"  She  was  not  a  good  singer,"  says 
some  novelist  of  his  heroine,  "  but  she 
sang  with  an  inspiration  such  as  good 
singers  rarely  indulge  in."  Given 
those  positive  qualities,  and  I  think 
that  a  fine  execution  does  not  hinder 
acceptance  in  America,  but  rather  aids 
it.  Where  there  is  beauty  of  execution 
alone,  a  popular  audience,  even  in 
America,  very  easily  goes  to  sleep. 
And  in  such  matters,  as  the  French 
actor,  Samson,  said  to  the  young  dra- 
matist, "  sleep  is  an  opinion." 

It  takes  more  than  grammars  and  dic- 
tionaries to  make  a  literature.  "It  is 
the  spirit  in  which  we  ac£  that  is  the 
great  matter,"  Goethe  says.  "  Der 
Geist  aus  dent  tuir  handeln  ist  das 
Hochste."  Technical  training  may  give 
the  negative  merits  of  style,  as  an  elo- 
cutionist may  help  a  public  speaker  by 
ridding  him  of  tricks.  But  the  positive 
force  of  writing  or  of  speech  must  come 
from  positive  sources,  —  ardor,  energy, 
depth  of  feeling  or  of  thought.  No  in- 
struction ever  gave  these,  only  the  in- 
spiration of  a  great  soul,  a  great  need, 
or  a  great  people.  We  all  know  that 
a  vast  deal  of  oxygen  may  go  into  the 
style  of  a  man  ;  we  see  in  it  not  merely 
what  books  he  has  read,  what  company 
he  has  kept,  but  also  the  food  he  eats, 
the  exercise  he  takes,  the  air  he 
breathes.  And  so  there  is  oxygen  in 
the  collective  literature  of  a  nation,  and 


62 


Americanism  in  Literature. 


[January, 


this  vital  element  proceeds,  above  all 
else,  from  liberty.  For  want  of  this 
wholesome  oxygen,  the  voice  of  Victor 
Hugo  comes  to  us  uncertain  and  spas- 
modic, as  of  one  in  an  alien  atmosphere 
where  breath  is  pain  ;  for  want  of  it,  the 
eloquent  English  tones  that  at  first 
sounded  so  clear  and  bell-like  now  reach 
us  only  faint  and  muffled,  and  lose  their 
music  day  by  day.  It  is  by  the  pres- 
ence of  this  oxygen  that  American  lit- 
erature is  to  be  made  great.  We  are 
lost  if  we  leave  the  inspiration  of  our 
nation's  life  to  sustain  only  the  jour- 
nalist and  the  stump-speaker,  while  we 
permit  the  colleges  and  the  books  to 
be  choked  with  the  dust  of  dead  cen- 
turies and  to  pant  for  daily  breath. 

Perhaps  it  may  yet  be  found  that  the 
men  who  are  contributing  most  to  raise 
the  tone  of  American  literature  are  the 
men  who  have  never  yet  written  a  book 
and  have  scarcely  time  to  read  one,  but 
by  their  heroic  energy  in  other  spheres 
are  providing  exemplars  for  what  our 
books  shall  one  day  be.  The  man  who 
constructs  a  great  mechanical  work 
helps  literature,  for  he  gives  a  model 
which  shall  one  day  inspire  us  to  con- 
struct literary  works  as  great.  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  forever  outdone  by  the  car- 
pet-machinery of  Clinton  or  the  grain- 
elevator  of  Chicago.  We  have  not  yet 
arrived  at  our  literature,  — other  things 
must  come  ^irst ;  we  are  busy  with  our 
railroads,  perfecting  the  vast  alimenta- 
ry canal  by  which  the  nation  assimilates 
raw  immigrants  at  the  rate  of  half  a  mil- 
lion a  year.  We  are  not  yet  producing, 
we  are  digesting:  food  now,  literary 
composition  by  and  by :  Shakespeare 
did  not  write  "  Hamlet  "  at  the  dinner- 
table.  It  is  of  course  impossible  to 
explain  this  to  foreigners,  and  they  still 
talk  of  convincing,  while  we  talk  of  din- 
ing. 

For  one,  I  cannot  dispense  with  the  so- 
ciety which  we  call  uncultivated.  Dem- 
ocratic sympathies  seem  to  be  mainly  a 
matter  of  vigor  and  health.  It  seems 
to  be  the  first  symptom  of  biliousness 
to  think  that  only  one's  self  and  one's 
cousins  are  entitled  to  consideration, 
and  constitute  the  world.  Every  re- 


fined person  is  an  aristocrat  in  his  dys- 
peptic moments  ;  when  hearty  and  well, 
he  demands  a  wider  range  of  sympathy. 
It  is  so  tedious  to  live  only  in  one  cir- 
cle and  have  only  a  genteel  acquaint- 
ance !  Mrs.  Trench,  in  her  delightful 
letters,  complains  of  the  society  in 
Dresden,  about  the  year  1800,  because 
of  "the  impossibility,  without  overstep- 
ping all  bounds  of  social  custom,  of  as- 
sociating with  any  but  noblesse"  We 
order  that  matter  otherwise  in  America. 
I  wish  not  only  to  know  my  neighbor, 
the  man  of  fashion,  who  strolls  to  his 
club  at  noon,  but  also  my  neighbor, 
the  wheelwright,  who  goes  to  his  din- 
ner at  the  same  hour.  One  would  not 
wish  to  be  unacquainted  with  the  fair 
maiden  who  drives  by  in  her  basket- 
wagon  in  the  afternoon  ;  nor  with  the 
other  fair  maiden,  who  may  be  seen  at 
her  wash-tub  in  the  morning.  Both  are 
quite  worth  knowing ;  both  are  good, 
sensible,  dutiful  girls :  the  young  laun- 
dress is  the  better  mathematician,  be- 
cause she  has  been  through  the  grammar 
school;  but  the  other  has  the  better 
French  accent,  because  she  has  spent 
half  her  life  in  Paris.  They  offer  a 
variety,  at  least,  and  save  from  that 
monotony  which  besets  any  set  of  peo- 
ple when  seen  alone.  There  was  much 
reason  in  Horace  Walpole's  coachman, 
who,  having  driven  the  maids  of  honor 
all  his  life,  bequeathed  his  earnings  to 
his  son,  on  condition  that  he  should 
never  marry  a  maid  of  honor. 

I  'affirm  that  democratic  society,  the 
society  of  the  future,  enriches  and  does 
not  impoverish  human  life,  and  gives 
more,  not  less,  material  for  literary  art. 
Distributing  culture  through  all  classes, 
it  diminishes  class-distinction  and  devel- 
ops distinctions  of  personal  character. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  best  phenomenon  of 
American  life,  thus  far,  that  the  word 
"gentleman,"  which  in  England  still 
designates  a  social  order,  is  here  more 
apt  to  refer  to  personal  character. 
When  we  describe  a  person  as  a  gen- 
tleman, we  usually  refer  to  his  manners, 
morals,  and  education,  not  to  his  prop- 
erty or  birth  ;  and  this  change  alone  is 
worth  the  transplantation  across  the 


Americanism  in  Literature. 


Atlantic.  The  use  of  the  word  "  lady  •' 
is  yet  more  comprehensive,  and  there- 
fore more  honorable  still ;  we  some- 
times see,  in  a  shopkeeper's  advertise- 
ment, "  Saleslady  wanted."  Now  the 
mere  fashionable  novelist  loses  terri- 
bly by  the  change  :  when  all  classes 
may  wear  the  same  dress-coat,  what  is 
left  for  him  ?  But  he  who  aims  to  de- 
pict passion  and  character  gains  in 
proportion  ;  his  material  is  increased 
tenfold.  The  living  realities  of  Ameri- 
can life  ought  to  come  in  among  the 
tiresome  lay-figures  of  average  English 
fiction  like  Steven  Lawrence  into  the 
London  drawing-room :  tragedy  must 
resume  its  grander  shape,  and  no 
longer  turn  on  the  vexed  question 
whether  the  daughter  of  this  or  that 
matchmaker  shall  marry  the  baronet. 
It  is  the  characteristic  of  a  real  book 
that,  though  the  scene  be  laid  in  courts, 
their  whole  machinery  might  be  struck 
out  and  the  essential  interest  of  the 
plot  remain  the  same.  In  Auerbach's 
"  On  the  Heights,"  for  instance,  the  so- 
cial heights  might  be  abolished  and  the 
moral  elevation  would  be  enough.  The 
play  of  human  emotion  is  a  thing  so 
absorbing,  that  the  petty  distinctions  of 
cottage  and  castle  become  as  nothing 
in  its  presence.  Why  not  waive  these 
small  matters  in  advance,  then,  and  go 
straight  to  the  real  thing  ? 

The  greatest  transatlantic  successes 
which  American  novelists  have  yet  at- 
tained —  those  won  by  Cooper  and  Mrs. 
Stowe  —  have  come  through  a  daring 
Americanism  of  subject,  which  intro- 
duced in  each  case  a  new  figure  to  the 
European  world,  —  first  the  Indian,  then 
the  negro.  Whatever  the  merit  of  the 
work,  it  was  plainly  the  theme  which 
conquered.  Such  successes  are  not 
easily  to  be  repeated,  for  they  were 
based  on  temporary  situations,  never  to 
recur.  But  they  prepare  the  way  for 
higher  triumphs  to  be  won  by  a  pro- 
founder  treatment,  —  the  introduction 
into  literature,  not  of  new  tribes  alone, 
but  of  the  American  spirit.  To  analyze 
combinations  of  character  that  only  our 


national  life  produces,  to  portray  dra- 
matic situations  that  belong  to  a  clearer 
social  atmosphere,  —  this  is  the  higher 
Americanism.  Of  course,  to  cope 
with  such  themes  in  such  a  spirit 
is  less  easy  than  to  describe  a  foray 
or  a  tournament,  or  to  multiply  in- 
definitely such  still-life  pictures  as 
the  stereotyped  English  or  French  so- 
ciety affords  ;  but  the  thing  when  once 
done  is  incomparably  nobler.  It  may 
be  centuries  before  it  is  done  :  no 
matter.  It  will  be  done,  and  with  it 
will  come  a  similar  advance  along  the 
whole  line  of  literary  labor,  like  the 
elevation  which  we  have  seen  in  the 
whole  quality  of  scientific  work  in 
America,  within  the  past  twenty  years. 
We  talk  idly  about  the  tyranny  of  the 
ancient  classics,  as  if  there  were  some 
special  peril  about  it,  quite  distinct  from 
all  other  tyrannies.  But  if  a  man  is  to  be 
stunted  by  the  influence  of  a  master,  it 
makes  no  difference  whether  that  mas- 
ter lived  before  or  since  the  Christian 
epoch.  One  folio  volume  is  as  ponder- 
ous as  another,  if  it  crush  down  the 
tender  germs  of  thought.  There  is  no 
great  choice  between  the  volumes  of 
the  Encyclopaedia.  It  is  not  important 
to  know  whether  a  man  reads  Homer 
or  Dante  :  the  essential  point  is  wheth- 
er he  believes  the  world  to  be  young 
or  old  ;  whether  he  sees  as  much  scope 
for  his  own  inspiration  as  if  never  a 
book  had  appeared  in  the  world.  So 
long  as  he  does,  he  has  the  American 
spirit ;  Jio  books,  no  travel,  can  over- 
whelm him,  but  these  can  only  enlarge 
his  thoughts  and  raise  his  standard  of 
execution.  When  he  loses  this  faith,  he 
takes  rank  among  the  copyists  and  the 
secondary,  and  no  accident  can  raise 
him  to  a  place  among  the  benefactors 
of  mankind.  He  is  like  a  man  who  is 
frightened  in  battle  :  you  cannot  exact- 
ly blame  him,  for  it  may  be  an  affair  of 
the  temperament  or  of  the  digestion ; 
but  you  are  glad  to  let  him  drop  to  the 
rear,  and  to  close  up  the  ranks.  Fields 
are  won  by  those  who  believe  in  the 
winning. 


64 


Nauhaught,  the  Deacon.  [January, 


NAUHAUGHT,    THE    DEACON. 

NAUHAUGHT,  the  Indian  deacon,  who  of  old 
Dwelt,  poor  but  blameless,  where  his  narrowing  Cape 
Stretches  its  shrunk  arm  out  to  all  the  winds 
And  the  relentless  smiting  of  the  waves, 
Awoke  one  morning  from  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  good  angel  dropping  in  his  hand 
A  fair,  broad  gold-piece,  in  the  name  of  God. 

He  rose  and  went  forth  with  the  early  day 

Far  inland,  where  the  voices  of  the  waves 

Mellowed  and  mingled  with  the  whispering  leaves, 

As,  through  the  tangle  of  the  low,  thick  woods, 

He  searched  his  traps.     Therein  nor  beast  nor  bird 

He  found ;  though  meanwhile  in  the  reedy  pools 

The  otter  plashed,  and  underneath  the  pines 

The  partridge  drummed:  and  as  his  thoughts  went  back 

To  the  sick  wife  and  little  child  at  home, 

What  marvel  that  the  poor  man  felt  his  faith 

Too  weak  to  bear  its  burden,  —  like  a  rope 

That,  strand  by  strand  uncoiling,  breaks  above 

The  hand  that  grasps  it.     "  Even  now,  O  Lord  ! 

Send  me,"  he  prayed,  "the  angel  of  my  dream! 

Nauhaught  is  very  poor ;  he  cannot  wait." 

Even  as  he  spake,  he  heard  at  his  bare  feet 

A  low,  metallic  clink,  and,  looking  down, 

He  saw  a  dainty  purse  with  disks  of  gold 

Crowding  its  silken  net.     Awhile  he  held 

The  treasure  up  before  his  eyes,  alone 

With  his  great  need,  feeling  the  wondrous  coins 

Slide  through  his  eager  fingers,  one  by  one. 

So  then  the  dream  was  true.     The  angel  brought 

One  broad  piece  only;  should  he  take  all  these? 

Who  would  be  wiser,  in  the  blind,  dumb  woods? 

The  loser,  doubtless  rich,  would  scarcely  miss 

This  dropped  crumb  from  a  table  always  full. 

Still,  while  he  mused,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  cry 

Of  a  starved  child ;  the  sick  face  of  his  wife 

Tempted  him.     Heart  and  flesh  in  fierce  revolt 

Urged  the  wild  license  of  his  savage  youth 

Against  his  later  scruples.     Bitter  toil, 

Prayer,  fasting,  dread  of  blame,  and  pitiless  eyes 

To  watch  his  halting,  —  had  he  lost  for  these 

The  freedom  of  the  woods  ;  —  the  hunting-grounds 

Of  happy  spirits  for  a  walled-in  heaven 

Of  everlasting  psalms  ?     One  healed  the  sick 

Very  far  off  thousands  of  moons  ago : 


1870.]  NaiiJiangJit,  tlic  Deacon.  65 

Had  he  not  prayed  him  night  and  day  to  come 

And  cure  his  bed-bound  wife  ?     Was  there  a  hell  ? 

Were  all  his  lathers'  people  writhing  there  — 

Like  the  poor  shell-fish  set  to  boil  alive  — 

Forever,  dying  never?     If  he  kept 

This  gold,  so  needed,  would  the  dreadful  God 

Torment  him  like  a  Mohawk's  captive  stuck 

With  slow-consuming  splinters  ?     Up  in  heaven 

\Vould  the  good  brother  deacon  grown  so  rich 

By  selling  rum  to  Indians  laugh  to  see  him 

Burn  like  a  pitch-pine  torch  ?     His  Christian  garb 

Seemed  falling  from  him  ;  with  the  fear  and  shame 

Of  Adam  naked  at  the  cool  of  day, 

He  gazed  around.     A  black  snake  lay  in  coil 

On  the  hot  sand,  a  crow  with  sidelong  eye 

Watched  from  a  dead  bough.     All  his  Indian  lore 

Of  evil  blending  with  a  convert's  faith 

In  the  supernal  terrors  of  the  Book, 

He  saw  the  Tempter  in  the  coiling  snake 

And  ominous,  black-winged  bird;  and  all  the  while 

The  low  rebuking  of  the  distant  waves 

Stole  in  upon  him  like  the  voice  of  God 

Among  the  trees  of  Eden.     Girding  up 

His  soul's  loins  with  a  resolute  hand,  he  thrust 

The  base  thought  from  him  :  "  Nauhaught,  be  a  man  ! 

Starve,  if  need  be ;  but,  while  you  live,  look  out 

From  honest  eyes  on  all  men,  unashamed. 

God  help  me  !     I  am  deacon  of  the  church, 

A  baptized,  praying  Indian  !     Should  I  do 

This  secret  meanness,  even  the  barken  knots 

Of  the  old  trees  would  turn  to  eyes  to  see  it, 

The  birds  would  tell  of  it,  and  all  the  leaves 

Whisper  above  me :  '  Nauhaught  is  a  thief ! ' 

The  sun  would  know  it,  and  the  stars  that  hide 

Behind  his  light  would  watch  me,  and  at  night 

Follow  me  with  their  sharp,  accusing  eyes. 

Yea,  thou,  God,  seest  me ! "     Then  Nauhaught  drew 

Closer  his  belt  of  leather,  dulling  thus 

The  pain  of  hunger,  and  walked  bravely  back 

To  the  brown  fishing-hamlet  by  the  sea  ; 

And,  pausing  at  the  inn-door,  cheerily  asked  : 

"  Who  hath  lost  aught  to-day  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  a  voice  ; 

"  Ten  golden  pieces,  in  a  silken  purse, 
My  daughter's  handiwork."     He  looked,  and  lo  ! 
One  stood  before  him  in  a  coat  of  frieze, 
And  the  glazed  hat  of  a  seafaring  man, 
Shrewd-faced,  broad-shouldered,  with  no  trace  of  wings. 
Marvelling,  he  dropped  within  the  stranger's  hand 
The  silken  web,  and  turned  to  go  his  way. 
But  the  man  said :  4<  A  tithe  at  least  is  yours  ; 
Take  it  in  God's  name  as  an  honest  man." 
VOL    xxv.  —  xo.  147.  5 


66 


"  The   Woman  Thon  gavest  with  me!'          [January, 

And  as  the  deacon's  dusky  fingers  closed 
Over  the  golden  gift,  "Yea,  in  God's  name 
I  take  it,  with  a  poor  man's  thanks,"  he  said. 

So  down  the  street  that,  like  a  river  of  sand, 
Ran,  white  in  sunshine,  to  the  summer  sea, 
He  sought  his  home,  singing  and  praising  God; 
And  when  his  neighbors  in  their  careless  way 
Spoke  of  the  owner  of  the  silken  purse  — 
A  Wellfleet  skipper,  known  in  every  port 
That  the  Cape  opens  in  its  sandy  wall - 
He  answered,  with  a  wise  smile,  to  himself: 
«  I  saw  the  angel  where  they  see  a  man." 


"THE    WOMAN    THOU    GAVEST    WITH    ME." 


THE  question  which  is  seeking  to 
get  itself  resolved  by  the  "  wo- 
men's-rights  "  agitation  is,  whether  wo- 
man is  or  is  not  the  mere  female  of  man. 
We  know  very  well  that  there  is  a  fe- 
male man  in  reruin  natura ;  and  the 
Good  Book,  moreover,  has  long  taught 
us  that  man  was  "  created  "  male  and 
female  ;  but  the  doubt  which  is  gather- 
ing in  many  minds  is,  whether  woman, 
properly  speaking,  is  that  man.  The 
question  is  suggesting  itself  to  thought- 
ful persons,  whether  woman  does  not 
express  an  absolute  or  final  phase  of 
human  nature  rather  than  a  contingent 
and  complementary  one  ;  whether  she 
is  not  something  very  much  more  than 
man  either  male  or  female,  — something, 
in  fact,  divinely  different  from  cither. 
It  is  absurd  to  suppose,  if  woman  were 
merely  the  female  man  she  is  common- 
ly reputed  to  be,  that  her  role  in  his- 
tory could  have  been  so  unlike  that  of 
the  male  man,  or  that  she  could  have 
so  impressed  herself  on  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  race  as  to  make  submission 
not  rule,  persuasion  not  authority,  at- 
traction not  command,  the  distinctive 
mark  of  her  genius.  It  is  contrary  to 
the  analogy  of  nature  that  the  female 
of  any  species  should  display  so  signal 
a  contrast  to  the  male  as  to  amount  to 


a  generic  diversity.  And  yet  this  is 
the  difference  woman  exhibits  to  man. 
To  be  sure,  there  have  been  some 
conspicuous  instances  of  the  female 
man  in  history,  such  as  Boadicea, 
Queen  Elizabeth,  Catherine  of  Russia, 
and  doubtless  some  of  those  Indian 
princesses  whose  examples  Mr.  Mill 
has  recently  invoked.  But  no  one  can 
deny  that  these  are  very  exceptional 
cases,  and  that  woman  on  the  whole 
has  displayed  a  cast  of  character  and  a 
method  of  action  so  generically  distinct 
from  that  of  man  as  utterly  to  confute 
the  notion  of  her  being  merely  his  fe- 
male. 

It  is  a  curious  feature  of  the  symbolic 
Genesis,  —  viewed  in  this  connection,  — 
that,  while  plants  and  animals  are  said 
to  be  created  each  after  its  kind,  i.  e. 
to  possess  mere  natural  or  generic 
identity,  man  alone  is  said  to  have  been 
created  in  God's  intake,  male  and  fe- 
male, \.  e.  to  possess  not  merely  ge- 
neric identity,  but  specific  individuality. 
Indeed,  if  this  were  not  so,  we  should 
have  had  no  history  different  from  that 
of  the  ant  and  the  beaver  :  for  history 
is  the  only  field  of  human  individuality. 
It  is  another  curious  trait  of  this  mys- 
tic record  that  man,  or  Adam,  thus  cre- 
ated male  and  female,  emerges  upon 


8;o.] 


"The   Woman   Thou  gavcst  with 


the  scene  fully  formed  before  Eve,  or 
woman,  is  apparently  so  much  as 
thought  of.  And  then,  \vhen  she  does 
appear,  we  find  her  signalized  not  by 
any  means  as  the  female  of  man,  sus- 
taining a  merely  natural  or  outward  re- 
lation to  him,  like  that  of  the  female  of 
every  other  species  to  the  male,  but  as 
his  wife,  sustaining  an  invard  or  spirit- 
ual relation  to  him  :  his  iu!fc,  bone  of 
his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his  flesh,  or  so 
intimately  near  and  dear  to  him,  that 
he  shall  contentedly  leave  father  and 
mother,  i.  e.  renounce  his  own  nature, 
in  order  to  cleave  to  her.  And  again, 

—  what    seems    altogether    irreconcil- 
able   with    the    customary   hypothesis 
of  her  generic  subserviency  to  Adam, 

—  we   find  her  influence  over  the  man 
growing  at  such   a  pace  that  she  not 
only  lifts   him  above   his  own  nature, 
but  persuades  him  to  forfeit  Paradise 
itself  rather  than  continue  to  dread  the 
death    involved    in    obedience   to   the 
moral  instinct.    "  The  woman  thou  gav- 
est  with  me,"  quoth  the  old  Adam,  "  she 
gave  me  of  the  tree,  and  I  did  eat " ; 
and  the  poor  naked,  shivering  creature 
disappears  at  once  from  history,  leav- 
ing to  the  woman  and  her  seed  its  ex- 
clusive future  responsibility.    For  final- 
ly, although  the  woman  in  common  with 
man  suffers  the  consequences  of  his  fall, 
she   is   seen    henceforth   to   supersede 
him  in  the  divine  regard,  her  seed  and 
not  his  being  the  pivot  upon  which  the 
redemption  of  the  race  from  the  hard- 
ships imposed  upon  it  by  his  credulity 
or  unbelief  is  appointed  to  turn. 

Now  certainly  I  make  no  appeal  to 
these  sacred  symbols  with  a  view  to 
extracting  any  literal  or  scientific  in- 
formation from  them ;  for  their  dis- 
tinctive sacredness  lies  in  their  singu- 
lar ineptitude  to  prompt  or  dominate 
thought,  while  they  are  just  as  singu- 
larly adapted  to  illustrate  and  promote 
it ;  and  it  is  for  this  purely  correspon- 
dential  aid  and  service  that  I  now  re- 
sort to  them.  I  avail  myself  of  their 
picturesque  garb  only  to  clothe  and  set 
off  my  own  private  conception  of  wo- 
man, or  give  it  outline  and  color  to  the 
reader's  apprehension ;  for  I  myself, 


like  everybody  else,  suffer  grievously 
from  the  excessive  drought  that  per- 
vades the  ordinary  literature  of  the 
topic,  in  which  the  spiritual  or  distinc- 
tively human  conception  of  sex  gasps 
and  expires  under  the  mere  sensuous 
or  organic  conception.  I  am  deeply 
interested  in  the  practical  success  of 
the  woman's  enterprise,  but  it  is  not 
because  I  care  an  iota  for  woman  as 
the  female  man  merely,  i.  e.  as  ex- 
pressing a  simply  organic  or  animal 
subserviency  to  the  male  man  ;  for  I 
have  long  been  used  to  believe  in  wo- 
man not  as  sexually,  but  only  as  spir- 
itually, pronounced.  No,  it  is  exclu- 
sively because  I  regard  her  as  a  hith- 
erto slumbering,  but  now  fully  aroused 
and  original  divine  force  in  our  nature, 
both  male  and  female,  or  above  sex, 
without  whose  acknowledgment  the 
wheels  of  the  world's  destiny  hence- 
forth obstinately  refuse  to  go  forward. 
Women  may  be  what  they  please  ;  they 
have  no  power  to  compromise  woman 
any  mere  than  man  has,  however  ap- 
propriately their  natural  modesty,  grace, 
and  refinement  reflect  her  essential  in- 
finitude. For  woman  means  not  hu- 
man nature,  but  human  culture.  She 
means  human  nature  no  longer  out- 
wardly finited  by  its  own  necessities,  or 
its  own  animal,  vegetable,  and  mineral 
instincts,  but  inwardly  freed  from  this 
bondage,  or  infinited,  by  God's  own 
indwelling.  In  short,  woman  in  my 
opinion  symbolizes  humanity  no  longer 
in  its  merely  created  or  physical  and 
moral  aspect,  in  which  it  feels  itself 
under  law  to  God,  or  to  a  nature  infinite- 
ly incommensurate  with  itself;  but  in 
its  regenerate,  or  social  and  assthetic, 
aspect,  in  which  it  feels  itself  divorced 
from  any  legal  vassalage  even  to  God, 
and  becomes,  on  the  contrary,  freely 
and  frankly  at  one  with  him. 

Practically,  then,  the  woman's  move- 
ment claims  infinitely  grander  associa- 
tions than  those  lent  to  it  by  its  more 
conspicuous  advocates  in  either  gen- 
der ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  see  no  reason- 
able prospect  even  of  their  lesser  aspi- 
rations in  its  behalf  being  realized,  until 
it  is  duly  honored  in  this  superior  light 


68 


The   Woman  Thou  gavest  with  me?          [January, 


It   is   not  at  bottom   a  movement  in  But   Mr.  Mill's   heart  is   after  all  a 

behalf  of  either  sex  chiefly,  but  of  both  great  deal  wiser  than  his  head.     No  an- 

sexcs  quite  equally  ;  though,   if  there  imal,  even  if  he  were  for  the  nonce  the 

be   any  difference,    I    should   say  that  highly  moral  .and   rational  animal  Mr. 

man  would   turn   out  its  chief  benefi-  Mill  is,  could  ever  have  felt  the  noble 

ciary.      For    if   woman    is   dependent  lyrical  rage  which  has  repeatedly  burst 

upon  him  for  her  outward  subsistence  forth   in   Mr.  Mill's   inspired   and  im- 

and  honor,  he  is  dependent  upon  her  pressive,  though   exaggerated,  tributes 

influence  for  all  those  inward  or  spir-  to  the  memory  of  his  wife.     That  fine 

itual  qualities  which  lift  him  above  the  passion  lifted  Mr.  Mill  quite  above  the 


brute,  and  should  be  even  more  inter- 
ested than  she  herself  is,  therefore,  to 
have  her  character  and  action  freed 
from  all  gratuitous  obstruction.  Thus 


earth,  and  made  him  acutely  feel  the 
whilst,  if  not  reflectively  understand, 
the  literally  infinite  distance  that  sep- 
arates marriage  from  concubinage,  or 


the  agitation  is  not  in  the  least  a  partial  woman   from   man.     What  among  the 

one.  &It  is  an  agitation,  if  there  ever  was  animals  answers  to  the  marriage  senti- 

one,  in  behalf  of  humanity  itself.     The  ment  in  the  human  bosom,  is  not  the 

specific  watchword    under  which    the  passion   of   the   male   for  the   female, 

battle  is  fought,  and  the  victory  will  were   it  even  that  of  the  dove  for  its 

yet  be  won,  is  doubtless  woman  ;  but  mate,  but  that  unconscious  or  involun- 


woman  in  her  representative  character 
only,  standing  for  all  that  is  divine  in 


tary   looking  up   of  the   whole  animal 
creation  to  man,  which  we  see   exem- 


our  common  nature,  or  for  the  dignity  plified  in  the  dog's  delight  in  his  mas- 
of  the  human  race  itself  and  the  ter.  Love,  I  admit,  so  long  as  it  re- 
chances  of  its  immortal  future,  which  mains  unchastened  by  marriage,  is  the 
alone  are  the  vital  interests  at  stake,  same  in  man  as  in  the  animal.  That  is 
Pity  it  is,  accordingly,  to  find  the  cause  to  say,  it  demands  the  entire  subjec- 


conducted  with  so  much  partisan  acri- 
mony as  it  habitually  is  on  both  sides. 
What  with  the  Todds  and  Fultons 
here,  and  the  Trains  and  Anthonys 
there,  the  good  cause  will,  erelong, 
cease  to  recognize  itself.  Even  Mr. 


tion  of  the  female,  and  if  it  were  not 
the  fatally  illogical  thing  it  is,  would 
eventually  compass  her  annihilation. 
Look  for  example,  if  you  need  any,  at 
Mr.  Swinburne's  epileptic  muse.  Mr. 
Swinburne  is  the  modern  laureate  of 


Mill,  whose  name  is  a  guaranty  of  love,  love  inspired  by  sense,  or  unrec- 
honesty  in  any  cause,  loses  his  judicial  onciled  to  marriage  ;  and  you  have 
rectitude  in  this,  and  betrays  the  wilful  only  to  consult  his  poems  to  see  how 
;zeal  of  a  sharp  attorney.*  Neverthe- 
less, his  book  is  on  every  account  the 


fatal  always  the  lover  turns  out  to  his 
paramour,  how   he  yearns   literally  to 


one  best  worth  reading  that  the   con-  consume  her,  or  to  flesh  his  teeth  in 

troversy  has  called  forth.     His  funda-  her,  just  as  if  he  were  mere  unmitigat- 

mental  principle,  unfortunately,  is  the  ed  tiger,  and   she   mere  predestinated 

insignificance  of  sex,  and   the  cordial  kid.     But  marriage  is  the  apotheosis  of 

way  in  which  he   flagellates  that  ven-  woman,  and  I  envy  no  man's  spiritual 

erable    superstition    is    little   short  of  possibilities  who  is  not  liable  on  occa- 


astounding.  The  distinction  between 
man  and  woman,  in  Mr.  Mill's  estima- 
tion, if  I  do  not  misconceive  him,  is 


sion  to  Mr.  Mill's  practical  hallucina- 
tion in  that  regard,  when  he  identified 
all  divine  and  human  worth  with  the 


purely  organic.  There  is  really  nothing  person  of  his  wife.  Mr.  Mill  is  not 
corresponding  to  it  in  either  the  ra-  near  so  explicit  as  he  might  be  on  this 
tional  or  moral  plane.  Sex  is  an  attri-  subject,  but  his  implicit  deliverance 
bute  of  matter,  not  of  mind,  or  holds  true  leaves  no  doubt  that  he  speculatively 
only  in  universals,  not  in  particulars.  regards  marriage  as  a  mere  voluntary 
Subjection  of  Women.  By  John  Stuart  tie  between  men  and  women,  essential- 
Mill.  New  York :  Appleton  &  Co.  ly  devoid  of  social  obligation,  or  having 


i  S/o.] 


"  The   Woman   Thou  gavest  wit  It  vie" 


at  most  only  a  politico-economical  in- 
terest to  society.  What  I  mean  to  say 
is,  he  regards  marriage  as  devoid  of 
any  distinctively  spiritual  sanction,  any 
sanction  above  the  personal  welfare  of 
the  parties  to -it,  or  reflecting  any  in- 
terests more  vital  and  sacred  than 
those  of  their  reciprocal  delight  in 
each  other. 

But  in  every  marriage  contract  there 
are  three  inevitable  parties ;  a  particu- 
lar man  and  woman,  professing  mutual 
affection  for  each  other,  on  one  hand, 
and  the  society  of  which  they  are  mem- 
bers, on  the  other.  Now  the  marriage 
institution  does  not  originate  in  the 
necessities  primarily  of  this  or  any  oth- 
er man  and  woman,  but  in  the  necessi- 
ties of  society  itself.  It  is  a  strictly 
social  institution,  growing  out  of  the 
exigencies,  not  of  human  nature,  but 
of  human  culture  ;  and  it  contem- 
plates first  of  all,  therefore,  the  advan- 
tage of  society  itself,  and  through  that 
alone  the  advantage  of  all  its  individual 
members.  And  Mr.  Mill  is  above  all 
things  a  moralist,  not  a  philosopher. 
That  is  to  say,  he  cherishes  so  supreme 
a  zeal  for  the  interests  of  freedom  in 
man,  as  to  feel  a  comparatively  inert 
sympathy  for  society,  or  the  interests 
of  order.  And  consequently,  when  he 
describes  marriage  he  pictures  it  as  a 
mere  covenant  of  extreme  friendship 
entered  into  by  a  man  and  a  woman,  in- 
volving no  external  obligation,  and  lim- 
ited only  by  their  own  good  pleasure. 
Mr.  Mill,  of  course,  means  very  well. 
He  means  at  bottom  simply  to  utter  a 
manful  protest  against  the  assumption 
of  any  fatal  contrariety  between  the  pub- 
lic and  private  life  of  the  world,  between 
the  interests  of  force  or  necessity  and 
those  of  freedom.  But,  like  all  moral- 
istic or  rationalistic  reasoners,  he  fails 
to  give  due  speculative  weight  to  the 
idea  of  our  associated  destiny,  and 
hence,  whenever  the  interests  of  uni- 
versality and  those  of  individuality  con- 
flict, he  makes  no  effort  to  reconcile 
them,  but  avouches  himself  the  blind 
devoted  partisan  of  the  latter  interest. 

A  man's  life  is  one  thing,  and  his 
opinions  a  very  different  one ;  so  that, 


however  much  Mr.  Mill's  notion  of 
marriage  violates  our  ordinary  canons 
as  to  the  essential  discrepancy  between 
chaste  and  libidinous  manners,  Mr. 
Mill  himself  is  too  right-minded  a  man 
to  share  the  practical  illusions  upon 
that  subject  which  have  long  been 
creeping  over  the  private  mind  of  the 
race  both  in  Europe  and  in  this  coun- 
try. It  is  astonishing  to  observe  the 
small  drizzle  of  indecency  that  is  set- 
tling down  upon  the  minds  of  imbecile, 
conceited  people  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  and  passing  itself  off  as 
so  much  heavenly  dew.  It  seems  to 
be  an  accepted  notion,  even  among 
many  sober-minded  people,  that  any 
union  of  the  sexes  is  chaste  if  the 
parties  to  it  are  only  fanatically  in- 
different to  the  ordinary  obligations  of 
sexual  morality.  But  a  chaste  union 
of  the  sexes  always  contemplates  mar- 
riage either  actually  or  prospective!)', 
and  so  prevents  the  mere  outward  in- 
tercourse of  the  parties  to  it  becoming 
a  conspicuous  fact  of  consciousness 
on  either  side.  The  only  thing  that 
degrades  the  relation  of  the  sexes, 
or  keeps  it  inhuman  and  diabolic,  is, 
that  its  sensuous  delights  are  prized 
above  its  inward  satisfactions  or  the 
furtherance  it  yields  to  men's  spiritual 
culture.  And  what  marriage  does  for 
men,  accordingly,  the  great  service  it 
renders  our  distinctively  moral  or  hu- 
man instincts,  is,  that  it  dulls  the  edge 
of  these  rapacious  delights,  of  these  in- 
sane cupidities,  by  making  them  no 
more  a  flattering  concession  of  privi- 
lege, but  a  mere  claim  of  right  or  mat- 
ter of  course.  In  short,  the  sole  digni- 
ty of  marriage,  practically  viewed,  lies 
in  its  abasing  the  male  sway  in  our  na- 
ture, and  exalting  the  feminine  influ- 
ence to  its  place.  Thus,  when  a  man 
loves  a  woman  with  chaste  love,  it  is 
with  a  distinct  self-renunciation,  be- 
cause he  perceives  in  her  a  self  infinite- 
ly more  near  and  dear  to  his  heart  t!:an 
his  own  self,  or  because  she  presents  to 
his  imagination  such  an  ineffable  grace 
of  modesty  or  self-oblivion  as  makes 
him  feel  that  to  possess  her,  to  associ- 
ate her  with  the  evolution  of  his  proper 


The   Woman   Thou  gavest  with  mt 


[January, 


heart  and  mind,  would  be  to  sum  up  all 
the  blessedness  God  himself  can  con- 
fer upon  him.  I  wonder  that  no  hus- 
band or  lover  has  ever  discovered  in 
the  mystical  genesis  of  Eve,  and  the 
record  of  her  subsequent  relations  to 
the  mystical  Adam,  first  and  second, 
that  she  could  have  been  intended  to 
symbolize  nothing  else  than  the  princi- 
ple of  selfhood  or  freedom  in  human 
nature  ;  and  that  marriage  consequent- 
ly prophesies  that  eventual  reconcilia- 
tion of  spirit  and  flesh,  individuality 
and  universality,  of  the  divine  and  hu- 
man natures,  in  short,  which  is  to  take 
place  only  in  a  perfect  society  or  fel- 
lowship of  man  with  man  in  all  the  earth. 

Dr.  Bushnell  also  contributes  an 
element  to  the  current  dispute,  but  his 
book  *  is  neither  so  earnest  nor  yet  so 
sincere  as  Mr.  Mill's  ;  its  chief  interest 
arising  from  its  reflecting  so  boldly  the 
liberalized  sentiment  which  in  many 
quarters  is  invading  the  Church,  in  re- 
gard to  questions  of  public  morality. 
His  essay  lacks  consequently  that  deep, 
rich  flavor  of  personal  conviction  which 
abounds  in  Mr.  Mill's  discourse,  where 
truth,  or  what  the  author  deems  such, 
is  everything,  and  rhetoric  goes  for 
naught ;  but  it  has  its  value,  neverthe- 
less, as  showing  with  what  strides  the 
conservative  mind  among  us  is  adjust- 
ing itself  to  the  new  horizons  of 
thought,  when  even  rhetoric  finds  its 
account  in  repeating  them.  For  Dr. 
Bushnell  would  open  all  spheres  of  ac- 
tion to  women,  except  the  administra- 
tive one  ;  so  that  I  suppose  it  is  only  a 
question  of  time,  when  he  and  those  he 
represents  will  yield  this  intrenchraent 
also. 

Nor  yet  does  Yale  College  wish  to  go 
all  unheard  in  the  present  incite  of 
speculative  thought,  her  learned  presi- 
dent's essay  f  being  an  animated  pro- 
test against  the  prevalent  relaxation  of 
the  marriage  bond  operated  by  our 
State  legislation.  It  is  an  historical 
compend  of  old-time  laws  and  usages 

urage  :  the  Reform  against  Nature. 
imcll.     New  York  :  Scribner  &  Co. 
t    Divorce  au<!  .Nation.      By  'I'.    D. 

Woolsey,  I).  D.      New  York  :  Scribner  &  Co. 


relating  to  marriage,  and  a  vigorous 
though  hopeless  plea  for  a  return  to  the 
Gin  istian  law  of  divorce.  I  say  "  hope- 
less," because  it  is  evident  that  Presi- 
dent Woolsey  does  not  himself  expect 
any  retrograde  legislation  on  this  sub- 
ject to  succeed.  I  am  persuaded,  for 
my  own  part,  that  the  only  hope  of 
good  men  like  President  Woolsey,  who 
cherish  purity  and  order  in  the  sexual 
relations,  and  are,  therefore,  utterly  be- 
wildered by  any  present  outlook  in  that 
direction,  is  in  looking  forwards,  not 
backwards.  These  great  ends  are  to 
be  promoted,  not  by  any  legislation 
whatever,  but  only  by  the  increased 
energy  and  diffusion  of  the  social  sen- 
timent. The  inappreciable  value  of 
ritual  marriage  consists  in  its  having 
furnished  the  sole  guaranty  of  the 
family  unity,  which  is  the  indispensa- 
ble germ  in  its  turn  of  that  eventual 
unity  of  the  race,  which  we  call  by  the 
name  of  "society."  If  then,  as  all  our 
divorce  legislation  proves,  the  marriage 
tie  is  losing  the  literal  sanctity  which 
once  hallowed  it,  it  can  only  be  because 
the  isolated  family  sentiment  is  provi- 
dentially dying  out,  or  giving  place  to 
a  sentiment  more  spiritual,  which  is 
that  of  the  associated  family;  in  which 
case  we  are  entitled  and  even  bound  to 
hope  that  whatever  ritual  sanctity  may 
be  lost  to  marriage  will  be  made  up  to 
it  in  real  sanctity.  No  divine  institu- 
tion can  ever  be  enfeebled  from  with- 
out, but  only  from  within,  that  is,  by 
surviving  its  uses  ;  so  that  if,  as  all 
signs  show,  the  family  bond  is  really 
dissolving,  we  may  be  sure  that  it  is 
doing  so  only  through  the  access  of  a 
larger  family  spirit  in  men  ;  that  is,  by 
the  gathering  instinct  of  a  family  unity 
among  us  large  enough  at  last  to  house 
all  mankind.  And  when  this  unity  be- 
comes avouched  in  appropriate  institu- 
tions, we  need  have  no  fear  that  the 
relations  of  the  sexes,  now  so  degraded, 
will  not  become  elevated  out  of  the 
dust  of  men's  contempt.  For  then,  for 
the  first  time  in  history,  the  interests 
of  chaste  marriage,  which  alone  give 
law  to  those  relations,  will  command  no 
longer  the  voluntary  or  calculated,  but 


The   Woman   Tliou  gavcst  ivitJi  j;u\' 


the   spontaneous  and  irresistible  hom- 
age of  the  human  heart. 

A  person  interested  in  these  matters 
may  also  read,  not  without  profit,  "  The 
Woman  who  Dared/'  *  It  is  an  un- 
rhymed,  and  yet  by  no  means  wholly 
unrhythmical,  plea  for  the  freedom  of 
individual  men  and  women  to  take  the 
marriage  law  into  their  own  hands,  and 
tighten  or  relax  it  at  their  own  pleasure  : 
a  plea  with  which  the  author's  sympa- 
thetic heart  has  evidently  had  more  to 
do  than  his  reflective  judgment.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  there  is  any  evi- 
dence of  inspiration  in  the  poem.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  a  regular  social-sci- 
ence report,  relieved  by  bits  of  descrip- 
tive rhetoric  ;  and  no  muse  that  haunts 
hallowed  places  was  ever  invoked  for 
her  consent  to  a  syllable  of  it.  At  the 
same  time,  it  leaves  you  with  a  cordial 
friendliness  to  the  author ;  your  won- 
der being  that  a  writer  so  terribly  in- 
tentional as  he  is  should  turn  out  on 
the  whole  so  amiable  and  innocuous. 
Mr.  Sargent,  too,  in  his  turn,  seems  in- 
tellectually indifferent  to  the  grandly 
social  aspects  of  the  sexual  problem, 
and  sensitive  only  to  its  lower  person- 
al bearings.  These  are  much,  no  doubt ; 
but  they  are  incomparably  below  the 
others  in  intellectual  importance.  In- 
deed, Mr.  Sargent's  speculative  views 
on  this  subject  are  so  extreme,  he 
leaves  the  interests  of  society  as  a  fac- 
tor in  human  affairs  so  wholly  out  of 
sight,  that  I  utterly  fail  to  see  how  he 
would  discriminate  between  marriage 
and  concubinage.  Marriage  is  essen- 
tially a  race-interest  in  humanity,  while 
concubinage  is  essentially  a  personal 
one.  This  difference  is  what  forever 
spiritualizes  marriage  to  men's  regard, 
and  what  forever  carnalizes  concubi- 
nage. In  other  words,  what  alone 
sanctifies  the  sexual  instinct  among 
men,  and  lifts  it  above  mere  brute  con- 
cupiscence, is  that  it  is  not  rightfully 
bound  to  the  sensuous  caprice  of  the 
subject,  but  obeys  the  interests  of  so- 
ciety ;  that  the  welfare  of  society  is 
primary  in  it,  and  the  welfare  of  persons 

Woman  who  Dared.      By    Kpes    Sargent. 
Boston  :  Roberts  Brothers. 


altogether  secondary.  Such  is  the  sole 
meaning  of  marriage.  It  is  a  social  in- 
stitution, a  race-interest  exclusively, 
not  a  personal  one,  and  no  one  has  the 
least  title  to  its  honors  and  emolu- 
ments, spiritually  regarded,  who  is  not 
habitually  ready  to  postpone  himself, 
to  his  neighbor.  A  fortiori  then,  Mr. 
Sargent's  poetical  men  and  \\onien 
have  no  right,  underived  from  their  own 
ignorance  or  wilfulness,  to  take  the 
marriage  law  into  their  own  keeping 
and  abrogate  it  at  their  own  conven- 
ience, without  the  amplest  previous  so- 
cial authorization. 

This  consideration  ought  to  be  deci- 
sive also,  in  my  opinion,  as  to  the  pre- 
tension which  Dr.  liushnell  and  Mr. 
Sargent  both  alike  lend  to  women,  — 
that  of  voluntarily  initiating  the  conjugal 
compact.  For  I  cannot  help  regarding 
the  marriage  of  a  man  and  woman  as  a 
crude  earthly  type  or  symbol  of  a  pro- 
founder  marriage  which,  in  invisible 
depths  of  being,  is  taking  place  between 
the  public  and  private  life  of  man,  or 
the  sphere  of  his  natural  instinct  and 
that  of  his  spiritual  culture  :  man,  in 
the  symbolic  transaction,  standing  for 
the  former  or  coercive  element,  that  of 
physical  force  or  passion  ;  while  wo- 
man represents  the  latter  or  yielding 
element,  that  of  personal  freedom  or 
attraction.  And  if  this  be  so,  then 
clearly  the  initiative  in  all  things  re- 
lating to  love  and  marriage  belongs  of 
right  to  man  alone  ;  and  no  woman  can 
practically  dispute  his  prerogative  with- 
out so  flagrant  a  dereliction  of  her  prop- 
er nature,  or  her  instinctive  modesty, 
as  to  provoke  the  long  disgust  of  every 
man  in  whose  favor  she  should  thus 
unsex  herself. 

On  the  whole,  and  to  conclude :  — 
There  is  vastly  more  in  the  woman's 
movement,  so  called,  than  meets  the 
eye  of  sense,  which  yet  is  the  eye  of 
the  mind  with  all  those  who  obstinately 
regard  woman  as  the  mere  sexual  coun- 
terpart and  diminutive  of  man.  A 
whole  library,  full  of  reconcilii 
niiicance  to  the  controversy,  still  re- 
mains unpublished  and  eke  unwritten, 
without  which  nevertheless  the  contro- 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


versy  will  not  have  reached  its  due  in- 
tellectual dimensions,  nor  consequently 
allow  itself  to  be  permanently  settled. 
In  fact,  I  am  persuaded  that  we  shall 
never  do  ripe  justice  even  to  the  mate- 
rial aspects  of  the  problem,  until  we 
come  to  look  upon  man  and  woman  as 
two  contrasted  terms  of  a  great  creative 
allegory,  in  which  Man  stands  for  what 


we  call  the  World,  meaning  thereby 
human  nature  in  moral  or  voluntary 
revolt  from  God ;  and  Woman  for  what 
we  call  the  Church,  meaning  thereby 
human  nature  in  spiritual  or  spontane- 
ous accord  with  its  divine  source  :  the 
actual  point  of  unity  or  fusion  between 
the  two  being  furnished  by  the  final 
social  evolution  of  humanity. 


WHAT    TO    DO    WITH    THE    SURPLUS. 


THE  battle  of  the  surplus  has  once 
before  been  fought  on  the  floor  of 
Congress.  No  constitutional  or  eco- 
nomical principle,  it  is  true,  could  be 
settled  by  the  mere  fact  of  a  temporary 
excess  of  receipts  over  expenditures  : 
the  right  of  the  general  government, 
under  the  Federal  compact,  to  take  stock 
in  a  turnpike  would  have  been  just  as 
complete  had  the  treasury  exhibited  a 
chronic  deficit,  instead  of  a  handsome 
surplus,  when  Andrew  Jackson  vetoed 
the  Maysville  Road  Bill ;  the  policy  of 
protection,  on  the  grounds  on  which 
it  was  urged  and  combated  in  1832, 
would  have  been  just  as  beneficial  or 
baleful  had  the  Secretary  not  been  able 
to  make  both  ends  meet  at  the  close  of 
the  year ;  nor  was  the  expediency  of 
holding  the  public  lands  at  a  price 
somewhat  above  the  cost  of  survey  and 
agency  discussed  so  much  with  a  view 
to  present  as  to  prospective  revenue. 
And  yet  it  is  certain  that,  in  fact,  the 
decision  of  each  of  these  fiercely  con- 
tested questions  was  greatly  influenced, 
though  in  principle  not  affected  at  all, 
by  the  accident  of  a  favorable  balance 
of  the  treasury  from  1830  to  1833  ;  and 
that  underneath  all  the  arguments  of 
party  leaders,  the  most  potential  ele- 
ment of  the  case  was  the  popular  knowl- 
edge of  a  large  and  increasing  sur- 
plus. 

The  relation  of  receipts  and  expen- 
ditures had  indeed  become  sufficiently 
remarkable  to  influence  very  decidedly 


the  determination  of  the  questions,  how 
revenues  should  be  raised,  and  how  dis- 
bursed. The  advocates  of  extreme 
protection  had  not  then  learned  how  to 
make  a  tariff  so  high  as  to  defeat  the 
purposes  of  revenue  ;  and  to  their  infi- 
nite chagrin  and  embarrassment  found 
the  money  pouring  into  the  treasury 
in  such  unmistakable  excess  as  to  ren- 
der the  pretence  of  a  governmental  ne- 
cessity impossible,  and  to  reduce  the 
question  of  protecting  American  in- 
dustry to  pure  economical  principles. 
Hence  the  desperate  efforts  of  Mr.  Clay 
and  his  friends  to  commit  the  general 
government  to  a  wholesome  scheme  of 
internal  improvements  which  should  ab- 
sorb this  uncomfortable  surplus  ;  hence 
the  angry  protests  of  the  Southern 
States  against  the  alleged  and  most 
undoubted  sectionalism  of  the  scheme 
of  protection ;  hence  nullification,  and 
hence  the  compromise  act  of  Mr.  Clay. 
Had  the  receipts  of  the  treasury  barely 
sufficed  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses 
of  the  government,  the  opposition  to  the 
then  existing  tariff  never  could  have 
attained  a  dangerous  height  ;  the 
scheme  of  a  general  subscription  to 
incorporated  companies  all  over  the 
Union  never  would  have  been  pre- 
sented ;  and  the  propriety  of  deriving 
revenue  from  the  public  lands  would 
have  passed  unchallenged.  The  whole 
complication  of  1832-33  might  have 
been  avoided,  had  the  advocates  of  the 
"  American  system  "  originally  insisted 


1 870.] 


Wliat  to  do  witJi  tlic  Surplus. 


73 


on  a  rate  of  duties  sufficiently  high  to 
defeat  the  purposes  of  revenue. 

But  at  the  time  we  write  of,  the  phi- 
losophy of  high  duties  was  not  so  well 
understood  as  it  is  now.  From  1828  to 
1830  inclusive,  three  years,  the  revenue 
had  stood  at  about  twenty-four  millions 
and  three  quarters.  But  in  1831  the 
receipts  jumped  to  twenty-eight  mil- 
lions and  a  half.  In  1832  they  rose  to 
thirty-one  millions  and  three  quarters  ; 
and  in  1833  to  thirty-four  millions. 
Meanwhile  the  ordinary  expenditures 
of  the  government  had  been  but  twelve 
millions  and  a  half  in  1829,  rising  in 
1830  to  thirteen  and  a  quarter;  in  1831 
to  thirteen  and  three  quarters;  1832 
to  sixteen  and  a  half;  and  in  1833  to 
the  maximum,  twenty-two  millions  and 
three  quarters,  leaving  still  a  surplus 
of  eleven  millions  and  a  quarter,  or  one 
third  of  the  government  revenue.  Such 
a  flourishing  condition  of  the  finances 
had  of  course  allowed  large  payments 
upon  the  small  debt  of  those  days. 
Nine  millions  had  been  paid  in  1828  ; 
nine  and  three  quarters  in  1829  ;  nine 
and  a  half  in  1830  ;  fourteen  and  three 
quarters  in  1831  ;  and  seventeen  mil- 
lions, or  more  than  one  half  of  the  total 
receipts,  in  1832. 

Unfortunately,  too,  at  this  juncture, 
while  the  receipts  from  customs  were 
obstinately  increasing  year  by  year,  and 
the  expenditures,  notwithstanding  the 
friendly  services  of  a  Congress  acting 
in  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Clay's  famous  res- 
olution of  1807,*  hung  at  the  inconsid- 
erable total  of  twenty  millions  or  so, 
this  great  resource,  tjie  debt,  began  to 
fail.  The  surplus  of  the  five  preceding 
years  had  made  quick  work  of  it ;  and 
the  beginning  of  1833  found  the  entire 
principal  at  but  a  trifle  above  seven 
millions.  In  vain  did  Mr.  Hemphill's 

*  "  Resolved,  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  be 
directed  to  prepare,  and  report  to  the  Senate  at  their 
next  .x.'ssion,  a  plan  for  the  application  of  such  means 
as  are  within  the  power  of  Congress  to  the  purposes 
of  opening  roads  and  making  canals,  together  with 
a  statement  of  undertakings  of  that  nature  which  as 
objects  of  public  improvement  may  require  and 
</<w;  •  the  aid  of  government."  Fancy  the  Forty-first 
Congress  advertising  for  jobs  in  that  fashion  !  The 
lobby  must  have  been  very  modest  or  very  verdant 
in  those  days,  to  need  such  jogging. 


committee,  in  1831,  in  something  like 
despair  at  the  fast-accumulating  sur- 
plus, resolve,  "  that  it  is  expedient 
that  the  general  government  should 
continue  to  prosecute  internal  improve- 
ments by  direct  appropriations  of  mon- 
ey, or  by  subscriptions  for  stock  in  com- 
panies incorporated  in  the  respective 
States."  Turnpikes,  in  those  primitive 
and  slow  old  days,  were  unfortunately 
not  expensive.  Had  there  been  rail- 
roads to  build  at  $  48,000  a  mile  (sec- 
ond mortgage),  a  different  story  might 
have  been  to  be  told.  As  a  resource 
to  absorb  a  surplus  of  fifteen  millions, 
turnpikes  were  as  futile  as  Mrs.  Par- 
tington's  mop  against  the  incoming 
"  Atlantical  wave."  The  plan  of  gen- 
eral subscription  to  all  "deserving" 
joint-stock  companies  for  some  reason 
did  not  hit  the  public  fancy  ;  the  clam- 
or for  the  reduction  or  removal  of  taxes 
which  produced  double  the  honest  ne- 
cessities of  the  government  grew  loud- 
er and  fiercer  ;  the  extinction  of  the 
debt  completed  the  discomfiture  of  the 
advocates  of  the  existing  tariff;  South 
Carolina  carried  its  exasperation  to  the 
point  of  insurrection  ;  Mr.  Clay  intro- 
duced his  compromise  tariff;  and  the 
battle  was  over.  As  surely  as  any 
effect  can  be  predicated  of  any  cause, 
it  was  the  surplus  which  broke  the 
back  of  protection  in  1832-33. 

The  same  etnbarras  de  richesses  is 
likely  to  set  Congress  by  the  ears  the 
present  session  ;  and,  with  a  longer  or 
shorter  period  of  agitation,  to  produce 
equally  important  changes  in  the  fiscal 
policy  of  the  government.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  fix  exactly  the  surplus  of  the 
treasury  for  a  single  year,  inasmuch  as 
nations,  like  individuals,  sometimes  let 
little  bills  stand  over  ;  but  it  is  fair  to 
put  the  proper  surplus  of  1868-69  at 
fifty  millions  of  dollars.  This  amount 
has  been,  in  the  main,  well  and  proper- 
ly applied  to  the  reduction  of  the  debt. 
Some  may  think  that  absolutely  the 
best  course  was  not  pursued  ;  but  all 
will  agree  that,  without  so  much  as  the 
outlines  of  a  policy  laid  down  by  Con- 
gress, we  are  very  fortunate  in  having  no 
worse  disposition  of  the  annual  surplus. 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


JUit  when  we  come  to  calculate  the 
probable  receipts  and  expenditures  of 
the  present  fiscal  year,  \vc  find  that  we 
have  a  much  more  formidable  surplus 
to  deal  with  ;  one  so  enormous,  in  fact, 
as  to  render  it  almost  impossible  that 
the  session  should  pass  without  sub- 
stantial legislation  for  disposing  of  it. 
A  surplus  of  fifty  millions  might  per- 
haps be  left  to  "run  itself,"  without  a 
policy,  and  even  without  any  legal  au- 
thority for  dealing  with  it.  But  a  sur- 
plus of  one  hundred  or  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  millions  would  be  rath- 
er too  large  to  be  ignored  by  the  most 
happy-go-lucky  of  politicians,  with  the 
largest  faith  in  Providence,  and  the 
smallest  acquaintance  with  finance.  In 
1868-69,  there  was  paid  on  account  of 
bounties  the  sum  of  eighteen  millions 
and  a  half.  But  the  bounties  covered 
by  existing  laws  are  nearly  all  paid; 
and  the  disbursements  on  that  account 
during  the  present  year  cannot  exceed, 
if  they  reach,  three  millions.  Last  year 
we  paid  seven  millions  and  a  quarter  for 
Alaska.  If  to  the  saving  on  these  ac- 
counts we  add  the  interest  accruing  from 
the  sinking-fund,  we  have  twenty-five 
millions  added  to  the  virtual  resources 
of  the  treasury,  irrespective  of  any  de- 
crease in  the  other  expenditures  of  the 
government.  But  the  reduction  that 
has  taken  place  in  all  the  departments 
and  services  cannot  reasonably  be  cal- 
culated at  less  than  an  equal  amount. 
Indeed,  the  changes  instituted,  with 
so  much  courage  and  comprehension, 
in  the  army  alone,  would  amply  account 
for  three  fifths,  if  not  two  thirds,  of  this 
sum.  The  reduction  from  forty-five  to 
twenty-five  regiments  of  infantry  —  the 
annual  cost  of  each  regiment  approxi- 
mating a  million  of  dollars  —  was,  if 
we  consider  the  extent  of  the  reform, 
.ny  good,  cowardly  reasons  that 
might  have  been  urged  against  it,  the 
instant  seasonableness  of  the  measure, 
and  the  effect  v.hich  this  example  pro- 
duced upon  the  whole  service,  one 
of  the  finest  strokes  of  genius.  An 
administrator  of  less  courage  than  the 
present  head  of  the  army  would  have 
contented  himself  with  dropping  off 


half  a  dozen  regiments  this  year  and 
as  many  next  year,  protracting  over 
four  or  five  years  what  General  Sher- 
man effected  within  a  week  of  inaugura- 
tion-day. It  was  in  carrying  out  the 
details  of  this  magnificent  scheme  of 
retrenchment  that  Secretary  Rawlins 
was  enabled  to  perform  such  signal 
service  to  the  nation. 

A  proportionate  saving  was  hardly 
to  be  expected  in  the  navy,  or  in  any 
branch  of  the  civil  service  ;  but  no  es- 
tablishment, except  the  diplomatic,  has 
escaped  sharp  and  severe  reduction. 
The  changes  in  the  Washington  offices 
alone  will  save  the  government  millions 
of  dollars  ;  while  the  same  tightening 
hand  has  been  felt  in  the  remotest 
branch  of  the  revenue  and  postal  organ- 
izations. It  is  probable,  indeed,  that  the 
retrenchment  which  has  already  taken 
place  has  gone  quite  as  far  as  the  real 
interests  of  the  public  service  will  al- 
low ;  and  that  further  reduction  would 
not  be  found  to  be  true  economy.  The 
first  efforts  of  the  administration  have, 
naturally  and  properly  enough,  been 
almost  altogether  of  the  lower  and 
cheaper  kind  of  retrenchment, — the 
scrimping  of  men  and  supplies,  and  the 
putting  of  every  service  on  an  allow- 
ance with  which  it  must  get  along  as 
best  it  may.  This  is  a  kind  of  re- 
trenchment which  does  not  require 
large  abilities,  but  only  an  unflinching 
purpose  and  a  degree  of  obtuseness.  In 
such  retrenchment  the  most  useful  and 
least  inflated  establishments  are  com- 
monly called  upon  to  contribute  as 
much  as  the  less  deserving ;  and  con- 
siderable losses  in  efficiency  must  al- 
ways be  counted  upon. 

There  is  a  higher  kind  of  retrench- 
ment, which  requires  comprehension 
and  courage  of  no  mean  order ;  which 
consists,  not  in  reducing  offices  to 
their  minimum,  but  in  consolidating 
establishments,  detecting  extensive  du- 
plications of  power  and  agency,  and 
bringing  the  force  of  government  at 
every  point  close  to  its  work.  With- 
out, however,  dwelling  on  the  exten- 
sive possibilities  opened  at  this  point, 
it  is  perfectly  safe  to  assume  a  saving 


i  S/cx] 


WJiat  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


75 


in  all  the  services  and  establishments 
of  the  government  of  not  less  than 
twenty-five  millions  from  the  total  of 
the  last  year,  even  if  the  diplomatic 
service  should  escape  any  appreciable 
reduction. 

All  this  discussion  has  taken  for 
granted  that  the  revenue  will  stand  fast 
at  the  figures  of  the  last  year,  that  is, 
at  three  hundred  and  seventy  millions. 
But  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the 
revenue,  under  existing  laws,  should 
very  nearly  approach  four  hundred  mil- 
lions. In  the  first  place,  the  natural 
annual  growth  of  the  revenue  of  the 
country  —  what  the  English  economists 
improperly  style  "elasticity"  —  ought 
to  make  up  a  third  of  the  difference, 
and  even  more  at  the  present  time, 
when  the  Southern  States  are  so  rap- 
idly returning  to  productive  industry 
and  the  consumption  of  dutiable  arti- 
cles. It  is  not  growth  alone,  however, 
that  we  have  to  look  to.  The  revenue 
never  has  been  fairly  collected.  The 
early  months  of  the  present  admin- 
istration exhibited  the  first  vigorous 
and  intelligent  effort  to  enforce  the 
laws,  with  a  resulting  gain  of  many 
millions  for  every  month  General  Grant 
has  been  in  office.  Without,  however, 
attempting  to  fix  the  gain  of  the  reve- 
nue for  another  year  from  this  source, 
we  shall  have  enough  for  the  purposes 
of  this  argument  if  we  have  shown  it  to 
be  reasonably  probable  that  the  re- 
ceipts of  1869-  70  would,  with  the  pres- 
ent taxes,  exceed  the  necessary  expen- 
ditures of  the  government  by  a  clear 
hundred  millions,  with  a  fair  chance, 
or  even  a  strong  likelihood,  of  a  sur- 
plus larger  by  many  millions. 

With  a  scheme  of  taxation  construct- 
ed thus  to  yield  easily  a  hundred  mil- 
lions over  the  demands  of  the  govern- 
ment, no  one,  probably,  would  contend 
that  the  whole  of  that  revenue  could, 
as  human  and  official  nature  go,  be  safe- 
ly harvested  ;  or  that  some  portion  of 
what  might  be  brought  into  the  treas- 
ury would  not  be  lightly  and  unneces- 
sarily spent,  unless  that  surplus  were 
already  in  advance  so  far  engaged  to  a 
particular  object  —  as,  for  example, 


the  payment  of  the  debt,  and  that,  too, 
by  a  public  and  formal  declaration  of 
the  government  through  its  highest  or- 
gans —  as  to  make  such  an  appropria- 
tion almost,  in  effect,  one  of  the  neces- 
sary expenditures  of  the  year.  With 
taxes  which  might  yield  ninety  millions 
of  dollars,  or,  under  a  more  careful  and 
rigid  collection,  a  hundred  millions,  it 
is  safe  to  say  that  it  would  not  be  the 
larger  of  those  amounts  which  would 
be  collected  ;  while,  at  the  other  end, 
with  a  revenue  thus  calculated  to  ex- 
ceed expenditures  by  ninety,  or  it  might 
be,  by  only  eighty  millions  of  dollars, 
it  is  fair  to  assume  that  the  surplus  at 
the  close  of  the  year  would  be  found  to 
be,  not  ninety,  but  eighty. 

That  is,  with  a  scheme  of  taxation 
calculated  to  yield  a  surplus  of  one 
hundred  millions  under  stringent  col- 
lections and  careful  disbursements,  that 
surplus  remaining  unappropriated,  ten 
millions  would  be  a  moderate  estimate 
for  the  loss  caused  by  the  inevitable 
and  indeed  unconscious  relaxing  of 
effort  and  watchfulness  on  the  part  of 
the  whole  body  of  officials,  high  and 
low,  engaged  in  collecting  the  revenue ; 
while  another  ten  millions  would  prob- 
ably not  be  an  exaggerated  statement 
of  the  increased  expenditures,  in  all 
the  departments  of  government,  due  to 
the  general  knowledge  of  an  enormous 
surplus  not  expressly  pledged  to  any 
use.  In  other  words,  with  a  certain 
revenue,  the  government  could  remit 
fifty  millions  of  taxes  and  pay  fifty  mil- 
lions of  debt,  while  if  it  sought  to  ap- 
propriate the  whole  receipts  to  the  lat- 
ter object,  the  end  of  the  year  might 
well  find  no  more  than  eighty  millions 
of  the  debt  paid.  No  one  familiar  with 
the  collection  and  disbursement  of 
public  moneys  will  doubt  this  state- 
ment. 

Nor  is  it  enough  that  there  should 
be  a  generally  acknowledged  duty,  or  a 
vaguely  professed  purpose,  to  devote 
whatever  surplus  might  accrue  to  some 
particular  object,  as  the  payment  of 
debt.  Large  surpluses  are  not  collect- 
ed on  such  conditions  ;  nor  are  the 
revenues  of  a  state  administered  to 


76 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


the  best  advantage  with  such  latitude 
of  operation.  In  a  period  of  rare  hon- 
esty and  energy  it  might  be  possible, 
as  in  the  splendid  start  made  by  the 
present  administration,  to  apply  a  vague 
and  uncertain  surplus  to  such  uses  as 
scrupulously  as  if  a  scanty  revenue 
were  being  made  to  answer  the  urgent 
necessities  of  government ;  but  such 
exertions  are  not  to  be  expected  of 
average  finance  ministers  in  ordinary 
times.  Nothing  did  more  to  continue 
the  extravagant  expenditures  of  the 
war  period,  and  to  postpone  the  time 
when  a  searching  and  painful  retrench- 
ment should  be  instituted,  than  the 
fact  of  a  practically  unlimited  revenue, 
—  a  revenue,  that  is,  which  no  honest 
expenditure  could  begin  to  reach,  and 
which  even  a  wasteful  administration 
of  the  finances  could  hardly  exhaust. 
The  proposition  of  Mr.  Hooper  of 
Massachusetts,  to  limit  the  prospective 
revenue  strictly  to  three  hundred  mil- 
lions, and  then  trust  to  the  necessities 
of  the  situation  to  bring  the  expenditures 
within  that  mark,  was  at  once  a  philo- 
sophical and  a  statesmanlike  recogni- 
tion of  important  laws  of  public  conduct. 
We  need  to  take  one  step  farther,  to 
make  one  more  application  of  the  same 
principle  to  the  relations  between  re- 
ceipts and  expenditures  in  the  immedi- 
ate future.  The  relentless  reduction 
of  taxation  has  already  borne  excellent 
fruit  in  both  the  increased  efficiency  of 
collection  and  the  heightened  careful- 
ness of  disbursement ;  but  the  effect  of 
that  legislation  is  about  exhausted.  If 
we  are  to  look  for  further  improvement 
in  the  same  direction,  it  must  be  by  an- 
other turn  of  the  same  screw. 

So  much  for  a  vague  and  unappro- 
priated surplus.  It  is  something  for 
which  we  have  to  thank  God,  and  not 
our  own  wisdom,  if  it  be  not  plundered 
and  wasted  till  little  enough  is  left  for 
the  treasury  or  the  public  creditor.  As 
it  has  happened,  we  have  been  com- 
pelled, since  March,  to  try  this  method 
of  reducing  the  debt,  for  want  of  a  bet- 
ter ;  but  there  will  be  no  excuse  for  us  if 
continue  it  through  another  season. 
"When  the  present  administration  suc- 


ceeded to  power,  nobody  knew  whether 
we  were  likely  to  have  a  surplus  or 
not ;  and  our  legislators  were  perhaps 
excusable  in  declining  to  make  provis- 
ion for  the  disposal  of  it.  But  the  first 
question  of  the  present  session  unques- 
tionably is  the  disposition  of  the  sur- 
plus. It  is  not  often  in  the  history  of 
the  world  that  a  legislature  has  had 
occasion  to  decide  on  the  application 
of  such  an  amount  of  revenue  above  all 
reasonable  charges.  No  government 
ever  before  had  the  felicity  of  being 
enabled  to  dispose,  on  abstract  princi- 
ples, of  a  cool  hundred  millions  of 
money. 

And  such  legislation  is  not  more  a 
luxury  than  a  necessity.  The  country, 
to  speak  plainly,  will  not  submit  to  a 
scale  of  taxation  calculated  to  yield 
such  a  surplus,  without  having  it  pretty 
distinctly  agreed  upon  what  is  to  be 
done  with  the  money.  The  pressure 
of  taxation  is  seriously  felt ;  schemes 
for  relief  are  popular  ;  and  the  tax- 
payers are  not  in  a  humor  to  pay  into 
the  treasury  a  hundred  millions  to  be 
used  anyhow  or  nohow,  according  to 
circumstances  or  caprice.  A  moderate 
surplus  is  a  strength  to  an  administra- 
tion ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  an  exces- 
sive surplus  excites  discontent  more 
quickly  than  the  most  unfavorable  bal- 
ance of  the  treasury  ;  and  nothing  could 
be  more  threatening  to  the  Republican 
ascendency  than  an  attempt  to  main- 
tain taxation  admittedly  disproportion- 
ate to  the  wants  of  the  government, 
without  at  least  as  good  a  reason  stated 
as  the  speedy  extinguishment  of  the 
debt. 

Is  it,  then,  to  be  desired,  on  the  most 
careful  calculation  of  the  resources  of 
the  country  for  the  present  and  coming 
fiscal  years,  that  the  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury  should  be  authorized  to  ap- 
propriate to  the  increase  of  the  sinking- 
fund  or  the  cancellation  of  the  bonds 
all  the  money  (the  larger  the  amount 
the  better,  whether  it  be  seventy-five  or 
a  hundred  or  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  millions)  which  can  be  got  from  the 
people,  and  which  is  not  required  for 
ordinary  expenses?  Is  debt  an  evil 


1 8;o.] 


What  to  do  ivitk  the  Surplus. 


77 


in  such  a  sense  and  to  such  a  degree 
that  the  maximum  of  taxation  is  desir- 
able to  remove  it  ?  Would  such  a 
course  promote  or  impair  the  chances 
of  a  full,  final  liquidation  ?  Does  the 
industrial  condition  of  the  country  at 
the  present  time  permit  of  such  an 
effort  ? 

There  is  certainly  no  more  proper 
object  of  taxation  than  the  payment  of 
debt.  Within  the  limits  of  prudence 
and  strength,  no  one  of  the  expendi- 
tures of  government  is  more  commend- 
able. In  fact,  it  is  about  the  only 
expenditure  that  is  looked  upon  as 
a  subject  of  positive  congratulation. 
There  is  no  end  for  which  it  better  be- 
comes a  free  people  to  submit  to  sacri- 
fice than  this.  But  next  to  the  duty 
of  making  steady  and  equable  exertions 
to  such  an  end  is  the  duty  of  refrain- 
ing from  everything  that  is  spasmod- 
ic and  extravagant.  Our  national  re- 
sources should  be  carefully  measured, 
and  our  efforts  adapted  at  once  to  the 
object  in  view  and  to  our  own  strength. 
It  would  be  but  a  sorry  sequel  to  the 
payment  of  a  hundred  millions  in  1870, 
to  pay  nothing  whatever  in  1871  ;  and 
though  the  total  of  the  debt  might  be 
the  same,  at  the  beginning  of  1872,  as 
if  an  equable  payment  of  fifty  millions 
a  year  had  been  maintained,  it  is  not  at 
all  likely  that  the  disposition  of  the 
people  to  bear  future  taxation  for  the 
purpose  would  be  as  good.  Now,  we 
firmly  believe  that  it  would  not  be  as 
well  for  the  ultimate  payment  of  the 
debt,  to  have  the  entire  possible  sur- 
plus of  the  current  fiscal  year  appropri- 
ated in  this  way.  Such  an  undue  effort 
could  not  but  prejudice  the  cause  it 
sought  to  advance.  There  are  so  many 
advocates  of  national  dishonor,  and 
their  schemes  are  of  such  number,  va- 
riety, and  plausibility,  that  the  friends 
of  an  honest  liquidation  have  to  treat 
the  subject  with  as  much  of  prudence 
as  of  vigor. 

Indeed,  if  there  is  any  question  to  be 
made  in  the  matter,  it  is,  whether  fifty 
millions  be  not  a  disproportionate  and 
excessive  contribution  to  this  purpose. 
Six  months  ago,  the  most  strenuous 


advocate  of  an  early  payment  would 
have  been  glad  to  compromise  for  a 
reduction  of  twenty-live  millions  annu- 
ally, to  begin  with.  Would  it  be  wise 
to  allow  ourselves  to  be  so  far  led 
away  by  the  splendid  success  of  the 
revenue  in  the  past  six  months,  as  now 
to  deem  fifty  millions  too  little  ?  The 
administration  no  more  owes  the  coun- 
try a  large  reduction  of  the  debt,  than 
it  owes  the  country  a  large  reduction 
of  taxation.  If  but  one  of  the  two 
things  were  possible,  we  should  rather 
say  that  the  latter  should  have  prefer- 
ence. Now  that  both  can  be  secured 
together,  there  can  be  no  excuse  for 
refusing  the  relief  so  earnestly  de- 
manded. 

Unless,  then,  we  have  wholly  mis- 
taken the  probabilities  of  the  revenue 
for  the  coming  year,  and  the  temper  of 
the  country  relative  to  taxation,  a  con- 
siderable part  of  the  surplus,  be  it  sev- 
enty-five or  a  hundred  or  a  hundred 
and  twenty-five  millions,  should  be 
applied  to  the  abatement  or  abolition 
of  existing  taxes.  Which  shall  be  the 
taxes  to  suffer  this  reduction,  is  a  more 
complicated  question,  —  endless,  indeed, 
if  it  were  to  be  discussed  on  the  merits 
of  the  several  imposts,  or  their  fitness 
to  form  a  connected  scheme  of  contri- 
bution ;  but  we  shall  choose  to  view  it 
as  a  matter  of  popular  feeling  and  pub- 
lic opinion,  asking  rather  which  taxes 
are  likely  to  be  removed  than  which 
ought  to  be  removed. 

From  this  point  of  view,  the  first  tax 
to  be  considered  is  unquestionably  that 
upon  incomes.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  only 
one  in  which  a  change  is  absolutely 
certain.  The  present  law  expires  by 
limitation  in  1870,  so  that,  if  the  tax  is 
again  to  be  collected,  it  must  be  by  a 
re-enactment ;  and  there  is  no  reason 
to  believe  that  this  can  be  effected 
without  large  modifications.  Yet,  after 
all,  it  is  fairly  a  question  whether  such 
modifications  as  are  likely  to  take  place 
can  be  considered  as  a  reduction  of 
taxation.  It  is  not  in  the  least  improb- 
able that  an  income  tax  at  three  per 
cent,  but  without  some  of  the  present  ir- 
rational exemptions,  would  bring  nearly 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


if  not  quite  as  much  money  into  the 
treasury  as  the  present  duty  of  five  per 
cent.  The  fact  is,  the  tax  is  too  high, 
as  the  whiskey  tax  was  last  year.  Five 
per  cent  is  a  great  deal  for  only  one 
form  of  taxation,  when  it  is  remem- 
bered what  a  small  margin  at  best  is 
allowed  by  the  necessary  expenses  of 
living  in  these  days.  What  a  man 
must  have  requires  so  large  a  part  of 
the  income  of  all  but  the  wealthy,  that 
very  little  is  left  for  pleasure  or  leisure. 
Take  a  representative  income  of  twen- 
ty-five hundred  dollars,  with  thirteen 
hundred  dollars  of  exemption.  At  five 
per  cent  the  tax  is  sixty  dollars.  Yet 
how  few  heads  of  families  of  that  in- 
come ever  have  a  clear  sixty  dollars, 
which  they  feel  able  to  devote  to  a  dis- 
tinctly luxurious  expenditure  !  For  in- 
comes of  this  class,  it  is  not  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  the  tax  absorbs  the 
whole  of  what  would  otherwise  be  the 
pleasure-fund  of  the  family;  not  a 
small  sacrifice  to  make  when  it  is  re- 
membered that  the  same  tax-payer  has 
already  paid  a  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars, at  the  least,  to  the  government  in 
duties  on  foreign  goods,  while  he  has 
suffered  from  a  general  enhancement 
of  prices,  in  consequence  of  State  and 
Federal  taxation,  to  twice  that  amount. 
And  it  is  really  not  the  best  finance 
to  maintain  the  income  tax  at  such  a 
point,  in  ordinary  times,  as  to  constitute 
a  grievance.  An  income  tax  is  properly 
a  war  tax.  It  is  so  regarded  in  Eng- 
land. It  should  be  kept  up  in  time  of 
peace ;  but  at  its  minimum,  not  its 
maximum. 

Yet  while  the  reduction  of  the  rate 
from  five  to  three  per  cent  would  af- 
ford a  great  relief  to  every  man  who 
now  honestly  pays  to  the  full  amount  of 
his  liability,  it  is  highly  probable  that 
the  receipts  from  this  source  would  be 
diminished  little  if  any,  especially  if 
the  measure  were  accompanied  by  oth- 
ers restricting  the  effect  of  the  sever- 
al exemptions.  A  "great  many  people 
who  now  do  not  suspect  the  fact  would 
find  that  they  had  incomes  ;  while 
many  of  those  who  pay  at  present 
would  not  exercise  half  as  much  inge- 


nuity in  making,  the  exemptions  cover 
the  ground.  There  is  nothing  better 
established  than  that  men  generally  do 
not  like  to  cheat,  evade  the  law,  expose 
themselves  to  penalties,  or  swear  to 
questionable  statements.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  very  easy  so  to  construct  the 
law  as  to  make  it  morally  certain  that 
every  second  man  in  the  community 
will  do  these  things.  The  case  of  the 
whiskey  duty  is  in  point.  In  the  fiscal 
year  1868,  the  tax  was  two  dollars  a 
gallon,  and  the  amount  collected  was 
thirteen  millions.  In  1869,  the  duty 
was  reduced  to  fifty  cents,  and  the  re- 
ceipts rose  to  thirty-one  millions.  So 
fully  is  this  principle  of  revenue  proved 
by  all  financial  experience,  that  we  feel 
at  liberty  to  assume  that  the  difference 
would  at  the  worst  be  "  halved "  be- 
tween the  tax-payers  and  the  treasury. 
Of  the  thirty-four  millions  received 
from  this  tax  last  year,  nine  millions 
came  from  the  income  of  corporations. 
For  these  there  should  be  no  reduction. 
The  twenty-five  millions  received  from 
the  incomes  of  individuals  would  indi- 
cate a  clear  taxable  income  of  five  hun- 
dred millions.  On  this  amount  three 
per  cent  would  yield  fifteen  millions,  — 
a  loss  to  the  revenue  of  ten  millions. 
But  of  this  we  may  safely  calculate 
that  five  millions  would  be  recouped 
by  a  more  honest  assessment,  provided 
the  year  were  moderately  favorable  for 
industry. 

Simultaneously,  however,  with  the 
reduction  of  the  rate,  the  present  ex- 
emption of  rent  should  be  changed  in 
an  important  degree.  On  general 
grounds  there  is  no  more  reason  why 
a  man's  rent  should  be  free  from  taxa- 
tion than  his  grocer's  bill.  Indeed,  this 
exemption  is  peculiarly  liable  to  objec- 
tion, as  giving  the  man  who  does  not 
own  his  house  an  advantage  over  his 
neighbor  who  does,  discouraging  thus 
permanent  investments,  and  in  turn 
contributing  to  raise  rents,  already 
forced  up  almost  beyond  endurance  by 
a  combination  of  causes  unfavorable  to 
house-owning  except  for  purposes  of 
speculation. 

But  while  the  exemption  of  rent  is 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


79 


thus  theoretically  false,  it  is  practically 
advantageous  up  to  a  certain  point,  as 
affording  the  poorer  classes  a  partial 
compensation  against  the  grievous  in- 
justice of  a  non-graded  tax.  It  is  an 
anomaly  :  but  many  things  are  anoma- 
lies without  being  any  the  worse  for 
it.  The  true  idea  of  an  income  tax  is 
that  of  the  old  Solonian  law,  which  rec- 
ognized five  distinct  grades  of  income, 
and  assessed  each  at  a  different  rate,  ac- 
cording to  the  ability  which  it  indicated 
in  the  citizen.  But  since  this  precious 
Constitution  of  ours,  which  is  never 
heard  of  except  to  prevent  some  good 
thing  from  being  done,  is  supposed  to 
forbid  graded  taxation,  we  substantial- 
ly effect  the  same  result  by  allowing 
certain  exemptions  from  gross  income. 
f.ooo  exemption  is  of  this  kind. 
Under  it,  an  income  of  ,$  1,000  pays 
nothing;  one  of  $1,500  pays  $25,  or 
one  and  one  third  per  cent ;  one  of 
5  2,000  pays  .k?  50,  or  two  and  a  half 
per  cent ;  one  of  $  3,000  pays  $  100,  or 
three  and  a  third  per  cent ;  one  of 
$  5,000  pays  $  200,  or  four  per  cent ; 
one  of  $  10,000  pays  $450,  or  four  and 
one  half  per  cent.  This  is  right,  so  far 
as  it  is  carried.  Now  comes  in  the  ex- 
emption of  rent,  without  limitation  of 
amount.  To  the  extent  of  two  or 
three  or  possibly  live  hundred  dollars, 
this  also  serves  to  reduce  the  injustice 
of  a  single  rate  of  taxation.  But  when 
carried  above  this,  the  exemption  be- 
comes irrational  and  mischievous. 
There  is  no  reason  why  a  $  1,000  or 
:i  $  5.000  rent  should  be  exempted. 
There  is  every  reason  why  it  should 
not.  There  is  no  more  distinct  form 
of  luxury  ;  none  about  which  the  per- 
son who  indulges  it  is  more  at  liberty  to 
make  his  own  choice  as  to  the  scale  of 
expense  ;  no  kind  of  expenditure  which 
it  is  less  the  interest  of  the  state  to  en- 
courage. Unfortunately  we  have  no 
statistics  whatever  in  regard  to  the  in- 
come tax ;  but  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  the  effect  of  this  exemption 
is  to  reduce  the  revenue  by  many  mil- 
lions, and  that  its  limitation  to  $  500 
would  go  far  to  counterbalance  the  re- 
duction of  the  rate,  while  its  limitation 


to  $  200  would  actually  increase  the 
receipts. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that,  be- 
cause we  have  figured  out  a  loss  to  the 
revenue  of  but  five  millions  or  less  on  a 
present  collection  of  thirty-four  millions, 
the  relief  to  the  community  is  to  be  es- 
timated in  that  ratio  only.  Under  an 
onerous  tax,  it  is  doubtful  which  hates 
the  law  worse,  the  man  who  pays,  or 
the  man  who  is  driven  to  fraud  to  es- 
cape payment.  The  present  income 
tax  is  no  more  of  a  hardship  (and  it  is 
much  more  of  an  injustice)  than  if  it 
collected  fifty  millions.  Under  such  a 
rate  as  we  have  proposed,  those  who 
now  pay  the  first  ten  millions  of  the 
tax  would  probably  pay  but  six ;  those 
who  pay  the  next  ten  millions  would 
pay  but  eight;  those  who  pay  the  re- 
maining fourteen  millions  (corporations 
namely,  and  the  class  that  rent  brown- 
stone  fronts)  would  pay  about  what 
they  now  do  ;  while  six  millions  would 
be  paid  by  those  who  now  pay  nothing, 
and  hate  the  government  for  it  a  little 
worse  than  if  they  paid  their  share. 

Incomes  being  thus  disposed  of,  and 
whiskey  and  tobacco  remaining  by  the 
unanimous  consent  of  all  but  the 
"rings"  subject  to  their  present  re- 
duced rates,  the  numerous  minor  taxes 
under  the  internal  revenue  acts  would 
call  for  an  endless  discussion  if  they 
were  to  be  treated  each  on  its  merits. 
But  the  public  opinion  which  has  been 
forming  for  a  long  time,  and  has  been 
taking  shape  very  rapidly  of  late,  is  not 
inclined  to  consider  them  on  their  mer- 
its, or  consider  them  separately  at  all. 
These  taxes  are  :  general  stamps  for  le- 
gal and  commercial  instruments,  which 
yielded  last  year  about  eleven  millions 
and  three  quarters  ;  proprietary  stamps, 
to  be  affixed  to  patent  medicines,  match- 
es, etc.,  yielding  about  four  millions, 
one  half  from  matches  alone ;  legacy 
and  succession  duties,  which  yielded 
last  year  about  two  millions  and  a  half, 
and  would  yield  twice  as  much  but  for 
the  false  appraisement  of  estates  ;  the 
tax  on  gas  companies,  yielding  two 
millions  ;  taxes  on  articles  in  "  Sched- 
ule A,"  that  is,  such  luxuries  as  billiard- 


So 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


tables,  gold  watches,  and  silver  plate, 
yielding  less  than  one  million ;  the  tax 
on  the  circulation  and  deposits  of  banks 
and  bankers,  which  yielded  above  three 
millions  in  1868-69  (the  national  banks 
paying  directly  into  the  treasury  six 
millions  of  dollars  in  addition  for  their 
franchises) ;  the  tax  on  the  gross  re- 
ceipts of  corporations,  like  railroad, 
canal,  and  express  companies,  yielding 
six  and  a  quarter  millions ;  the  tax  on 
the  premiums  and  assessments  of  in- 
surance companies,  yielding  one  million 
and  a  quarter  ;  and  lastly,  an  immense 
body  of  "special  taxes,"  which  may 
be  characterized  by  the  single  word  li- 
censes. The  last  taxes  fall  upon  nearly 
all  who  exercise  any  art,  profession, 
or  calling,  except  preaching,  —  upon 
civil  engineers,  assayers,  pedlers,  pho- 
tographers, and  opera  singers.  These 
taxes  yielded,  last  year,  nine  millions. 
One  million  and  a  half  of  the  receipts 
from  internal  revenue  for  1868-69 
were  from  taxes  now  abolished.  The 
remaining,  which  we  have  enumerated, 
yielded  forty-nine  millions.  Incomes, 
whiskey,  and  tobacco  produced  one 
hundred  and  eight  millions  and  a  half, 
making  up  the  grand  total  of  the  in- 
ternal revenue,  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
nine  millions. 

It  will  be  seen  that,  taken  together, 
these  minor  and  miscellaneous  taxes 
yield  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  the 
internal  revenue.  But  they  have  al- 
ways been  regarded  as  essentially  war 
taxes.  Some  of  them  savor  too  much 
of  inspection  and  inquisition  to  be  agree- 
able to  our  democratic  spirit,  and  they 
excite  constant  resistance  in  collection. 
There  is  no  slight  danger  of  their  all 
going  over  together,  on  the  plea  that 
they  are  too  vexatious  for  the  amount 
they  yield,  and  that  they  hinder  the 
freedom  of  transport  and  traffic.  The 
prejudice  against  them  is  unquestion- 
ably a  growing  one,  and  the  demand 
for  their  abolition,  in  view  of  the  reve- 
nue surplus,  is  likely  to  be  urgent  and 
peremptory.  Not  a  few  of  the  leading 
politicians  of  the  country  have  already 
taken  ground  in  favor  of  collecting  the 
entire  inland  revenue  under  the  general 


heads,  income,  whiskey,  and  tobacco. 
It  is  clear,  however,  that  this  demand 
is  not  sufficiently  discriminating.  Much 
of  the  present  complicated  system  of 
internal  taxation  must  be  given  up; 
but  a  clear  distinction  exists  between 
those  taxes  which  are  in  restraint  of 
trade  and  meddle  with  private  busi- 
ness, and  those  which  affect  only  cor- 
porations enjoying  special  privileges, 
and  are  thus  proper  subjects  for  taxa- 
tion. The  duties  on  gross  receipts,  on 
legacies  and  successions,  on  banks  and 
insurance  companies,  and  on  the  gas 
monopolists  of  cities,  as  well  as  the 
general  stamp  duties,  ought  to  be  re- 
tained, in  justice  alike  to  the  treasury 
and  to  individual  tax-payers.  These 
together  yielded  twenty -six  millions 
and  a  half  last  year  ;  and,  as  it  always 
happens  that  when  one  of  two  taxes  is 
repealed  the  proceeds  of  the  other  in- 
crease, something  more  than  this  sum 
might  be  expected  from  them.  The 
whole  system  of  licenses,  of  proprietary 
stamps,  of  taxes  on  sales,  of  duties  on 
private  carriages  and  family  silver, 
might  properly  be  given  up  to  the  de- 
mand for  reduction  and  retrenchment. 
This  would  amount  to  a  remission  of 
twenty-two  millions  and  a  half,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  two  or  three  millions  that 
might  be  lost  by  the  changes  indicated 
in  the  income  tax. 

It  may  be  thought  that,  having  made 
away  with  twenty-five  millions  of  the 
surplus  by  the  repeal  or  reduction  of 
taxes  under  the  internal-revenue  sys- 
tem, we  have  not  much  left  in  hand 
with  which  to  effect  the  needed  reform 
in  the  customs  duties  of  the  country. 
But  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
most  senseless  and  mischievous  speci- 
fications of  the  tariff  are  those  from 
which  practically  no  revenue  is  derived. 
Hundreds  of  articles  might  be  added  to 
the  free  list,  without  reducing  the  re- 
ceipts from  customs  by  a  million  of 
dollars  ;  and  thousands  without  redu- 
cing the  revenue  from  this  source  so 
much  as  one  fifth.  The  judicious  ap- 
plication of  twenty  millions  of  the  sur- 
plus to  the  simplification  of  the  tariff, 
while  it  would  leave  the  scale  of  duties 


1 870.] 


Wliat  to  do  with  tJic  Surplus. 


81 


-still  inexcusably  high  and  rigorous, 
while  it  would  leave  the  battle  of 
protection  still  to  be  fought  out  on 
other  grounds,  would  yet  be  sufficient 
to  abolish  all  that  may  be  called  the 
nuisances  of  the  system ;  would  clear 
the  frame  of  the  existing  tariff  of  all 
the  absurdities  with  which  the  greedi- 
ness of  every  petty  industry  or  possibil- 
ity of  an  industry  has  overlaid  it.  The 
general  plan  of  our  protective  system 
is  consistent  and  intelligible  enough, 
founded,  as  it  is,  simply  on  the  distrust 
of  art,  progress,  and  mutuality  of  ser- 
vices ;  but  it  has  been  stuck  all  over 
with  the  most  fantastic  and  contradic- 
tory features.  No  one  can  study  our 
customs  duties  without  wonder.  It  is 
evidently  no  work  of  a  finance  minis- 
ter. It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  it 
could  have  been  the  result  of  the  ac- 
tual sessions  and  consultations  of  a 
committee,  even  the  most  variously  and 
inharmoniously  constituted.  No  idea 
pervades  the  whole  ;  proportion  and  re- 
lation are  utterly  discarded  ;  incongru- 
ity and  disorder  appear  in  every  part. 
Special  legislation  certainly  did  its 
worst  when  the  existing  tariff  laws  of 
the  United  States  were  enacted.  Almost 
every  article  for  which  the  ingenuity  of 
man  has  found  a  name  appears  upon 
the  list.  Of  nearly  four  thousand  speci- 
fications contained  in  Ogden's  Digest, 
twenty  furnish  half  the  revenue ;  three 
thousand  five  hundred  at  least  are  mere- 
ly vexatious  and  mischievous. 

Take  the  whole  line  of  chemicals  and 
drugs,  for  example.  If  any  class  of 
commodities  should  be  made  free  of 
duty,  these  should.  When  used  as  med- 
icines, they  are  the  direst  necessaries. 
Probably  no  expense  that  comes  to  a 
distressed  family  is  more  painfully  felt 
than  the  outlay  on  this  account.  When 
used  in  the  arts,  they  are  the  rawest  of 
raw  materials.  Yet  the  existing  tariff 
collects  duties  on  hardly  less  than  one 
thousand  articles  under  this  general 
head.  Scarcely  a  single  known  sub- 
stance, be  it  solid,  liquid,  or  vapor, 
which  can  possibly  be  classed  as  a 
chemical,  a  drug,  or  a  dye,  escapes  a 
tax,  although  there  are  hundreds  of 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  147.  6 


these  articles  which  we  do  not  our- 
selves produce,  never  did  produce,  and 
never  shall  produce.  The  total  sum 
received  from  the  entire  class  barely 
reaches  four  millions  of  dollars.  A 
quarter  of  the  specifications  of  the  tariff 
are  thus  devoted  to  articles  which  yield 
one  forty -fifth  part  of.  the  revenue. 
For  this  purpose  experts  have  to  be 
kept  at  every  important  custom-house 
to  ascertain  whether  pyroligneous  acid 
be  over  or  under  1.040  specific  gravity  ; 
and  an  amount  of  testing  and  tasting, 
weighing  and  gauging,  goes  on  which 
would  be  sufficient  to  collect  the  whole 
excise  tax  on  whiskey,  or  the  customs 
duties  on  sugar  and  molasses,  which 
together  produce  thirty -five  or  forty 
millions  a  year.  And  all  this  annoy- 
ance is  incurred  by  taxing  articles  which 
by  every  rational  and  consistent  princi- 
ple of  protection  ought  to  be  admitted 
free  of  duty. 

We  dare  say  our  "  infant  manufac- 
tures "  would  survive  the  shock  should 
the  acetate  of  ammonia  cease  to  pay 
its  annual  contribution  of  two  dollars 
and  eighty  cents,  the  acetate  of  baryta 
its  one  dollar  and  twenty,  collodion  its 
three  dollars,  aluminium  its  eighty 
cents,  or  benzine  its  forty  cents.  Can 
anything,  indeed,  surpass  the  absurdity 
of  keeping  up  a  tax  for  the  purpose  of 
collecting  from  forty  millions  of  people 
such  amounts  as  these,  which  are  but 
ordinary  instances  of  the  character  of 
many  of  the  collections  under  the  exist- 
ing tariff?  Is  it  not  correct  to  call  such 
impositions  nuisances  ?  What  possi- 
ble interests  can  be  involved  in  them, 
except  the  grand  interest  of  trade 
to  have  them  ajl  swept  away  ?  Sup- 
pose that  powdered  alabaster  should 
abruptly  cease  to  pay  one  dollar  and 
forty  cents  into  the  treasury,  what  good 
thing  would  thereby  cease  from  the 
earth  ?  Is  a  tax  of  seventeen  dollars 
and  ten  cents  on  glue  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  sustain  Mr.  Spalding  in  his  pa- 
triotic and  union -saving  enterprise? 
Would  not  our  Yankee  hens  continue 
to  lay,  should  ostrich  eggs  escape  the 
exaction  of  six  dollars  and  ninety  cents 
which  they  paid  in  1868?  Might  not 


82 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


the  revenue  of  six  dollars  odd,  now 
yielded  by  sour-krout,  be  surrendered 
as  a  "raccful  concession  to  the  national 
susceptibilities  of  our  German  fellow- 
citizens  ?  Would  not  yeast  rise  over- 
night if  the  foreign  article  remained 
untaxed  ?  Is  the  tax  of  one  dollar  and 
eighty  cents  on  "  heel-balls  "  designed 
for  the  encouragement  of  any  particular 
branch  of  industry,  —  and  has  it  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  facility  with  which 
they  are  formed  in  damp  snow  ?  What 
effect  had  the  collection  of  three  dol- 
lars from  apple-sauce,  at  our  custom- 
houses, in  1868,  upon  the  production  of 
that  delicious  article  of  food  ?  We 
could  understand  the  duty  on  "  Brazil 
bugs,"  if  we  supposed  thnt  this  was 
some  new  and  ferocious  species  of  in- 
sect, straight  from  the  Amazon,  march- 
ing upon  the  wheat-fields  of  the  W'est 
or  the  apple-orchards  of  the  East ;  but 
as  we  the  rather  conceive  them  to  be- 
long to  some  curious  and  interesting 
variety,  and  to  be  preserved  in  a  way 
that  renders  them  incapable  of  exten- 
sive harm  to  American  agriculture,  we 
really  think  the  revenue  might  give  up 
the  twenty  dollars  derived  from  this 
source,  and  dismiss  the  entomological 
or  bug  clerk  at  the  New  York  Custom- 
house. How  much  would  the  "  expor- 
tation of  our  soil"  be  hastened  by 
remitting  the  six  dollars  or  so  now  ob- 
tained from  alizarine  ?  And,  speaking 
of  the  soil,  is  it  not  odd  enough  to  find 
that  the  government  derived  as  much 
;7.8o,  in  1868,  from  the  importa- 
tion of  "  garden  earth  "  ?  What  sort 
of  policy  is  this,  pray,  to  prohibit  the 
soil  of  other  countries  from  coming  to 
us  !  What  kind  of  protection  is  it 
which  forbids  us  to  supply  the  "  waste  " 
and  "  exhaustion  "  produced  by  export- 
ing our  grain,  from  the  countries  which 
are  thus  draining  us  of  the  very  vital 
juices  of  our  land  ?  Garden  earth  cer- 
tainly, if  nothing  else,  should  be  made 

of  duty. 

It   is   not   alone  these   preposterous 

yi'jlcling  from  fifty  cents  to  fifty 

dollars,     which     should    be    removed. 

There  are  many,  yielding  hundreds  or 

thousands  of  dollars,  which  should  go 


the  same  way.  Trade  cannot  be  wor- 
ried for  any  such  petty  considerations. 
Impotent  as  these  taxes  are  for  good, 
they  are  yet  capable  of  much  mischief. 
Unquestionably  government  could  raise 
the  same  revenue  from  fifty  articles  with- 
out disturbing  the  general  values  of  the 
country  half  as  much  as  by  taxing  four 
thousand  articles. 

High  Prices  is  a  milleped,  an  animal 
that  goes  upon  a  thousand  small  legs. 
Few  of  our  readers  but  recollect  when 
the  horse-railroad  companies  all  over 
the  country  put  up  their  fares  from  five 
to  six  cents  in  consequence  of  the  in- 
ternal -  revenue  tax  amounting  to  an 
eighth  or  tenth  of  a  cent  per  passenger 
carried.  Horse-railroad  directors  are  no 
worse  than  other  people,  notwithstand- 
ing they  get  so  much  abuse.  Trade  al- 
ways revenges  itself  in  this  way  for  hin- 
drances and  vexations  ;  and  hence  ev- 
ery petty  tax,  every  minor  imposition, 
should  be  swept  away,  and  only  those 
suffered  to  remain  for  which  a  substan- 
tial reason  can  be  shown. 

There  is  also  a  class  of  articles, 
yielding  a  million  and  a  quarter  to  the 
revenue,  which  stand  in  a  peculiar  re- 
lation to  our  native  industry.  Of  every 
other  article  recognized  in  the  tariff 
laws  (except,  perhaps,  Brazil  bugs),  it 
can  be  said  that  if  we  are  to  consume 
it,  it  were  desirable  enoi%h  that  we 
should  produce  it ;  the  only  question 
being  whether  protection  is  the  best 
way  of  accomplishing  the  result.  But 
of  lumber  this  can.  in  the  present  state 
of  our  country,  be  absolutely  and  un- 
equivocally denied.  It  is  not  desirable 
that  all  our  lumber  should  be  of  native 
growth.  It  is  not  desirable  that  any  of 
it  should  be,  when  a  foreign  article  can 
possibly  be  afforded  at  the  same  price. 
It  is,  therefore,  not  desirable  that  any 
restriction  should  be  imposed  upon  the 
foreign  article,  or  any  encouragement 
held  out  for  the  more  rapid  consump- 
tion of  the  domestic  supply.  There  was 
a  time  when  "the  axe  of  the  pioneer" 
was  the  proper  emblem  of  our  advan- 
cing civilization.  That  stage  has  been 
passed  in  almost  all  our  territory  ;  and 
there  is  now  more  reason  to  fear  that 


1 870.] 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


our  soil  will  be  impoverished,  and  the 
just  distribution  of  heat  and  moisture 
fatally  disturbed,  by  cutting  down  our 
forests,  than  to  desire  the  further  clear- 
ihe  land.  There  are,  it  is  true, 
large  sections  where  there  is  yet  no 
danger  of  an  early  exhaustion ;  but  in 
those  sections  and  the  country  which 
they  supply  there  is  no  occasion  for 
protecting  that  interest.  Transporta- 
tion is  so  great  an  element  in  the  cost 
of  lumber,  that  no  timber-growing  re- 
gion needs  to  be  fenced  from  the  ap- 
proach of  the  foreign  article.  It  is  in 
those  sections  which  arc  equally  dis- 
tant from  native  and  Canadian  supply 
—  indeed,  so  far  as  the  cost  of  trans- 
portation is  concerned,  nearer  the  lat- 
ter than  the  former  —  that  the  enhance- 
ment of  price,  consequent  on  the  pres- 
ent exorbitant  rates  of  duty,  encourages 
the  cutting  of  even  the  scant  and  insuf- 
ficient covering  of  timber  which  nature 
has  interposed  to  save  the  land  from 
drought  and  sterility.  Singular  that 
nhcrs  who  are  so  much  afraid 
.  ing  our  "soil  exported"  should 
advocate  a  policy  which  would  do  more, 
neration,  to  exhaust  the  produc- 
tive capability  of  the  United  States, 
than  the  export  of  a  hundred  millions 
of  wheat  annually  to  the  end  of  time  ! 

In  such  warfare  upon  nature,  the 
all-devastating  Spaniards  have  hitherto 
enjoyed  an  evil  pre-eminence.  They 
turned  the  valley  of  Mexico  from  a 
garden  into  something  very  like  a  des- 
ert by  cutting  down  the  timber,  and 
thus  drying  up  the  lakes.  They  did 
the  same  bad  work  in  some  sections 
of  the  Pacific  coast;  and  now,  where 
the  giant  trunks  of  a  former  vegetation 
have  scarcely  rotted  from  the  ground, 
there  is  not  soil  enough  to  bear  the 
scantiest  crop.  They  stripped  the  plains 
of  even  their  own  Castile  of  the  noble 
forests  that  once  covered  them  ;  and 
Castile  has  become  comparatively  fruit- 
less under  the  curse  of  outraged  na- 
ture. Hardly  a  European  nation  but 
has  suffered,  and  is  still  suffering,  from 
the  same  improvidence  ;  hardly  one 
but  is  striving  at  vast  expense  to  re- 
pair the  waste.  France,  Italy,  Belgium, 


Switzerland,  England,  are  planting  trees 
- :  life,  while  we  are  "encourag- 
ing" the  felling  of  the  forests,  which  se- 
cure the  proper  distribution  of  heat  and. 
moisture,  provide  for  the  irrigation  of 
the  soil,  and  conduct  away  in  nourish- 
ing showers  the  angry  elements  of  hail, 
lightning,  and  tornado.  Even  in  India, 
England  has  established  a  bureau  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  restoring  the  forests, 
having  found  by  painful  experience  that 
Nature,  while  the  harmony  of  her  parts 
and  forces  remains  undisturbed,  will 
perform  the  office  of  irrigation  some- 
what more  cheaply  than  an  elaborate 
system  of  wind-mills,  reservoirs,  and  ca- 
nals. We  certainly  ought  to  profit  by 
the  experience  of  so  many  countries. 
Already  there  are  few  of  the  Northern 
and  Western  States*  that  would  not  be 
the  better  for  laws  passed  in  restraint 
of  "clearing";  yet  Nature,  with  the 
most  benevolent  intentions,  has  placed 
an  almost  inexhaustible  supply  in  the 
regions  farther  north,  with  a  system 
of  water-courses  admirably  adapted  to 
bring  the  timber  to  our  very  shops. 

The  salt  duty  is  another  of  those  in- 
defensible imposts  which  must  give  way 
under  an  accumulating  odium,  since 
there  can  no  longer  be  urged  any  ex- 
cuse for  their  continuance  on  the  score 
of  revenue.  The  damaging  exposure 
of  this  monopoly  which  Commissioner 
Wells  made  in  his  Annual  Report 
for  1868  must,  we  believe,  kill  the  tax. 
The  simple  exhibit  of  the  profits  of 
the  Syracuse  company,  by  which  they 
have  been  enabled  to  increase  their 
capital  tenfold  in  half  as  many  years, 
through  the  monopoly  of  one  of  the 
commonest  necessaries  of  life,  makes 
all  argument  on  the  subject  seem  tame. 
It  is  not  possible  that  anything  more 
than  an  exposure  of  such  a  state  of 
things  is  necessary  to  bring  it  to  an 
end.  The  salt  tax  is  one  of  the  abomi- 
nations of  the  present  tariff,  and  must 
be  given  up.  The  attempt  to  retain  it 
must  involve  the  whole  scheme  in  un- 
necessary odium,  while  it  could  hardly 
prevent  the  abolition  of  a  duty  so  offen- 
sive and  unjust.  The  million  and  a 
quarter  of  revenue  derived  from  this 


34 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


[January, 


source,  at  the  expense  of  many  millions 
in  enhanced  prices  to  the  consumer, 
should  be  relinquished,  as  one  of  the 
first-fruits  of  the  surplus. 

It  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  the 
duty  on  coal  will  be  repealed  during  the 
present  session.  Whatever  might  be 
the  economical  reasons  for  imposing 
.and  maintaining  such  a  tax,  considera- 
tions of  humanity  alone  ought  to  render 
it  impossible,  after  the  experience  of  the 
past  few  months.  It  is  a  familiar  fact 
that  there  is  actually  more  misery  in 
our  large  cities  every  hard  winter  for 
want  of  fuel  than  for  want  of  food. 
The  destitution  of  the  very  poor  takes 
the  form  of  cold  rather  than  of  hunger. 
More  protracted  suffering,  more  per- 
manent injury,  and  more  coroners'  cases 
are  due  to  dear  coal  than  to  dear  corn. 
Such  a  tax  is,  therefore,  a  most  cruel 
and  unjustifiable  imposition.  It  is  one 
of  those  things  which  no  supposed  eco- 
nomical considerations  can  excuse. 
We  have  no  right  to  measure  the  in- 
terest of  the  capitalist  class,  or  even  of 
the  able  and  well-to-do  laboring  class, 
against  the  necessities  of  the  helpless 
and  dependent  classes. 

But  instead  of  finding  any  economi- 
cal reason  in  contradiction  of  the  plain 
dictates  of  humanity  in  this  respect, 
we  find  the  latter  reinforced  by  the 
former.  Coal  is  a  raw  material  for 
almost  every  class  of  manufactures, 
but  is  also  raw  material  in  a  peculiar 
sense.  It  is  the  raw  material  of  pow- 
er. Nothing  could  be  more  irrational 
than  to  impose  such  a  tax  in  the  inter- 
est of  protection.  But  there  is  little 
reason  to  fear  that  the  artifices  and 
resources  of  a  gigantic  monopoly  will 
avail  to  withstand  the  almost  unani- 
mous sentiment  of  the  people  in  respect 
to  the  tax.  The  rise  in  coal  last  sum- 
mer, through  the  unprincipled  combina- 
tions of  the  railroads  and  the  mining 
companies,  has  aroused  a  general  and 
intense  indignation,  which  can  have 
but  one  logical  result,  namely,  the  utter 
abolition  of  the  duty  and  the  throwing 
open  of  our  seaboard  to  the  coal  of  the 
British  provinces.  The  loss  of  reve- 
nue to  the  treasury  by  the  repeal  will 


not  be  large.  The  tax  at  present  is 
almost  prohibitory,  being  $  1.25  upon 
two  thousand  pounds,  or  $  1.40,  in  gold, 
on  the  proper  ton  of  commerce,  equal 
to  $  1.96  in  currency  at  average  rates. 
Such  an  addition  to  the  wholesale  price 
of  bituminous  coal  practically  cuts  us 
off  from  that  source  of  supply.  Half 
a  million  will  be  well  spent  in  bringing 
to  consumers  a  relief  that  can  only  be 
measured  by  millions. 

The  recent  thorough  discussion  as 
to  the  cost  of  making  pig-iron  in  the 
United  States  has  entirely  settled  the 
point  that  an  addition,  unnecessary 
even  to  secure  the  production  of  that 
article  here,  is  made  to  the  market 
price  of  the  metal,  to  the  full  extent 
of  the  present  duty  of  nine  dollars  a 
ton.  The  tax,  then,  simply  serves  to 
secure  higher  profits  to  the  manufac- 
turers, by  restricting  the  amount  avail- 
able for  consumption  within  the  country 
to  the  capacity  of  the  Pennsylvania!! 
and  a  few  other  scattered  furnaces. 
That  is  to  say,  the  present  profits  are 
secured  by  diminishing  the  amount 
of  iron  which  in  the  United  States  is 
cast,  wrought,  or  converted  into  steel  ! 
There  are  scores  of  recognized  indus- 
tries which,  in  the  number  of  workmen 
they  unitedly  support,  far  exceed  the 
pig-iron  establishments  of  the  country, 
and  which  have  to  pay  one  third  more 
for  their  material  than  they  would  but 
for  this  duty.  Is  this  protecting  Amer- 
ican industry?  Take  the  iron-bridge 
building  interest,  which  is-  assuming 
so  much  importance.  Unquestionably, 
but  for  the  enhancement  of  the  price 
of  iron  plates,  rods,  and  bolts  by  the 
monopoly  of  iron,  the  demand  for  such 
things  would  be  doubled.  The  differ- 
ence between  the  cost  of  bridges  made 
of  wood  and  those  made  of  iron  is 
now  just  enough  to  determine  nine 
boards  of  railroad  directors  out  of  ten, 
nine  boards  of  selectmen  out  of  ten, 
reluctantly  to  decide  in  favor  of  wood. 
Put  it  in  the  power  of  builders  to  offer 
to  lay  down  iron  bridges  for  twenty  per 
cent  less  than  at  present,  and  in  five 
years  we  should  find  that  half  the 
bridges  being  built  were  of  that  mate- 


1 870.] 


What  to  do  with  the  Surplus. 


rial.  The  same  is  true,  in  a  greater 
degree,  of  iron-ship  building.  In  1868, 
just  five  iron  vessels  were  built  in  the 
United  States.  England  is  building 
them  by  the  thousand.  England  has 
cheap  iron.  We  think  it  necessary  to 
have  dear  iron. 

It  is  in  view  of  such  facts,  and  not 
from  the  standpoint  of  free-trade,  that 
the  pig-iron  monopoly  is  being  attacked. 
It  is  assailed  by  men  who  can  prove, 
from  the  actual  transactions  of  large 
establishments,  that  the  metal  can  be 
produced  at  home  without  the  duty, 
and  that  the  enhanced  price  goes  to 
increase  profits  and  not  wages.  It  is 
assailed  by  men  who  hold  firmly  by  the 
principle  of  protection,  and  who  are 
prepared  to  maintain  the  duties  on  all 
the  higher  manufactures  of  iron  and 
steel  at  their  present  rates  ;  but  who 
insist  on  regarding  pig-metal  not  as 
finished  product,  but  raw  material,  to 
be  obtained  as  cheaply  as  possible  in 
the  best  market.  The  duties  now  col- 
lected on  this  article  amount  to  some- 
what over  a  million  of  dollars. 

It  is  not,  of  course,  possible,  nor  de- 
sirable, in  an  article  of  this  scope,  to  go 
through  the  four  thousand  specifica- 
tions of  the  tariff,  and  show  which  five 
hundred  or  fifteen  hundred  or  twenty- 
five  hundred  distinct  taxes  might  be  re- 
pealed without  reducing  the  revenue 
below  the  actual  honest  requirements 
of  the  treasury,  and  without  injuring, 
even  temporarily,  a  single  considerable 
industry  of  the  country.  That  is  prop- 
erly the  task  of  a  committee.  Such  a 
reform  would  involve  the  removal  of 
taxes  like  those  on  manufactured  india- 
rubber  and  gutta-percha,  which  now 
yield  a  revenue  of  two  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  ;  on  raw  hemp,  jute,  and 
flax,  which  yield  half  a  million  ;  on 
gums,  which  yield  about  six  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  dollars  ;  on  hides 
and  skins,  which  are  now  taxed  to  the 
extent  of  a  million  ;  and  leather,  which 
yields  a  million  and  a  quarter  more  ; 
on  unmanufactured  cork  and  potters' 
clay,  each  producing  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars, which  the  revenue  could  well  spare  ; 
on  wools,  with  the  loss  of  only  a  million 


and  a  quarter ;  on  paints  for  another 
half-million  ;  on  almost  all  the  oils  ;  on 
all  the  seeds ;  on  all  the  spices,  except, 
perhaps,  pepper,  cloves,  and  cassia, 
which  yield  sums  worth  collecting;  on 
hatters'  furs,  which  yield  nearly  three 
hundred  thousand,  and  other  furs, 
dressed  and  undressed,  which  yield  two- 
hundred  thousand  more  ;  on  oranges, 
lemons,  dates,  prunes  and  plums,  figs 
and  currants,  and  all  the  tropical  fruits, 
retaining  perhaps  the  duty  on  raisins  as 
a  convenient  source  of  revenue  to  the 
extent  of  a  million  of  dollars,  and  be- 
cause they  are  not  good  for  little  boys. 
Human  hair  we  would  admit  free  of  du- 
ty, at  a  loss  of  seventy-two  thousand 
dollars,  as  also  human  bones,  at  a  loss 
of  two  dollars  and  twenty  cents.  Honey, 
butter,  and  cheese  together  would  cost 
the  revenue  but  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars.  Zinc  should  be  made 
free,  at  a  sacrifice  of  nearly  as  much 
more.  Few  would  believe  that  the  peo- 
ple of  this  country  pay  in  duties  on 
sardines  and  anchovies  as  much  as  a 
quarter  of  a  million.  For  what  earthly 
reason,  since  the  treasury  does  not  need 
the  money  ? 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  removal  of 
duties  which  we  have  indicated  as 
especially  vexatious  and  unnecessary 
would  leave  the  main  question  of  pro- 
tection wholly  undisturbed.  We  might 
still  protect,  if  that  were  thought  wise, 
all  manufactures  of  iron  and  steel,  paper, 
cotton,  wool,  flax,  and  silk,  —  a  larger 
circle  of  industries  than  Mr.  Clay  ever 
contemplated.  Speaking  with  the  ut- 
most candor,  we  believe  that,  taking 
the  whole  line  of  protected  industries 
together,  the  impositions  specified  hin- 
der the  employment  of  ten  American 
workmen  where  they  make  room  for  the 
employment  of  one.  Taxes  upon  raw- 
materials,  in  the  worst  sense,  they  con- 
stitute a  heavy  drag  upon  all  the  higher 
manufacturing  interests  of  the  nation  ; 
and,  so  far  as  they  are  operative,  serve 
to  defer  or  defeat  the  intended  benefits 
of  protection. 

There  is  a  very  plain  reason  why  we 
should  not  enter  upon  the  dispute  be- 
tween the  advocates  of  a  revenue  tariff 


86 


Was  he  dead  ? 


[January, 


and  the  friends  of  incidental  protection, 
in  a  paper  on  the  disposition  of  the  im- 
mediate surplus.  This  reason  is,  that 
the  reduction  of  the  present  scale  of 
duties  on  the  larger  and  more  highly 
protected  industries  must  be  a  matter 
of  time,  to  be  accomplished  by  degrees, 
while  it  is  almost  certain  that  the  first 
effect  of  such  a  movement  would  be  to 
stimulate  receipts,  and  still  further  in- 
crease the  disposable  surplus.  A  re- 
duction of  taxes  in  this  interest  is 
hence  plainly  no  part  of  our  subject. 
But,  without  any  reference  to  the  ideas 
of  free-trade,  the  tariff  should  be  cleared 
of  the  absurdities,  puerilities,  and  con- 


tradictions which  now  encumber  it, 
and  at  least  be  made  rational,  intelli- 
gible, and  consistent.  Such  a  reform 
would  afford  a  judicious  and  a  popular 
employment  for  a  portion  of  the  sur- 
plus, and  would  leave  the  subsequent 
financial  policy  of  the  country  to  be 
contested  on  large  and  statesmanlike 
considerations,  without  prejudice  from 
a  scheme  of  taxation  manifestly  extor- 
tionate and  burdensome.  Such  a  re- 
duction of  taxes  would  strengthen  the 
Republican  supremacy,  while  it  would 
undoubtedly  prove  favorable  in  the 
end  to  an  early  payment  of  the  public 
debt 


NEARING    THE    SNOW-LINE. 

SLOW  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 
I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  below; 

No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale  ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow  ; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering-line  ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires! 

O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine ! 


WAS     HE    DEAD? 


T  N  the  fickle  glow  of  ruddy  firelight 
L  the  great  egg  of  the  dinornis  swung 
Dlemnly  through  its  long  arc  of  mo- 
tion. There  are  five  eggs  of  the  di- 
nornis in  the  known  world  :  four  are  in 
great  museums,  and  the  fifth  belongs 
to  my  friend  Purpel,  and  is  one  of  the 
oddest  of  his  many  curiosities.  The 
room  I  enter  is  spacious,  and  clad 
warmly  with  dark  rows  of  books. 


Above  them  the  walls  are  irregularly 
hidden  by  prints,  pictures,  and  the  poi- 
soned weapons  of  savage  tribes,  — dark 
and  sombre  javelin  and  arrow,  —  with 
awful  security  of  death  about  them,  and 
none  of  the  cold,  quick  gleam  of  honest 
steel.  The  light  flashes  on  a  great 
brass  microscope  with  its  sheltering 
glass,  and  half  reveals  in  corners  an 
endless  confusion  of  the  dexterous  ap- 


Was  he  dead  ? 


paratus  born  of  modem  science.  The 
glittering  student-lamp  on  the  central 
writing-table  stands  Q alighted,  deep  in 
mfortable  confusion  of  letters, 
books,  and  p:ipers,  which  is  dear  to 
certain  men  I  know,  and  to  them  only 
is  not  confusion.  Just  above  these  a 
thread  of  steel  wire  held  suspended 
the  giant  egg  of  the  dinornis,  which,  as 
I  have  said,  was  now  swinging  in  a 
vast  round  of  motion,  like  a  great  white 
planet  through  the  lights  and  shades  of 
eternal  space. 

"  Purpel,"  said  I,  ".that  egg  cost  you 
a  hundred  pounds.  What  demon  of 
rashness  possesses  you  to  set  it  flying 
round  the  room  ?  " 

"  Mercantile  friend,"  replied  the  slight 
figure  in  the  spacious  arm-chair  at  the 
fireside,  "it  is  a  venture.  If  there  be 
left  in  your  dollar-driven  soul  any  heir- 
ship  of  your  great  namesake,  Sir  Thom- 
as, you  will  comprehend  me.  This 
more  dear  to  me  than  your  big- 
gest East-Indiaman,  and  yet  I  risk  it, 
as  you  do  the  galleon,  for  what  it 
fetches  me  out  of  the  land  of  mystery. 
See  the  huge  troubled  wake  it  makes 
through  my  columns  of  pipe-breath." 
With  this  he  blew  forth  a  cloud  such  as 
went  before  the  Israelites,  and  content- 
edly watched  the  swirl  of  the  egg  as  it 
broke  through  the  blue  ribbons,  dogged 
by  its  swift  shadow  on  wall  and  book- 
case. 

"Sit  down,  Gresham,"  said  my  friend. 
"  l>e  so  good,  then,  as  to  stop  that 
infernal  egg,"  said  I.  "  Do  you  think  I 
want  ten  pounds  of  lime  on  my  head  ?  " 
"  Bless  you,"  returned  Purpel,  con- 
tentedly, "  for  a  new  idea.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  an  ovum-  info  nale.  What  proof 
have  I  that  it  was  of  dinornis  hatch  ? 
A  devil's  egg !  There  's  meat  for 
thought,  Mcrcator !  However,"  he  con- 
tinued with  a  smile,  ';  what  is  there 
we  ^yill  not  do  for  friendship  ?  "  And 
so  saying  he  climbed  on  a  chair,  and, 
seizing  the  egg.  checked  its  movement 
and  left  it  hanging  as  by  some  witch- 
craft from  its  unseen  thread. 

"  Have  you  seen  Vance  to-day  ?  He 
was  to  be  here  at  nine.  I  hope  he  won't 
fail  us.  My  brain  has  been  as  fidgety 


as  a  geyser  all  day,  and  I  want  a  little 
of  his  frosty,  definite  logic." 

"  I  thought,  doctor,"  said  I,  "  that  it 
was  not  always  what  you  liked." 

«  What  I  liked !  "  said  he,  "  I  loathe 
it  sometimes,  just  as  I  do  my  cold 
plunge  of  a  morning  in  December ; 
vbut,  bless  you,  old  man,  it's  a  bitter 
good  tonic  for  a  fellow  like  me,  with  a 
Concord  craze  and  a  cross  of  French 
science.  There  he  is.  Speak  of  the 
devil !  —  How  d'  ye  do,  V.  ?  There  's 
your  pipe  on  the  jar  yonder.  Have  a 
match  ?  "  And,  so  saying,  he  struck  a 
lucifer,  in  whose  yellow  glare  and  splut- 
ter I  noted  the  strong  contrast  of  the 
two  faces. 

Purpel,  short  and  slight,  chiefly  nota- 
ble for  a  certain  alertness  of  head-car- 
riage, untamable  brown  locks,  and  a 
sombre  sincerity  of  visage  altogether 
American  in  type,  mouth  over-size  and 
mobile,  eyes  large  and  wistful.  Great 
admiration  of  this  man  has  the  shrewd, 
calm  owner  of  the  cool  blue  eyes  which 
flash  now  in  the  gleam  of  matchlight 
through  the  slight  eye-glass  he  we'ars. 
The  face  and  head  of  my  friend  Vance 
are  moulded,  like  his  mind,  in  lines 
of  proportioned  and  balanced  beauty, 
with  something  architectural  and  se- 
vere about  the  forehead.  Below  are 
distinct  features  and  watchful  lips,  like 
those  of  a  judge  accustomed  to  wait 
and  sentence,  only  a  tell  -  tale  curve 
at  the  angles,  a  written  record  of  many 
laughters,  a  wrinkle  of  mirth,  says  Pur- 
pel, who  loves  him  and  has  for  him 
that  curious  respect  which  genius,  inca- 
pable of  self-comprehension,  has  for  tal- 
ent, whose  laws  it  can  see  and  admire. 
We  are  very  old  friends,  and  why 
I  like  them  is  easy  to  see  ;  but  why 
they  return  this  feeling  is  less  clear  to 
me,  who  am  merely  a  rather  successful 
merchant,  unlike  them  in  all  ways  and  in 
all  pursuits.  Perhaps  a  little  of  the  fla- 
vor of  their  tastes  has  come  to  be  mine 
by  long  companionship  ;  or  it  may  be 
that  Purpel,  who  is  sardonic  at  times, 
and  talks  charades,  hovered  about  the 
truth  when  he  said  I  represented  in 
their  talks  the  outside  world  of  com- 
mon opinion.  "A  sort  of  test-man," 


88 


Was  he  dead  f 


[January, 


grins  Vance ;  which  troubles  me  little, 
knowing  surely  that  they  both  love  me 

well. 

The  three  meerschaums  slowly  brown- 
ing into  the  ripe  autumn  of  their  days 
were  lighted,  and  we  drew  our  chairs 
around  the  smouldering  logs.  I  am 
afraid  that  Purpel's  feet  were  on  the 
mantel-ledge,  at  which  I  laughed  for  the 
hundredth  time.  "  G.,"  said  he,  —  for 
this  was  one  of  his  ways,  Vance  being 

V., "don't  you  know  it  sends  more 

blood  to  your  head  to  feed  the  thinking- 
mill,  and  so  accounts  for  the  general  su- 
periority of  the  American  race  ? " 

"And  Congressmen,"  added  Vance. 

"  And  tavern  loafers,"  said  I. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  Purpel.  "  If 
the  mill  be  of  limited  capacity,  it  were 
useless  to  run  the  Missouri  over  its 
water-wheel." 

"One  of  your  half  -  thoughts,"  re- 
turned Vance,  "and  nearly  half  be- 
lieved." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Purpel.  "  Does 
not  everybody  think  best  when  lying 
down  ?  More  blood  to  the  head,  more 
thought  and  better." 

"  Well,"  I  exclaimed,  rashly,  with  a 
gleam  of  inspiration,  "how  about  the 
circus  fellows,  doctor  ?  " 

"  He  's  coming  on,"  cried  Vance,  with 
a  slap  on  the  back.  "  Try  it  in  your  back 
counting-room  an  hour  a  day,  and  you 
will  clean  out  Vanderbilt  in  a  week." 

"  Now,"  said  Purpel,  irascibly, 
"here's  the  old  story.  You  think 
along  a  railway  track,  V.,  and  I  wander 
about  at  my  own  will,  like  a  boy  in  a 
wood.  My  chances  of  a  find  are  the 
better  of  the  two." 

"  You  're  like  a  boy  in  another  way, 
old  man,"  said  the  other.  "  You  accu- 
mulate a  wondrous  lot  of  queer  inu- 
tilities  in  those  mental  pockets  of 
yours." 

"  Don't  you  know  what  my  pet 
philosopher  says?"  returned  Purpel. 
"' Inutilities  are  stars  whose  light  has 
not  yet  reached  us.'  Smoke  the  pipe  of 
silence,  V.,  if  you  have  no  better  wis- 
dom than  that.  To  believe  anything 
useless  is  only  to  confess  that  you  are 
a  hundred  years  too  young." 


«  Come  in,"  he  exclaimed  ;  for  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir." 

"  Show  him  up,"  said  Purpel.  "  What 
in  the  name  of  decency  does  any  one 
but  you  two  old  heathen  want  with  me 
at  this  hour  !  " 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  a 
very  ordinary-looking  person  entered 
the  room.  "Dr.  Purpel?"  said  he, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I  am  Dr.  Purpel,"  said  my  friend  ; 
"  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  Take  a  seat. 
I  beg  pardon,  but  I  did  not  catch  your 
name." 

"  Thunderin'  queer  if  you  did,"  said 
the  stranger,  "  when  I  never  give  it." 

Vance  touched  my  arm.  "  Too  many 
for  P.,  was  'nt  he  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Purpel,  slightly  net- 
tled. "  I  suppose  you  can  talk  without 
a  label.  What  is  your  errand  ?  " 

"  Could  I  speak  with  you  alone  ?  " 
returned  the  stranger. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  doctor,  lazily 
rising,  and  laying  down  his  pipe.  "  I 
shall  be  back  presently,  V."  And  so 
saying  he  walked  into  a  back  room,  fol- 
lowed by  the  visitor.  The  brief  absence 
he  had  promised  lengthened  to  an  hour, 
when,  as  the  clock  struck  twelve',  he 
reappeared  alone,  and,  hastily  excusing 
himself,  went  out  again.  Vance  and  I 
presently  ended  our  chat  and  went  our 
ways  homeward  through  the  drifting 
snows  of  the  January  night. 

Early  next  morning  I  received  a  re- 
quest to  meet  Vance  in  the  evening  at 
our  friend's  rooms.  We  were  still  as 
constant  companions  as  new  ties  and 
our  varying  roads  through  life  would 
permit,  so  that  any  subject  of  strong 
interest  to  one  was  apt  to  call  all  of  us 
together  in  council  ;  and  therefore  it 
was  I  felt  no  surprise  at  a  special  ap- 
pointment being  thus  made.  I  have 
already  whispered  to  you  that  I  repre- 
sented to  these  men  the  gentler  and 
better  of  the  commonplaces  of  business 
existence.  Purpel,  I  am  told,  is  a  fine 
specimen  of  what  a  man  of  genius  be- 
comes with  the  quickest  blood  of  this 
century  in  his  veins.  Marvellously 
made  to  study  with  success  the  how, 


1 870.] 


Was  he  dead  ?  89 


the  why,  and  the  wherefore  of  nature, 
he  refuses  to  recognize  a  limit  to  philo- 
sophic thought,  and  delights  to  stand 
face  to  face  with  the  hundred  speech- 
less sphinxes  who  frown  upon  us  from 
those  unknown  lands  which  his  favor- 
ite philosopher  has  described  as 

"  Filled  with  the  quaintest  surprises 
Of  kaleidoscopic  sunrises, 
Ghosts  of  the  colors  of  earth,  — 
Where  the  unseen  has  its  birth." 

Vance,  a  man  of  easy  circumstan- 
ces, represents  a  school  of  more  regu- 
lar and  severe  logic,  but  of  less  fer- 
tility, and  for  whom  the  sciences  he 
loves  are  never  so  delightful  as  when 
he  can  chain  their  result  within  the 
iron  lines  of  a  set  of  equations.  Purpel 
was  at  his  old  tricks  again  that  evening, 
as  we  shook  the  snow  from  our  boots, 
and,  lighting  the  calumets,  settled  down 
into  the  easy  comfort  of  the  positions 
each  liked  the  best.  He  was  a-t  his  old 
tricks,  I  have  said,  for  the  great  egg  of 
the  dinornis  was  swinging  majestic  in 
a  vast  curve,  as  if  propelled  at  each 
flight  through  space  by  some  unseen 
hand  of  power. 

"  I  should  get  into  the  shadow  of  the 
charm  it  has  for  you,  Purpel,"  said  I, 
"  if  I  watched  it  long." 

"All  motion  is  mystery,"  said  he, 
musingly,  "  and  all  life  is  motion.  What 
a  stride  it  has.  I  suppose  if  it  were  big 
enough,  and  had  a  proportional  initial 
impulse,  some  such  world  -  egg  might 
be  set  swinging  through  all  eternity." 

"  Nothing  is  endless,"  said  Vance. 
"  Even  the  stars  are  shifting  their 
courses.  It  would  stop  as  they  must. 
Motion  is  definite  enough ;  it  is  only 
this  wretched  element  of  humanity 
which  baffles  us." 

"  Ay,"  said  Purpel,  "  and  for  all  we 
know  it  may  be  playing  the  mischief 
with  the  motor  functions  of  the  old 
globe  herself.  I  don't  suppose  that  we 
can  have  been  digging  and  mining  and 
tunnelling  and  carting  the  dirt  from 
this  place  to  that,  without  damaging 
the  ballast  of  the  poor  old  egg  we  live 
on.  Human  will  may  disturb  the  equi- 
librium so  horribly  some  day,  that  we 
shall  go  tumbl'na-  through  space  with 


no  more  certainty  than  a  lop-sided  bil- 
liard-ball." 

"  May  I  be  there  to  see  ! "  said 
Vance,  with  a  jolly  laugh.  "  I  think  the 
dirt  account  will  foot  up  even,  during- 
my  time.  Start  something  else,  stu- 
pid ;  —  you  will  take  to  Planchette  next 
if.you  go  on  muddling  your  smoky  old 
cerebrum  much  longer.  How  comes 
on  the  murder  case  ?  " 

"  It  was  about  that  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you,"  said  Purpel.  "The  anony- 
mous gentleman  who  disturbed  our 
talk  last  night  is  one  of  the  detective 
force.  He  was  sent  to  me  by  Fred 
Dysart,  who  is  engaged  for  the  nephew 
and  niece.  It  seems  that  he  wanted 
me  to  examine  the  wounds  in  the  old 
woman's  body.  After  making  the  prop- 
er inspection,  I  went  over  the  premises 
with  the  curiosity  one  has  in  a*  case  so 
utterly  baffling.  I  cut  off  some  of  the 
blood -stains  on  the  floor,  but  found 
nothing  beyond  what  is  usual." 

"Is  it  always  easy  to  detect  blood- 
stains ? "  asked  I. 

"Usually,"  he  replied,  "it  is.  Al- 
ways we  can  say  whether  or  not  the 
stain  be  blood,  and  whether  it  be  that 
of  a  reptile,  a  bird,  or  a  mammal,  al- 
though we  cannot  be  sure  as  to  its 
being  that  of  man  or  Jbeast,  the  corpus- 
cles of  which  differ  only  as  to  size.  It 
has  been  made  probable  of  late,  how- 
ever, that  with  very  high  microscopic 
powers  even  this  may  be  attainable." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Vance,  "  that  some 
time  or  other  we  shall  be  able  to  swear 
to  a  man  from  some  known  peculiarity 
of  his  blood-globule.  Missing  I.  S.  may 
be  known  by  his  blood-globules,  which 
belong  to  species  b,  variety  2." 

"  I  doubt  that,"  returned  Purpel,  not 
noticing  the  other's  smile.  "  There  does 
not  seem  to  be  anything  less  individual 
than  the  blood.  It  is  the  same  in 
structure  in  youth  and  age.  Individ- 
uality lies  in  the  solids." 

"  So  that,"  said  Vance,  "  should  the 
clown  fool  of  Elizabeth  have  had  his 
arteries  run  full  of  the  blood  of  Shake- 
speare, it  would  not  have  helped  him 
to  jest  the  better.-' 

"  No.  sir :   nor  if  the  case  had  been 


9o 


I  /  \is  JLC  dead  ? 


[January, 


reversed,  provided  the  blood  were 
healthy,  should  we  any  the  less  have 
possessed  Hamlet." 

"  How  odd  then,"  said  I,  "thafpop- 
ular  phrase  and  thought  should  have 
selected  the  least  individual  portion  of 
a  man  to  express  his  qualities,  or  to 
indicate  his  descent  and  relationships. 
You  think,"  continued  I,  "  that  it  would 
be  absurd  to  try  to  rejuvenate  an  old  man 
by  filling  his  vessels  with  young  blood." 
'  ••  Perfectly  so,"  said  Purpel.  "  In  fact, 
it  has  been  tried  over  and  over  again. 
The  blood  of  the  young  has  been 
bought  to  fill  the  veins  of  age,  and 
even  ugliness,  it  is  said,  has  sought  a 
remedy  by  acquiring  the  blood  which 
nourished  rosy  cheeks  and  rounded 
limbs." 

"  Who  first  tried  it,  Purpel  ? "  asked 
Vance.  ' 

'•  No  less  a  person  than  Christopher 
Wren  is  said  to  have  proposed  the  use 
of  transfusion,  but  it  was  first  applied 
to  a  man  about  1667  by  one  Daniel 
Magon,  of  Bonn.  After  this  in  nu- 
merous instances  the  blood  of  sheep 
or  calves  was  thrown  into  the  veins  of 
men." 

"  And  without  injury  ?  "  asked  Vance. 

"  Yes,"  added  Purpel.  "  Nor  could 
any  change  be  perceived  in  the  receiver 
of  the  blood  from  the  animal.  Not  only 
is  this  as  I  state  it,  but  it  is  still  more 
strange  that  ammonia  salts  were  em- 
ployed to  keep  the  blood  fluid  while 
using  it.  The  persons  who  first  in- 
vented transfusion  also  threw  medica- 
ments into  the  veins  in  disease,  a 
method  revived  of  late,  but  long  dis- 
used. However,  as  usual,  I  am  run 
away  with  by  a  doctor's  hobby." 

"  I  for  one,"  cried  Vance,  "  regret 
the  failure.  Think  what  delicious  con- 
fusions of  individualities  must  have 
resulted.  How  could  the  man  of  twen- 
ty, with  silken  beard  and  mustache, 
be  expected  to  honor  his  bill  for  the 
ie  needed  last  week?  The  old 
beldame  Nature  sets  us  many  queer 
sums,  but  she  does  n't  allow  of  her  ar- 
:.c;nts  being  so  easily  upset  as 
they  might  be  in  such  a  case." 

"It's  a  tempting   subject,  though," 


returned  Purpel,  "  and  perhaps  we  are 
not  yet  at  the  end  of  it." 

"  A  tempting  subject  !  "  shouted 
Vance,  in  scorn.  il  Nonsense!  you 
don't  suppose  I  felt  a  molecule  of 
me  in  earnest  about  it.  A  pretty 
nice  subject  for  folks  who  believe  that 
somewhere  '  there  is  an  eternal  teapot.' 
You  're  getting  worse  all  the  time,  and 
will  want  a  full  course  of  Emerson." 

"  Now,  Vance,"  said  Purpel,  "  that 's 
a  barred  subject ;  and  you  know  it,  too. 
The  kind  of  regard  —  " 

"  Gammon,"  said  Vance,  "  I  meant 
Emerson's  Arithmetic,  man.  That 's 
what  you  want,  —  definition  of  idea,  nu- 
merical sharpness  of  thought,  a  course 
of  mathematics." 

"What!"  returned  Purpel,  "do  you 
fancy  no  one  great  who  can  not  excel  in 
algebra  ?  Why,  dear  fellow,  there  are 
lines  of  research  in  which  a  mathema- 
tician could  not  excel,  and  for  success 
in  which  a  man  must  be  almost  as  much 
poet  as  man  of  science.  This  is  why 
imagination  is  so  often  highly  developed 
in  chemists  and  physiologists  and  cer- 
tain physicists.  What  is  it  your  phi- 
losopher says  ? —  '  Science  is  only  Po- 
etry sworn  to  truth  on  the  altar  of  na- 
ture ' ;  and  this  explains  to  us  Haller 
and  Davy  and  Goethe  and  Faraday, 
and  is  seen  more  or  less  in  the  mar- 
vellous gift  of  expression  which  we  so 
frequently  see  illustrated  in  the  writ- 
ings of  men  of  science.  The  first  liv- 
ing naturalist  in  this  country  never  yet 
has  been  able  to  comprehend  how  a 
symbol  can  come  to  express  a  number 
arid  be  used  as  its  representative. 
And  as  to  the  Emerson  business,  I 
don't  believe  you,  V." 

"  Sir,"  said  Vance,  standing  under 
the  egg  of  the  dinornis,  "  you  are  now 
talking  the  language  of  common  hu- 
manity, for  when  a  man  says,  '  I  don't 
believe  you,'  he  is  simple,  impressive, 
and  unmistakable  ;  but  then  it  is  so 
rare  that  a  philosopher  of  your  school 
ventures  to  be  thus  explicit.  It  is  so 
easy  to  dress  up  a  commonplace  in 
new  clothes,  and  foist  off  the  old  stupid 
as  a  bright  and  clever  fellow." 

"  He 's   at  my  friends  again,  Gresh- 


8;a] 


Was  he  dead  ? 


am,  and  the  best  of  the  fun  is,  that  he 
can't  quote  a  line  of  the  author  he 
.siifi-rs  at." 

"  Can't  I  ?  "  retorted  Vance,  enchant- 
ed with  Purpel's  annoyance  at  this  nev- 
er-failing source  of  chaff.  ';  Can't  quote 
him?  What's  that  he  says  about  the 
Devil,  P.  ?  —  O,  where  he  calls  him  an 
'animated  Torrid  Zone.'  Now  that 
was  descriptive  enough." 

"  Confound  you,  V.,"  broke  in  Pur- 
pel ;  i(it  was  a  humblebee  he  said  that 
about." 

•'Then  I  don't  see  the  connection  of 
ideas,"  returned  the  other.  -;  However, 
he  has  a  neater  way  of  saying  one  fibs 
than  you  have.  It's  neater,  but  bless 
us,  P.,  is  n't  it  —  " 

"  Is  n't  it  what  ? "  cried  Purpel. 
"  What  are  you  raging  about  ?  " 

"Wait  a  little,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
There,  fill  my  pipe  for  me,  P.,  while  I 
quote:  'If  my  brother  repute  my  con- 
science with  a  lie  (not  of  my  telling), 
surely  he  has  done  me  a  good  deed, 
uther  I  lie  is  immaterial,  so  as 
that  it  causes  another  introspect.  But, 
as  concerns  variety,  there  arc  two 
kinds  of  liars.  This  man  lies  to  him- 
self, and  after  is  in  earnest  about  it 
with  the  world.  This  other  lies  only 
to  the  world  and  is  not  self-deceived. 
Moreover,  each  century  says  to  the 
>u  lie;  so  that  to  lie  is  only 
to  prophesy.'  Now,  P.,  isn't  that  a 
more  charitable  mode  of  putting  the 
case  than  just  merely  to  say  it  is  n't 
so  ?  I  wish  I  could  give  you  page 
and  line,  but,  as  you  see,  my  memory 
is  good  enough." 

"  Wretch,"  groaned  Purpel,  "  your 
memory,  indeed !  You  are  too  near 
this  man  to  take  in  his  dimensions. 

'  Men  there  be  so  broad  and  ample 
Other  men  are  but  a  sample 
Of  a  comer  of  their  being, 
Of  a  pin-space  of  their  seeing. 

Let  him  answer  you  himself." 

"  I  am  satisfied,''  growled  Vance. 
"  Satiated,  I  may  say.  Let 's  get  back 
to  earth  again.  You  were  going  to 
tell  us  about  the  murder,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  V.  I  feel  really  a  great  in- 
terest in  the  matter.  I  do  not  see 


how  the  nephew  is  to  escape  convic- 
tion." 

"What  are  the  circumstances?"  I 
asked. 

"The  victim,"  replied  Purpel. 
an  old  Quaker  lady  of  slight  means, 
who  lived  in  a  small  three-story  house 
off  of  Mill  Street.  On  the  day  of  the 
murder  she  drew  a  hundred  dollars, 
•which,  as  usual,  she  kept  upon  her  per- 
son. The  lower  rooms  were  sub-let  to 
She  herself  lived  in  a  third- 
story  back-room.  The  house  is  sep- 
arated on  the  west  by  an  alley  from  a 
blank  wall  of  a  warehouse.  On  the 
north  there  is  a  narrow  area  bounded 
by  a  tenement-house,  about  to  be  al- 
tered for  some  purpose,  and  at  pres- 
ent without  inhabitants  above  the  first 
story.  The  old  woman's  rocking-chair 
was  in  its  usual  place,  facing  a  table, 
and  with  its  back  to  the  north  window. 
It  had  been  pushed  away  from  the 
table,  and  the  body  lay  beside  it  on  the 
floor.  All  of  the  blood,  or  nearly  all, 
was  in  front  of  the  chair,  on  the  ceiling, 
walls,  and  table." 

"  Who  gave  the  alarm  ?  "  asked  I. 

"No  one,"  he  answered,  "until  in 
the  morning  her  niece  found  her  on  the 
floor  with  her  throat  cut.  By  the  by,  it 
must  have  been  done  early,  because  the 
girl  left  her  at  nine,  and  she  usually 
read  the  paper  a  little  later,  and  was 
in  bed  by  ten.  Now  when  found  she 
lay  alongside  of  her  chair,  dressed." 

"  But  about  the  nephew  ?  "  said  I. 

"  The  nephew,"  continued  Purpel, 
"is  a  man  of  forty  or  thereabouts. 
Like  the  rest  of  them,  he  seems  to  have 
led  at  some  time  an  easier  life,  but  is 
now  a  reporter  in  a  small  way,  and  is 
said  to  be  engaged  to  the  niece,  his 
cousin.  There  is  some  evidence  that 
he  has  plagued  the  old  woman  a  good 
deal  for  money,  and  that  he  is  one  of 
your  luckless  people  never  actually 
starving,  but  never  distinctly  succeed- 
ing. Pie  came  to  the  house  in  the 
afternoon,  stayed  to  tea,  and  remained 
with  the  old  lady  to  read  the  paper  to 
her  after  the  niece  left.  The  girl  says 
he  was  alone  with  her  only  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  she  heard  him 


Was  he  dead? 


[January, 


shut  the  street  door  before  she  herself 
had  finished  undressing.  When  ar- 
rested he  was  found  to  have  on  his 
person  fifty  dollars  in  notes,  one  of 
which  was  identified  by  the  clerk  of  the 
insurance  company  who  paid  the  an- 
nuity. The  most  careful  inspection 
detected  no  blood-stains  upon  any  of 
his  clothes,  and  he  wore  the  same  suit 
both  days.  Now,  Vance,  how  does  it 
strike  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  decision  to  give,"  was 
his  reply.  "  You  have  told  me  enough 
to  hang  him,  and  hanged  I  suppose  he 
will  be." 

"There  are  numberless  possibilities 
in  his  favor,"  said  I. 

"True,"  added  Vance,  "but  at  pres- 
ent it  is  the  fashion  to  hang  folks. 
What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  Upton,"  said  Purpel,  —  "  Denis  Up- 
ton." 

"  Good  gracious ! "  exclaimed  Vance. 
"  Why,  Gresham,  you  know  that  man. 
He  was  a  small  clerk  in  my  uncle's 
employ.  Don't  you  recall  him,  —  a 
cleverish  fellow,  one  of  your  massive 
youngsters,  with  huge,  shaggy  features 
and  awkward  ways.  I  am  very  sorry. 
I  heard  he  had  gone  under  the  social 
ice  a  good  while  ago  ;  but  what  a  hid- 
eous ending  !  I  must  see  him,  P." 

Somewhat  awed  by  this  unlooked- 
for  revival  of  an  old  acquaintance,  we 
suffered  the  talk  to  die  out,  and  present- 
ly broke  up  and  walked  thoughtfully 
homeward. 

I  went  next  day  with  my  friends,  first 
to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  then  to 
visit  Upton  in  jail.  We  accompanied 
the  officer  in  charge  through  the  va- 
rious rooms,  and  Purpel  and  Vance 
carefully  studied  them  in  turn.  In  the 
room  where  the  murder  was  done  there 
were  jets  of  dried  blood  on  the  walls, 
and  a  ghastly  semi-fluid  pool  on  the 
floor,  but  none  behind  the  woman's 
chair,  the  back  of  which  was  towards 
the  north  window.  Apparently  the  chair 
had  been  pushed  away  from  the  table, 
and  she  had  advanced  a  step  or  two  to- 
wards the  door  when  the  assault  was 
made.  There  was  no  blood,  however, 
on  the  door-handle  or  the  north  window. 


Struck  with  the  defective  nature  of 
the  evidence,  we  left  the  house  and 
made  our  visit  to  the  prisoner,  or  rath- 
er Vance  made  his,  for  we  waited  in 
the  keeper's  rooms.  By  and  by  he  re- 
turned, and  as  he  had  an  engagement 
we  agreed  to  meet  at  night  and  hear 
his  account  of  the  interview'. 

"I  suppose  it  is  our  man,  Vance?" 
said  I. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is,"  he  replied, 
"and  a  more  wretched  being  I  have 
never  seen.  He  told  me  a  long  story 
of  endless  ill  luck  and  disappointments, 
through  all  of  which  this  girl  has  clung 
to  him  tenaciously.  He  did  not  pre- 
tend to  conceal  from  me  that  he  had 
gambled  and  drunk  at  times,  but  his 
evil  fortunes  seem  to  have  depended 
less  on  these  vices  than  upon  a  certain 
want  of  practicality,  if  there  be  such  a 
word." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing,"  said  I. 

."  You  would  n't  know  him,  Gresham. 
He  is  one  of  your  colossally  built  men, 
with  huge  features,  and  nothing  very 
nice  about  his  face  but  his  smile." 

"'Smile'!"  said  Purpel,  "could  the 
poor  fellow  smile  ? " 

"  So  we  are  made,"  said  Vance  ;  "  the 
moment  rules  us.  I  saw  a  fellow  gar- 
roted  in  Havana,  who  killed  a  mos- 
quito on  his  cheek  a  minute  before 
they  pinioned  him." 

"  It  seems  ghastly,"  said  I.  "  Is  he 
greatly  alarmed  about  himself?" 

"No,"  returned  Vance.  "He  com- 
prehends his  position,  but  I  do  really 
think  he  is  so  wretched  with  running 
the  gauntlet  of  untiring  ill  luck,  that  he 
is  in  a  manner  indifferent,  except  as  to 
this  girl." 

"  And  what  of  her  ? " 

"Well,  P.,  she  is  rather  a  character. 
I  saw  her  at  his  request,  and  found  a 
woman  about  thirty,  with  that  hard, 
bony  style  of  face  which  belongs  to 
the  acid  type  of  Quaker.  She  must 
have  had  a  rather  dull  sort  of  life,  what 
with  the  old  woman  and  the  weary 
waiting  for  a  future  that  never  came. 
We  had  a  pretty  long  talk,  and  at  last 
she  said,  '  Does  thee  think  him  guil- 
ty ?'  I  said,  '  No.'  And  indeed,  I  do 


Was  he  dead  ? 


93 


not.  '  Does  thee  think  it  would  clear 
him  if  another  were  to  confess?'  I 
said,  'Yes,  certainly,'  astonished,  as 
you  may  suppose.  Then  she  said,  '  If 
thee  would  n't  mind,  I  would  like  to 
be  alone.'  And  so  I  came  away." 

A  few  days  after  this  little  talk,  the 
woman  was  released,  as  no  kind  of  sus- 
picion appeared  to  cling  to  her  ;  while 
about  the  man  Upton  the  toils  gath- 
ered closer  and  closer.  As  this  story 
is  only  in  a  manner  connected  with 
ourselves  and  our  talks,  which,  after  all, 
are  what  I  want  to  render,  I  hasten 
through  the  acts  of  this  ugly  drama. 
As  Vance  had  foreseen,  according  to  a 
present  fashion  Upton  was  convicted, 
and  within  a  day  or  two  his  history  and 
reputed  crime  were  forgotten  in  the 
roar  of  the  great  city's  tide  of  busy 
life,  only  to  be  recalled  anew  when  the 
story  of  the  gallows  should  be  told  to 
eager  readers  over  comfortable  break- 
fast-tables. 

Amidst  the  general  neglect,  we 
three  alone  held  to  a  sturdy  belief  in 
the  innocence  of  the  convicted  man, 
who,  like  a  hare  sore  beset  by  hounds, 
seemed  to  have  cast  himself  down  to 
await  the  coming  death ;  altogether 
indifferent  to  its  approach,  so  much 
worse  did  life  seem  to  be  than  any 
death  he  could  conceive  of. 

About  a  week  before  the  day  set  for 
turning  over  this  man's  case  to  the 
judgment-seat  of  God,  we  met  as  of 
custom.  It  was  a  common  habit  with 
us,  as  it  may  be  with  other  like  circles, 
to  sit  a  little  time  silent  over  the  first 
freshly  lighted  pipes. 

By  and  by  the  pleasant  glamour  of 
our  Lady  of  the  Leaf  would  come  be- 
tween us  and  the  day's  long  labors  and 
vexations  ;  and,  slaves  no  longer  to 
custom  or  the  world  of  men,  we  drifted 
away  whithersoever  the  tides  of  thought 
or  fancy  might  choose  to  carry  us.  It 
had  been  agreed  that  we  should  talk 
no  longer  of  the  tragedy  which  most 
men  had  already  forgotten,  and  so  it 
was  that  our  chat  turned  on  other  mat- 
ters. 

"  I  saw  to-day,"  said  Vance,  "  that 
some  one  has  been  speculating  upon 


the  probable  effect  on  the  German 
mind  of  the  use  of  tobacco  ;  but  I  sus- 
pect that  before  long  there  will  be  no 
nation  sufficiently  smokeless  for  com- 
parison." 

"  Possibly,  not,"  said  I.  "  It  is  said 
that  the  Indian,  the  primary  smoker, 
has  never  used  it  to  that  excess  which 
other  races  have  done." 

"  He  lives  out  of  doors,"  said  Pur- 
pel,  "  and  the  pipe  has  no  bane  for  the 
dweller  in  tent  or  wigwam." 

"  I  can  vouch  for  that,"  returned 
Vance  ;  "  but,  how  curious  it  is  that  we 
alone  should  chew,  and  that  the  Ger- 
man soldier,  who  chewed  inveterately 
during  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  should 
have  utterly  abandoned  the  vice." 

"  I  never  knew  of  the  facts,"  said 
Purpel ;  "  but  all  honor  to  the  Dutch- 
man. As  to  tobacco,  it  is  utterly  vain 
to  oppose  it ;  nor  do  I  for  one  believe 
that  it  is  hurtful  when  moderately  used 
by  men  of  matured  development.  I 
might,  I  don't  say  I  would,  give  up 
this  old  meerschaum  for  a  wife  ;  but  I 
think  I  should  like  to  be  as  certain  of 
the  woman's  power  to  soothe  and 
charm  as  I  am  of  my  pipe's,  before  I 
ventured  on  the  exchange.  I  suppose 
it  does  hurt  some  folks'  cerebral  or- 
gans, but  it  seems  to  me  somehow 
very  strange  that  this  or  that  drug 
should  have  the  power  to  interfere 
with  the  machinery  of  a  thing  as  spirit- 
ual as  thought.  It  is  really  impossible, 
reason  as  we  may,  for  us  to  disasso- 
ciate the  higher  mental  qualities  from 
some  relationship  with  a  sphere  of 
activities  beyond  those  which  we  can 
study." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Vance,  "  we  have, 
scientifically  speaking,  every  evidence 
to  relate  thought  in  all  its  forms  to  ma- 
terial changes  in  brain  tissue.  Given 
certain  conditions  which  insure  the  in- 
tegrity of  nerve-matter,  — and  we  think, 
remember,  imagine.  Take  any  one  of 
these  away,  and  we  do  these  things 
ill  or  not  at  all." 

"To  me,"  said  Purpel,  "the  stran- 
gest part  of  the  problem  lies  in  the  fact 
that,  whereas  the  forms  of  mental  ac- 
tivity are  so  distinct,  we  have  no  nota- 


94 


Has  he  dead? 


[January, 


ble  differentiation  in  the  tissues  of  the 
various  parts  of  the  brain  set  apart  for 
their  production." 

"Nor,"  said  Vance,  "js  there  any 
apparent  distinction  in  texture  between 
the  average  brain  and  that  of  La  Place 
ton." 

"  Difference  of  bulk  or  weight  there 
probably  is,"  added  Purpel ;  "  but  noth- 
ing that  accounts  for  the  vast  separa- 
tion in  the  character  of  the  products  of 
the  contrasted  brains  we  are  talking  of." 

u  Of  course,  it  bewilders  me"  said  I, 
humbly.  "  If  you  see  a  very  strong 
man,  one  exceptional  in  his  way, 
he  seems  always  to  possess  a  vast 
quantity  of  muscle  ;  now,  the  amount 
of  increase  of  brain-tissue  needed  to 
make  the  difference  between  common- 
place and  genius  seems  to  be  so  small 
as  to  fill  me  with  astonishment." 

"  But,  G.,"  said  Purpel,  "  do  not  you 
think  it  quite  impossible  to  compare 
the  two  forms  of  result  ?  The  muscle 
is  only  one  element  in  the  making  of  a 
perfect  human  machine  for  the  evolu- 
tion of  physical  force  such  as  motion. 
The  nerves  stand  for  something  here, 
and  the  nerve-centres  also  ;  for  in  spite 
of  the  popular  notion  that  a  muscular 
man  alone  is  strong,  it  really  seems  as 
though  amount  of  muscle-mass  might 
be  but  the  least  important  element  in 
the  case,  and  nerve-force  the  greatest." 

"  How  so  ?  "  said  I. 

a  Because,"  said  Purpel,  "  you  may 
see  the  slightly-built  insane  man  exhib- 
iting the  power  of  an  athlete." 

"  Considering,  then,"  said  Vance, 
"  the  whole  nervo-muscular  apparatus 
for  causing  motion,  we  see  it  attain 
its  maximum  of  power  in  the  insane  or 
convulsed  —  " 

"  It  is  so  said,"  broke  in  Purpel, 
"but  whether  truly  or  not,  I  doubt  a 
little.  An  insane  man  is  so  indifferent 
to  the  pains  which  often  come  of  utter- 
ly reckless  exertion,  that  it  is  hard  to 
compare  the  vigor  thus  exhibited  with 
that  of  health.  If  I  understood  you 
aright,  you  were  going  on  to  point  out 
that  the  mental  organs  possess  no  pow- 
er to  produce,  when  diseased,  the  high- 
est mental  result." 


"  Not  unless  genius  be  truly  mad- 
ness, —  for  the  'great  wit '  of  the  coup- 
let means  that,  I  presume,"  said  I. 

"  I  do  not  believe  much  in  their  near 
alliance  !  "  exclaimed  Purpel.  "  And  I 
fully  agree  with  the  great  Frenchman, 
who  said  of  this  theory  that,  were  it  so, 
genius  would  more  often  be  inherited." 

"  And  is  it  not  ?  "  said  Vance. 

"  No,"  replied  Purpel.  "  Talents  are 
often  matter  of  descent ;  and  as  a  rule, 
two  clever  people  are  more  apt  to  leave 
able  descendants  than  two  fools  ;  but 
genius,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  is 
very  rarely  inherited." 

"No  doubt,  you  are  correct,"  said 
Vance  ;  "  and,  in  fact,  there  is  a  cu- 
rious and  self-born  difficulty  in  the  con- 
tinuity of  any  great  faculties  in  a  line 
of  descent." 

"  How  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Thus,"  returned  Vance.  "  It  has 
been  clearly  shown  that  the  descend- 
ants of  great  men  are  few  in  number ; 
and  this  depends  upon  a  law  of  the  hu- 
man economy,  by  virtue  of  which  the 
over-use  of  the  intellectual  powers  les- 
sens the  activity  of  the  generative  fac- 
ulties, and  thus,  because  a  man  is  a 
hero,  or  statesman,  or  poet,  he  is  likely 
to  leave  fewer  descendants  ;  and  for  a 
similar  reason  these  run  a  greater  risk 
of  being  imperfect  creatures  than  the 
babies  of  the  next  mechanic." 

"  The  children  of  the  brain  slay  the 
children  of  the  body,"  said  Purpel. 

"  A  rather  bold  mode  of  statement," 
replied  Vance,  "  but,  to  return  a  little, 
—  when  I  think  it  over,  it  does  seem 
to  me  that  the  diseased  brain  may  of- 
ten turn  out  the  larger  amount  of  pro- 
duct ;  but  then  the  quality  is  poor, 
while  the  muscle,  brain,  and  system 
give  you  in  the  crazed  —  if  the  public 
be  correct  —  not  only  amount  of  force, 
but  swiftness  of  motion,  and  unequalled 
endurance  of  exertion.  In  other  words, 
the  best  is  evolved  only  when  a  mor- 
bid element  is  thrown  in.  What  say 
you  to  that,  P.  ?  " 

"  I  still  doubt  the  facts,"  cried  Purpel. 

"Ah,  ha!"  said  I,  "you  and  V. 
seem  to  have  exchanged  parts  to-night. 
How  is  it,  V.  ?  " 


1 870.] 


Was  he  dead  f 


95 


"Which  accounts  for  his  talking  so 
well,"  said  Purpel;  "but,  to  return 

::i." 

"  Is  there  such  a  thing  possible  as 
stimulating  the  mental  organs  with  elec- 
tricity ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Purpel.  u  Some  few  of 
the  central  organs  of  motion  and  sen- 
sation may  be  galvanized  in  animals  so 
ive  response.  Uut  many  nerve- 
centres,  those  included,  to  which  we 
the  parentage  of  mental  states, 
make  no  sign  when  irritated  in  this 
mac 

Said  Vance:  "You  cannot  reach 
them  in  life,  I  mean  in  man." 

"  No,"  returned  Purpel ;  "  but  we 
can  reach  them  in  living  animals." 

'•Where?  alas!"  was  the  answer. 
"You  have  a  practical  impossibility  of 
reply,  either  owing  to  the  injury  done, 
or  because  the  animal  is  defective  in 
its  power  to  express  mental  states." 

k>  Why  not  try  it  on  man  ? ''  said  I. 

"  Would  you  be  pleased  to  volun- 
teer ?  "  retorted  Vance,  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  can  find  a  man  to  do  anything 
conceivable,"  I  continued;  "but  for 
this  especial  business  you  must  look 
farther." 

"Well,"  said  Vance,  "to  return  on 
our  tracks.  If,  as  Purpel  told  us  last 
jiveck,  tin-  organs  of  special  sense  re- 
cord only  in  their  own  language  the 
prick  of  a  pin  or  an  electric  shock —  " 

"  Stop,"  said  I  ;  "  what  do  you 
mean  ? »? 

"  Only  this,"  said  Purpel,  taking  up 
the  thread  of  talk,  "that  if  you  hurt  the 
globe  of  the  eye  so  as  to  press  on  the 
optic  nerve,  you  will  feel  it  as  a  flash 
of  light  only.  So  in  the  mouth,  an 
electric  discharge  is  felt  as  a  taste,  and 
a  like  conclusion  is  probable  as  to 
hear: 

•'  I  see,"  said  I  ;  "  and  now,  Vance, 
as  I  interrupted  ^-rou,  what  were  you 
about  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "that  in 
like  manner  irritating  or  electrizing  the 
nerves  which  must  run  from  one  men- 
tal organ  to  another  might  call  out  the 
special  function  of  the  part,  whether  as 
thought,  memory,  fancy,  or  what  not. 


However,  I  presume  one  would  get 
about  as  orderly  replies  as  when  dis- 
ease does  act  on  these  nerve-wires,  or 
as  when  a  thunder-storm  meddles  with 
the  telegraph-lines." 

"  Humph  !  "  returned  Purpel ;  "you 
had  best  not  get  beyond  your  last,  old 
friend,  and  your  last  is  a  little  ahead  of 
most  of  your  notions." 

"Well,"  said  I,  with  one  of  those 
queer  flashes  of  inspiration  that  come 
to  a  dull  fellow  who  lives  enough  among 
his  intellectual  betters  to  rub  off  on 
on  him,  now  and  then,  a  little  of  their 
phosphorus,  —  "  well,"  said  I,  "  of 
course,  Purpel,  such  an  experiment 
tried  on  a  living  man  would  produce 
endless  confusion  of  mind  and  all  kind 
of  interferences  ;  but  suppose  you  could 
keep  alive  only  the  intellectual  organs, 
and  could  contrive  to  stimulate  them 
one  at  a  time." 

I  never  can  tell  whether  Vance  is 
in  earnest  or  in  jest,  unless  he  takes 
out  his  pencil  and  a  card  and  begins, 
Let  a  -f  b  =  etc.,  and  let  q  be  etc.  This 
time  his  soul  on  a  sudden  revolted  at 
the  wildness  of  the  talk  into  which  we 
had  wandered. 

"Ho,  ho!"  said  he,  "who  started 
all  this  nonsense  ?  "  And  then  he  went 
off  into  a  furious  tirade  against  the  fee- 
bleness with  which  men  talked,  and 
urged  the  need  for  mathematical  train- 
ing and  the  like. 

Meanwhile,  Purpel  had  passed  into 
one  of  his  thoughtfullest  of  moods,  and 
was  slowly  navigating  about  the  room 
around  chairs  and  tables.  At  last  he 
exclaimed:  "Yes,  yes,  it  must  be  that 
even  thought  and  imaginations  have  a 
material  basis  without  which  we  should 
know  them  not.  Even  Paul  could  con- 
ceive of  no  resurrection  that  did  not 
include  the  body.  If  I  can  take  a  sev- 
ered hand  and  keep  it  alive  two  or 
three  days,  and  it  responds  to  a  blow 
by  muscular  motion,  and  sweats,  and 
is  alive,  why  not  be  able  some  day  to 
keep  alive  the  brain-organs  separately, 
and  get  replies  from  them,  which,  even 
if  disordered,  would  tell  us  what  they 
do,  what  their  work  is  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean,"  said  I,  "  that  it  is 


Was  Jic  dead  ? 


[January, 


in  any  way  possible  after  a  part  is  dead 
to  restore  it  to  life  ?  " 

••  That  depends,"  he  returned,  "  upon 
what  you  call  alive.  A  great  savant 
secured  the  hand  of  a  man  guillotined 
at  8  A.  M.  After  fourteen  hours  it  was 
cold  and  stiff.  He  then  threw  into  its 
arteries  blood  taken  from  his  own  arm. 
Presently  the  fluid  began  to  flow  from 
the  veins.  The  supply  was  kept  up  in 
this  manner,  and  the  returning  blood 
was  aerated  by  agitation.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  member  flushed,  and  then 
began  to  assume  the  hue  of  life.  The 
stiffness  of  death  departed,  and  the 
muscles  contracted  when  struck  or 
when  galvanized.  As  long  as  he  sus- 
tained the  supply  of  blood,  —  and  he 
did  this  for  six  hours,  —  so  long  did  the 
separated  part  exhibit  all  the  phenom- 
ena of  life.  Was  it  dead  before  ?  We 
cannot  say  that  it  was  not  alive  after- 
wards." 

"  It  appears,  then,"  said  Vance,  "  that 
life  is  what  one  of  your  biologists  called 
it,  an  assemblage  of  conditions — of 
more  or  less  interdependent  condi- 
tions." 

u  A  partial  statement  of  the  case," 
continued  Purpel,  "for  there  is  more 
in  life  than  so  vague  a  definition  cov- 
ers." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  can  you  in  like  man- 
ner revive  the  brain  ?" 

"  I  was  about  to  say  so,"  said  he. 
"  The  same  experimenter  repeated  his 
process  on  dogs  apparently  dead  from 
various  causes,  and  by  letting  out  the 
blood  from  the  veins  of  the  neck  so  as 
to  relieve  the  over-distended  heart,  and 
then  throwing  blood  into  the  arteries 
of  the  head,  he  succeeded  in  restoring 
certain  of  his  animals  to  life.  As  the 
blood  entered,  the  visage  altered,  the 
features  moved,  the  eyes  opened,  and 
the  pupils  changed  their  size  under 
varying  amounts  of  light.  Of  course 
the  brain  acted,  but  how  completely  we 
cannot  say." 

"  And,"  said  Vance,  "  has  this  been 
tried  on  man  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Purpel,  "not  under 
precisely  the  same  conditions  ;  but  there 
is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  succeed 


as  well  with  him  as  with  the  do< 


la 


but  few,  I  presume,  would  recovery  oc- 
cur, but  in  some,  at  least,  it  might  do 
so."  ' 

"  What  a  hideous  thought,"  said 
Vance,  "  to  bring  a  man  back  to  life 
only  to  die  anew.  There  are  some 
folks  for  whom  I  would  prefer  not  to 
assume  such  a  responsibility." 

"  Yet,"  said  Purpel,  "  we  assume  it 
for  every  dying  man  we  preserve  alive. 
The  doctor's  instinct  is  to  save  life. 
The  after-consequences  lie  not  with 
him." 

"  If  I  were  the  vitalized  victim,"  said 
Vance,  "  I  should  look  upon  you  very- 
much  as  Frankenstein's  monster  did 
upon  his  maker.  You  would  have  to 
provide  me  with  board  and  lodging  to 
the  uttermost  limit  of  my  secondary 
existepc'e ;  and  as  to  what  expensive 
tastes  I  might  bring  back  with  me  from 
the  nether  world,  who  can  sajf-?  " 

"  I  would  risk  it,"  said  Purpel,  smil- 
ing. "Who's  there?"  he  added;  for 
at  this  moment  his  servant  opened  the 
door  in  haste,  exclaiming  :  "  Here  's  a 
woman,  sir,  would  come  up  all  I  could 
do  !  "  "  Who,  —  what  ?  "  said  Purpel, 
as  a  figure  swept  past  the  man  into  the 
room,  and  stood  facing  the  light,  a 
strange  and  unpleasant  intruder. 

"  Good  gracious ! "  said  Vance.  "  Mis* 
Gray,  what  on  earth  brought  you  here 
at  this  hour  ?  "  It  was  the  niece  of  the 
murdered  woman. 

The  figure  before  us  threw  back  a 
worn  tweed  cloak,  and  stood  erect,  in 
a  faded  silk  dress  fitting  closely  her 
gaunt  frame.  She  held  a  Quaker  bon- 
net in  her  hand,  and  her  face  and  hair 
were  wet  with  the  sleet  of  the  storm 
without.  A  stern,  set  face,  with  the 
features  drawn  into  lines  of  pain  and 
care,  a  weary  look  about  the  mouth, 
and  the  eyes  of  one  hunted  down  by  a 
sorrow  too  awful  for  mortality  to  bear. 

"  Can  nothing  be  done  ?  "  said  the 
woman.  "  Must  he  die  ?  " 

So  startling  was  this  appearance,  that 
for  a  moment  all  of  us  were  alike  con- 
founded. Then  Purpel  said  kindly, 
"Sit  down  by  the  fire,  Miss  Gray"; 
and  presently  he  had  taken  her  bonnet 


Was  he  dead  ? 


97 


and  cloak  and  seated  her  close  to  the 
blazing  logs,  which  I  quickly  piled  on 
the  fire. 

For  a  moment  the  warmth  seemed 
to  capture  her  physical  sense  of  com- 
fort, and  she  bent  over,  holding  both 
hands  to  the  blaze.  Then,  on  a  sud- 
den, she  turned  to  Vance,  and  ex- 
claimed, with  a  quick  look  of  curious 
cunning :  "  I  don't  want  thee  to  tell,  but 
—  I  did  it.  I  want  thee  to  go  with  me 
to  —  to  —  somebody,  and  let  me  tell 
them  the  way  it  was  done  ;  but  don't 
tell  him.  He  'd  say  it  was  n't  so.  Thee 
won't  tell  him,  will  thee  ?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Vance  ;  "but, 
Miss  Gray,  no  one  thinks  you  did  it." 

"But  they'll  believe  me.  They'll 
believe  me,"  she  cried.  "  Come,  we 
have  no  time  to  lose.  Where 's  the 
bonnet  ?  Let  me  go." 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Purpel  ?  "  said  I. 

He  made  me  no  answer,  but  as  she 
rose  he  faced  her,  and,  placing  a  hand 
on  each  of  her  shoulders,  said,  firmly : 
"  We  none  of  us  think  he  did  it,  my 
poor  woman.  We  are  sure  he  did  not. 
We  have  done  and  are  doing  all  we 
can  to  save  him.  Will  not  this  content 
you,  without  your  taking  a  lie  upon  your 
own  soul  ?  You  are  half  crazed,  —  and 
no  wonder  ;  but  you  know  that  you  did 
not  do  this  thing.  Still  no  one  has  a 
right  to  stop  you,  and  I  myself  will  go 
with  you  to  the  district-attorney,  and 
secure  you  a  hearing,  although  as  to 
his  believing  you  I  have  the  gravest 
doubts." 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  "  who  else  could 
have  done  it  ?  I  believe  I  did  it.  I  can 
see  myself  doing  it.  I  mean  I  did  it. 
Is  n't  thee  ashamed  to  be  near  me  ? 
-Come!"  Purpel  made  us  a  sign  to 
remain,  and  was  leaving  the  room, 
when  she  turned  suddenly.  "  And  if," 
she  exclaimed,  "  O,  gracious  God  !  if, 
if  they  will  not  —  believe  me,  and  — 
they  kill  him,  surely  —  surely,  he  must 
come  back  and  see  me,  and  say,  '  Little 
woman  ? '  —  Perhaps  thee  doen't  know 
that 's.  what  he  calls  me.  Sometimes 
'little  woman,'  and  sometimes  'little 
thee  and  thou.'  What  was  1  saying? 
He  will  say,  '  The  dead  lie  not,  being  so 
VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  147.  7 


near  to  God,  and  I  am  white  of  this 
sin.'" 

"This  is  horrible,"  cried  Vance. 
"  For  God's  sake,  take  her  away.  Stay, 
I  will  get  a  hack  from  the  corner."  And 
so  saying,  he  left  the  room,  followed  by 
Purpel  and  Miss  Gray,  who  paused  a 
moment  on  the  threshold  to  say  to 
me,  "  Thee  does  not  think  him  guilty  ? " 

"Who,  — I?"  I  returned;  "no  in- 
deed." 

"Well,"  she  added,  "don't  thee  mind 
me.  I  ask  everybody  that."  And  then 
impatiently  turning  to  Purpel,  she  add- 
ed, "  Why  does  thee  wait  ?  Thee  will  get 
into  trouble  should  thee  try  to  keep  me." 

I  was  too  excited  for  sleep,  and 
therefore  piled  up  the  logs  anew,  and, 
lighting  a  pipe,  occupied  myself  with 
such  thoughts  as  chose  to  be  my  guests 
until  my  two  friends  came  back,  having 
restored  the  poor  half-crazed  girl  to  the 
kindly  custody  of  a  lady  of  her  own 
sect,  from  whose  home  she  had  escaped 
that  evening.  It  were  needless  to  add 
that,  although  Miss  Gray  told  a  story 
of  the  murder  cunningly  consistent,  it 
broke  down  under  the  slightest  inspec- 
tion, and  she  finally  owned  to  the  au- 
thorities her  complete  innocence  of  all 
share  in  the  murder.  From  this  time, 
however,  she  continued  to  invent  simU 
lar  but  varying  accounts,  until  at  last 
her  mind  gave  way  totally,  and  she  was 
sent  to  an  asylum  for  the  insane. 

To  return  to  ourselves.  Purpel  and 
Vance,  after  telling  me  what  they  had 
done  upon  leaving  me,  silently  sat  for  a 
time,  until  at  last  Purpel  broke  out  ab- 
ruptly in  this  wise  :  — 

"  If  a  man  should  return  from  the 
dead,  surely  he  would  be  believed,  and 
why  should  he  not  be  made  to  speak  ? 
Vance,  do  you  think  there  would  be 
wrong  done  to  any  if — if — it  were 
possible  so  far  to  resuscitate  a  dead 
man  as  to  get  from  him  a  confession  of 
guilt  or  innocence  ?  " 

"What,"  said  I,  "as  your  savant  re- 
vived his  dogs  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ? "  returned  Purpel. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  wild  schemes  ! " 
cried  Vance. 


Was  he  dead? 


[January, 


-Wild  or  not,"  said  Purpel,  "it  is 
possible,  and  especially  after  death  from 
asplu 

what  would  the  law  say,  Pur- 
•  id  I,  "in  case  you  revived  the 
man  permanently  ?  " 

"  We  need  not  do  that,"  he  replied. 

d  not,"  said  Vance.  "Why, 
man,  to  let  him  die  after  revival  would 
be  murder." 

"Queer  dilemma,"  said  I.  "The 
law  kills  a  man  ;  you  bring  him  to  life 
again,  ask  a  question  or  two,  and  let 
him  depart.  Suit  for  malpractice  by 
surviving  relati 

"The  law  has  had  its  way  with  him, 
hanged  him,  and  pronounced  him  dead," 
said"  Purpel ;  "  will  it  go  back  on  its  ver- 
dict and  say  he  was  not  dead  ?  I  would 
take  that  risk,  and  in  this  case  without 
a  fear." 

"And  I  also,"  added  Vance;  "but 
the  thing  is  absurd.  Why  talk  about 
it  at  all !  Let  us  go,  it  is  near  day- 
break." And  so  the  talk  ended. 

For  the  next  week  Purpel  was  unusu- 
ally silent,  and  we  saw  little  of  him  un- 
til the  day  after  that  which  hastened 
poor  Denis  Upton  out  of  the  world. 
He  died,  like  many  a  man,  asserting  his 
freedom  from  guilt;  but  experience 
had  too  distinctly  taught  the  worthless- 
ness  of  this  test  of  innocence,  and  few 
pitied  his  fate  or  doubted  the  justice 
of  his  punishment. 

As  usual,  we  met  at  Purpel's  rooms 
quite  late  at  night,  and  found  him  in  a 
singularly  restless  mood,  walking  about 
and  muttering  half-aloud,  while  his  great 
dinornis-egg  swung  to  and  fro  above 
him,  apparently  as  restless  as  its  owner. 

"Another  chance  gone,"  he  said. 
"Another;  and  life  so  short,  so  very 
short." 

'•What  are  you  maundering  about, 
P.?"  said  Vance. 

"  Only  a  little  disappointment,"  re- 
turned the  other. 

••  I 'ass  your  hat  round,"  said  Vance, 
"  and  we  will  drop  in  our  little  sympa- 
thies. What's  all  that  stuff  in  the  cor- 
ner, P.?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  pile 
of  tubing,  battery-cells,  and  brass  im- 
plements. 


"Well,"  replied  Purpel,  "you  may 
laugh  if  you  like,  —but  I  meant  to  have 
made  the  effort  to  resuscitate  the  poor 
wretch  they  hanged  yesterday.  It  might 
have  succeeded  partially  or  completely, 
but  at  the  least  I  should  have  tried,  and 
even  entire  failure  would  have  taught 
me  something." 

Vance  tapped  his  forehead,  looking 
at  me.  "Quite  gone,"  said  he;  "the 
wreck  of  a  fine  mind,  Gresham." 

But  Purpel  was  too  deeply  interested 
for  jesting,  and  replied,  rather  fiercely 
for  him  :  "  Have  your  joke,  if  it  pleases 
you  to  be  merry  over  such  a  theme  as 
yesterday's.  I,  for  one  —  " 

"Purpel,  Purpel,"  said  Vance,  inter- 
rupting him,  "  nobody  thinks  of  jest- 
ing about  that.  I  was  only  smiling  at 
your  woful  visage.  That  woman  s  face 
haunts  me  like  a  ghost.  Was  it  her 
words  which  brought  you  to  think  of 
this  strange  experiment  ?  " 

"  Those,  and  my  own  ideas  on  the 
scientific  aspect  of  the  subject,"  said 
Purpel ;  "but,  no  matter ;  poor  Upton's 
friends  interposed  at  the  last  minute, 
and  denied  me  the  chance  of  a  trial." 

"  If  the  opportunity  should  recur," 
said  A'^ance,  "  let  me  see  the  experi- 
ment." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  so,"  re- 
turned Purpel.  "To-day  I  the  more 
sorrowfully  regret  my  failure  in  this 
present  instance,  because  I  have  learned 
that  which  more  than  ever  makes  me 
certain  that  an  innocent  man  was  mur- 
dered yesterday,  —  a  man  as  guiltless 
of  blood  as  you  or  I,  Vance." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  "  what  has  oc- 
curred ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
remember  the  relation  of  Mrs.  Gray's 
house  to  those  nearest  it  ? " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  I. 

"It  was  separated  by  an  alley  from  a 
blank  wall  on  the  west,  and  by  a  space 
of  eight  or  ten  feet  from  a  small  house 
on  the  north,"  said  Vance. 

"  Exactly,"  continued  Purpel  ;  "  and 
in  this  house  were  windows  a  little 
above  the  level  of  those  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Gray's  residence.  When  the  po- 
lice examined  the  premises  they  found 


1 870.] 


U'elS   JlC   cL 


99 


the  window  of  the  room  opposite  to 
Mrs.  Cray's  with  the  shutters  barred. 
Her  own  dwelling  bad  no  outside  shut- 
ters. On  the  lower  story  lived  a  cob- 
bler, who  was  distinctly  shown  to  have 
been  elsewhere  at  the  time  of  the  mur- 
der." 

"  I  remember  the  man,"  said  I.  "  He 
exhibited  the  utmost  nervousness  dur- 
ing his  cross-examination.  You  do  not 
think  him  guilty,  Purpel?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  latter. 
"  The  other  tenants  had  been  ordered 
out  by  the  landlord,  so  that  he  might 
make  a  change  in  the  house,  which 
with  the  next  two  was  to  be  altered  into 
a  carpenter's-shop.  They  had  already 
begun  to  repair  the  roof,  and  the  two 
upper  stories  were  piled  full  of  lumber 
for  the  purpose  of  serving  as  scaffold- 
ing on  the  roof,  which  was  to  be  raised 
several  feet." 

'•  ]>ut  what  kept  the  cobbler  there  ?  " 
said  I. 

"  He  had  still  three  months  to  stay 
before  his  lease  was  out,"  said  Vance. 
"  I  remember  the  question  in  court, 
and  his  reply.  Go  on,  P." 

"  I  myself,"  continued  Purpel,  "  have 
never  before  inspected  his  premises  ; 
but  this  morning,  under  an  impulse 
which  I  can  scarcely  explain,  I  set  out 
quite  early  and  found  the  cobbler  at 
work.  I  explained  to  him  that  I  had  felt 
some  curiosity  about  the  Gray  murder, 
and  asked  him  to  go  with  me  over  the 
house.  At  first  he  was  crusty  enough, 
but  a  little  money  and  a  bland  word  or 
two  made  him  willing.  I  went  directly 
to  the  room  opposite  to  Mrs.  Gray's. 
It  was  pitch-dark,  and  I  felt  an  oppres- 
sive consciousness  that  I  was  about  to 
learn  something  strange  and  terrible 
connected  with  the  woman's  fate.  The 
cobbler  opened  the  window,  and  the 
chill  of  what  I  might  call  expectant 
horror  passed  away  with  the  light  of 
day.  The  cobbler  Assured  me  that, 
owing  to  various  causes,  among  others 
the  failure  of  the  owner,  the  lumber  on 
the  floor  had  remained  unused.  The 
window-sash  was  easily  raised  or  low- 
ered ;  the  space  between  that  and  the 
opposite  window  was  nine  feet  ten 


inches,  as  I  learned  by  measurement. 
I  next  proceeded  to  examine  the  win- 
dow-ledge and  sash,  but  found  nothing. 
Then  I  turned  over  the  boards  lying 
nearest  to  the  wall,  but  still  in  vain ; 
the  cobbler  assuring  me  repeatedly  that 
'  them  detectives  had  been  and  done  just 
the  same.'  At  last,  however,  I  raised  a 
board  which  lay  flat  against  the  wall, 
partly  below  the  window;  and  on  it, 
near  to  one  end,  I  found  four  small 
spots  not  over  a  line  wide,  and  further 
along  a  larger  one,  —  dark  brown,  near- 
ly black  spots.  What  were  they  ?  A 
hundred  years  ago  no  man  on  God's 
earth  could  have  told  :  in  an  hour  or 
two  I  should  know.  Do  you  wonder  I 
was  excited  ?  " 

"  Wonder,"  said  I,  —  "  it  is  terrible ;  I 
am  almost  sorry  you  found  them.  What 
next,  Purpel  ? " 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  "  that  my  quest 
was  at  an  end.  You  shall  hear  how 
strangely  I  was  mistaken.  I  turned  to 
the  cobbler,  without  pointing  out  the 
spots,  and  asked  him  to  bring  me  up 
some  sharp  tool.  In  a  minute  or  two 
he  returned  with  his  cobblcr's-knife, 
and  with  this  I  readily  shaved  away  the 
chips  now  on  yonder  table,  which  were 
the  only  portions  of  the  plank  thus 
stained.  As  I  was  about  to  hand  him 
the  knife,  a  chill  went  through  me,  with 
one  of  those  singular  mental  presenti- 
ments such  as  sometimes  foreshadow 
the  idea  about  to  appear  to  you  in  full 
distinctness  of  conception.  The  knife 
was  perfectly  new.  '  This  tool  is  very 
sharp,  I  see,'  said  I ;  *  it  must  have  been 
recently  bought.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  snappishly,  *  what 
then,  —  suppose  it  was  ?  I  ain't  got  no 
more  time  to  waste.  Give  me  my  knife, 
and  let  me  shut  up  the  place.'  With- 
out heeding  him,  I  continued,  *  When 
did  you  buy  that  knife  ? ' ' 

"Think  I  should  have  postponed 
that  question,"  said  Vance,  "  until  we 
were  down  stairs." 

"  Don't  stop  him,"  cried  I.  "  What 
next,  Purpel  ?  " 

"  The  man  said,  of  course,  he  did 
n't  see  as  it  was  any  of  my  business. 
I  replied,  that  it  was  easy  to  get  an 


IOO 


Was  he  dead? 


[January, 


answer  in  other  ways,  upon  which  he 
surlily  closed  the  window,  muttering  to 
himself  while  I  went  slowly  down  stairs. 
Once  in  his  shop,  I  turned  on  him  quite 
abruptly  and  repeated  my  question, 
upon  which  he  ordered  me  to  put  down 
the  knife  and  clear  out.  Then  I  made 
a  rash  venture.  Said  I,  'You  bought 
that  knife  not  very  long  after  the  mur- 
der. Where  is  the  old  knife?'  You 
should  have  seen  the  man  ;  —  he  looked 
at  me  a  moment  quite  cowed,  and  then 
•exclaimed :  — 

" '  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  think 

I  done  it.    I  swear  I  did  n't.     I  don't 
know  nothin'  about  them  knives,  except 
just  that  I  missed  my  old  knife  the  day 
that  'ere  murder  was  done ;  I  missed 
it,  sir,  and  I  kind  a  knowed  them  as 
done  it  must  have  stole  my  knife,  so  I 
went  and  buyed  a  new  one,  and  was 
afeared  to  say  more  about  it.' 

" '  Great  heavens  ! '  said  I, '  you  have 
hanged  an  innocent  man,  you  coward  ! 
Afraid  !  what  were  you  afraid  of?  ' 

"  '  Don't  be  hard  on  me,  sir,'  he  said. 

I 1  am  a  poor  man,  and  if  I  'd  a  told 
about  this,  don't  you  think  I  'd  a  laid  in 
jail  for  witness ;  and  who  was  to  look 
after  my  wife  and  little  uns  ? ' 

'"Is  this  possible?'  said  I.  'You 
fool,  your  wife  and  babies  would  have 
been  well  enough  cared  for;  and  now 
—  Why  did  I  not  think  of  all  this  a 
week  ago  ? ' 

"'You  won't  speak  of  it,'  said  the 
man,  '  you  won't  tell  nobody.' 

"  '  Tell ! '  said  I,  '  come  along  with 
me,  instantly.'  He  pleaded  very  hard, 
but  I  was  altogether  remorseless  ;  and 
in  half  an  hour  he  had  made  his  con- 
fession to  the  district-attorney.  There, 
Vance,  you  have  my  story." 

We  drew  long  breaths,  Vance  and 
I,  and  a  vision  of  the  gallows  went 
through  my  brain,  filling  me  with  a 
horror  too  deep  for  speech. 

At  last,  Vance  said,  "  And  is  it  blood, 
Purpcl  ?  " 

"  Beyond  a  doubt,"  answered  the  lat- 
ter, "and  as  surely  the  blood  of  Mrs. 
Gray." 

Here  he  crossed  the  room,  and,  re- 
turning, showed  us  the  chips  he  had 


cut  away,  each  with  its  drop  of  dark 
brownish  red. 

"  But,"  said  I,  after  a  pause,  "  this 
might  have  been  blood  from  the  linger 
of  one  of  the  workmen." 

"  Might  have  been,  but  is  not," 
returned  Purpel. 

"  And  the  cobbler,"  added  Vance,  — 
"  is  he  free  from  suspicion  ?  " 

"  You  forget,"  said  I,  "  that  he  proved 
an  alibi  without  flaw." 

"  Moreover,"  continued  Purpel.  "  I 
noticed  that  the  cobbler  is  left-handed, 
which  in  a  trade  like  his  must  be  a 
very  awkward  defect.  Now,  if  you 
will  remember  one  of  our  former  talks, 
you  will  recall  that  I  considered  the 
murder  to  have  been  done  by  a  man 
who,  standing  behind  the  woman,  sud- 
denly placed  a  hand  on  her  mouth  and 
with  the  other  inflicted  a  single  wound 
in  the  neck.  That  wound  was  made 
with  the  right  hand,  being  deepest  on 
the  left  side  of  her  neck.  The  men,  —  I 
suspect  there  were  two,  —  gained  access 
to  the  empty  rooms  of  the  house  I  vis- 
ited to-day.  At  night  they  opened  the 
window  and  put  a  plank  across,  quietly. 
The  old  woman,  who  was,  as  you  have 
heard,  quite  deaf,  is  first  startled  by  the 
cold  air  from  the  opened  window.  She 
rises  suddenly,  and  is  seized  from  be- 
hind. Perhaps  she  struggles,  resisting 
the  effort  to  rob  her.  Perhaps  the 
murder  may  have  been  prearranged. 
It  matters  not  now.  There  is  resist- 
ance, a  sharp  knife  drawn  athwart  the 
throat,  and  the  robbery  is  effected. 
One  confederate  is  probably  somewhat 
bloody,  the  other  less  so  or  not  at  all. 
The  latter  shuts  the  window  behind 
them,  withdraws  the  plank,  and  bars  the 
shutters  of  the  cobbler's  house,  through 
which  they  escape,  unnoticed." 

"  If,"  said  Vance,  "  your  view  be  cor- 
rect, they  premeditated  only  plunder  at 
first,  but  in  passing  through  the  cob- 
bler's work-room*  they  probably  seized 
the  knife  as  a  weapon  which  might 
prove  useful." 

"  I  suspect  it  was  as  you  state  it, 
Purpel,"  said  I.  "The  persons  who 
did  this  deed  must  have  been  thorough 
adepts  in  crime,  or  they  would  have 


1 870.] 


Was  he  dead? 


101 


been  incapable  either  of  planning  such 
a  scheme  or  of  carrying  it  out  so  calmly 
as  to  leave  only  these  very  slight  traces. 
The  little  blood  you  found  probably 
dropped  on  the  plank  as  they  crawled 
over  it." 

"  There  might  have  been  more,"  re- 
turned Purpel ;  "and  had  I  made  this 
examination  earlier,  I  should  possibly 
have  found  further  traces,  since  it  is 
scarcely  conceivable  that  a  red-handed 
murderer  should  have  failed  to  put  a  ' 
wet  hand  somewhere,  in  such  a  way  as 
to  leave  a  mark. 

"  And  what  better  for  it  all  is  poor 
Upton  ? "  said  Vance.  "  We  shall  find 
few,  I  think,  so  credulous  as  to  believe 
the  tale  we  have  heard  to-night." 

And  so  it  proved  ;  for  although  every 
effort  was  made  to  set  the  matter  in  a 
clear  light  before  the  public,  it  was 
generally  regarded  as  only  a  barefaced 
attempt  on  the  part  of  Upton's  friends 
to  save  his  memory  from  just  reproach. 

Months  went  by,  and  we  had  ceased 
at  length  to  talk  of  the  horrible  tragedy 
which  for  a  little  while  had  disturbed 
the  still  waters  of  our  quiet  lives.  One 
evening,  late  in  the  next  winter,  both 
Vance  and  myself  received  from  Purpel 
a  hasty  note,  stating  that  he  meant  next 
day  to  attempt  the  experiment  which  he 
had  failed  to  try  in  the  former  instance. 
When  we  met  in  the  evening,  he  ex- 
plained to  us  that  he  had  made  such 
arrangements  as  would  enable  him  to 
secure  the  body  of  a  criminal  who  was 
to  be  hanged  on  the  following  morning. 
The  man  in  question  was  a  friendless 
wretch,  who  had  been  guilty  of  every 
known  crime,  and  who  was  at  last  to 
suffer  for  one  of  the  most  cold-blooded 
murders  on  the  records  of  the  courts. 
His  body  was  to  be  delivered  to  Purpel 
as  soon  as  possible  after  the  execution. 
Our  friend,  for  obvious  reasons,  de- 
sired to  have  no  other  assistance  than 
our  own,  and  he  now  proceeded  to  in- 
struct us  carefully  as  to  the  means  he 
intended  to  use,  so  that  no  time  should 
be  lost  during  the  necessary  operations. 

On  the  following  day,  a  little  after 
noon,  we  assembled  in  the  laboratory 
back  of  Purpel's  house,  where  he  was 


accustomed  to  carry  on  such  of  his 
researches  as  involved  the  use  of  ani- 
mals. It  was  a  bare  whitewashed  room, 
scantily  furnished,  and  rather  too  dark. 
We  lit  the  gas-lights,  however,  above 
the  central  table,  and  with  a  certain- 
awe  awaited  the  coming  of  the  body. 
Thanks  to  Purpel's  purse,  we  had  not 
long  to  rest  in  suspense.  In  about  an 
hour  after  the  execution,  a  covered 
wagon  was  driven  into  the  stable  at 
the  side  of  the  lot,  and  the  two  men  in 
charge  deposited  the  corpse  on  the 
table,  and  drove  away,  with  a  good 
round  fee  as  their  reward. 

Purpel  hastily  withdrew  the  sheet  in 
which  the  man  was  wrapped,  and  ex- 
posed a  powerful  frame  clad  in  a  red 
shirt  and  worn  black  clothes.  The 
face  was  mottled  red  and  white,  marked 
with  many  scars,  and  of  utterly  wolfish 
ferocity. 

"  The  body  is  warm,"  said  Purpel ; 
"and  now,  as  to  the  heart,"  he  add- 
ed. "  I  cannot  hear  it  beat,  but  pos- 
sibly the  auricles  may  still  be  moving 
faintly." 

As  speedily  as  possible  arrangements 
were  made,  by  opening  a  vein  in  the 
neck,  so  as  to  relieve  the  heart,  and 
allow  of  the  outflow  of  blood.  Then  a 
simple  pump  capable  of  sucking  up 
blood  from  a  basin  of  that  fluid  and  of 
forcing  it  into  the  brain  was  fitted  by 
double  tubes  to  the  two  great  arteries 
which  supply  the  brain.  Vance  was 
then  taught  how  to  move  the  chest-walls 
by  elevating  the  arms  and  alternately 
compressing  the  breast,  so  as  to  make 
artificial  breathing. 

"It  is  very  clever,"  said  Vance, 
coolly,  "but  it  won't  work,  P." 

"Well,"  said  the  latter,  "if  I  get  a 
partial  success  it  will  suffice.  I  have 
no  desire  to  restore  a  scoundrel  like 
this  to  the  world  again."  So  saying, 
the  experiment  began,  while  profound 
silence  was  kept  by  one  and  all  of  us. 

At  last  said  Purpel,  "  Look  ! "  The 
mottled  tints  of  the  visage  were  slow- 
ly fading  away.  The  eyes  lost  their 
glaze,  the  lips  grew  red,  slight  twitches 
crossed  the  face  here  and  there.  At 
last  the  giant's  chest  heaved  once  slow- 


IO2 

ly,  as  of  itself,  then  paused,  and  stirred 
again.  / 

I  looked  at  Purpel :  he  was  deadly 
pale. 

Said  Vance,  huskily  :  "  Stop,  Purpel, 
stop  !  —  he  will  live.  I  will  not  go  on." 

"  A  moment,"  urged  Purpel,  "  only  a 
moment." 

"  Look  !  "  said  I ;  for  the  eyes  rolled 
to  and  fro,  and  I  even  thought  they 
seemed  to  follow  my  movements. 

Suddenly  said  Vance,  "  Who  spoke  ? 
What  was  that  ?  "  A  hoarse  murmur 
startled  us  all. 

"  He  spoke,"  said  I.     "  It  spoke." 

"Impossible!"  said  Purpel.  "Raise 
his  head  a  little.  Lift  the  plank." 

"  Hush  !  "  I  cried. 

A  whisper  broke  from  the  lips  of  the 
wretch  before  us.  "The  plank,"  he  said, 
—  "  only  an  old  woman,  —  the  plank." 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


[January, 


We  looked  at  one  another,  each 
whiter  than  his  fellow. 

"  I  will  not  stand  this,"  screamed 
Vance.  "  You  hear  —  you  hear,  —  Mrs. 
Gray ;  —  this  man  did  it.  He  —  he  killed 
her,— killed  Mrs.  Gray." 

"  Gray,"  said  the  living  dead  man, 
"  gray  hair,  yes." 

"Purpel,"  said  I,  sternly,  "this  is 
enough.  You  must  stop." 

"  Nay,  I  will  stop,"  exclaimed  Vance ; 
and  with  an  uncontrollable  impulse  he 
overturned  the  vase  of  blood  on  the 
floor. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Purpel.  "  Hush, 
V.  What  is  that  he  says  ?  See,  the 
colar  changes.  Ah  !  he  said,  '  Mother, 
mother ! ' " 

"  No  more,  and  enough  !  "  cried 
Vance.  "  Have  we  sinned  in  this  thing  ? 
Let  us  go." 


UNDER    THE    MIDNIGHT    SUN. 


V.    A  GREENLAND  BOAT  AND  CREW. 

THE  fiord  on  the  banks  of  which 
stands  the  town,  or  colony,  of  Ju- 
lianshaab  is  now  known  as  the  fiord  of 
Igalliko,  meaning  the  fiord  of  the  "de- 
serted homes  "  ;  the  deserted  homes 
being  the  desolate  and  long-abandoned 
ruins  of  the  Norse  buildings  which  are 
scattered  along  its  picturesque  banks. 
The  ancient  name  was  Ericsfiord. 

How  this  came  to  be  applied,  and 
why  it  fell  into  disuse,  and  through 
what  cause  Igalliko  came  to  be  sub- 
stituted for  it,  are  matters  of  histori- 
cal interest  which  we  shall  have  occa- 
sion to  inquire  into  by  and  by.  At 
present,  our  interest  lies  with  the  fiord 
itself,  and  not  with  its  name  and  his- 
tory. 

It  stretches  away  in  a  northeasterly 
direction  from  Julianshaab,  and  is  from 
three  to  five  miles  wide.  It  is  a  grand 
inlet  from  the  sea,  and  its  length  is 
not  far  from  forty  miles.  Midway  it 


branches  to  the  right  and  left,  and  both 
branches  lead  to  important  places  of 
the  ancient  Norse  times.  That  to  the 
right  leads  to  Brattahlid,  where  Eric 
founded  his  first  colony,  and  to  Gar- 
dar,  where  the  bishop  built  his  cathe- 
dral. That  to  the  left  leads  to  Kra- 
kotok. 

Krakotok  is  a  native  and  not  a  Norse 
name.  It  means  the  place  where  there 
are  white  rocks.  The  rocks  are  of  the 
same  metamorphic  character  and  gen- 
eral appearance  as  elsewhere  in  that 
part  of  Greenland,  only  that,  by  one  of 
Nature's  freaks,  they  were  made  light- 
er of  color  than  in  the  regions  round 
about. 

To  the  place  of  the  white  rocks  we 
agreed  to  go,  and  the  pastor  of  Ju- 
lianshaab, my  old  friend  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Anton,  agreed  to  be  our  pilot,  and  he 
very  kindly  offered  us  transportation 
thither.  We  had  boats  of  our  own,  and 
good  ones,  too ;  but  then,  what  so  ap- 
propriate for  a  Greenland  fiord  as  a 


8;o.] 


Under  I  lie  Midnight  Sun. 


'03 


Greenland   boat  ?      So,   at  least,   said 
Pastor   Anton,  and   so   we  were  very 
willing  to  confess.     Cut  what  tU 
a  Greenland  boat  ? 

A  Greenland  boat  is  a  curiosity  in 
marine  architecture.  It  is  anywhere 
from  twenty  to  forty  feet  long,  from 
five  to  seven  feet  wide,  and  from  t\vo 
to  three  feet  deep.  The  sides  are  al- 
most perpendicular,  the  bottom  is  quite 
.d  both  ends  are  sharp  like  a 
:>oat,  or  one  of  those  very  won- 
derful United  States  naval  devices 
known  as  "  double  -enders."  It  has 
no  rudder,  but  is  steered  after  the 
most  primitive  of  all  fashions,  precise- 
ly as  the  Phoenicians  and  Romans  and 
Norsemen  steered  their  ships  ;  that  is, 
with  a  paddle  or  oar  lashed  to  one  side 
of  the  stern.  The  native  name  for  this 
native  boat  is  ooiniak.  It  is  a  very 
different  kind  of  boat  from  the  light 
little  skin  canoe,  made  for  carrying  one 
man,  and  completely  decked  over,  called 
the  ka\'ak. 

Anton  took  us  down  to  look  at 
his  oomiak,  that  we  might  decide 
whether  we  would  trust  ourselves  to 
it  or  to  our  own  boat.  It  was  turned 
bottom  upwards  on  a  scaffolding,  so 
that  we  could  stand  under  it  and  look 
up  through  it  at  the  sky,  for  it  was 
semi-transparent.  I  gave  it  a  thump 
with  a  stick,  and  it  rattled  like  a  drum. 

'•  What,  go  to  sea  in  a  thing  like 
that?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Pastor  Anton,— 
'•certainly,  why  not?"  And  he  called 
three  or  four  people,  who  had  it  off  the 
scaffolding  in  a  twinkling,  and  down 
into  the  water,  where  it  floated  like  a 
feather,  looking  as  if  whole  tons  and 
tons  of  solid  pig-iron  would  neither 
take  it  down  nor  ballast  it. 

"  Oomiak  !  oomiak  !  "  I  ran  the 
name  over  in  my  mind.  "  What  does 
oomiak  mean  ? " 

"  Woman's  boat,"  said  Pastor  Anton. 

'•  Ah  yes,  I  see,  —  made  by  women  "  ; 
and  cunningly  made  it  was.  It  was 
thirty-six  feet  long  and  six  feet  wide, 
and  there  was  not  a  peg  or  nail  in  it. 
There  was  first  a  frail-looking  skeleton 
of  the  lightest  kind  of  wood,  —  all  the 


pieces  firmly  lashed  together  with 
thongs  of  raw  seaflhide.  Then  over 
this  skeleton  there  had  been  spread, 
and  stretched  to  the  utmost  possible 
tension,  a  seal-skin  cover,  each  skin  of 
which  was  so  firmly  sewed  to  the  other 
that  not  a  drop  of  water  could  possibly 
find  its  way  through  the  seams  ;  while, 
as  for  the  skin  itself,  it  was  so  well 
tanned,  and  saturated  with  oil,  that  it 
was  as  impervious  to  water  as  an  iron 
plate.  There  were  twelve  thwarts  tied 
across  it,  at  a  very  convenient  height 
for  sitting,  and  there  were  six  short 
oars  with  broad  blades  tied  to  the  gun- 
wale, and  ready  ibr  use. 

The  pastor  wanted  to  know  how  we 
liked  the  looks  of  it. 

To  confess  the  truth,  it  looked  a  little 
too  balloonish  for  our  fancy.  "  Would 
he  be  good  enough  to  shove  the  thing 
off,  and  give  us  a  touch  of  its  quality  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  by  all  means  "  ;  and  the 
pastor  called  the  crew  together.  And, 
— shades  of  Harvard  and  Oxford  defend 
us,  —  what  3.  crew  !  And  what  a  rig  ! 
Very  long  boots  of  tanned  seal-skin, 
reaching  some  distance  above  the  knee, 
and  of  divers  colors  and  of  pretty  shape, 
gave  a  trim  and  natty  look  to  their  ped- 
al extremities.  Then  they  wore  silver- 
seal-skin  pantaloons,  very  short,  begin- 
ning where  the  boots  left  off,  and  end- 
ing midway  on  the  hips,  and  calico 
jackets  (bright  of  hue  and  lined  with 
soft  fawn-skins),  drawn  on  over  the  head 
and  falling  to  meet  the  pantaloons. 

The  jacket  was  trimmed  around  the 
neck  with  black  fur,  beneath  which 
peeped  up  a  white  covering  to  the 
throat ;  the  hair  was  drawn  out  of 
the  way  and  tied  with  red  ribbon  on 
the  top  of  the  head  ;  and  altogether  the 
costume  was  calculated  to  show  off  the 
respective  figures  of  the  crew  to  the 
greatest  possible  advantage. 

And  then  such  names  for  boatmen ! 
"Go  along,"  said  the  pastor, — "go 
along,  Maria,  and  take  the  others  with 
you." 

Maria  was  stroke-oar ;  and  the  stroke- 
oar  called  Catharina  and  Christina  and 
Dorothea  and  Nicholinaand  Concordia  ; 
and  away  they  all  went,  chattering  and 


104 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


[January, 


giggling  at  an  amazing  rate  ;  and  they 
scrambled  into  the'  boat,  and  skipped 
over  the  thwarts  in  a  very  gay  and 
lively  manner  to  their  respective  places, 
all  brimful  of  fun  and  mischief,  and 
making  altogether  quite  a  shocking  ex- 
hibition for  a  boat's-crew,  whose  duties 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  regarding  as  of 
an  exceedingly  sober  description.  But 
they  quieted  down  a  little  when  a  more 
sedate  individual  (who  proved  to  be  the 
coxswain),  dressed  in  short  boots  and 
long  silver -seal -skin  pantaloons  and 
jacket,  and  with  a  cap  on  his  head, 
came  along  and  took  the  steering-oar, 
and  gave  the  order  to  shove  off ;  which 
order  was  executed  in  handsome  style. 
Then  they  pulled  away  for  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor,  each  of  the  crew  rising 
with  the  stroke  of  the  oar ;  and,  bend- 
ing to  their  work  with  a  will,  they  made 
this  singular-looking  boat  fairly  hum 
again. 

"  Lively-looking  oarsmen,"  somebody 
suggested. 

"  Oars;//^72  /  "  exclaimed  the  pastor, 
laughing  at  somebody's  exceeding  in- 
nocence. "  Oarsmen  !  why,  dear  me, 
they  are  oarswoMcn  !  " 

"  Oars  what  ?  " 

"  Oarswomen,  to  be  sure." 

"  Oarswomen  !  man  alive  !  and  do 
they  always  pull  the  boat  ?  " 

"Always,"  replied  the  pastor.  "A 
man  will  never  pull  an  oar  in  an  oomi- 
ak.  He  would  be  disgraced.  An  oo- 
miak  is  strictly  a  woman's-boat." 

"  And  do  they  pull  the  boat  to-mor- 
row if  we  go  in  the  oomiak  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"Just  that  same  precious  crew  ?" 

"  The  same  crew  exactly." 

"  Including  the  bow-oar,  you  call 
Concordia? " 

"  Including  her,  of  course." 

"Then  the  boat  will  do  for  me.  I 
ship  in  that  craft  for  one.  Call  the  dear 
creatures  back,  I  beg  of  you." 

"Then  they  will  do?"  said  Pastor 
Anton,  inquiringly,  to  all. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  everybody. 

And  do  they  did  superbly,  when  the 
morning  came,  fresh  and  sparkling  as 
their  eyes. 


VI.    UP  A  GREENLAND  FIORD. 

AT  an  early  hour  of  the  morning  the 
oomiak,  propelled  by  the  lively  crew 
of  yesterday,  and  bearing  our  cheery 
friend  the  pastor,  came  stealing  through 
the  bright  sunshine  over  the  still  wa- 
ters of  the  harbor ;  the  quiet  air  broken 
only  by  the  merry  voices  of  Maria, 
Christina,  Catharina,  Dorothea,  Nicho- 
lina,  and  Concordia,  who,  in  their  na- 
tive tongue,  were  singing  a  song  to 
the  music  of  the  sparkling  oars. 

The  arrival  of  the  boat  alongside  the 
ship  made  a  sensation.  Such  a  boat, 
propelled  in  such  a  fashion,  was  a  sight 
new  to  sailors'  eyes  ;  and  it  did  not 
seem  easy  for  our  people  to  reconcile 
such  uses  and  occupations  for  woman- 
kind with  a  sailor's  ideas  of  gallantry. 
Numerous  were  the  jests  passed  upon 
these  novel  oarswomen ;  hardly,  how- 
ever, at  their  expense,  for  they  under- 
stood not  a  word  that  was  said. 

"  And  it 's  pretty  you  are,"  says 
Welch,  the  fireman,  to  the  stroke-oar. 
"  It 's  pretty  you  are,  me  stroke-oar  dar- 
lint.  And  me  bow-oar  honey  there,  with 
the  red  top-knot,  sure  an'  she  's  the 
one  I  'd  like  to  be  shipmates  with  till 
the  boat  sinks." 

The  bow-oar  nodded,  smiled  gra- 
ciously, and  said,  "  Ab." 

"  And  is  it  talking  you  are,  me  hon- 
ey ?  "  says  Welch. 

Somebody  hinted  that  ab  meant 
"yes." 

"  Ah,  thin,  an'  it  's  too  willin'  ye  are, 
me  honey,  intirely.  But  ye  's  a  well- 
rigged  craft  alow  and  aloft,  for  all 
that,"  said  the  bantering  fireman. 

"  For'ed  there,  and  attend  to  your 
work,"  said  a  voice,  very  like  the  cap- 
tain's, which  speedily  put  an  end  to  the 
merriment. 

We  were  soon  ready  with  all  our 
needful  preparations,  our  "  traps  "  were 
quickly  stowed  in  the  oomiak,  and  we 
quickly  followed,  —  the  photographers 
with  their  baths,  plates,  and  cameras  ; 
the  artist  with  his  sketch-books  and 
paint-boxes  and  whole  sheaves  of 
pencils  ;  the  surveyor  with  his  sextant, 
barometers,  and  tape-lines  ;  the  hunters 


8;o.] 


Under  tJie  Midnight  Sun. 


105 


with  their  weapons,  game-bags,  and 
ammunition  ;  the  steward  with  his 
cooking-fixtures  and  substantive  meats 
and  drinks,  —  and  each  and  every  one 
in  the  very  best  of  spirits. 

"  All  aboard ! "  and  the  oomiak  was 
shoved  off.  The  fair  oarswomen  dipped 
their  paddles,  rising  with  the  act,  and 
coming  down  with  a  good  solid  thud 
upon  the  thwart  when  the  paddle  took 
the  water  ;  and  the  light  boat  shot  away 
from  the  ship  like  an  arrow  from  a 
bow,  and  then  glided  smoothly  out  up- 
on the  unrippled  waters  of  the  silvery- 
surfaced  fiord. 

The  day  could  not  have  been  better 
chosen  :  the  sky  was  quite  cloudless, 
and  the  great  mountains  by  which  we 
were  surrounded  on  every  side  climbed 
up  into  the  pearly  atmosphere,  and 
their  crests  of  ice  and  snow  blended 
softly  with  the  pure  and  lovely  air. 
Sometimes  we  crept  along  in  shadow 
beneath  a  towering  cliff  which  seemed 
to  frown  upon  us  as  intruders,  and 
again  we  passed  in  front  of  a  similar 
wall  of  rock,  which  smiled  in  the  bright 
sunshine  and  seemed  to  rejoice  to  see  its 
sides  mirrored  in  the  still  waters,  that 
to  us  were  more  like  the  charmed  sea 
of  some  strange  dream  than  a  simple 
Greenland  fiord. 

A  few  days  ago,  and  we  had  been 
scouring  the  hills  of  Newfoundland  ;  a 
few  days  before  that  we  were  swelter- 
ing in  the  summer  heat  of  New  York ; 
and  here  now  we  were  within  the  re- 
gions lighted  by  the  midnight  sun,  rejoi- 
cing in  the  soft  atmosphere  of  budding 
spring,  surrounded  by  the  most  sublime 
scenery,  and  gliding  between  shores 
now  wholly  uninhabited,  but  rich  in 
historical  associations,  dotted  every- 
where with  the  ruins  of  an  ancient 
Christian  people,  who  once  made  the 
welkin  ring  with  their  joyous  songs  as 
over  these  same  waters  they  rowed 
from  place  to  place  in  the  pursuit  of 
profitable  industry  or  in  the  perform- 
ance of  acts  of  friendship  or  hospi- 
tality. 

The  spirit  of  the  scene  was  con- 
tagious. A  solemn  yet  quiet  gran- 
deur attached  to  every  object  which 


the  eye  beheld  in  the  delightful  atmos- 
phere ;  miles  and  miles  of  rich  meadow- 
land  stretched  along  the  borders  of  the 
fiord  in  places ;  and  the  fancy,  now 
catching  the  lowing  of  cattle  and  the 
bleating  of  sheep,  would  sometimes 
detect  the  voices  of  men  ;  and  again  it 
seemed  as  if  we  heard, 

"  By  distance  mellowed,  o'er  the  water's  sweep," 

the  "  song  and  oar  "  of  some  gay  in- 
habitants of  the  fiord,  descendants  of 
brave  old  Eric  and  his  followers,  who 
on  the  gentle  plains  beneath  the  ice- 
crowned  hills,  within  this  rampart  of 
the  ice-girt  isles,  sought  asylum  from, 
their  enemies.  And  our  native  crew 
were  not  behind  us  in  the  feeling  of  the 
hour ;  encouraged  by  their  pastor,  with 
rich  voices  and  in  a  melody  which 
showed  a  remarkable  natural  ear  for 
music,  our  oarswomen,  keeping  time 
with  the  paddles'  stroke,  broke  out  in 
the  fine  swelling  notes  of  an  old  Norse 
hymn :  — 

"  O  hear  thou  me,  thou  mighty  Lord, 

And  this,  my  cry,  O  heed. 
O  give  me  hope,  I  trust  thy  word  ; 
O  help  me  in  my  need. 

And  as  the  refrain  came  echoing  back 
to  us  over  the  waters,  from  hill  and 
dale,  it  struck  the  fancy  more  and  more 
that  human  voices  came  to  us  from  the 
depths  of  those  solitudes. 

Three  hours  of  this  pleasant  experi- 
ence brought  us  near  the  end  of  the 
fiord,  where  it  narrows  to  a  mile  in 
breadth  ;  and  then,  winding  in  hook-like 
shape  between  the  hills,  it  finally  van- 
ishes in  a  point  in  the  midst  of  a  verdant 
valley  which,  miles  in  width,  stretches 
away  to  the  base  of  the  Redkammen, 
one  of  the  noblest  mountains  to  the  ar- 
tist-eye, and  one  of  the  boldest  land- 
marks to  the  mariner,  in  all  Greenland, 
conspicuous  everywhere  as  Greenland 
is  for  its  lofty  and  picturesque  scene- 
ry- 

And  there  Redkammen  stood  in  its 
solitary  grandeur,  away  up  in  a  streak 
of  fleecy  summer  clouds,  its  white  top 
now  melting  with  them  into  space,  now 
standing  out  in  soft  faint  line  in  heav- 
en's tenderest  blue.  And  what  a  heav- 
en it  was  !  The  great  mountain  rose, 


io6 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


[January, 


step  by  step  in  green  and  purple,  and 
the  cloud  trailing  from  its  summit  melt- 
ed in  the  distance  and  bridged  the 
space  that  divides  the  known  from  the 

unknown. 

The  general  topographical  features 
of  the  region  are  here  not  without  im- 
portance in  the  picture  of  the  situation. 
Thus  far  we  had  come  up  the  fiord  with 
the  mainland  (on  which,  beyond  Red- 
kammen,  stood  Brattahlid  and  Gardar) 
on  our  right,  and  on  our  left  a  long  and 
lofty  island  bearing  the  euphonious 
native  name  of  Aukpeitsavik.  After 
passing  beyond  this  island,  and  before 
reaching  the  narrow  part  of  the  fiord, 
we  entered  a  sea  some  five  miles  wide, 
fronting  an  immense  line  of  cliffs,  the 
altitude  of  which  I  estimated  at  from 
fifteen  to  eighteen  hundred  feet,  includ- 
ing the  ample  slope  at  their  base,  which 
stretches  along  the  north  side  of  the 
fiord  and  finally  is  lost  in  the  valley  at 
the  foot  of  Redkammen.  This  slope 
is  covered  with  verdure,  except  where 
it  is  here  and  there  broken  by  a  low 
cliff  or  rocky  ledge. 

At  the  front  of  this  green  slope  stood, 
some  centuries  ago,  the  Norse  hamlet 
of  Krakotok,  the  ruins  of  which  we 
were  now  seeking. 

Mr.  Anton  pointed  out  to  the  oars- 
women  what  he  took  to  be  the  spot ; 
the  oarswomen  held  a  chattering  con- 
sultation as  to  the  exact  locality,  and 
the  steersman  was  consulted  as  to  the 
correctness  of  each  opinion.  During 
the  progress  of  this  discussion  our 
glasses  were  in  requisition,  and  all 
doubt  was  quickly  removed  as  to  the 
accuracy  of  our  steering  by  an  an- 
nouncement from  one  of  the  party 
that  "  he  saw  the  church.1'  We  were 
not  long  now  in  reaching  land,  and 
were  soon  ashore  on  a  beach  of  sand 
and  shingle,  and  then  came  a  scramble 
for  first  entrance  into  the  ruin. 

The  scramble  was  over  a  slope  of 
tangled  underbrush  and  grass,  speckled 
with  bright  flowers,  —  trailing  junipers 
and  matted  crake-berry  ;  willow-bushes, 
and  whortleberry-bushes  in  full  fruit ; 
the  angelica  so  luscious,  and  the  an- 
dromeda  so  fragrant ;  the  hardy  festu- 


cae  and  the  graceful  poa  ;  the  dande- 
lion, the  buttercup,  the  bluebell;  the 
crow's-foot  and  the  cochlearia,  and  a 
hundred  familiar  plants,  bushes,  and 
flowers,  to  make  a  soft  carpet  for  the 
feet,  or  to  trip  us  up  if  we  ventured 
on  too  fast. 

But,  horror  of  horrors  !  what  was 
that  ?  was  it  a  mosquito's  buzz  ?  Sure- 
ly it  was.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  it.  A  hundred,  —  ay,  a  thousand, 
—  ten  thousand  times  a  thousand  in- 
sects buzz  in  our  ears.  They  fill  the 
very  air.  It  is  most  surprising,  and 
is  not  pleasant.  Yet  still,  for  all,  v:e 
reach  the  ruin  through  the  hungry, 
buzzing  cloud ;  and  then,  enveloping 
our  heads  in  handkerchiefs  and  our 
hands  in  gloves,  prepare  ourselves  to 
photograph  the  scenery  and  sketch  the 
ruins,  and  to  wonder  at  them. 

The  buildings  are  nine  in  number,  as 
I  find  on  close  examination,  —  a  church, 
a  tomb,  six  dwellings,  and  one  round 
tower ;  and  besides  there  were  the  re- 
mains of  a  thick,  high  wall  enclosing 
some  of  them. 

These  are  not,  however,  all  the  ruins 
on  this  branch  of  the  fiord,  for  they  are 
dotted  everywhere  along  its  green  and 
sloping  banks.  But  these  make  up  the 
cluster  which  once  belonged  to  the 
church  estate,  —  to  the  officers  who 
governed  the  country  roundabout,  and 
administered,  in  this  distant  place,  at 
what  was  then  thought  to  be  the  far- 
thest limits  of  the  habitable  globe,  the 
ordinances  of  the  Pope  of  Rome. 

But  some  mention  of  the  people  who 
dwelt  here,  and  of  whence  they  came 
and  of  how  they  disappeared,  seems  to 
be  necessary  before  we  further  describe 
the  ruins  they  have  left  behind  them; 
and  I  hope  that  the  reader  may  have 
found  sufficient  interest  in  my  narra- 
tive thus  far,  to  pause  for  a  while  over 
a  scrap  of  Norseland  history. 

VII.  "LOST  GREENLAND." 
WITH  most  persons,  to  mention 
Greenland  is  to  suggest  a  paradox. 
The  name  is,  in  itself,  well  enough, 
and  pleasant  enough  to  the  ear;  but 
the  associations  which  it  recalls  are 


87o.] 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


I07 


somewhat  chilly,  and  altogether  the 
reverse  of  what  the  name  would  seem 
to  call  tor.  Why  Greenland  at  all  ? 

It  received  its  name  some  eight  hun- 
dred and  seventy-odd  years  ago ;  that 
is  to  say,  it  was  discovered  and  occu- 
pied in  the  year  983  of  the  Christian 
era,  when  the  climate  was  probably 
milder  than  it  is  to-day.  I  should, 
however,  rather  say  that  it  was  then 
rediscovered,  since,  years  before  that 
time,  —  as  we  learn  from  the  Landna- 
ma,  or  Iceland  Doomsday-Book  of  Are 
Frotle,  that  is,  Are  the  Wise,  —  one 
Gunnbiorn,  a  Norwegian,  having  been 
driven  by  a  storm  to  the  west  of  Ice- 
land, discovered  some  skerries,  to  which 
he  ga\v  ie  ;  and  afterwards  he 

saw  an  extensive  land,  and  lofty  moun- 
tains covered  with  snow.  But  nothing 
more  was  known  of  it  until  983. 

An  old  Norse  saga  of  Ard  Frode, 
written  in  Iceland  about  the  year  uoo, 
the  original  of  which  was  in  existence 
up  to  1651,  and  a  copy  of  which  is  still 
preserved  in  Copenhagen,  thus  relates 
the  story  :  — 

"  The  land  which  is  called  Green- 
land was  discovered  and  settled  from 
Iceland.  Eric  the  Red  was  the  man, 
from  Brcdcfiord,  who  passed  thither 
from  hence  [Iceland],  and  took  posses- 
sion of  that  portion  of  the  country  now 
called  Ericsfiord.  But  the  name  he 
gave  to  the  whole  country  was  Green- 
land. '  For,'  quoth  he,  '  if  the  land 
have  a  good  name,  it  will  cause  many 
to  come  thither.'  He  first  colonized 
the  land  fourteen  or  fifteen  winters 
before  Christianity  was  introduced  into 
Iceland,  as  was  told  to  Thorkil  Gellu- 
son  in  Greenland,  by  one  who  had 
himself  accompanied  Eric  thither." 

Now  since  this  Thorkil  Gelluson  was 
Are  Frode's  uncle,  it  is  clear  that  the 
historian  was  likely  to  be  pretty  ac- 
curate in  his  information.  Eric  the 
Red  seems  to  have  been  a  high-spir- 
ited outlaw,  and  in  consequence  of 
being  somewhat  too  much  addicted  to 
the  then  popular  pastime  of  cutting 
people's  throats,  he  was  banished  from 
Iceland  for  three  years,  and  went  in 
search  of  the  land  of  Gunnbiorn.  Pre- 


vious to  this,  both  he  and  his  father, 
who  was  an  Earl  of  Jadar  in  Norway, 
had  been  banished  from  their  native 
country,  and  it  seems  pretty  hard  now 
that  the  red-headed  son,  who  had 
sought  an  asylum  in  Iceland,  should  be 
sent  off  to  unknown  regions  merely  for 
killing  a  churlish  knave  who  would  not 
return  a  door-post  that  he  had  bor- 
rowed. Perhaps  if  the  borrowed  article 
had  been  a  book  instead  of  a  door-post, 
they  would  never  have  banished  him 
for  the  murder ;  for  the  people  of  Ice- 
land were  then,  and  continued  to  be 
for  several  centuries  afterward,  the 
freest,  the  most  intellectual,  the  most 
highly  cultivated  of  any  in  the  north 
of  Europe.  In  fact,  they  gave  litera- 
ture and  laws  to  the  whole  of  Scan- 
dinavia. The  child  was  wiser  than 
the  parent.  Here  writers  first  gave 
shape  to  the  Norse  mythology;  and 
much  of  the  best  blood  of  Denmark 
and  Norway  is  proudly  traced  to  an- 
cient Iceland. 

Eric  set  sail  from  Bredefiord  in  a 
small,  half-decked  ship,  and  in  three 
days  he  sighted  Greenland.  Not  liking 
the  looks  of  it,  he  coasted  southward 
until  he  came  to  a  turning-place  or 
Haarf,  now  Cape  Farewell ;  and  thence 
he  made  his  way  northward  to  what  he 
called  Ericsfiord,  the  site  of  the  mod- 
ern Julianshaab,  where  he  passed  the 
three  years  of  his  forced  exile. 

Returning  to  Iceland,  Eric  was  gra- 
ciously received,  and  had  no  trouble 
in  obtaining  twenty-five  shiploads  of 
adventurous  men,  with  whom  he  set 
sail  for  the  country  he  had  discov- 
ered. Fourteen  only  of  these  ships, 
however,  reached  their  destination. 
The  others  were  either  lost  at  sea, 
or  were  forced  by  bad  weather  to  re- 
turn to  Iceland. 

Eric  was  resolved  to  found  a  nation 
for  himself,  and  this  was  the  nucleus 
of  his  empire.  He  took  his  fourteen 
ships  into  Ericsfiord,  and  at  once 
began  a  settlement.  Others  followed 
him,  and  the  settlement  was  enlarged; 
and  some  even  went  farther  north,  be- 
yond what  is  now  known  as  the  "  Land 
of  Desolation."  In  after  years  they 


io8 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


[January, 


even  penetrated  so  far  as  the  islands 
where  Upernavik  now  stands,  in  lati- 
tude 72°  50',  as  we  know  from  a  Ru- 
nic inscription  on  a  stone  discovered 
by  Sir  Edward  Parry  in  1824.  The 
inscription  is  thus  translated  :  — 

"  Erlig  Sighvatson  and  Biorn  Thord- 
veson  and  Eindrid  Oddson  on  Satur- 
day before  Ascension  week  raised  these 
marks  and  cleared  ground,  1135." 

Think  of  "  clearing  ground "  in 
Greenland  up  in  latitude  72°  50' !  But 
then  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  this 
happened  more  than  seven  hundred 
years  ago,  when  there  was  clearly  less 
ice  than  at  the  present  time. 

The  first  people  who  migrated  north- 
ward from  Ericsfiord  settled  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  present  site  of 
modern  Godthaab,  and  this  colony  be- 
came known  as  the  Vesterbygd,  that  is 
to  say,  western  inhabited  place,  while 
Eric's  colony  in  Ericsfiord  was  called 
the  Osterbygd,  or  eastern  inhabited 
place.  The  fiord  is,  however,  no  longer 
known  by  the  name  which  Eric  gave  it, 
but  is  marked  down  upon  the  maps  as 
the  Fiord  of  Igalliko,  as  we  have  already 
seen. 

Eric's  first  settlement  was  named 
Brattahlid.  The  next  was  called  Gar- 
dar,  after  the  principal. man  who  went 
there  under  Eric's  direction.  Other 
colonies  were  founded,  up  and  down 
the  coast,  and  among  them  the  con- 
spicuous one  of  Krakotok. 

From  the  very  first  these  colonies 
prospered.  The  inhabitants  increased 
rapidly  in  numbers,  until  in  a  few  years 
the  hills  around  Ericsfiord  echoed  to 
seven  thousand  voices.  The  fame  of 
Greenland  had  spread  far  and  wide, 
and  people  flocked  thither  from  Nor- 
way, from  Denmark,  from  the  Hebri- 
des, and  from  Iceland.  And  they  were 
for  the  most  part  an  industrious,  con- 
tented, and  sober  people.  They  aban- 
doned the  arts  of  war  when  they  turned 
their  backs  on  Europe,  and  they  were 
soon  wholly  taken  up  with  the  arts  of 
peace.  They  built  strong  and  comfort- 
able houses,  they  cultivated  the  land, 
they  reared  large  flocks  of  sheep  and 
herds  of  cattle,  and  in  beef  and  wool 


they  conducted  an  extensive  trade  with 
Norway.  "Greenland  beef"  became 
"a  famous  dish  to  set  before  the  king." 
The  grass  grew  richly,  and  the  pas- 
tures were  of  limitless  extent.  Fish 
and  game  were  abundant  at  all  sea- 
sons. The  summers  were  warm  and 
the  winters  not  more  severe  than  those 
to  which  the  settlers  had  been  accus- 
tomed. 

Thus  did  the  people  of  ancient 
Greenland  live  and  flourish.  But  it 
seems  strange  to  find  them  wander- 
ing so  far  away  from  the  lines  of 
conquest  and  colonization  of  their 
brothers  and  ancestors.  For  they 
were  kindred  of  the  Northman  Rollo, 
who  ravaged  the  banks  of  the  Seine 
and  played  buffoon  with  the  king  of 
France ;  the  same  with  those  Danes 
who  in  Anglo-Saxon  times  conquered 
the  half  of  England  ;  descendants  they 
were  of  the  same  Cimbri  who  threat- 
ened Rome  in  the  days  of  Marius,  and 
of  the  Scythian  soldiers  of  conquered 
Mithridates,  who  under  Odin  migrated 
from  the  borders  of  the  Euxine  Sea 
to  the  north  of  Europe,  whence  their 
posterity  descended  within  a  thousand 
years  by  the  Mediterranean,  and  flour- 
ished their  battle-axes  in  the  streets 
of  Constantinople  ;  fellows  they  were 
of  all  the  sea-kings  and  vikings  and 
"barbarians"  of  the  North,  whose 
god  of  war  was  their  former  general, 
and  who,  scorning  a  peaceful  death, 
sought  for  Odin's  "  bath  of  blood " 
whenever  and  wherever  they  could 
find  it. 

But  here  in  Greenland  they  seem  to 
have  lost  in  a' great  measure  the  tradi- 
tional ferocity  of  their  race,  though 
not  its  adventurous  spirit.  A  son  of 
Eric  named  Lief,  and  surnamed  the 
Fortunate,  sailed  westward  and  dis- 
covered America.  Previously,  how- 
ever, this  same  son  had  visited  Nor- 
way and  become  a  Christian. 

These  two  voyages  of  Lief  symbolize 
the  character  of  this  wonderful  race 
of  Northmen.  They  were  ever  ready 
for  adventure,  and  ever  ready  for 
change.  Love  of  change  made  their 
conversion  to  Christianity  easy;  love 


i8;a] 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


109 


of  adventure  ended  in  the  crowning 
glory  of  their  career,  their  landing  on 
the  shores  of  America. 

Liefs  voyage  to  America  was  made 
in  the  year  1001.  His  brother  Thor- 
vald  followed  after  him  the  next  year, 
and  the  new  land  was  called  Vinland 
(Vinland  hin  goda),  from  the  great  quan- 
tities of  wild  grapes  found  there,  of 
which  they  made  wine.  Thorvald  was 
killed  by  the  savages,  and  his  brother 
Thorstein  went  in  search  of  his  body 
the  next  year,  and  died  without  finding 
it.  Then  came  Thorfinn  Karlsefne,  sur- 
named  the  Hopeful,  an  Icelander,  who 
had  gone  to  Brattahlid  in  1006.  The  old 
saga  describes  him  as  a  man  of  great 
wealth,  and  at  Brattahlid  he  was  the 
guest  of  Lief,  with  whom  he  spent  the 
winter,  falling  in  love  with  Gudrid,  the 
widow  of  Liefs  brother  Thorstein,  and 
marrying  her.  They  spoke  much  about 
Vinland,  and  finally  resolved  on  a  voy- 
age thither  ;  and  they  got  together  a 
company  of  one  hundred  and  sixty, 
among  whom  were  five  women,  Gudrid 
being  one.  "  Then  they  made  an  agree- 
ment with  Karlsefne,  that  each  should 
have  equal  share  they  made  of  gain. 
They  had  with  them  all  kinds  of  cattle, 
intending  to  settle  in  Vinland  " ;  and 
then  they  sailed  on  their  voyage,  and  in 
course  of  ^ime  they  came  to  Wonder- 
strand,  which  is  supposed  to  be  Cape 
Cod,  Massachusetts,  and  found  LiePs 
houses.  Then  they  went  on  to  Rhode 
Island,  and  spent  the  winter  near 
Mount  Hope  Bay.  But  the  natives 
came  out  of  the  woods  and  troubled 
them  so  that  they  had  no  peace.  They 
finally  fought  a  great  battle  and  killed 
many  of  the  natives,  whom  they  called 
Skracllings.  One  of  them  had  a  long 
beard  like  themselves.  Although  win- 
ning this  battle,  they  were  finally  com- 
pelled to  go  back  to  Greenland,  without 
having  made  much  profit  by  their  voy- 
age and  without  having  founded  a  set- 
tlement. But  Thorfinn  Karlsefne  had 
a  son  born  to  him  in  America,  in  the 
year  1007,  to  whom  he  gave  the  name 
of  Snorre,  and  from  whom  was  de- 
scended a  line  of  men  famous  in  Ice- 
landic history. 


Afterward,  in  ion,  a  sister  of  Lief, 
named  Freydis,  went  to  Vinland,  and 
lived  for  some  time  in  the  same  place 
which  her  brothers  had  before  occu- 
pied ;  and  after  this  other  voyages 
were  made,  of  which  we  have  record ; 
but  whether  any  permanent  settlements 
were  made  by  the  Northmen  in  America 
is  an  open  question  ;  though  one  might 
well  suppose  they  were,  from  the  fact 
that  Bishop  Erik  paid  a  visit  to  Vinland 
in  1 121,  during  his  Greenland  mission, 
and  the  fact  that  as  late  as  1347  we 
have  written  accounts  of  Greenlanders 
going  from  Brattahlid  to  Markland 
(Nova  Scotia)  to  cut  timber.  Who 
knows  what  influence  these  adventu- 
rous voyages  may  have  subsequently 
had  upon  the  discovery  of  America  by 
Columbus  ?  That  great  navigator  made 
a  visit  to  Iceland  in  1477,  and  may  he 
not  there  have  learned  of  this  land  of 
the  grape  and  wine  to  the  westward, 
and  may  not  the  tales  of  the  Icelanders 
have  encouraged  his  western  aspira- 
tions, which  are  said  to  have  first  origi- 
nated in  1470? 

With  respect  to  this  Norse  discovery 
of  America,  Humboldt  remarks  as  fol- 
lows in  the  Cosmos,  basing  his  observa- 
tions upon  Rafn's  Antiquitates  Ameri- 
cana: :  "  Parts  of  America  were  seen, 
although  no  landing  was  made  on  them, 
fourteen  years  before  Lief  Ericson,  in 
the  voyage  which  Bjorne  Herjolfson  un- 
dertook from  Greenland  to  the  south- 
ward in  986.  Lief  first  saw  land  at 
the  island  of  Nantucket,  i°  south  of 
Boston  ;  then  in  Nova  Scotia ;  and 
lastly  in  Newfoundland,  which  was 
subsequently  called  '  Libia  Helluland,' 
but  never  '  Vinland.'  The  gulf  which 
divides  Newfoundland  from  the  mouth 
of  the  great  river  St.  Lawrence  was 
called  by  the  Northmen,  who  had  set- 
tled in  Iceland  and  Greenland,  Mark- 
land's  Gulf." 

But  the  introduction  of  Christianity 
into  Greenland  is  much  more  important 
to  our  present  purpose.  This  happened 
in  the  year  1000.  Lief  had  gone  to  Nor- 
way the  year  before.  The  saga  states 
that,  — 

"  When  fourteen  winters  were  passed 


no 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


[January, 


from  the  time  that  Eric  the  Red  set 
forth  to  Greenland,  his  son  Lief  sailed 
from  thence  to  Norway,  and  came  thith- 
er in  the  autumn  that  King  Olaf  Tryg- 
gvason  arrived  in  the  North  from  Hal- 
galand.  Lief  brought  up  his  ship  at 
Nidaros  (Drontheim),  and  went  straight 
to  the  king.  Olaf  declared  unto  him 
the  true  faith,  as  was  his  custom  unto 
all  heathens  who  came  before  him,  and 
it  was  not  hard  for  the  king  to  persuade 
Lief  thereto,  and  he  was  baptized,  and 
with  him  all  his  crew." 

Nor  was  it  hard  for  King  Olaf  to 
"  persuade "  his  subjects  generally 
"thereto."  His  Christianity  was  very 
new  and  rather  muscular,  and  under  the 
persuasive  influence  of  the  sword  this 
royal  missionary  made  more  proselytes 
than  ever  were  made  before  or  since, 
in  the  same  space  of  time,  by  all  the 
monks  put  together. 

When  Lief  came  back  to  Greenland 
with  a  new  religion,  and  a  priest  to  boot, 
his  father  Eric  was  much  incensed,  and 
declared  the  act  pregnant  with  mis- 
chief; but  after  a  while  he  was  prevailed 
upon  to  acknowledge  the  new  religion, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  gave  his  wife, 
Thjodhilda,  leave  to  erect  a  church,  she 
having  been  from  the  first  a  willing 
convert. 

Thus  runs  the  saga :  "  Lief  straight- 
way began  to  declare  the  universal 
faith  throughout  the  land  ;  and  he  laid 
before  the  people  the  message  of  King 
Olaf  Tryggvason,  and  detailed  unto 
them  how  much  grandeur  and  great 
nobleness  there  was  attached  to  the 
new  belief.  Eric  was  slow  to  deter- 
mine to  leave  his  ancient  faith,  but 
Thjodhilda,  his  wife,  was  quickly  per- 
suaded thereto,  and  she  built  a  kirk, 
which  was  called  Thjodhilda's  Kirk. 
And  from  the  time  that  she  received 
the  faith,  she  separated  from  Eric,  her 
husband,  which  did  sorely  grieve  him." 

Whether  this  first  Greenland  church 
was  built  at  Brattahlid  or  Gardar  or 
Krakotok  is  not  now  positively  known  ; 
but  we  might  conclude  it  was  the  latter, 
from  the  fact  that  an  old  man  named 
Grima,  who  lived  at  Brattahlid,  made 
complaint  that  "  I  get  but  seldom  to 


the  church  to  hear  the  words  of  learned 
clerks,  for  it  is  a  long  journey  thereto." 
This  much,  however,  we  know,  —  the 
church  was  begun  in  1002,  and  was 
known  far  and  wide  as  "Thjodhilda's 
Kirk."  Several  churches  were  built 
afterward ;  and  in  course  of  time  the 
Christian  population  of  Greenland  be- 
came so  numerous  that  the  Bishops  of 
Iceland  made  frequent  voyages  thither 
to  administer  the  duties  of  that  part  of 
their  see.  A  hundred  years  thus  passed 
away.  The  colonies  had  multiplied 
greatly ;  their  trade  with  Iceland,  Nor- 
way, and  Denmark  was  profitable  and 
the  intercourse  regular;  the  inhabitants 
were  well  governed  ;  and,  wholly  unmo- 
lested by  the  outside  world,  and  for  a 
long  time  undisturbed  by  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars,  they  lived  a  Christian 
people,  in  the  peaceful  possession  of 
their  personal  liberties,  and  in  the  en- 
joyment of  every  needful  thing. 

One  thing  only  was  lacking  in  their 
scheme  of  perfect  independence.  They 
needed  a  bishop  of  their  own,  which 
would  make  them  wholly,  in  spiritual 
as  they  had  been  in  temporal  matters, 
free  from  dependence  upon  Iceland. 
And  in  truth  the  Icelanders  prized 
their  own  freedom  and  independence 
too  much  to  withhold  their  support 
from  the  aspirations  of  their  brethren, 
the  Greenlanders.  Numerous  petitions 
were  therefore  soon  obtained  and  de- 
spatched, to  secure  the  good  offices  of 
the  king  of  Norway.  For  a  time  these 
efforts  were  attended  with  but  partial 
success,  since  a  temporary  bishop  only 
was  vouchsafed  them,  in  the  person  of 
Erik,  who  set  out  for  Greenland  in 
1 1 20,  and  returned  home  after  visiting 
Vinland. 

Then  one  of  their  chief  men,  named 
Sokke,  grew  indignant,  and  declared 
that  Greenland  should,  like  every  other 
country,  have  a  bishop  of  its  own.  Their 
personal  honor,  the  national  pride,  —  to 
say  nothing  of  the  safety  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith  itself,  —  demanded  it ;  and  a 
bishop  they  must  have.  Accordingly, 
under  the  advice  of  Sokke,  a  large 
present  of  walrus-ivory  and  valuable 
furs  was  voted  to  the  king ;  and  Einer, 


1 870.] 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


Ill 


Sokke's  son,  was  commissioned  to  car- 
ry the  petition  and  the  presents. 

The  result  proved  that  the  Green- 
landers  were  wise  in  their  choice  of 
means  ;  —  at  least,  either  through  the 
earnestness  of  their  appeals,  or  the  val- 
ue of  the  presents,  or  the  persuasiveness 
of  the  ambassador,  or  through  all  com* 
bined,  they  obtained,  in  the  year  1126, 
Bishop  Arnold,  who  forthwith  founded 
his  episcopal  see  at  Gardar,  and  there 
cl  a  cathedral. 

Arnold  seems  to  have  been  a  most 
excellent,  pious,  and  earnest  leader  of 
these  struggling  Christians.  Zealous 
as  the  famous  monk  of  lona,  without 
the  impulsiveness  of  that  great  apostle 
of  Scotland,  he  bound  his  charge  to- 
gether in  the  bonds  of  Christian  love, 
and  gave  unity  and  happiness  to  a 
peaceful  people. 

Bishop  Arnold  died  in  1152,  and 
,'orth,  until  the  year  1409,  the 
"  see  of  Gardar  "  which  he  had  founded 
was  maintained.  According  to  Baron 
Holberg,  in  his  history  of  Denmark, 
seventeen  successive  bishops  admin- 
istered the  ordinances  of  the  church  of 
Gardar,  the  list  terminating  with  An- 
dreas, who  was  consecrated  in  1406. 
The  last  we  hear  of  him  and  the  see  of 
Gardar  was  three  years  afterward,  when 
he  officiated  at  a  marriage  from  which 
men  now  living  are  proud  to  trace 
their  ancestry. 

About  this  time  the  Greenland  colo- 
nies rapidly  declined.  The  first  blow 
had  come  in  the  form  of  a  royal  decree, 
laying  a  prohibition  on  the  Greenland 
trade,  and  creating  it  a  monopoly  of  the 
crown.  But  "  misfortunes  never  come 
singly."  In  1418  a  hostile  fleet  made 
a  descent  upon  the  coast,  and,  after 
laying  waste  their  buildings,  carried  off 
what  plunder  and  as  many  captives  as 
they  could.  Then  the  black  death  came 
to  help  their  ruin ;  the  Esquimaux,  or 
Skraellings,  as  they  were  called,  grew 
bold  in  the  presence  of  the  diminished 
numbers,  and  completed  the  destruction 
which  the  crown  of  Norway  had  begun  ; 
and  thus  a  nation  famed  for  centuries 
was  swept  away,  and  u  Lost  Greenland" 
passed  into  tradition. 


There  are  numerous  interesting  rec- 
ords of  the  struggles  of  these  Green- 
landers.  In  1383  we  find  the  following 
curious  entry  in  the  Icelandic  annals, 
which  shows  to  what  straits  the  Green- 
land commerce,  once  so  prosperous,  had 
now  become  reduced  :  — 

"A  ship  came  from  Greenland  to 
Norway,  which  had  lain  in  the  former 
country  for  two  whole  years  ;  and  cer- 
tain men  returned  by  this  vessel  who 
had  escaped  from  the  wreck  of  Thor- 
last's  ship.  These  men  brought  the 
news  of  Bishop  Alf s  death  from  Green- 
hind,  which  had  taken  place  there  six 
years  before." 

Yet  there  were  vestiges  of  life  there 
even  up  to  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  So  late  as  1448,  Pope  Nich- 
olas the  Fifth  writes  to  the  Bishop 
of  Iceland,  commending  to  his  care 
what  may  be  left  of  the  ravished  colo- 
nies. 

"  In  regard,"  says  the  Pope's  letter, 
"to  my  beloved  children  born  in  and 
inhabiting  the  island  of  Greenland, 
which  is  said  to  be  situated  at  the  far- 
thest limits  of  the  Great  Ocean,  north 
of  the  kingdom  of  Norway,  and  in  the 
see  of  Trondheim,  their  pitiable  com- 
plaints have  reached  our  ears  and 
awakened  our  compassion  ;  seeing  that 
they  have,  for  a  period  of  near  six  hun- 
dred years,  maintained,  in  firm  and  in- 
violate subjection  to  the  authority  and 
ordinances  of  the  apostolic  chair,  the 
Christian  faith  established  among  them 
by  the  preaching  of  their  renowned 
teacher,  King  Olaf,  and  have,  actuated 
by  a  pious  zeal  for  the  interests  of 
religion,  erected  many  churches,  and 
among  others  a  cathedral,  in  that  isl- 
and ;  where  religious  service  was  dili- 
gently performed  until  about  thirty 
years  ago.  when  some  heathen  for- 
eigners from  the  neighboring  coasts 
came  against  them  with  a  fleet,  fell 
upon  them  furiously,  laid  waste  the 
country  and  its  holy  buildings  with  fire 
and  sword,  sparing  nothing  throughout 
the  whole  island  of  Greenland  but  the 
small  parishes  said  to  be  situated  a 
long  way  off,  —  and  which  they  were 
prevented  from  reaching  by  the  moun- 


112 


Under  the  Midnight  Sun. 


[January, 


tains  and  precipices  intervening,  — 
and  carrying  away  into  captivity  the 
wretched  inhabitants  of  both  sexes, 
particularly  such  of  them  as  were  con- 
sidered to  be  strong  of  body  and  able 
to  endure  the  labors  of  perpetual  sla- 
very." 

Furthermore,  the  letter  states  that 
some  of  them  who  were  carried  away 
captive  hafve  returned,  but  that  the  or- 
ganization of  the  colonies  is  destroyed, 
and  the  worship  of  God  is  given  up 
because  there  are  neither  priests  nor 
bishops  ;  and  finally  the  bishop  of  Ice- 
land is  enjoined  to  send  to  Greenland 
"  some  fit  and  proper  person  for  their 
bishop,  if  the  distance  between  you  and 
them  permit." 

But  the  distance  did  not  permit;  at 
least  there  is  no  evidence  of  any  action 
having  been  taken  ;  and  this  is  the  last 
we  know  of  ancient  Greenland.  Its 
modern  history  begins  in  1721  with 
the  missionary  labors  of  Hans  Egede. 
But  not  a  vestige  of  the  old  North- 
men remained  when  Egede  came  there, 
except  the  ruins  of  their  villages,  their 
churches,  and  their  farms.  About  four 
hundred  years  had  passed  away,  and  in 
that  time  these  hills  and  rocks  that 
once  echoed  the  sound  of  the  church- 
bell  and  the  voices  of  Christian  people 
had  known  nothing  but  the  shouts  of 
skin-clad  savages  and  the  cries  of  wild 
beasts. 

Few  people  imagine  the  extent  of 
these  ancient  Greenland  colonies.  At 
best  it  seems  to  most  persons  some 
sort  of  arctic  fable,  and  they  are  hard- 
ly prepared  to  learn  that  of  this  Green- 
land nation  contemporary  records,  his- 
tories, papal  briefs,  and  grants  of  land 


yet  exist.  So  complete  was  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  colonies,  and  so  absolutely 
were  they  lost  to  the  rest  of  the  world, 
that  for  centuries  Europe  was  in  doubt 
respecting  their  fate,  and  up  to  a  very 
recent  period  was  ignorant  of  their  geo- 
graphical position. 

Twenty  years  ago  the  Dublin  Re- 
view thus  alluded  to  the  ruins  of  these 
ancient  towns  in  Greenland  :  — 

"To  the  Catholic  they  must  be  doub- 
ly interesting  when  he  learns  that  here 
as  in  his  own  land  the  traces  of  his 
faith,  of  that  faith  which  is  everywhere 
the  same,  are  yet  distinctly  to  be  found ; 
that  the  sacred  temples  of  our  worship 
may  still  be  identified ;  nay.  that,  in  at 
least  one  instance,  the  church  itself,  with 
its  burial-ground,  its  aumbries,  its  holy- 
water-stoup,  and  its  tombstones  bear- 
ing the  sacred  emblem  of  the  Catholic 
belief  and  the  pious  petitions  for  the 
prayer  of  the  surviving  faithful,  still  re- 
main to  attest  that  here  once  dwelt  a 
people  who  were  our  brethren  in  the 
Church  of  God.  It  was  not,  as  in  our 
own  land,  that  these  churches,  these 
fair  establishments  of  the  true  faith, 
were  ruined  by  the  lust  and  avarice  of 
a  tyrant ;  no  change  of  religion  marked 
the  history  of  the  church  of  Greenland  ; 
the  colonies  had  been  lost  before 
the  fearful  religious  calamities  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  How  or  when 
they  were  swept  away  we  scarcely 
know,  save  from  a  few  scattered  notices 
and  from  the  traditions  of  the  wander- 
ing Esquimaux,  a  heathen  people  that 
burst  in  upon  the  old  colonists  of 
Greenland,  and  laid  desolate  their  sanc- 
tuaries and  their  homes,  till  not  one 
man  was  left  alive." 


1870.]  The  Descent  of  Neptune  to  aid  the  Greeks. 


THE    DESCENT    OF    NEPTUNE    TO    AID    THE    GREEKS. 

FROM   THE   THIRTEENTH    BOOK    OF    THE    ILIAD. 

THE  monarch  Neptune  kept  no  idle  watch  ; 
For  he  in  Thracian  Samos,  dark  with  woods, 
Aloft  upon  the  highest  summit  sat, 
And  thence  o'erlooked  the  tumult  of  the  war. 
For  thence  could  he  behold  the  Idaean  mount 
And  Priam's  city  and  the  fleet  of  Greece. 
There,  coming  from  the  ocean-deeps,  he  sat, 
And  pitied  the  lireek  warriors  put  to  rout 
Before  the  Trojans,  and  was  wroth  with  Jove. 
Soon  he  descended  from  those  rugged  steeps, 
And  trod  the  earth  with  rapid  strides:  the  hills 
And  forests  quaked  beneath  the  immortal  feet 
Of  Neptune  as  he  walked.     Three  strides  he  took, 
And  at  the  fourth  reached  ^gas,  where  he  stopped, 
And  where  his  sumptuous  palace-halls  arose 
Deep  down  in  ocean,  —  golden,  glittering,  proof 
Against  decay  of  time.     These  when  he  reached 
He  yoked  his  fleet  and  brazen-footed  steeds, 
With  manes  of  flowing  gold,  to  draw  his  car, 
And  put  on  golden  mail,  and  took  his  scourge, 
Wrought  of  fine  gold,  and  climbed  the  chariot-seat, 
And  rode  upon  the  waves.     The  whales  came  forth 
From  their  deep  haunts,  and  gambolled  round  his  way  : 
They  knew  their  king.     The  waves  rejoicing  smoothed 
A  path,  and  rapidly  the  coursers  flew ; 
Nor  was  the  brazen  axle  wet  beneath. 
And  thus  they  brought  him  to  the  Grecian  host. 
Deep  in  the  sea  there  is  a  spacious  cave, 
Between  the  rugged  Imbrus  and  the  isle 
Of  Tenedos.     There  Neptune,  he  who  shakes 
The  shores,  held  back  his  steeds,  took  off  their  yoke, 
Gave  them  ambrosial  food ;  and,  binding  next 
Their  feet  with  golden  fetters  which  no  power 
Might  break  or  loosen,  so  that  they  might  wait 
Their  lord's  return,  he  sought  the  Grecian  fleet. 


VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  147. 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


[January, 


BY     HORSE-CAR    TO     BOSTON. 


A 


T  a  former  period  the  writer  of  this 
had  the  fortune  to  serve  his  coun- 
try in  an  Italian  city  whose  great  claim 
upon  the  world's  sentimental  interest  is 
the  fact  that 

"  The  sea  is  in  her  broad,  her  narrow  streets 
Ebbing  and  flowing," 

and  that  she  has  no  ways  whatever  for 
hoofs  or  wheels.  In  his  quality  of 
United  States  official,  he  was  naturally 
called  upon  for  information  concern- 
ing the  estates  of  Italians  believed  to 
have  emigrated  early  in  the  century  to 
Buenos  Ayres,  and  was  commissioned 
to  learn  why  certain  persons  in  Mexico 
and  Brazil,  and  the  parts  of  Peru,  had 
not,  if  they  were  still  living,  written 
home  to  their  friends.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  entrusted  with  business 
nearly  as  pertinent  and  hopeful  by  some 
of  his  own  countrymen,  and  it  was  not 
quite  with  surprise  that  he  one  day 
received  a  neatly  lithographed  circu- 
lar, with  his  name  and  address  written 
in  it,  signed  by  a  famous  projector  of 
such  enterprises,  asking  him  to  co-op- 
erate for  the  introduction  of  horse-rail- 
roads in  Venice.  The  obstacles  to  the 
scheme  were  of  such  a  nature  that  it 
seemed  hardly  worth  while  even  to  re- 
ply to  the  circular;  but  the  proposal 
was  one  of  those  bold  flights  of  imagi- 
nation which  forever  lift  objects  out  of 
vulgar  association.  It  has  cast  an  en- 
during poetic  charm  even  about  the 
horse-car  in  my  mind,  and  I  naturally 
look  for  many  unprosaic  aspects  ot  hu- 
manity there.  I  have  an  acquaintance 
who  insists  that  it  is  the  place  above 
all  others  suited  to  see  life  in  every 
striking  phase.  He  pretends  to  have 
witnessed  there  the  reunion  of  friends 
who  had  not  met  in  many  years,  the 
embrace,  figurative  of  course,  of  long- 
lost  brothers,  the  reconciliation  of  lov- 
ers ;  I  do  not  know  but  also  some 
scenes  of  love-making,  and  acceptance 
or  rejection.  But  my  friend  is  an  im- 
aginative man,  and  may  make  himself 


romances.  I  myself  profess  to  have 
beheld  for  the  most  part  only  myster- 
ies ;  and  I  think  it  not  the  least  of 
these  that,  riding  on  the  same  cars  day 
after  day,  one  finds  so  many  strange 
faces  with  so  little  variety.  Whether 
or  not  that  dull,  jarring  motion  shakes 
inward  and  settles  about  the  centres  of 
mental  life  the  sprightliness  that  should 
inform  the  visage,  I  do  not  know,  but 
it  is  certain  that  the  emptiness  of  the 
average  passenger's  countenance  is 
something  wonderful,  considered  with 
reference  to  Nature's  abhorrence  of  a 
vacuum,  and  the  intellectual  repute 
which  Boston  enjoys  among  envious 
New-Yorkers.  It  is  seldom  that  a 
journey  out  of  our  cold  metropolis  is 
enlivened  by  a  mystery  so  positive  in 
character  as  the  young  lady  in  black, 
who  alighted  at  a  most  ordinary  little 
street  in  Old  Charlesbridge,  and  height- 
ened her  effect  by  going  into  a  French- 
roof  house  there  that  had  no  more  right 
than  a  dry-goods  box  to  receive  a  mys- 
tery. She  was  tall,  and  her  lovely  arms 
showed  through  the  black  gauze  of  her 
dress  with  an  exquteite  roundness  and 
morbidezza.  Upon  her  beautiful  wrists 
she  had  heavy  bracelets  of  dead  gold, 
fashioned  .after  some  Etruscan  device  ; 
and  from  her  dainty  ears ,  hung  great 
hoops  of  the  same  metal  and  design, 
which  had  the  singular  privilege  of 
touching,  now  and  then,  her  white 
columnar  neck.  A  massive  chain  or 
necklace,  also  Etruscan,  and  also  gold, 
rose  and  fell  at  her  throat,  and  on 
one  little  ungloved  hand  glittered  a 
multitude  of  rings.  This  hand  was 
very  expressive,  and  took  a  principal 
part  in  the  talk  which  the  lady  held 
with  her  companion,  and  was  as  alert 
and  quick  as  if  trained  in  the  gesticu- 
lation of  Southern  or  Latin  life  some- 
where. Her  features,  on  the  contrary, 
were  rather  insipid,  being  too  small 
and  fine  ;  but  they  were  redeemed  by 
the  liquid  splendor  of  her  beautiful 


1 870.] 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


eyes,  and  the  mortal  pallor  of  her  com- 
plexion. She  was  altogether  so  start- 
ling an  apparition,  that  all  of  us  jaded, 
commonplace  spectres  turned  and  fas- 
tened our  wear)',  lack-lustre  eyes  upon 
her  looks,  with  an  utter  inability  to  re- 
move them.  There  was  one  fat,  unc- 
tuous person  seated  opposite,  to  whom 
his  interest  was  a  torture,  for  he  would 
have  gone  to  sleep  except  for  her  re- 
markable presence  :  as  it  was,  his  heavy 
eyelids  fell  half-way  shut,  and  drooped 
theje  at  an  agonizing  angle,  while  his 
eyes  remained  immovably  fixed  upon 
that  strange,  death-white  face.  How  it 
could  have  come  of  that  colorlessness, — 
whether  through  long  sickness  or  long 
residence  in  a  tropical  climate,  —  was  a 
question  that  perplexed  another  of  the 
passengers,  who  would  have  expected 
to  hear  the  lady  speak  any  language 
in  the  world  rather  than  English  ;  and 
to  whom  her  companion  or  attendant 
was  hardly  less  than  herself  a  mystery, 
—  being  a  dragon-like,  elderish  female, 
clearly  a  Yankee  by  birth,  but  appar- 
ently of  many  years'  absence  from 
home.  The  propriety  of  extracting 
these  people  from  the  horse-cars  and 
transferring  them  bodily  to  the  first 
chapter  of  a  romance  was  a  thing  about 
which  there  could  be  no  manner  of 
doubt,  and  nothing  prevented  the  ab- 
duction but  the  unexpected  voluntary 
exit  of  the  pale  lady.  As  she  passed 
out  everybody  else  awoke  as  from  a 
dream,  or  as  if  freed  from  a  potent  fas- 
cination. It  is  part  of  the  mystery  that 
this  lady  should  never  have  reappeared 
in  that  theatre  of  life,  the  horse-car  ; 
but  I  cannot  regret  having  never  seen 
her  more  ;  she  was  so  inestimably  pre- 
cious to  wonder  that  it  would  have  been 
a  kind  of  loss  to  learn  anything  about 
her. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  should  be  glad 
if  two  young  men  who  once  present- 
ed themselves  as  mysteries  upon  the 
same  stage  could  be  so  distinctly  and 
sharply  identified  that  all  mankind 
should  recognize  them  at  the  clay  of 
judgment.  They  were  not  so  remark- 
able in  the  nature  as  in  the  degree  of 
their  offence  ;  for  the  mystery  that  any 


man  should  keep  his  seat  in  a  horse- 
car  and  let  a  woman  stand  is  but  too 
sadly  common.  They  say  that  this 
public  unkindness  to  the  sex  has  come 
about  through  the  ingratitude  of  women, 
who  have  failed  to  return  thanks  for 
places  offered  them,  and  that  it  is  a  just 
and  noble  revenge  we  take  upon  them. 
There  might  be  something  advanced 
in  favor  of  the  idea  that  we  law-mak- 
ing men,  who  do  not  oblige  the  com- 
panies to  provide  seats  for  every  one, 
deserve  no  thanks  from  voteless,  help- 
less women  when  we  offer  them  places  ; 
nay,  that  we  ought  to  be  glad  if  they  do 
not  reproach  us  for  making  that  a  per- 
sonal favor  which  ought  to  be  a  common 
right.  I  would  prefer,  on  the  whole,  to 
believe  that  this  selfishness  is  not  a 
concerted  act  on  our  part,  but  a  flower 
of  advanced  civilization  ;  it  is  a  ripe 
fruit  in  European  countries,  and  it  is 
more  noticeable  in  Boston  than  any- 
where else  in  America.  It  is,  in  fact, 
one  of  the  points  of  our  high  polish 
which  people  from  the  interior  say  first 
strikes  them  on  coming  among  us  ;  for 
they  declare  —  no  doubt  too  modestly 
—  that  in  their  Boeotian  wilds  our 
Athenian  habit  is  almost  unknown. 
Yet  it  would  not  be  fair  to  credit  our 
whole  population  with  it.  I  have  seen 
a  laborer  or  artisan  rise  from  his  place 
and  offer  it  to  a  lady,  while  a  dozen 
well-dressed  men  kept  theirs ;  and  I 
know  several  conservative  young  gen- 
tlemen, who  are  still  so  old-fashioned 
as  always  to  respect  the  weakness  and 
weariness  of  women.  One  of  them, 
I  hear,  has  settled  it  in  his  own  mind 
that  if  the  family  cook  appears  in  a  car 
where  he  is  seated,  he  must  rise  and 
give  her  his  place.  This,  perhaps,  is 
a  trifle  idealistic ;  but  it  is  magnifi- 
cent, it  is  princely.  From  his  difficult 
height,  we  decline  —  through  ranks  that 
sacrifice  themselves  for  women  with 
bundles  or  children  in  arms,  for  old 
ladies,  or  for  very  young  and  pretty 
ones  —  to  the  men  who  give  no  odds 
to  the  most  helpless  creature  alive. 
These  are .  the  men  who  do  not  act 
upon  the  promptings  of  human  nature 
like  the  laborer,  and  who  do  not  refine 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


[January, 


upon  their  duty  like  my  young  gentle- 
men, and  make  it  their  privilege  to 
befriend  the  idea  of  womanhood  ;  but 
men  who  have  paid  for  their  seats  and 
are  going  to  keep  them.  They  have 
been  at  work,  very  probably,  all  day, 
and  no  doubt  they  are  tired  ;  they  look 
so,  and  try  hard  not  to  look  ashamed 
of  publicly  considering  themselves  be- 
fore a  sex  which  is  born  tired,  and  from 
which  our  climate  and  customs  have 
drained  so  much  health  that  society 
sometimes  seems  little  better  than  a 
hospital  for  invalid  women,  where  ev- 
ery courtesy  is  likely  to  be  a  mercy 
done  to  a  sufferer.  Yet  the  two  young 
men  of  whom  I  began  to  speak  were 
not  apparently  of  this  class,  and  let  us 
hope  they  were  foreigners,  —  say  Eng- 
lishmen, since  we  hate  Englishmen  the 
most.  They  were  the  only  men  seated, 
in  a  car  full  of  people ;  and  when  four 
or  five  ladies  came  in*  and  occupied  the 
aisle  before  them,  they  might  have 
been  puzzled  which  to  offer  their  places 
to,  if  one  of  the  ladies  had  not  plainly 
been  infirm.  They  settled  the  question 
—  if  there  was  any  in  their  minds  — 
by  remaining  seated,  while  the  lady  in 
front  of  them  swung  uneasily  to  and  fro 
with  the  car,  and  appeared  ready  to 
sink  at  their  feet.  In  another  moment 
she  had  actually  done  so;  and  too 
weary  to  rise,  she  continued  to  crouch 
upon  the  floor  of  the  car  for  the  course 
of  a  mile,  the  young  men  resolutely 
keeping  their  places,  and  not  rising  till 
they  were  ready  to  leave  the  car.  It 
was  a  horrible  scene,  and  incredible,  — 
that  well-dressed  woman  sitting  on  the 
floor,  and  those  two  well-dressed  men 
keeping  their  places  ;  it  was  as  much 
out  of  keeping  with  our  smug  respec- 
tabilities as  a  hanging,  and  was  a  spec- 
,  tacle  so  paralyzing  that  public  opinion 
took  no  action  concerning  it.  A  shab- 
by person  standing  upon  the  platform 
outside  swore  about  it,  between  expec- 
torations :  even  the  conductor's  heart 
was  touched ;  and  he  said  he  had  seen 
a  good  many  hard  things  aboard  horse- 
cars,  but  that  was  a  little  the  hardest ; 
he  had  never  expected  to  come  to  that. 
These  were  simple  people  enough,  and 


could  not  interest  me  a  great  deal,  but 
I  should  have  liked  to  have  a  glimpse 
of  the  complex  minds  of  those  young 
men,  and  I  should  still  like  to  know 
something  of  the  previous  life  that 
could  have  made  their  behavior  possi- 
ble to  them.  They  ought  to  make  pub- 
lic the  philosophic  methods  by  which 
they  reached  that  pass  of  unshamable 
selfishness.  The  information  would  be 
useful  to  a  race  which  knows  the  sweet- 
ness of  self-indulgence,  and  would  fain 
know  the  art  of  so  drugging  or  besot- 
ting the  sensibilities  that  it  shall  not 
feel  disgraced  by  any  sort  of  mean- 
ness. They  might  really  have  much  to 
say  for  themselves  ;  as,  that  the  lady, 
being  conscious  she  could  no  longer 
keep  her  feet,  had  no  right  to  crouch  at 
theirs,  and  put  them  to  so  severe  a 
test ;  or  that,  having  suffered  her  to 
sink  there,  they  fell  no  further  in  the 
ignorant  public  opinion  by  suffering  her 
to  continue  there. 

But  I  doubt  if  that  other  young  man 
could  say  anything  for  himself,  who, 
when  a  pale,  trembling  woman  was 
about  to  drop  into  the  vacant  place  at 
his  side,  stretched  his  arm  across  it 
with,  "  This  seat 's  engaged,"  till  a  ro- 
bust young  fellow,  his  friend,  appeared, 
and  took  it  and  kept  it  all  the  way  out 
from  Boston.  The  commission  of  such 
a  tragical  wrong,  involving  a  violation 
of  common  usage  as  well  as  the  inflic- 
tion of  a  positive  cruelty,  would  embit- 
ter the  life  of  an  ordinary  man,  if  any 
ordinary  man  were  capable  of  it ;  but  let 
us  trust  that  nature  has  provided  forti- 
tude of  every  kind  for  the  offender,  and 
that  he  is  not  wrung  by  keener  remorse 
than  most  would  feel  for  a  petty  larceny. 
I  dare  say  he  would  be  eager  at  the  first 
opportunity  to  rebuke  the  ingratitude 
of  women  who  do  not  thank  their  bene- 
factors for  giving  them  seats.  It  seems 
a  little  odd,  by  the  way,  and  perhaps  it 
is  through  the  peculiar  blessing  of  Prov- 
idence, that,  since  men.have  determined 
by  a  savage  egotism  to  teach  the  offend- 
ing sex  manners,  their  own  comfort 
should  be  in  the  infliction  of  the  pen- 
alty, and  that  it  should  be  as  much  a 
pleasure  as  a  duty  to  keep  one's  place. 


1 870.] 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


117 


Perhaps  when  the  ladies  come  to 
vote,  they  will  abate,  with  other  nui-  . 
sances,  the  whole  business  of  over- 
loaded public  conveyances.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  kindness  of  women  to 
each  other  is  a  notable  feature  of  all 
horse-car  journeys.  It  is  touching  to 
see  the  smiling  eagerness  with  which 
the  poor  things  gather  close  their  vol- 
umed  skirts  and  make  room  for  aweary 
sister,  the  tender  looks  of  compassion 
which  they  bend  upon  the  sufferers 
oblfged  to  stand,  the  sweetness  with 
which  they  rise,  if  they  are  young  and 
strong,  to  offer  their  place  to  any  in- 
firm or  heavily  burdened  person  of 
their  sex. 

But  a  journey  to  Boston  is  not  en- 
tirely an  experience  of  bitterness.  On 
the  contrary,  there  are  many  things 
besides  the  mutual  amiability  of  these 
beautiful  martyrs  which  relieve  its  te- 
dium and  horrors.  A  whole  car- full 
of  people,  brought  into  the  closest 
contact  with  one  another,  yet  in  the 
absence  of  introductions  never  ex- 
changing a  word,  each  being  so  suffi- 
cient to  himself  as  to  need  no  social 
stimulus  whatever,  is  certainly  an  im- 
pressive and  stately  spectacle.  It  is 
a  beautiful  day,  say  ;  but  far  be  it  from 
me  to  intimate  as  much  to  my  neigh- 
bor, who  plainly  would  rather  die  than 
thus  commit  himself  with  me,  and 
who,  in  fact,  would  wellriigh  strike  me 
speechless  with  surprise  if  he  did  so. 
If  there  is  any  necessity  for  communi- 
cation, as  with  the  conductor,  we  essay 
first  to  express  ourselves  by  gesture, 
and  then  utter  our  desires  with  a  cer- 
tain hollow  and  remote  effect,  which  is 
not  otherwise  to  be  described.  I  have 
sometimes  tried  to  speak  above  my 
breath,  when,  being  about  to  leave  the 
car,  I  have  made  a  virtue  of  offering  my 
place  to  the  prettiest  young  woman 
standing,  but  I  have  found  it  impossi- 
ble ;  the  genius  loci,  whatever  it  was, 
suppressed  me,  and  I  have  gasped  out 
my  sham  politeness  as  in  a  courteous 
nightmare.  The  silencing  influence  is 
quite  successfully  resisted  by  none  but 
the  tipsy  people  who  occasionally  ride 
out  with  us,  and  call  up  a  smile,  sad 


as  a  gleam  of  winter  sunshine,  to  our 
faces  by  their  artless  prattle.  I  remem- 
ber one  eventful  afternoon  that  we  were 
all  but  moved  to  laughter  by  the  gaye- 
ties  of  such  a  one,  who,  even  after  he 
had  ceased  to  talk,  continued  to  amuse 
us  by  falling  asleep,  and  reposing 
himself  against  the  shoulder  of  the 
lady  next  him.  Perhaps  it  is  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  agreeable  variety 
they  contribute  to  horse-car  life,  that 
the  conductor  treats  his  inebriate  pas- 
sengers with  such  unfailing  tenderness 
and  forbearance.  I  have  never  seen 
them  molested,  though  I  have  noticed 
them  in  the  indulgence  of  many  eccen- 
tricities, and  happened  once  even  to  see 
one  of  them  sit  down  in  a  lady's  lap. 
But  that  was  on  the  night  of  Saint  Pat- 
rick's day.  Generally  all  avoidable  in- 
decorums are  rare  in  the  horse-cars, 
though  during  the  late  forenoon  and 
early  afternoon,  in  the  period  of  lighter 
travel,  I  have  found  curious  figures 
there ;  —  among  others,  two  old  wo- 
men, in  the  old-clothes  business,  one  of 
whom  was  dressed,  not  very  fortunate- 
ly, in  a  gown  with  short  sleeves,  and 
inferentially  a  low  neck ;  a  mender  of 
umbrellas,  with  many  unwholesome 
whity-brown  wrecks  of  umbrellas  about 
him  ;  a  pedlerof  soap,  who  offered  cakes 
of  it  to  his  fellow-passengers  at  a  dis- 
count, apparently  for  friendship's  sake  ; 
and  a  certain  gentleman  with  a  pock- 
marked face,  and  a  beard  dyed  an  un- 
scrupulous purple,  who  sang  himself  a 
hymn  all  the  way  to  Boston,  an*l  who 
gave  me  no  sufficient  reason  for  think- 
ing him  a  sea-captain.  Not  far  from 
the  end  of  the  Long  Bridge,  there  is  apt 
to  be  a  number  of  colored  ladies  waiting 
to  get  into  the  car,  or  to  get  out  of  it, 
—  usually  one  solemn  mother  in  Ethio- 
pia, and  two  or  three  mirthful  daughters, 
who  find  it  hard  to  suppress  a  sense  of 
adventure,  and  to  keep  in  the  laughter 
that  struggles  out  through  their  glitter- 
ing teeth  and  eyes,  and  who  place  each 
other  at  a  disadvantage  by  divers  acci- 
dental and  intentional  bumps  and  blows. 
If  they  are  to  get  out,  the  old  lady  is 
not  certain  of  the  place  where,  and,  af- 
ter making  the  car  stop,  and  parleying 


n8 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


[January, 


with  the  conductor,  returns  to  her  seat, 
and   is  mutely  held  up  to  public  scorn. 
by  one  taciturn  wink  of  the  conductor's 

eye. 

I  had  the  pleasure  one  day  to  meet 
on  the  horse-car  an  advocate  of  one 
of  the  great  reforms  of  the  day.  He 
held  a  green  bag  upon  his  knees,  and 
without  any  notice  passed  from  a  ques- 
tion of  crops  to  a  discussion  of  suffrage 
for  the  negro,  and  so  to  womanhood 
suffrage.  "  Let  the  women  vote,"  said 
he,  — "  let  'em  vote  if  they  want  to. 
/  don't  care.  Fact  is,  I  should  like  to 
be  there  to  see  'em  do  it  the  first  time. 
They  're  excitable,  you  know ;  they  're 
excitable  "  ;  and  he  enforced  his  analy- 
sis of  female  character  by  thrusting  his 
elbow  sharply  into  my  side.  "Now, 
there 's  my  wife ;  I  'd  like  to  see  her 
vote.  Be  fun,  I  tell  you.  And  the 
girls,  —  Lord,  the  girls  !  Circus  would 
n't  be  anywhere."  Enchanted  with  the 
amusing  picture  which  he  appeared 
to  have  conjured  up  for  himself,  he 
laughed  with  the  utmost  relish,  and 
then  patting  the  green  bag  in  his  lap, 
which  plainly  contained  a  violin,  "  You 
see,"  he  went  on,  "  I  go  out  playing  for 
dancing-parties.  Work  all  day  at  my 
trade,  —  I'm  a  carpenter,  —  and  play 
in  the  evening.  Take  my  little  old 
ten  dollars  a  night.  And  /  notice  the 
women  a  good  deal  \  and  /  tell  you 
they  ?re  all  excitable,  and  /  sh'd  like 
to  see  'em  vote.  Vote  right  and  vote 
often,  —  that 's  the  ticket,  eh  ?  "  This 
friend  of  womanhood  suffrage  —  whose 
attitude  of  curiosity  and  expectation 
seemed  to  me  representative  of  that  of 
a  great  many  thinkers  on  the  subject 
—  no  doubt  was  otherwise  a  reform- 
er, and  held  that  the  coming  man  would 
not  drink  wine  —  if  he  could  find  whis- 
key. At  least  I  should  have  said  so, 
guessing  from  the  odors  he  breathed 
along  with  his  liberal  sentiments. 

Something  of  the  character  of  a  col- 
lege-town is  observable  nearly  always 
in  the  presence  of  the  students,  who 
confound  certain  traditional  ideas  of 
students  by  their  quietude  of  costume 
and  manner,  and  whom  Padua  or  Hei- 
delberg would  hardly  know,  but  who 


nevertheless  betray  that  they  are  band- 
ed to 

"Scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days," 

by  a  uniformity  in  the  cut  of  their  trou- 
sers, or  a  clannishness  of  cane  or  scarf, 
or  a  talk  of  boats  and  base-ball  held 
among  themselves.  One  cannot  see 
them  without  pleasure  and  kindness ; 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  their  young- 
lady  acquaintances  brighten  so  to  rec- 
ognize them  on  the  horse-cars.  There 
is  much  good  fortune  in  the  world,  but 
none  better  than  being  an  undergrad- 
uate twenty  years  old,  hale,  handsome, 
fashionably  dressed,  with  the  whole 
promise  of  life  before  :  it 's  a  state  of 
things  to  disarm  even  envy.  With  so 
much  youth  forever  in  her  heart,  it  must 
be  hard  for  our  Charlesbridge  to  grow 
old :  the  generations  arise  and  pass 
away,  but  in  her  veins  is  still  this  tide 
of  warm  blood,  century  in  and  century 
out,  so  much  the  same  from  one  age 
to  another  that  it  would  be  hardy  to 
say  it  was  not  still  one  youthfulness. 
There  is  a  print  of  the  village  as  it  was 
a  cycle  since,  showing  the  oldest  of  the 
college  buildings,  and  upon  the  street 
in  front  a  scholar  in  his  scholar's-cap 
and  gown,  giving  his  arm  to  a  very  styl- 
ish girl  of  that  period,  who  is  dressed 
wonderfully  like  the  girl  of  ours,  so  that 
but  for  the  student's  antique  formality 
of  costume,  one  might  believe  that  he 
was  handing  her  out  to  take  the  horse- 
car.  There  is  no  horse-car  in  the  pic- 
ture, —  that  is  the  only  real  difference 
between  then  and  now  in  our  Charles- 
bridge,  perennially  young  and  gay. 
Have  there  not  ever  been  here  the 
same  grand  ambitions,  the  same  high 
hopes,  —  and  is  not  the  unbroken  suc- 
cession of  youth  in  these? 

As  for  other  life  on  the  horse-car,  it 
shows  to  little  or  no  effect,  as  I  have 
said.  You  can,  of  course,  detect  cer- 
tain classes ;  as,  in  the  morning  the 
business-men  going  in,  to  their  counters 
or  their  desks,  and  in  the  afternoon  the 
shoppers  coming  out,  laden  with  paper 
parcels.  But  I  think  no  one  can  truly 
claim  to  know  the  regular  from  the 
occasional  passengers  by  any  greater 


1 8;o.] 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


119 


cheerfulness  in  the  faces  of  the  latter. 
The  horse-car  will  suffer  no  such  in- 
equality as  this,  but  reduces  us  all  to 
the  same  level  of  melancholy.  It  would 
be  but  a  very  unworthy  kind  of  art  which 
should  seek  to  describe  people  by  such 
merely  external  traits  as  a  habit  of  car- 
rying baskets  or  large  travelling-bags 
in  the  car  ;  and  the  present  muse  scorns 
it,  but  is  not  above  speaking  of  the 
frequent  presence  of  those  lovely  young 
s  in  which  Boston  and  the  suburban 
towns  abound,  and  who,  whether  they 
appear  with  rolls  of  music  in  their 
hands,  or  books  from  the  circulating- 
libraries,  or  pretty  parcels  or  hand- 
bags, would  brighten  even  the  horse- 
car  if  fresh  young  looks  and  gay  and 
brilliant  costumes  could  do  so  much. 
But  they  only  add  perplexity  to  the 
anomaly,  which  was  already  sufficiently 
trying  with  its  contrasts  of  splendor 
and  shabbiness,  and  such  intimate  as- 
sociation of  velvets  and  patches  as 
you  see  in  the  churches  of  Catholic 
countries,  but  nowhere  else  in  the 
;  Id  except  in  our  "  coaches  of  the 
sovereign  people." 

In  winter,  the  journey  to  or  from 
Boston  cannot  appear  otherwise  than 
very  dreary  to  the  fondest  imagina- 
tion. Coming  out,  nothing  can  look 
more  arctic  and  forlorn  than  the  river 
<louble-shrouded  in  ice  and  snow,  or 
sadder  than  the  contrast  offered  to 
the  same  prospect  in  summer.  Then 
all  is  laughing,  and  it  is  a  joy  in  every 
nerve  to  ride  out  over  the  Long  Bridge 
at  high  tide,  and,  looking  southward,  to 
see  the  wide  crinkle  and  glitter  of  that 
beautiful  expanse  of  water,  which  laps 
on  one  hand  the  granite  quays  of  the 
city,  and  on  the  other  washes  among 
the  reeds  and  wild  grasses  of  the  salt- 
meadows.  A  ship  coming  slowly  up 
the  channel,  or  a  dingy  tug  violently 
darting  athwart  it,  gives  an  additional 
pleasure  to  the  eye,  and  adds  some- 
thing dreamy  or  vivid  to  the  beauty  of 
the  scene.  It  is  hard  to  say  at  what 
hour  of  the  summer's-day  the  prospect 
is  loveliest;  and  I  am  certainly  not 
going  to  speak  of  the  sunset  as  the 
least  of  its  delights.  When  this  exquis- 


ite spectacle  is  presented,  the  horse- 
car  passenger,  happy  to  cling  with  one 
foot  to  the  rear  platform-steps,  looks  out 
over  the  shoulder  next  him  into  fairy- 
land. Crimson  and  purple  stretches 
the  bay  westward  till  its  waves  darken 
into  the  grassy  levels,  where  here  and 
there  a  hay-rick  shows  perfectly  black 
against  the  light.  Afar  on",  south-east- 
ward and  westward  the  uplands  wear  a 
tinge  of  tenderest  blue ;  and  in  the 
nearer  distance,  on  the  low  shores  of  the 
river,  hover  the  white  plumes  of  arriving 
and  departing  trains.  The  windows  of 
the  stately  houses  that  overlook  the 
water  take  the  sunset  from  it  evanes- 
cently,  and  begin  to  chill  and  darken 
before  the  crimson  burns  out  of  the 
sky.  The  windows  are,  in  fact,  best 
after  nightfall,  when  they  are  brilliantly 
lighted  from  within  ;  and  when,  if  it  is 
a  dark,  warm  night,  and  the  briny  fra- 
grance comes  up  strong  from  the  fall- 
ing tide,  the  lights  reflected  far  down  in 
the  still  water,  bring  a  dream,  as  I  have 
heard  travelled  Bostonians  say,  of  Ven- 
ice and  her  magical  effects  in  the  same 
kind.  But  for  me  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  needs  the  help  of  no  such  associ- 
ation ;  I  am  content  with  it  for  what  it 
is.  I  enjoy  also  the  hints  of  spring 
which  one  gets  in  riding  over  the  Long 
Bridge  at  low  tide  in  the  first  open 
days.  Then  there  is  not  only  a  vernal 
beating  of  carpets  on  the  piers  of  the 
draw-bridge,  but  the  piles  and  walls  left 
bare  by  the  receding  water  show  green 
patches  of  sea-weeds  and  mosses,  and 
flatter  the  willing  eye  with  a  dim  hint  of 
summer.  This  reeking  and  saturated 
herbage,  —  which  always  seems  to  me 
in  contrast  with  dry-land  growths  what 
the  water-logged  life  of  sea-faring  folk 
is  to  that  which  we  happier  men  lead  on 
shore,  —  taking  so  kindly  the  deceitful 
warmth  and  brightness  of  the  sun,  has 
then  a  charm  which  it  loses  when  sum- 
mer really  comes  ;  nor  does  one,  later, 
have  so  keen  an  interest  in  the  men 
wading  about  in  the  shallows  below  the 
bridge,  who,  as  in  the  distance  they 
stoop  over  to  gather  whatever  shell-fish 
they  seek,  make  a  very  fair  show  of  be- 
ing some  ungainlier  sort  of  storks,  and 


120 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


[January, 


are  as  near  as  we  can  hope  to  come  to 
the  spring-prophesying  storks  of  song 
and  story.  A  sentiment  of  the  drowsi- 
ness that  goes  before  the  awakening  of 
the  year,  and  is  so  different  from  the 
drowsiness  that  precedes  the  great  au- 
tumnal slumber,  is  in  the  air,  but  is 
gone  when  we  leave  the  river  behind, 
and  strike  into  the  straggling  village 
beyond. 

I  maintain  that  Boston,  as  one  ap- 
proaches it,  and  passingly  takes  in  the 
line  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  soaring 
pre-eminent  among  the  emulous  foun- 
dry-chimneys of  the  sister  city,  is  fine 
enough  to  need  no  comparison  with 
other  fine  sights.  Thanks  to  the  man- 
sard curves  and  dormer-windows  of  the 
newer  houses,  there  is  a  singularly  pic- 
turesque variety  among  the  roofs  that 
stretch  along  the  bay,  and  rise  one 
above  another  on  the  city's  three  hills, 
grouping  themselves  about  the  State 
House,  and  surmounted  by  its  india- 
rubber  dome.  But,  after  all,  does  hu- 
man weakness  crave  some  legendary 
charm,  some  grace  of  uncertain  an- 
tiquity, in  the  picturesqueness  it  sees  ? 
I  own  that  the  future,  to  which  we  are 
often  referred  for  the  "  stuff  that  dreams 
are  made  of,"  is  more  difficult  for  the 
fancy  than  the  past,  that  the  airy  am- 
plitude of  its  possibilities  is  somewhat 
chilly,  and  that  we  naturally  long  for 
the  snug  quarters  of  old,  made  warm 
by  many  generations  of  life.  Besides, 
Europe  spoils  us  ingenuous  Americans, 
and  flatters  our  sentimentality  into  ru- 
inous extravagances.  Looking  at  her 
many-storied  former  times,  we  forget 
our  own  past,  neat,  compact,  and  con- 
venient for  the  poorest  memory  to  dwell 
in.  Yet  an  American  not  infected 
with  the  discontent  of  travel  could 
hardly  approach  this  superb  city  with- 
out feeling  something  of  the  coveted 
pleasure  in  her,  without  a  revery  of 
her  Puritan  and  Revolutionary  times, 
and  the  great  names  and  deeds  of  her 
heroic  annals.  I  think,  however,  we 
were  well  to  be  rid  of  this  yearning  for 
a  native  American  antiquity  ;  for  in  its 
indulgence  one  cannot  but  regard  him- 
self and  his  contemporaries  as  cum- 


berers  of  the  ground,  delaying  the  con- 
summation of  that  hoary  past  which 
will  be  so  fascinating  to  a  semi-Chinese 
posterity,  and  will  be,  ages  hence,  the 
inspiration  of  Pigeon-English  poetry 
and  romance.  Let  us  make  much  of 
our  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and 
cherish  the  present  as  our  golden  age. 
We  healthy-minded  people  in  the  horse- 
car  are  loath  to  lose  a  moment  of  it, 
and  are  aggrieved  that  the  draw  of  the 
bridge  should  be  up,  naturally  looking 
on  what  is  constantly  liable  to  happen 
as  an  especial  malice  of  the  fates.  All 
the  drivers  of  the  vehicles  that  clog  the 
draw  on  either  side  have  a  like  sense 
of  personal  injury  ;  and  apparently  it 
would  go  hard  with  the  captain  of  that 
leisurely  vessel  below  if  he  were  de- 
livered into  our  hands.  But  this  im- 
patience and  anger  are  entirely  illu- 
sive. 

We  are  really  the  most  patient  peo- 
ple in  the  world,  especially  as  regards 
any  incorporated,  non-political  oppres- 
sions. A  lively  Gaul,  who  travelled 
among  us  some  thirty  years  ago,  found 
that,  in  the  absence  of  political  control, 
we  gratified  the  human  instinct  of  obe- 
dience by  submitting  to  small  tyrannies 
unknown  abroad,  and  were  subject  to 
the  steamboat-captain,  the  hotel-clerk, 
the  stage-driver,  and  the  waiter,  who  all 
bullied  us  fearlessly  ;  but  though  some 
vestiges  of  this  bondage  remain,  it  is 
probably  passing  away.  The  abusive 
Frenchman's  assertion  would  not  at 
least  hold  good  concerning  the  horse- 
car  conductors,  who,  in  spite  of  a  linger-' 
ing  preference  for  touching  or  punch- 
ing passengers  for  their  fares  instead 
of  asking  for  it,  are  commonly  mild- 
mannered  and  good-tempered,  and  dis- 
posed to  molest  us  as  little  as  possible.. 
I  have  even  received  from  one  of 
them  a  mark  of  such  kindly  familiarity 
as  the  offer  of  a  check  which  he  held 
between  his  lips,  and  thrust  out  his 
face  to  give  me,  both  his  hands  being 
otherwise  occupied;  and  their  lives  are 
in  nowise  such  luxurious  careers  as  we 
should  expect  in  public  despots.  The 
oppression  of  the  horse-car  passenger  is 
not  from  them,  and  the  passenger  him- 


8;o.] 


By  Horse-Car  to  Boston. 


121 


self  is  finally  to  blame  for  it.  When 
the  draw  closes  at  last,  and  we  rum- 
ble forward  into  the  city  street,  a 
certain  stir  of  expectation  is  felt  among 
us.  The  long  and  eventful  journey  is 
nearly  ended,  and  now  we  who  are  to 
get  out  of  the  cars  can  philosophically 
amuse  ourselves  with  the  passions  and 
sufferings  of  those  who  are  to  return  in 
our  places.  You  must  choose  the  time 
between  five  and  six  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  if  you  would  make  this  grand 
study  of  the  national  character  in  its 
perfection.  Then  the  spectacle  offered 
in  any  arriving  horse-car  will  serve 
your  purpose.  At  nearly  every  corner 
of  the  street  up  which  it  climbs  stands 
an  experienced  suburban,  who  darts 
out  upon  the  car,  and  seizes  a  vacant 
place  in  it.  Presently  all  the  places 
are  taken,  and  before  we  reach  Tem- 
ple Street,  where  helpless  groups  of 
women  are  gathered  to  avail  them- 
selves of  the  first  seats  vacated,  an  alert 
citizen  is  stationed  before  each  passen- 
ger who  is  to  retire  at  the  summons, 
"  Please  pass  out  forrad."  When  this 
is  heard  in  Bowdoin  Square,  we  rise 
and  push  forward,  knuckling  one  an- 
other's backs  in  our  eagerness,  and 
perhaps  glancing  behind  us  at  the  tu- 
mult within.  Not  only  are  all  our 
places  occupied,  but  the  aisle  is  left 
full  of  passengers  precariously  support- 
ing themselves  by  the  straps  in  the 
roof.  The  rear  platform  is  stormed  and 
carried  by  a  party  with  bundles ;  the 
driver  is  instantly  surrounded  by  an- 
other detachment ;  and  as  the  car  moves 
away  from  the  office,  the  platform  steps 
are  filled.  The  people  who  are  thus 
indecorously  huddled  and  jammed  to- 
gether, without  regard  to  age  or  sex, 
otherwise  lead  lives  of  at  least  com- 
fort, and  a  good  half  of  them  cherish 
themselves  in  every  physical  way  with 
unparalleled  zeal.  They  are  handsome- 
ly clothed  ;  they  are  delicately  neat  in 
linen ;  they  eat  well,  or,  if  not  well,  as 
well  as  their  cooks  will  let  them,  and 
at  all  events  expensively;  they  house 
in  dwellings  appointed  in  a  manner  un- 
dreamt of  elsewhere  in  the  world,  — 
dwellings  wherein  furnaces  make  a  sum- 


mer-heat, where  fountains  of  hot  and 
cold  water  flow  at  a  touch,  where  light 
is  created  or  quenched  by  the  turning 
of  a  key,  where  all  is  luxurious  uphol- 
stery, and  miraculous  ministry  to  real 
or  fancied  needs.  They  carry  the  same 
tastes  with  them  to  their  places  of  bus- 
iness ;  and  when  they  "attend  divine 
service,"  it  is  with  the  understanding 
that  God  is  to  receive  them  in  a  richly 
carpeted  house,  deliciously  warmed  and 
perfectly  ventilated,  where  they  may 
adore  him  at  their  ease  upon  cush- 
ioned seats,  —  secured  seats.  .Yet  these 
spoiled  children  of  comfort,  when  they 
ride  to  or  from  business  or  church, 
fail  to  assert  rights  that  the  vulgarest 
Cockney,  who  never  heard  of  our  plumb- 
ing and  registers,  or  even  the  oppressed 
Parisian,  who  is  believed  not  to  change 
his  linen  from  one  revolution  to  anoth- 
er, —  having  paid  for,  —  enjoys.  When 
they  enter  the  "  full "  horse-car,  they  find 
themselves  in  a  place  inexorable  as  the 
grave  to  their  greenbacks,  where  not 
only  is  their  adventitious  consequence 
stripped  from  them,  but  the  courtesies 
of  life  are  "impossible,  the  inherent 
dignity  of  the  person  is  denied,  and 
they  are  reduced  below  the  level  of 
the  most  uncomfortable  nations  of  the 
Old  World.  The  philosopher  accus- 
tomed to  draw  consolation  from  the 
sufferings  of  his  richer  fellow-men,  and 
to  infer  an  overruling  Providence  from 
their  disgraces,  might  well  bless  Heav- 
en for  the  spectacle  of  such  degradation, 
if  his  thanksgiving  were  not  prevented 
by  his  knowledge  that  this  is  quite  vol- 
untary. And  now  consider  that  on 
every  car  leaving  the  city  at  this  time 
the  scene  is  much  the  same  ;  reflect 
that  the  horror  is  enacting,  not  only  in 
Boston,  but  in  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
Baltimore,  St.  Louis,  Chicago,  Cincin- 
nati,—  wherever  the  horse-car,  that  tin- 
kles wellnigh  round  the  continent,  is 
known ;  remember  that  the  same  vic- 
tims are  thus  daily  sacrificed,  without 
^n  effort  to  right  themselves  :  and  then 
you  will  begin  to  realize  —  dimly  and 
imperfectly,  of  course  —  the  unfathoma- 
ble meekness  of  the  American  charac- 
ter. The  "full"  horse-car  is  a  prodigy 


122 

whose  likeness  is  absolutely  unknown 
elsewhere,  since  the  Neapolitan  g^ 
went  out ;  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  in- 
credible to  the  future  in  our  own  coun- 
try. When  I  see  such  a  horse-car  as 
I  have  sketched  move  away  from  its 
station,  I  feel  that  it  is  something  not 
only  emblematic  and  interpretative,  but 
monumental ;  and  I  know  that  when 
art  becomes  truly  national,  the  over- 
loaded horse-car  will  be  celebrated  in 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[January, 


painting  and  sculpture.  And  in  after 
ages,  when  the  oblique-eyed,  swarthy 
American  of  that  time,  pausing  before 
some  commemorative  bronze  or  histor- 
ical picture  of  our  epoch,  contemplates 
this  stupendous  spectacle  of  human 
endurance,  I  hope  he  wilf  be  able  to 
philosophize  more  satisfactorily  than 
we  can  now,  concerning  the  mystery 
of  our  strength  as  a  nation  and  our 
weakness  as  a  public. 


REVIEWS   AND    LITERARY   NOTICES. 


The  Discovery  of  the  Great  West.  By  FRAN- 
CIS PARKMAN,  Author  of  "Pioneers  of 
France  in  the  New  World,"  etc.  Bos- 
ton :  Little,  Brown,  £  Co. 

WHOEVER  makes  a  sentiment  or  a 
thought  spring  up  where  none  had  been, 
merits  the  honor  we  are  supposed  to  pay 
him  who  makes  a  stalk  of  wheat  grow  in  a 
place  wild  before  :  we  are  not  sure  but  he 
ministers  to  a  higher  need,  and  is  entitled 
to  a  greater  regard  :  at  any  rate  it  is  with 
a  grateful  feeling  that  we  view  labors  like 
those  of  Mr.  Parkman  in  the  field  —  if  we 
ought  not  to  say  the  prairie  —  of  New  World 
history.  The  area  which  he  has  brought 
under  cultivation,  and  the  thoroughness 
with  which  he  has  done  his  work,  are  both 
surprising ;  annals  hitherto  impossible  to 
general  knowledge  or  sympathy  are  cleared 
for  our  pleasure  ;  vast  waste  spaces  of  dis- 
covery and  adventure  are  reclaimed  from 
the  dry  local  records  and  the  confusion  and 
contradiction  of  the  original  chroniclers, 
and  made  delightful  to  the  mind.  It  is  true 
that  Mr.  Parkman  has  dealt  chiefly  with 
the  characters  and  actions  of  a  race  that 
lends  itself  kindlier  than  ours  to  the  pur- 
poses of  dramatic  and  picturesque  narra- 
tion;  but  we  are  not  the  less  to  applaud 
his  success  or  to  thank  him  for  his  good 
work,  because  they  were  not  achieved 
among  the  tougher  and  knottier  fibres  of 
our  own  annals.  It  would  be  difficult,  up- 
on any  theory,  to  refuse  to  enjoy  his  books, 
and  we  should  own  to  having  found  in  this 
one  the  charm  of  a  romance,  if  romances 
•were  not  really  so  dull  as  to  afford  no  fit 
comparison  for  any  piece  of  veritable  his- 


tory not  treating  too  exclusively  of  affairs 
of  state.  And  the  story  of  the  "  Discovery 
of  the  Mississippi "  is  almost  wholly  one 
of  personal  character  and  adventure,  with  a 
man  of  the  grandest  purposes  for  its  hero 
and  chief  figure,  while  it  is  at  the  same 
time  true  to  the  general  spirit  of  Louis 
Fourteenth's  magnificent  era  of  civil  and 
religious  intriguing,  unscrupulous  ambition, 
corruption,  and  all  kinds  of  violence  and 
bad  faith. 

Mainly,  the  history  is  the  account  of  the 
life  and  death  in  the  New  World  of  that 
wonderful  Robert  Cavelier,  Sieur  de  la 
Salle,  who,  to  the  many  qualities  of  cour- 
age, endurance,  and  perseverance  necessary 
for  a  career  of  discovery  and  adventure, 
added  a  certain  harshness  and  coldness,  an 
antipathetic  hauteur,  which  made  enemies 
of  most  men  powerful  enough  to  second  his 
enterprises,  would  not  let  him  gain  the 
hearts  of  those  under  him,  and  forbade  him 
to  be  the  successful  founder  of  a  state  or 
even  a  triumphant  explorer.  He  was  among 
the  first  to  clream  of  the  discovery  of  the 
Mississippi  and  an  empire  on  its  shores,  but 
it  was  the  priest  Marquette  and  the  trader 
Joliet  who  first  saw  the  great  river  after  De 
Soto.  La  Salle  conceived  the  idea  of  a 
French-Indian  state  in  the  West,  which 
should  resist  the  invasions  of  the  English 
and  the  Iroquois  on  one  hand,  and  on 
the  other  bar  the  progress  of  the  Span- 
iards ;  but  his  plan  was  a  failure,  except 
in  the  small  measure  in  which  its  execu- 
tion rested,  upon  his  lieutenant  Tonty,  the 
one  white  man  who  cherished  for  him  the 
unswerving  admiration  and  devotion  of 
the  savages :  provided  finally  with  ships 


1 870.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


123 


and  men  and  arms  from  France  for  the 
ascent  of  the  Mississippi,  he  was  pursued 
by  disaffection  and  envy  and  treachery, 
failed  to  strike  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and, 
leaving  a  wretched  half  of  his  folio-/, 
waste  in  Texas,  started  northward  with  the 
rest  in  search  of  the  fatal  stream,  and  be- 
fore he  could  find  it  was  miserably  mur- 
dered by  one  of  his  men.  Yet  with  all  his 
defects,  and  in  spite  of  his  almost  incessant 
defeats,  La  Salle  rarely  fails  to  inspire  the 
reader  with  the  sympathy  which  his  com- 
rades never  felt  for  him  ;  and  we  see  as  they 
could  not  what  a  superb  and  admirable  soul 
he  was,  —  undejected  by  any  calamity,  and 
of  steadfast  and  grand  designs.  "  He  be- 
longed," as  our  author  says,  "  not  to  the  age 
of  the  knight-errant  and  the  saint,  but  to  the 
modern  world  of  practical  study  and  practi- 
cal action,  lie  was  the  hero,  not  of  a  prin- 
ciple nor  of  a  faith,  but  simply  of  a  fixed 
idea  and  a  detL-nnined  purpose.  As  often 
happens  with  concentred  and  energetic  na- 
tures, his  purpose  was  to  him  a  passion 
and  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  clung  to  it  with 
a  certain  fanaticism  of  devotion.  It  was 
the  offspring  of  an  ambition  vast  and  com- 
prehensive, yet  acting  in  the  interest  both 

of  France  and  of  civilization In  the 

pursuit  of  his  purpose,  he  spared  no  man, 
and  least  of  all  himself.  He  bore  the  brunt 
of  every  hardship  and  every  danger ;  but 
icd  to  expect  from  all  beneath  him 
a  courage  and  endurance  equal  to  his  own, 
joined  with  an  implicit  deference  to  his 
authority.  Most  of  his  disasters  may  be 
ascribed,  in  some  measure,  to  himself;  and 
Fortune  and  his  own  fault  seemed  always 
in  league  to  ruin  him.  It  is  easy  to  reckon 
up  his  defects,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  hide 
from  sight  the  Roman  virtues  that  re- 
deemed them.  Beset  by  a  throng  of  ene- 
mies, he  stands,  like  the  King  of  Israel, 
head  and  shoulders  above  them  all.  lie 
•was  a  tower  of  adamant,  against  whose  im- 
pregnable front  hardship  and  danger,  the 
rage  of  man  and  of  the  elements,  the  south- 
ern sun,  the  northern  blast,  fatigue,  famine, 
and  disease,  delay,  disappointment,  and 
deferred  hope,  emptied  their  quivers  in 
vain.  That  very  pride,  which,  Coriolanus- 
like,  declared  itself  most  sternly  in  the 
thickest  press  of  foes,  has  in  it  something 
to  challenge  admiration.  Never,  under  the 
impenetrable  mail  of  paladin  or  crusader, 
beat  a  heart  of  more  intrepid  mettle  than 
within  the  stoic  panoply  that  armed  the 
breast  of  La  Salle.  To  estimate  aright  the 
marvels  of  his  patient  fortitude,  one  must 


follow  on  his  track  through  the  vast  scene 
of  his  interminable  journeyings,  those  thou- 
sands of  weary  miles  of  forest,  marsh,  and 
river,  where,  again  and  again,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  baffled  striving,  the  untiring  pilgrim 
pushed  onward  towards  the  goal  which  he 
was  never  to  attain.  America  owes  him  an 
enduring  memory  ;  for  in  this  masculine 
figure,  cast  in  iron,  she  sees  the  heroic 
pioneer  who  guided  her  to  the  possession 
of  her  richest  heritage." 

Next  him  in  grander  is  his  faithful  friend 
Tonty,  the  Gallicized  Italian,  who  held  his 
fort  in  Illinois,  and  kept  up  the  tradition 
of  La  Salle's  name  and  power  among  the 
wild  tribes,  while  misfortune  and  malice 
were  wronging  both  among  his  own  coun- 
trymen ;  but,  besides  Tonty  and  some  of 
the  missionaries,  there  are  few  among  the 
distinctly  drawn  persons  of  the  long  trage- 
dy which  appeal  favorably  to  us.  The  good 
Father  Ilennepin  certainly  does  not ;  and 
no  one,  after  Mr.  Parkman's  study  of  his 
writings  and  character,  can  fail  to  recog- 
nize him  as  one  of  the  idlest  and  most 
marvellous  of  liars.  Indeed,  Mr.  Parkman 
has  as  great  good  luck  with  portraits  of  the 
rogues  and  desperadoes  as  with  those  of 
the  heroes ;  and  he  is  as  forcible  and 
graphic  in  depicting  the  squalor  and  mis- 
ery of  the  life  the  adventurers  found  and 
led  in  the  great  unknown  West,  as  the 
nobler  aspects  of  it.  Perhaps  it  is  not  pos- 
sible or  even  desirable  to  restore  a  perfect 
image  of  the  past ;  but  all  of  Mr.  Parkman's 
books,  while  they  cannot  ease  our  con- 
sciences as  to  the  way  in  which  we  have 
got  rid  of  thp  Indians,  leave  the  fondest 
sentimentalist  without  a  regret  for  their 
disappearance.  They  were  essentially  un- 
interesting races  in  themselves,  and  became 
otherwise  only  through  contact  and  rela- 
tion with  civilized  men.  For  any  merely 
aesthetic  purpose,  even,  how  much  more 
useful  are  the  coureurs  de  bois,  the  French 
deserters  and  settlers  who  took  to  savage 
life,  than  the  savages  themselves  !  In  this 
book  Mr.  Parkman  paints  the  life  of  our 
Southern  tribes  in  no  more  attractive  colors 
than  he  has  done  that  of  the  Iroquois ; 
though  it  is  curious  to  note  the  difference  of 
the  two.  The  Indian  as  he  was  found  south- 
ward grew  more  and  more  gregarious ; 
dwelt  in  vast  lodges  holding  many  families, 
and  in  populous  villages  j  submitted  him- 
self to  more  despotic  chiefs ;  and  ap- 
proached the  Mexicans  in  religion  as  well 
as  in  polity,  by  offering  human  sacrifices 
to  his  gods. 


124 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[January, 


Those  who  are  familiar  with  our  author 
will  justly  expect  from  him  an  effective  pre- 
sentation of  all  great  natural  characteristics 
in  the  vast  scene  of  his  story.  The  descrip- 
tive passages  all  seem  to  us  more  than  usu- 
ally good,  and  there  is  an  entire  sympathy 
between  them  and  the  tone  of  the  narrative. 
A  certain  feeling  of  desolation  creeps  over 
the  reader  in  contemplating  those  pictures 
of  idle  wealth  and  unenjoyed  beauty,  which 
harmonizes  perfectly  with  the  sentiment 
produced  by  the  spectacle  of  great  aspi- 
ration and  endeavor  thwarted  by  means  so 
pitiful  and  motives  so  base. 


The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy.  By  THOMAS 
BAILEY  ALDRICH.  With  Illustrations. 
Boston :  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

MR.  ALDRICH  has  done  a  new  thing  in  — 
we  use  the  phrase  with  some  gasps  of  reluc- 
tance, it  is  so  threadbare  and  so  near  mean- 
ing nothing  —  American  literature.  We 
might  go  much  farther  without  overprais- 
ing his  pleasant  book,  and  call  it  an  abso- 
lute novelty,  on  the  whole.  No  one  else 
seems  to  have  thought  of  telling  the  story 
of  a  boy's  life,  with  so  great  desire  to  show 
what  a  boy's  life  is,  and  so  little  purpose  of 
teaching  what  it  should  be;  certainly  no 
one  else  has  thought  of  doing  this  for  the 
life  of  an  American  boy.  The  conception  of 
such  a  performance  is  altogether  his  in  this 
case  ;  but  with  regard  to  more  full-grown 
figures  of  fiction,  it  is  that  of  the  best  and 
oldest  masters  of  the  art  of  story-telling; 
and  it  is  one  that  will  at -last  give  us, 
we  believe,  the  work  which  has  so  long 
hovered  in  the  mental  atmosphere  a  pa- 
thetic ante-natal  phantom,  pleading  to  be 
born  into  the  world,  —  the  American  novel, 
namely. 

Autobiography  has  a  charm  which  passes 
that  of  all  other  kinds  of  reading ;  it  has 
almost  the  relish  of  the  gossip  we  talk  about 
our  friends  ;  and  whoever  chooses  its  form 
for  his  inventions  is  sure  to  prepossess  us  ; 
and  if  then  he  can  give  his  incidents  and 
characters  the  simple  order  and  air  of 
actual  occurrences  and  people,  it  does  not 
matter  much  what  they  are,  —  his  success  is 
assured.  We  think  this  is  the  open  secret 
of  the  pleasure  which  "  The  Story  of  a  Bad 
Boy  "  has  afforded  to  the  boys  themselves, 
and  to  every  man  that  happens  to  have 
been  a  boy.  There  must  be  a  great  deal 
of  f.u.t  mixed  up  with  the  feigning,  but  the 
author  has  the  art  which  imbues  all  with 


the  same  quality,  and  will  not  let  us  tell 
one  from  the  other.  He  asks  us  to  know 
a  boy  coming  from  his  father's  house  in 
New  Orleans,  where  he  has  almost  become 
a  high-toned  Southerner,  to  be  educated 
under  his  grandfather's  care  in  a  little  New 
England  seaport.  His  ideas,  impulses,  and 
adventures  here  are  those  of  the  great  aver- 
age of  boys,  and  the  effect  of  a  boy's  small 
interests,  ignorant  ambition,  and  narrow 
horizon  is  admirably  produced  and  sus- 
tained. His  year  is  half  made  up  of 
Fourth-of-Julys  and  Thanksgivings ;  he  has 
so  little  vantage-ground  of  experience  that 
life  blackens  before  him  when  he  is  left  to 
pay  for  twelve  ice-creams  out  of  an  empty 
pocket ;  he  has  that  sense  of  isolation  and 
of  immeasurable  remoteness  from  the  sphere 
of  men,  which  causes  half  the  pleasure  and 
half  the  pain  of  childhood ;  and  his  charac- 
ter and  surroundings  are  all  so  well  man- 
aged, that  this  propriety  is  rarely  violated. 
Now  and  then,  however,  the  author  mars 
the  good  result  by  an  after-thought  that 
seems  almost  an  alien  stroke,  affecting  one 
as  if  some  other  brain  had  "  edited  "  the 
original  inspiration.  We  should  say,  for 
example,  that  in  all  that  account  of  the  boy- 
theatricals  it  is  the  author  who  speaks,  till 
after  Pepper  Whitcomb,  standing  for  Tell's 
son,  receives  the  erring  bolt  in  his  mouth, 
when,  emulous  of  the  natural  touches,  the 
editor  appears  and  adds :  "  The  place  was 
closed ;  not,  however,  without  a  farewell 
speech  from  me,  in  which  I  said  that  this 
would  have  been  the  proudest  moment  of 
my  life  if  I  had  n't  hit  Pepper  Whitcomb  in 
the  mouth.  Whereupon  the  audience  (as- 
sisted, I  am  glad  to  state,  by  Pepper)  cried, 
'  Hear !  hear  ! '  I  then  attributed  the  acci- 
dent to  Pepper  himself,  whose  mouth,  be- 
ing open  at  the  instant  I  fired,  acted  upon 
the  arrow  much  after  the  fashion  of  a  whirl- 
pool, and  drew  in  the  fatal  shaft.  I  was 
about  to  explain  how  a  comparatively  small 
maelstrom  could  suck  in  the  largest  ship, 
when  the  curtain  fell  of  its  own  accord, 
amid  the  shouts  of  the  audience." 

Most  of  the  characters  of  the  book  are  as 
good  as  the  incidents  and  the  principal  idea. 
Captain  Nutter,  the  grandfather,  and  Miss 
Abigail,  the  maiden  aunt,  are  true  New 
England  types,  the  very  truth  of  which 
makes  them  seem  at  first  glance  wanting  in 
novelty  ;  but  they  develop  their  originality 
gradually,  as  New  England  acquaintance 
should,  until  we  feel  for  them  the  tender- 
ness and  appreciation  with  which  they  are 
studied.  The  Captain  is  the  better  of  the 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


two  ;  he  is  such  a  grandfather  as  any  boy 
might  be  glad  to  have,  and  is  well  done  as 
a  personage  and  as  a  sketch  of  hearty  and 
kindly  old  age,  — outwardly  a  little  austere, 
but  full  of  an  ill-hidden  tolerance  and  se- 
cret sympathies  with  the  wildness  of  boy- 
hood. Others  among  the  townspeople, 
merely  sketched,  or  seen  falsely  with  a  boy's 
vision,  are  no  less  living  to  us ;  the  pony 
becomes  a  valued  acquaintance  ;  nay,  the 
old  Nutter  house  itself,  and  the  sleepy  old 
town,  have  a  personal  fascination.  Of  Kit- 
ty, the  Irish  servant,  and  of  her  sea-faring 
husband,  we  are  not  so  sure,  —  at  least  we 
are  not  so  sure  of  the  latter,  who  seems  too 
much  like  the  sailors  we  have  met  in  the 
forecastles  of  novels  and  theatres,  though 
for  all  we  know  he  may  be  a  veritable 
person.  We  like  much  better  some  of 
the  merely  indicated  figures,  like  that  mis- 
taken genius  who  bought  up  all  the  old 
cannon  from  the  privateer  at  the  close  of 
the  war  of  1812,  in  the  persuasion  that  hos- 
tilities must  soon  break  out  again ;  and 
that  shrewd  Yankee  who  looked  on  from 
his  hiding-place  while  the  boys  stole  his 
worn-out  stage-coach  for  a  bonfire,  and 
then  exacted  a  fabulous  price  from  their 
families  for  a  property  that  had  proved 
itself  otherwise  unsalable.  The  boys  also 
are  all  true  boys,  and  none  is  truer  than 
the  most  difficult  character  to  treat,  —  Binny 
Wallace,  whose  gentleness  and  sweetness 
arc  never  suffered  to  appear  what  boys  call 
"  softness  " ;  and  on  the  whole  we  think 
the  chapter  which  tells  of  his  loss  is  the 
best  in  the  book;  it  is  the  simplest  and 
directest  piece  of  narration,  and  is  singu- 
larly touching,  with  such  breadth  and  depth 
of  impression  that  when  you  look  at  it  a 
second  time,  you  are  surprised  to  find  the 
account  so  brief  and  slight.  Mr.  Aldrich 
has  the  same  good  fortune  wherever  he 
means  to  be  pathetic.  The  touches  with 
which  he  indicates  his  hero's  homesickness 
when  he  is  first  left  at  Rivermouth  are  deli- 
cate and  sufficient ;  so  are  those  making 
known  the  sorrow  that  befalls  him  in  the 
death  of  his  father.  In  these  passages,  and 
in  some  description  of  his  lovesickness,  he 
does  not  push  his  effects  too  far,  as  he  is 
tempted  to  do  where  he  would  be  most 
amusing.  "  Pepper,"  he  says  the  hero  said 
to  his  friend  who  found  him  prowling  about 
an  old  graveyard  after  his  great  disappoint- 
ment, "  don't  ask  me.  All  is  not  well 
here,"  —  touching  his  breast  mysteriously. 
"Earthly  happiness  is  a  delusion  and  a 
snare,"  —  all  which  fails  to  strike  us  as  an 


original  or  probable  statement  of  the  case  ; 
while  this  little  picture  of  a  boy's  forlorn 
attempt  to  make  love  to  a  young  lady  seems 
as  natural  as  it  is  charming  :  — 

"  Here  the  conversation  died  a  natural 
death.  Nelly  sank  into  a  sort  of  dream, 
and  I  meditated.  Fearing  every  moment 
to  be  interrupted  by  some  member  of  the 
family,  I  nerved  myself  to  make  a  bold 
dash:  — 

1 '  Nelly.' 

V  Well.' 

•' '  Do  you  — '    I  hesitated. 

"  Do  I  what  ? ' 

' '  Love  any  one  very  much  ? ' 

' '  Why,  of  course  I  do,'  said  Nelly,  scat- 
tering her  revery  with  a  merry  laugh.  '  I 
love  Uncle  Nutter,  and  Aunt  Nutter,  and 
you,  —  and  Towser.' 

"  Towser,  our  new  dog  !  I  could  n't 
stand  that.  I  pushed  back  the  stool  impa- 
tiently and  stood  in  front  of  her. 

" '  That 's  not  what  I  mean,'  I  said  an- 
grily. 

"  '  Well,  what  do  you  mean  ? ' 

"  '  Do  you  love  any  one  to  marry  him  ? ' 

" « The  idea  of  it ! '  cried  Nelly,  laughing. 

" '  But  you  must  tell  me.' 

"  '  Must,  Tom  ? ' 

"  'Indeed  you  must,  Nelly.' 

"  She  had  arisen  from  the  chair  with  an 
amused,  perplexed  look  in  her  eyes.  I 
held  her  an  instant  by  the  dress. 

" '  Please  tell  me.' 

"  '  O  you  silly  boy ! '  cried  Nelly.  Then 
she  rumpled  my  hair  all  over  my  forehead 
and  ran  laughing  out  of  the  room." 

Mr.  Aldrich  is  a  capital  content- ;  the  nar- 
rative is  invariably  good,  neither  hurried  nor 
spun  out,  but  easily  discursive,  and  tolerant 
of  a  great  deal  of  anecdote  that  goes  finally 
to  complete  the  charm  of  a  life-like  and  de- 
lightful little  story,  while  the  moralizing  is 
always  as  brief  as  it  is  pointed  and  gener- 
ous. When  he  comes  to  tell  a  tale  for  older 
heads,  —  as  we  hope  he  some  day  will,  — 
we  shall  not  ask  him  to  do  it  better  than 
this  in  essentials,  and  in  less  important  par- 
ticulars shall  only  pray  him  to  be  always 
himself  down  to  the  very  last  word  and 
smallest  turn  of  expression.  We  think  him 
good  enough. 


The  Identification  of  the  Artisan  and  the 
Artist.     Boston  :  Adams  &  Co. 

THIS  pamphlet  consists,  in  the  first  place, 
of  the  report  of  a  lecture  given  in  1853  by 


126 


',ius  and  Literary  Notices. 


[January, 


the  late  Cardinal  Wiseman,  to  an  associa- 
tion of  workingmen  in  Manchester,  Eng- 
land, upon  "  The  Relations  of  the  Arts 
of  Production  with  the  Arts  of  Design." 
His  immediate  object  seems  to  have  been 
to  promote  art  exhibitions  and  galkries 
of  art,  for  the  cultivation  of  the  taste  of 
English  artisans  ;  but  its  general  impor- 
tance consists  in  its  suggestion  that  in  the 
great  ages  of  classic  and  mediaeval  art,  the 
identification  of  the  artisan  and  artist  was 
an  historical  fact ;  which  is  the  explanation 
of  the  hitherto  unexplained  fact,  that  every- 
thing made  in  those  ages  was  a  beautiful 
thing,  exhibiting  the  individual  genius  of 
its  maker,  even  though  in  the  classic  ages 
it  was  the  humblest  utensil  of  culinary  art. 
Whatever  is  taken  out  of  Pompeii  and  Her- 
culaneum  is  found  to  be  a  work  of  art, 
and  is  immediately  carried  to  the  great 
museum  of  Naples,  to  become  the  subject 
of  study,  and  the  delight  of  the  eye  and 
mind  of  all  nations  ;  for  the  people  of  that 
older  age  had  penetrated  with  their  highly 
developed  intellect  beyond  all  that  sepa- 
rates men  into  nations  ;  and  discovered  that 
eternal  beauty  and  truth  of  form,  in  which 
all  minds  unite  and  find  themselves  culti- 
vated by  so  doing.  It  is  plain  that  in  the 
adyta  of  those  old  pagan  temples  was  ac- 
complished an  education  of  a  profoundly 
artistic  character  for  all  the  initiated.  All 
human  genius  was  then  believed  to  be  the 
inspiration  of  some  god ;  and  the  temples 
of  Apollo  and  Mercury  were  unquestiona- 
bly schools  of  art.  The  artisans,  being  art- 
ists, were  not  of  the  lower  class  of  society  ; 
and  the  labor  of  production  had  always  the 
dignity  of  being  a  religious  service,  which 
was,  in  the  Grecian  times,  not  a  service  of 
the  heart,  but  of  the  imaginative  intellect. 
There  is  a  very  interesting  work  by  Hay, 
"on  symmetrical  beauty,"  in  which  are 
analyzed  the  antique  vases,  all  of  which  are 
reduced  either  to  one  form,  or  to  three 
forms  combined,  or  to  five  forms  com- 
bined, the  curves  relating  to  each  other. 
Those  whose  curves  all  belong  to  one  form 
are  of  the  highest  beauty.  Hay  gives  a 
mathematical  appreciation  of  the  genera- 
tion of  each  form,  and  then  of  their  combi- 
nations, which  shows  that  the  production 
of  beauty  by  the  human  hand  is  no  acci- 
dent, but  that  a  high  consciousness  of  mind 
guides  the  cunning  hand.  The  delight 
which  the  contemplation  of  these  vases 
gives  is  a  refining  process,  and  how  much 
more  must  have  been  the  creation  of  these 
forms  or  these  principles  ! 


In  the  mediaeval  times,  when  the  revival 
of  classic  art  met  the  inspirations  of  Chris- 
tian faith,  there  was  another  culmination  of 
human  genius  in  art.  Then  the  initiated 
were  instructed  by  secret  religious  societies, 
and  in  cloisters,  where  artisan  work  again 
became  artistic,  because  the  artisans  were 
educated,  and  their  works  were  acts  of 
faith.  Hence  the  Gothic  architecture,  and 
the  mixed  Gothic  and  Roman  art,  which 
scattered  its  exquisite  works  over  all  Chris- 
tendom. Nothing  is  more  wonderful  to  an 
American  contemplating  the  cathedrals, 
churches,  and  chapels  of  Europe,  than  the 
overflow  of  human  genius  in  these  marvel- 
lous constructions.  Where  did  the  multi- 
tudes of  artists  come  from  ?  We  hear,  be- 
fore we  go  abroad,  of  Raphael,  Michael 
Angelo,  and  a  great  host  of  artists;  but 
when  we  come  to  look  with  our  own  eyes, 
we  see  that  there  were  unnamed  thousands 
and  thousands,  besides  all  those  we  have 
heard  of,  whose  works  are  hardly  less  ex- 
quisite than  those  of  the  renowned  great 
masters.  There  is  a  little  chapel  on  the 
hill  of  St.  Elmo,  in  Naples,  —  opened  to 
the  world's  eyes  only  since  the  Italian 
government  secularized  church  property,  — 
which  is  a  perfect  gem  of  art  in  every  par- 
ticular. The  pavement  is  a  most  beautiful 
and  elaborate  mosaic  of  marble,  the  design 
and  work  of  one  monk.  The  altar  and  the 
railing  which  encloses  it  in  front  are  all 
of  the  most  delicate  and  beautiful  Floren- 
tine mosaic.  Every  inch  of  wall  and  roof, 
in  each  of  the  six  chapels  that  flank  the 
nave,  is  equally  elaborate.  All  was  the 
work  of  the  resident  monks.  This  is  but 
one  specimen  of  the  ornamentation  of 
very  many  chapels  in  convents  now  for 
the  first  time  open  to  the,  profane  world. 
But  everybody  knows  the  enormous  quan- 
tity of  wood  and  stone  work  in  ecclesias- 
tical buildings,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  gor- 
geous decoration  of  palaces  and  dwelling- 
houses,  especially  in  Venice.  It  is  not  the 
display  of  the  wealth  and  power  of  those 
who  contributed  the  costly  material  for  these 
works  that  makes  them  interesting  to  our 
imagination  ;  but  it  is  the  wealth  of  genius, 
and  a  perception  of  the  delight  of  the  artisans 
who  did  these  things,  as  artists  designing 
their  own  works,  and  thus  immortalizing 
every  transient  phase  of  their  fancy  and 
thought.  It  is  the  religious  art  which  is 
always  the  most  exquisite ;  and  when  we 
go  into  the  choirs  of  cathedrals,  and  see  a 
hundred  stalls  of  which  the  carved  orna- 
mentation does  not  show  two  patterns 


and  Literacy  Notices. 


127 


alike,  we  feel  that  truly  here  the  cm 
taken  out  of  labor  ;  and  that  these 
of  wood  were  no  mechanical  slavish  labor- 
ers, to  be  pitied,  but  conscious  creators  of 
beauty,  to  be  envied  for  their  opportunity 
of  expressing  their  devotion. 

It  was  only  for  about  three  hundred 
years  that  the  artisans  of  Europe  were  art- 
Acll.  This  identification  of  the  art- 
ist and  artisan  had  two  good  effects.  One 
was  the  effect  on  art.  It  seemed  that  there 
should  be  no  mere  mechanical  work,  but 
that  everything  should  be  a  work  of  high 
art.  For  he  who  designed  was  obliged  to 
execute  ;  and  thus  he  never  transgressed 
the  bounds  of  possibility,  but  kept  to  the 
sobriety  of  nature.  Our  artists  only  de- 
sign, they  are  not  disciplined  to  labor  ;  and 
therefore  they  grow  fantastic,  and  miss  a 
certain  high  influence  upon  the  mind  which 
comes  from  the  exercise  of  the  hand  and 
body.  Whatever  gives  one-sided  activity  to 
a  man  disturbs  the  symmetry  of  his  being, 
and  develops  the  spiritual  evil  of  self-suf- 
ficiency, with  a  contempt  for  the  fellow-man 
whs  merely  executes  his  design,  as  if  he  were 
L  When  the  artisan  and  artist  are 
one,  there  is  a  more  symmetrical  being,  and 
te  of  the  activity  is  a  humble  self- 
respect  which  is  the  secondfand  best  effect 
of  the  identification. 

Cardinal  Wiseman  illustrates  his  views 
by  a  multitude  of  anecdotes  of  that  era 
when  Raphael  was  a  house-painter,  and 
Angelo  a  stone-cutter  and  fort- 
builder,  and  Henvcnuto  Cellini  was  a  smith 
who  worked  all  day  with  his  apron  on,  in  a 
shop  on  the  street,  but  spent  his  evening.; 
with  princes,  instructing  them  in  the  princi- 
ples of  beauty  by  which  God  created  the 
world. 

The  Cardinal  does  not  hold  out  to  the 
workingmen  of  Manchester  any  hope,  how- 
ever, that  even  if  the  artisan  of  to-day  shall 
again  become  an  artist,  he  shall  find  his 
social  position  raised  thereby  in  the  mod- 
ern artificial  European  society. 

But  in  America  there  is  no  reason  why 
this  identification,  if  it  can  be  produced, 
shall  not  bring  some  such  result ;  and  this 
is  set  forth  with  a  great  deal  of  zeal  in  the 
Plea  for  the  Reform  of  Primary  Education, 
postulated  and  worked  out  by  Friedrich 
Froebel,  which  constitutes  the  other  part  of 
the  present  pamphlet.  It  is  here  shown  that 
this  plan  of  education,  which  is  applied  to 
early  infancy,  taking  children  from  the  age 
of  three,  is  a  training  of  the  body,  mind, 
and  heart  in  harmony,  by  employing  the  ac- 


children  in  the  production  of  some 
object  within  the  sphere  of  the  childish 
thought,  for  some  motive  dear  to  the  child- 
ish heart ;  and  thus  that  it  begins  the  edu- 
cation actively,  at  an  age  before  the  mind 
can  be  addressed  with  any  abstract  truths, 
preparing  the  intellectual  ground  for  in- 
struction, by  educating  children  to  be  prac- 
tical artists,  as  it  were,  at  first.  In  the 
•i  the  world,  art  seems  to  precede 
science  always. 

The  thing  is  certainly  worth  looking  into  ; 
and  the  American  artisan  will  see  in  the 
splendid  statement  of  Cardinal  Wiseman 
good  reason  to  believe  that  the  future 
holds  in  store  for  him  a  beautiful  destiny ; 
since  it  is  obvious  that  the  same  causes 
will  always  produce  the  same  effects.  The 
constitution  of  the  country  in  which  the 
American  artisan  lives  protects  his  freedom 
to  worship  and  work  artistically,  by  sup- 
porting his  right  to  be  educated  to  the 
full  development  of  all  his  powers.  Sci- 
ence, too,  has  come  to  rescue  him  from  the 
harder  work  which  depresses  the  body  and 
moral  spirit,  and  quenches  inspiration ;  it 
has  made  slaves  of  the  great  insensible 
forces  of  nature,  and  has  left  man  free  to  do 
what  only  man  can  do,  —  express  his  heart 
and  mind  by  the  work  of  his  hands. 

•  Catalogue  of  the  Collection  of  Engravings  be- 
tjueathed  to  Harvard  College  by  Francis 
Callcy  Gray.  By  Louis  TRIES.  Cam- 
bridge :  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 

CATALOGUES,  as  a  general  rule,  seem  to 
belong  to  that  class  of  books  which  arc  char- 
acterized by  Charles  Lamb  as  biblia  a-biblia, 
books  which  are  no  books,  like  "court-cal- 
endars, directories,  pocket-books,  draught- 
boards, bound  and  lettered  at  the  back"; 
but  the  work  before  us  is  an  exception  to 
the  rule,  as  Charles  Lamb  himself,  with  his 
love  of  prints,  would  have  admitted.  It 
is  a  remarkable  production,  deserving  a 
permanent  place  on  the  shelves  of  every 
lover  of  art.  The  collection  of  engravings 
which  it  describes  was  made  by  the  late 
Francis  Calley  Gray,  a  man  of  a  vigorous, 
active,  and  highly  cultivated  mind,  of  whom 
the  preface  says,  with  strict  truth,  that "  in 
variety  and  accuracy  of  knowledge  he  was 
admitted,  by  common  consent,  to  have  had 
no  superior  in  the  community  in  which  he 
lived."  His  range  of  reading  was  immense, 
his  love  of  knowledge  was  a  ruling  passion 
to  the  last,  and  his  memory  held  with  a  te- 
nacious grasp  everything  it  had  once  seized. 


128 


Revieivs  and  Literary  Notices. 


[January. 


lie  was  often  in  Europe ;  and  his  early  visits 
were  made  at  a  time  when  few  Americans, 
at  least  few  cultivated  Americans,  went 
abroad.  What  he  saw  in  Europe  developed 
in  him  a  love  of  art,  in  addition  to  that 
love  of  literature  which  was  born  with  him, 
and  had  been  fostered  by  all  the  means 
and  appliances  which  his  native  country 
could  furnish.  He  began  early  to  buy  en- 
gravings, and  having  ample  means,  he  be- 
came gradually  the  owner  of  the  large  and 
precious  collection  which  is  here  minutely 
described.  His  purchases  were  made  with 
judgment  and  taste.  He  was  not  an  artist 
himself,  nor  was  he  largely  endowed  with 
the  imaginative  and  poetic  element ;  and 
his  collection  was  made  to  satisfy  his  love 
of  knowledge  as  well  as  to  gratify  his  love 
of  beauty.  It  was  his  aim  to  gather  a  series 
of  engravings  which  should  be  of  value  as 
a  history  of  the  art,  and  many  of  his  acqui- 
sitions were  made  with  that  view.  His  en- 
gravings and  his  library  were  regarded  by 
him  as  complementary  to  each  other  and 
parts  of  one  whole. 

Mr.  Gray  devised  his  collection  to  Har- 
vard College,  and  with  it  a  choice  library 
of  works  and  several  valuable  illustrated 
works.  It  was  his  request  that  a  catalogue 
should  be  prepared  by  Mr.  Louis  Thies, 
who  had  been  for  many  years  a  diligent 
student  of  art,  whose  knowledge  of  engrav-  . 
ings  was  extensive  and  accurate,  and  who 
was  entirely  familiar  with  the  collection, 
having  been,  indeed,  the  agent  through 
whom  many  of  its  choicest  treasures  were 
acquired.  The  Catalogue  before  us,  which 
has  been  a  long  time  in  preparation,  was 
drawn  up  in  compliance  with  Mr.  Gray's 
request.  And  a  glance  at  almost  any  page 
will  furnish  an  answer  to  a  question  which 
has  been  sometimes  asked,  —  why  the  publi- 
cation has  been  so  long  delayed  ;  for  nearly 
every  page  contains  proof  of  the  immense 
amount  of  thorough  and  conscientious  labor 
which  the  compiler  has  bestowed  upon  his 
modest  task.  Not  only  have  all  the  ap- 
proved manuals  and  monographs  been  con- 
sulted, but  much  of  the  information  con- 
tained in  the  Catalogue  is  the  fruit  of 
personal  observation  and  long-continued 
research  in  the  galleries,  collections,  and 
print-shops  of  Europe  ;  and  the  compiler 
does  himself  no  more  than  justice  when  he 


expresses  in  his  preface  the  hope  "that  the 
pains  which  have  been  taken  to  determine 
the  states  of  the  prints,  and  to  make  refer- 
ence to  the  original  pictures,  will  prove  of 
use  to  other  collectors,  as  well  as  to  future 
compilers  of  manuals  of  engravings." 

To  all  such  persons  indeed  the  Catalogue 
will  prove  an  invaluable  aid.  We  doubt 
whether  there  is  in  our  language  a  manual 
of  the  kind  which,  within  its  range,  is  so 
full  of  useful  information.  There  have 
been  larger  collections  than  Mr.  Gray's, 
and  catalogues  of  them ;  but  such  cata- 
logues do  not  equal  this  in  thoroughness 
and  completeness.  Here  we  have  a  large 
and  admirable  collection,  with  a  catalogue 
which  is  absolutely  perfect  in  all  that  the 
print-collector  can  desire.  It  is  a  marvel 
of  accurate  knowledge  and  persevering  re- 
search. And  no  amount  of  book-knowledge 
alone  would  have  sufficed  to  prepare  it.  Mr. 
Thies  has  spent  many  years  in  Europe,  is 
very  familiar  with  the  great  picture-galler- 
ies there,  and  with  such  collections  of  en- 
gravings as  are  accessible  to  the  public  ; 
and  we  presume  there  is  not  a  dealer  in 
engravings,  in  France,  Germany,  and  Eng- 
land at  least,  whose  treasures  he  has  not 
examined.  Thus  a  great  deal  of  the  infor- 
mation he  has  ^ut  into  his  pages  is  derived 
at  first  hand. 

And  in  the  consciousness. of  having  pro- 
duced a  thorough  piece  of  work,  which  the 
few  will  appreciate,  Mr.  Thies  must  find 
compensation  and  consolation  for  the  fact 
that  the  value  of  his  immense  labors  cannot 
be  apprehended  by  the  many.  Indeed,  the 
Catalogue  is  perhaps  open  to  the  criticism 
of  presuming  too  much  upon  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  reader,  and  not  condescending 
enough  to  his  ignorance.  Its  value  to  the 
general  reader  might  have  been  greater, 
had  there  been  an  Introduction,  with  some 
elementary  information  as  to  the  kinds 
of  engraving,  the  processes,  the  several 
states  of  a  plate,  and  the  style  and  manner 
of  great  engravers.  But  we  are  not  dis- 
posed to  criticise  a  production  which  does 
so  much  honor  to  ,Mr.  Thies's  knowledge, 
industry,  and  taste,  and  is  so  informed  with 
the  spirit  of  the  true  artist,  whether  work- 
ing with  pen,  pencil,  chisel,  or  burin  ;  and 
that  is  the  love  of  excellence  for  its  own 
sake. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A   Magazine  of  Literature,  Science,   Art, 
and  Politics. 


VOL.    XXV.— FEBRUARY,    1870.  —  NO.    CXLVIII. 


JOSEPH    AND    HIS    FRIEND. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

ON  the  following  Saturday  after- 
noon, Rachel  Miller  sat  at  the 
front  window  of  the  sitting-room,  and 
arranged  her  light  task  of  sewing  and 
darning,  with  a  feeling  of  unusual  com- 
fort. The  household  work  of  the  week 
was  over  ;  the  weather  was  fine  and 
warm,  with  a  brisk  drying  breeze  for 
the  hay  on  the  hill-field,  the  last  load  of 
which  Joseph  expected  to  have  in  the 
barn  before  his  five-o'clock  supper  was 
ready.  As  she  looked  down  the  valley, 
she  noticed  that  the  mowers  were  still 
swinging  their  way  through  Hunter's 
grass,  and  that  Cunningham's  corn 
sorely  needed  working.  There  was  a 
different  state  of  things  on  the  Asten 
place.  Everything  was  done,  and  well 
done,  up  to  the  front  of  the  season. 
The  weather  had  been  fortunate,  it  was 
true  ;  but  Joseph  had  urged  on  the 
work  with  a  different  spirit.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  he  had  taken  a  new  interest 
in  the  farm  ;  he  was  here  and  there, 
even  inspecting  with  his  own  eyes  the 
minor  duties  which  had  been  formerly 
intrusted  to  his  man  Dennis.  How 


could  she  know  that  this  activity  was 
the  only  outlet  for  a  restless  heart  ? 

If  any  &vil  should  come  of  his  social 
recreation,  she  had  done  her  duty ;  but 
no  evil  seemed  likely.  She  had  always 
separated  his  legal  from  his  moral  in- 
dependence ;  there  was  no  enactment 
establishing  the  period  when  the  latter 
commenced,  and  it  could  not  be  made 
manifest  by  documents,  like  the  former. 
She  would  have  admitted,  certainly, 
that  her  guardianship  must  cease  at 
some  time,  but  the  thought  of  making 
preparation  for  that  time  had  never  en- 
tered her  head.  She  only  understood 
conditions,  not  the  adaptation  of  char- 
acters to  them.  Going  back  over  her 
own  life,  she  could  recall  but  little  dif- 
ference between  the  girl  of  eighteen 
and  the  woman  of  thirty.  There  was 
the  same  place  in  her  home,  the  same 
duties,  the  same  subjection  to  the  will 
of  her  parents,  —  no  exercise  of  inde- 
pendence or  self-reliance  anywhere, 
and  no  growth  of  those  virtues  beyond 
what  a  passive  maturity  brought  with 
it. 

Even  now  she  thought  very  little 
about  any  question  of  life  in  connection 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   XXV.  —  NO.    148.  9 


130 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[February, 


with  Joseph.  Her  parents  had  trained 
her  in  the  discipline  of  a  rigid  sect, 
and  she  could  not  dissociate  the  idea 
of  morality  from  that  of  solemn  renun- 
ciation. She  could  not  say  that  social 
pleasures  were  positively  wrong,  but 
they  always  seemed  to  her  to  be  en- 
joyed on  the  outside  of  an  open  door 
labelled  "  Temptation"  ;  and  who  could 
tell  what  lay  beyond?  Some  very 
good  people,  she  knew,  were  fond  of 
company,  and  made  merry  in  an  inno- 
cent fashion  ;  they  were  of  mature 
years  and  settled .  characters,  and  Jo- 
seph was  only  a  boy.  The  danger, 
however,  was  not  so  imminent :  no 
fault  could  be  found  with  his  attention 
to  duty,  and  a  chance  so  easily  escaped 
was  a  comfortable  guaranty  for  the 
future. 

In  the  midst  of  this  mood  (we  can 
hardly  say,  train  of  thought),  she  de- 
tected the  top  of  a  carriage  through 
the  bushes  fringing  the  lane.  The  ve- 
hicle presently  came  into  view :  Anna 
Warriner  was  driving,  and  there  were 
two  other  ladies  on  the  back  seat.  As 
they  drew  up  at  the  hitching-post  on 
the  green,  she  recognized  Lucy  Hen- 
derson getting  out ;  but  the  airy  crea- 
ture who  sprang  after  her,  —  the  girl 
with  dark,  falling  ringlets,  —  could  it 
be  the  stranger  from  town  ?  The  plain, 
country-made  gingham  dress,  the  sober 
linen  collar,  the  work-bag  on  her  arm, 
—  could  they  belong  to  the  stylish 
young  lady  whose  acquaintance  had 
turned  Anna's  head  ? 

A  proper  spirit  of  hospitality  re- 
quired her  to  meet  the  visitors  at  the 
gate  ;  so  there  was  no  time  left  for  con- 
jecture. She  was  a  little  confused,  but 
not  dissatisfied  at  the  chance  of  seeing 
the  stranger. 

"  We  thought  we  could  come  for  an 
hour  this  afternoon,  without  disturbing 
you,"  said  Anna  Warriner.  "  Mother 
has  lost  your  receipt  for  pickling  cher- 
ries, and  Bob  said  you  were  already 
through  with  the  hay-harvest;  and  so 
we  brought  Julia  along,  — this  is  Julia 
Blessing." 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Miss  Bless- 
ing, timidly  extending  her  hand,  and 


slightly  dropping  her  eyelids.  She 
then  fell  behind  Anna  and  Lucy,  and 
spoke  no  more  until  they  were  all  seat- 
ed in  the  sitting-room. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  country  by 
this  time  ?  ;'  Rachel  asked,  feeling  that 
a  little  attention  was  necessary  to  a 
new  guest. 

"So  well  that  I  think  I  shall  never 
like  the  city  again/'  Miss  Blessing  an- 
swered. "  This  quiet,  peaceful  life  is 
such  a  rest;  and  I  really  never  before 
knew  what  order  was,  and  industry, 
and  economy." 

She  looked  around  the  room  as  she 
spoke,  and  glanced  at  the  barn  through 
the  eastern  window. 

"Yes,  your  ways  in  town  are  very 
different,"  Rachel  remarked. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  now,  that  they  are 
entirely  artificial.  I  find  myself  so  ig- 
norant of  the  proper  way  of  living  that 
I  should  be  embarrassed  among  you,  if 
you  were  not  all  so  very  kind.  But  I 
am  trying  to  learn  a  little." 

"  O,  we  don't  expect  too  much  of 
town's-folks,"  said  Rachel,  in  a  much 
more  friendly  tone,  "  and  we  're  always 
glad  to  see  them  willing  to  put  up  with 
our  ways.  But  not  many  are." 

"  Please  don't  count  me  among 
those!"  Miss  Blessing  exclaimed. 

"No,  indeed,  Miss  Rachel!"  said 
Anna  Warriner  ;  "  you  'd  be  surprised 
to  know  how  Julia  gets  along  with 
everything,  —  don't  she,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  's  very  quick,"  Lucy  Hen- 
derson replied. 

Miss  Blessing  cast  down  her  eyes, 
smiled,  and  shook  her  head. 

Rachel  Miller  asked  some  questions 
which  opened  the  sluices  of  Miss  War- 
riner's  gossip,  —  and  she  had  a  good 
store  of  it.  The  ways  and  doings  of 
various  individuals  were  discussed,  and 
Miss  Blessing's  occasional  remarks 
showed  a  complete  familiarity  with 
them.  Her  manner  was  grave  and 
attentive,  and  Rachel  was  surprised  to 
find  so  much  unobtrusive  good  sense 
in  her  views.  The  reality  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  her  previously  assumed 
impression,  that  she  felt  bound  to  make 
some  reparation.  Almost  before  she 


Joseph  and  Ills  I*  ricnd. 


.\vare  of  it,  her  manner  became 
wholly  friendly  and  pleasant. 

u  May  I  look  at  your  trees  and  flow- 
ers ?"  Miss  IJlessing  asked,  when  the 
gossip  had  been  pretty  well  exhausted. 

They  all  arose  and  went  out  on  the 
lawn.  Rose  and  woodbine,  phlox  and 
verbena,  passed  under  review,  and  then 
the  long,  rounded  walls  of  box  attract- 
ed Miss  Pressing's  eye.  This  was  a 
feature  of  the  place  in  which  Rachel 
Miller  felt  considerable  pride,  and  she 
led  the  way  through  the  garden  gate. 
Anna  Warriner,  however,  paused,  and 
said  :  — 

"  Lucy,  let  us  go  down  to  the  spring- 
house.  We  can  get  back  again  before 
Julia  has  half  finished  her  raptures." 

Lucy  hesitated  a  moment.  She 
looked  at  Miss  Blessing,  who  laughed 
and  said,  "  O,  don't  mind  me  !  "  as  she 
took  her  place  at  Rachel's  side. 

The  avenue  of  box  ran  the  whole 
length  of  the  garden,  which  sloped 
gently  to  the  south.  At  the  bottom, 
the  green  walls  curved  outward,  form- 
ing three  fourths  of  a  circle,  spacious 
enough  to  contain  several  seats.  There 
;  delightful  view  of  the  valley 
through  the  opening. 

''  The  loveliest  place  I  ever  saw  !  " 
exclaimed  Miss  Blessing,  taking  one  of 
the  rustic  chairs.  ;'How  pleasant  it 
must  be,  when  you  have  all  your  neigh- 
bors here  together  !  " 

Rachel  Miller  was  a  little  startled  ; 
but  before  she  could  reply,  Miss  Bless- 
ing continued  :  — 

"  There  is  such  a  difference  between 
a  company  of  young  people  here  in  the 
country,  and  what  is  called  'a  party' 
in  the  city.  There  it  is  all  dress  and 
flirtation  and  vanity,  but  here  it  is 
only  neighborly  visiting  on  a  larger 
scale.  I  have  enjoyed  the  quiet  com- 
pany of  all  your  folks  so  much  the 
more,  because  I  felt  that  it  was  so 
very  innocent.  Indeed,  I  don't  see 
how  anybody  could  be  led  into  harmful 
ways  here.  " 

'•  I  don't  know,"  said  Rachel :  "  we 
must  learn  to  mistrust  our  own  hearts." 

"  You  are  right  !  The  best  are  weak 
—  of  themselves  ;  but  there  is  more 


safety  where  all  have  been  brought  up 
unacquainted  with  temptation.  Now, 
you  will  perhaps  wonder  at  me  when  1 
say  that  I  could  trust  the  young  men 
—  for  instance,  Mr.  Astcn,  your  neph- 
ew —  as  if  they  were  my  brothers. 
That  is,  I  feel  a  positive  certainty  of 
their  excellent  character.  What  they 
say  they  mean  :  it  is  otherwise  in  the 
city.  It  is  delightful  to  see  them  all 
together,  like  members  of  one  family. 
You  must  enjoy  it,  I  should  think,  when 
they  meet  here." 

Rachel  Mifler's  eyes  opened  wide,  and 
there  was  both  a  puzzled  and  a  search- 
ing expression  in  the  look  she  gave 
Miss  Blessing.  The  latter,  with  an  air 
of  almost  infantine  simplicity,  her  lips 
slightly  parted,  accepted  the  scrutiny 
with  a  quiet  cheerfulness  which  seemed 
the  perfection  of  candor. 

"The  truth  is,"  said  Rachel,  slowly, 
"  this  is  a  new  thing.  I  hope  the  mer- 
ry-makings are  as  innocent  as  you 
think  ;  but  I  'm  afraid  they  unsettle  the 
young  people,  after  all." 

"Do  you,  really?"  exclaimed  Miss 
Blessing.  "What  have  you  seen  in 
them  which  leads  you  to  think  so? 
But  no  —  never  mind  my  question  : 
you  may  have  reasons  which  I  have  no 
right  to  ask.  Now,  I  remember  Mr. 
Asten  telling  Anna  and  Lucy  and  my- 
self, how  much  he  should  like  to  invite 
his  friends  here,  if  it  were  not  for  a 
duty  which  prevented  it ;  and  a  duty, 
he  said,  was  more  important  to  him 
than  a  pleasure." 

"  Did  Joseph  say  that  ?  "  Rachel  ex- 
claimed. 

"  O,  perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  have  told 
it,"  said  Miss  Blessing,  casting  down 
her  eyes  and  blushing  in  confusion  : 
<:  in  that  case,  please,  don't  say  anything 
about  it !  Perhaps  it  was  a  duty  to- 
wards you,  for  he  told  me  that  he 
looked  upon  you  as  a  second  mother." 

Rachel's  eyes  softened,  and  it  was  a 
little  while  before  she  spoke.  "  I  've 
tried  to  do  my  duty  by  him,"  she  fal- 
tered at  last,  "but  it  sometimes  seems 
an  unthankful  business,  and  I  can't 
always  tell  how  he  takes  it.  And  so 
he  wanted  to  have  a  company  here  ?  " 


Joseph  and  Ids  Friend. 


[February, 


"  I  am  so  sorry  I  said  it ! "  cried 
Miss  Blessing.  "I  never  thought  you 
were  opposed  to  company,  on  principle. 
Miss  Chaffinch,  the  minister's  daugh- 
ter, you  know,  was  there  the  last 
time ;  and,  really,  if  you  could  see 
it —  But  it  is  presumptuous  in  me  to 
say  anything.  Indeed,  I  am  not  a  fair 
judge,  because  these  little  gatherings 
have  enabled  me  to  make  such  pleas- 
ant acquaintances.  And  the  young 
men  tell  me  that  they  work  all  the 
better  after  them." 

"  It's  only  on  his  account,"caid  Ra- 
chel. 

"  Nay,  I  'm  sure  that  the  last  thing 
Mr.  Asten  would  wish  would  be  your 
giving  up  a  principle  for  his  sake  !  I 
know,  from  his  face,  that  his  own  char- 
acter is  founded  on  principle.  And, 
besides,  here  in  the  country,  you  don't 
keep  count  of  hospitality,  as  they  do 
in  the  city,  and  feel  obliged  to  return 
as  much  as  you  receive.  So,  if  you 
will  try  to  forget  what  I  have  said — " 

Rachel  interrupted  her.  "  I  meant 
something  different.  Joseph  knows 
why  I  objected  to  parties.  He  must 
not  feel  under  obligations  which  I  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  repaying.  If  he  tells 
me  that  he  should  like  to  invite  his 
friends  to  this  place,  I  will  help  him  to 
entertain  them." 

"You  are  his  second  mother,  in- 
deed," Miss  Blessing  murmured,  look- 
ing at  her  with  a  fond  admiration. 
"  And  now  I  can  hope  that  you  will  for- 
give my  thoughtlessness.  I  should  feel 
humiliated  in  his  presence,  if  he  knew 
that  I  had  repeated  his  words.  But  he 
will  not  ask  you,  and  this  is  the  end  of 
any  harm  I  may  have  done." 

"No,"  said  Rachel,  "he  will  not  ask 
me;  but  won't  I  be  an  offence  in  his 
mind  ?  " 

"  I  can  understand  how  you  feel  — 
only  a  woman  can  judge  a  woman's 
heart.  Would  you  think  me  too  for- 
ward if  I  tell  you  what  might  be  done, 
this  once  ?  " 

She  stole  softly  up  to  Rachel  as  she 
spoke,  and  laid  her  hand  gently  upon 
her  arm. 

"Perhaps  I  am  wrong, — but  if  you 


were  first  to  suggest  to  your  nephew 
that  if  he  wished  to  make  some  return 
for  the  hospitality  of  his  neighbors,  — 
or  put  it  in  whatever  form  you  think 
best,  —  would  not  that  remove  the  'of- 
fence '  (though  he  surely  cannot  look  at 
it  in  that  light),  and  make  him  grateful 
and  happy  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Rachel,  after  a  little 
reflection,  "if  anything  is  done,  that 
would  be  as  good  a  way  as  any." 

"  And,  of  course,  you  won't  mention 
me?" 

"There's  no  call  to  do  it  —  as  I  can 
see." 

"Julia,  dear  !  "  cried  Anna  from  the 
gate ;  "  come  and  see  the  last  load  of 
hay  hauled  into  the  barn  ! " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it,  if  you  will 
excuse  me,"  said  Miss  Blessing  to 
Rachel ;  "  I  have  taken  quite  an  inter- 
est in  farming." 

As  they  were  passing  the  porch,  Ra- 
chel paused  on  the  step  and  said  to 
Anna  :  "  You  '11  bide  and  get  your  sup- 
pers ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Anna  replied  :  "we 
did  n't  mean  to  ;  but  we  stayed  longer 
than  we  intended —  " 

"  Then  you  can  easily  stay  longer 
still." 

There  was  nothing  unfriendly  in  Ra- 
chel's blunt  manner.  Anna  laughed, 
took  Miss  Blessing  by  the  arm,  and 
started  for  the  barn.  Lucy  Henderson 
quietly  turned  and  entered  the  house, 
where,  without  any  offer  of  services, 
she  began  to  assist  in  arranging  the 
table. 

The  two  young  ladies  took  their  stand 
on  the  green,  at  a  safe  distance,  as  the 
huge  fragrant  load  approached.  The 
hay  overhung  and  concealed  the  wheels, 
as  well  as  the  hind  quarters  of  the  oxen, 
and  on  the  summit  stood  Joseph,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  and  leaning  on  a  pitch-fork. 
He  bent  forward  as  he  saw  them,  an- 
swering their  greetings  with  an  eager, 
surprised  face. 

"  O,  take  care,  take  care  !  "  cried 
Miss  Blessing,  as  the  load  entered  the 
barn-door ;  but  Joseph  had  already 
dropped  upon  his  knees  and  bent  his 
shoulders.  Then  the  wagon  stood 


1870.] 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


133 


upon  the  barn-floor ;  he  sprang  lightly 
upon  a  beam,  descended  the  upright 
ladder,  and  the  next  moment  was  shak- 
ing hands  with  them. 

"  We  have  kept  our  promise,  you 
see,"  said  Miss  Blessing. 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  house  yet  ? " 
Joseph  asked,  looking  at  Anna. 

"  O,  for  an  hour  past,  and  we  are 
going  to  take  supper  with  you." 

"  Dennis  !  "  cried  Joseph,  turning  to- 
wards the  barn,  "  we  will  let  the  load 
stand  to-night." 

"  How  much  better  a  man  looks  in 
shirt-sleeves  than  in  a  dress-coat ! " 
remarked  Miss  Blessing  aside  to  Anna 
Warriner,  but  not  in  so  low  a  tone  as 
to  prevent  Joseph  from  hearing  it. 

"  Why,  Julia,  you  are  perfectly  coun- 
trified !  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it !"  Anna  replied. 

Joseph  turned  to  them  again,  with  a 
bright  flush  on  his  face.  He  caught 
Miss  Blessing's  eyes,  full  of  admira- 
tion, before  the  lids  fell  modestly  over 
them. 

"  So  you  've  seen  my  home,  al- 
ready ?  "  he  said,  as  they  walked  slow- 
ly towards  the  house. 

"O,  not  the  half  yet !  "  she  answered, 
in  a  low,  earnest  tone.  "  A  place  so 
lovely  and  quiet  as  this  cannot  be  ap- 
preciated at  once.  I  almost  wish  I  had 
not  seen  it :  what  shall  I  do  when  I 
must  go  back  to  the  hot  pavements, 
and  the  glaring  bricks,  and  the  dust, 
and  the  hollow,  artificial  life?"  She 
tried  to  check  a  sigh,  but  only  partially 
succeeded ;  then,  with  a  sudden  effort, 
she  laughed  lightly,  and  added :  "  I 
wonder  if  everybody  does  n't  long  for 
something  else  ?  Now,  Anna,  here, 
would  think  it  heavenly  to  change 
places  with  me." 

"  Such  privileges  as  you  have  !  "  Anna 
protested. 

"  Privileges  ?  "  Miss  Blessing  echoed. 
"  The  privilege  of  hearing  scandal,  of 
being  judged  by  your  dress,  of  learning 
the  forms  and  manners,  instead  of  the 
good  qualities,  of  men  and  women  ? 
No !  give  me  an  independent  life." 

"  Alone  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Warriner. 

Joseph  looked  at  Miss  Blessing,  who 


made  no  reply.  Her  head  was  turned 
aside,  and  he  could  well  understand 
that  she  must  feel  hurt  at  Anna's  in- 
delicacy. 

In  the  house,  Rachel  Miller  and 
Lucy  had,  in  the  mean  time,  been 
occupied  in  domestic  matters.  The 
former,  however,  was  so  shaken  out 
of  her  usual  quiet  by  the  conversation 
in  the  garden,  that  in  spite  of  prudent 
resolves  to  keep  quiet,  she  could  not 
restrain  herself  from  asking  a  question 
or  two. 

"  Lucy,"  said  she,  "  how  do  you  find 
these  evening  parties  you  've  been  at- 
tending?" 

"  They  are  lively  and  pleasant,  —  at 
least  every  one  says  so." 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  any  more  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  be  the  wish,"  said  Lucyr 
suddenly  hesitating,  as  she  found  Ra- 
chel's eyes  intently  fixed  upon  her  face. 

The  latter  was  silent  for  a  minute, 
arranging  the  tea-service;  but  she 
presently  asked  again  :  "  Do  you  think 
Joseph  would  like  to  invite  the  young 
people  here  ?  " 

"  She  has  told  you  ! "  Lucy  ex- 
claimed, in  unfeigned  irritation.  "  Miss 
Rachel,  don't  let  it  trouble  you  a  mo- 
ment :  nobody  expects  it  of  you  !  " 

Lucy  felt,  immediately,  that  her  ex- 
pression had  been  too  frankly  positive  ; 
but  even  the  consciousness  thereof  did 
not  enable  her  to  comprehend  its  effect. 

Rachel  straightened  herself  a  little, 
and  said  "  Indeed  ?  "  in  anything  but 
an  amiable  tone.  She  went  to  the  cup- 
board and  returned,  before  speaking 
again.  "  I  did  n't  say  anybody  told 
me,"  she  continued;  "it's  likely  that 
Joseph  might  think  of  it,  and  I  don't 
see  why  people  should  expect  me  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  wishes." 

Lucy  was  so  astonished  that  she 
could  not  immediately  reply;  and  the 
entrance  of  Joseph  and  the  two  ladies 
cut  off  all  further  opportunity  of  clear- 
ing up  what  she  felt  to  be  an  awkward 
misunderstanding. 

"  I  must  help,  too ! "  cried  Miss 
Blessing,  skipping  into  the  kitchen 
after  Rachel.  "  That  is  one  thing,  at 
least,  which  we  can  learn  in  the  city. 


134 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[February, 


Indeed,  if  it  wasn't  for  housekeeping, 
I  should  feel  terribly  useless." 

Rachel  protested  against  her  help, 
but  in  vain.  Miss  Blessing  had  a  laugh 
and  a  lively  answer  for  every  remon- 
strance, and  flitted  about  in  a  manner 
which  conveyed  the  impression  that 
she  was  doing  a  great  deal. 

Joseph  could  scarcely  believe  his 
eyes,  when  he  came  clown  from  his 
room  in  fresh  attire,  and  beheld  his 
aunt  not  only  so  assisted,  but  seeming 
to  enjoy  it.  Lucy,  who  appeared  to  be 
ill  at  ease,  had  withdrawn  from  the 
table,  and  was  sitting  silently  beside 
the  window.  'Recalling  their  conver- 
sation a  few  evenings  before,  he  sus- 
pected that  she  might  be  transiently 
annoyed  on  his  aunt's  account;  she 
had  less  confidence,  perhaps,  in  Miss 
Blessing's  winning,  natural  manners. 
So  Lucy's  silence  threw  no  shadow 
upon  his  cheerfulness :  he  had  never 
felt  so  happy,  so  free,  so  delighted  to 
assume  the  character  of  a  host. 

After  the  first  solemnity  which  fol- 
lowed the  taking  of  seats  at  the  table, 
the  meal  proceeded  with  less  than  the 
usual  decorum.  Joseph,  indeed,  so  far 
forgot  his  duties,  that  his  aunt  was 
obliged  to  remind  him  of  them  from 
time  to  time.  Miss  Blessing  was  en- 
thusiastic over  the  cream  and  butter 
and  marmalade,  and  Rachel  Miller 
found  it  exceedingly  pleasant  to  have 
her  handiwork  appreciated.  Although 
she  always  did  her  best,  for  Joseph's 
sake,  she  knew  that  men  have  very 
ignorant,  indifferent  tastes  in  such 
matters. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  Anna 
Warrincr  said  :  "  We  are  going  to  take 
Lucy  on  her  way  as  far  as  the  cross- 
roads ;  so  there  will  not  be  more  than 
time  to  get  home  by  sunset." 

Before  the  carriage  was  ready,  how- 
ever, another  vehicle  drove  up  the  lane. 
Elwood  Withers  jumped  out,  gave 
Joseph  a  hearty  grip  of  his  powerful 
hand,  greeted  the  others  rapidly,  and 
then  addressed  himself  specially  to 
Lucy  :  "  I  was  going  to  a  township- 
meeting  at  the  Corner,"  said  he  ;  "  but 
Bob  Warriner  told  me  you  were  here 


with  Anna,  so  I  thought  I  could  save 
her  a  roundabout  drive  by  taking  you 
myself." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  'm  sorry  you 
should  go  so  far  out  of  your  road,"  said 
Lucy.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  there 
was  an  evident  constraint  in  the  smile 
which  accompanied  the  words. 

"  O,  he  'd  go  twice  as  far  for  com- 
pany," Anna  Warriner  remarked.  "  You 
know  I  'd  take  you,  and  welcome,  but 
Elwood  has  a  good  claim  on  you,  now." 

"  I  have  no  claim,  Lucy,"  said  El- 
wood, rather  doggedly. 

"  Let  us  go,  then,"  were  Lucy's 
words. 

She  rose,  and  the  four  were  soon 
seated  in  the  two  vehicles.  They  drove 
away  in  the  low  sunshine,  one  pair 
chatting  and  laughing  merrily  as  long 
as  they  were  within  hearing,  the  other 
singularly  grave  and  silent. 

CHAPTER  V. 

FOR  half  a  mile  Elwood  Withers  fol- 
lowed the  carriage  containing  Anna 
Warriner  and  her  friend ;  then,  at  the 
curve  of  the  valley  their  roads  parted, 
and  Lucy  and  he  were  alone.  The  soft 
light  of  the  delicious  summer  evening 
was  around  them  ;  the  air,  cooled  by 
the  stream  which  broadened  and  bick- 
ered beside  their  way,  was  full  of  all 
healthy  meadow  odors,  and  every  farm 
in  the  branching  dells  they  passed  was 
a  picture  of  tranquil  happiness.  Yet 
Lucy  had  sighed  before  she  was  aware 
of  it, — a  very  faint,  tremulous  breath, 
but  it  reached  El  wood's  sensitive  ear. 

"You  don't  seem  quite  well,  Lucy," 
he  said. 

"  Because  I  have  talked  so  little  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"Not  just  that,  but  —  but  I  was  al- 
most afraid  my  coming  for  you  was  not 
welcome.  I  don't  mean  —  "  But  here 
he  grew  confused,  and  did  not  finish 
the  sentence. 

"  Indeed,  it  was  very  kind  of  you," 
said  she.  This  was  not  an  answer  to 
his  remark,  and  both  felt  that  it  was 
not. 

Elwood   struck   the   horse   with   his 


1 870.] 


and  his  I 


whip,  then  as  suddenly  drew  the  reins 
on  the  startled  animal.  "  Pshaw  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that  was  almost 
fierce,  <;  what 's  the  use  o'  my  beating 
about  the  bush  in  this  way  ?  " 

Lucy  caught  her  breath,  and  clenched 
her  hands  under  her  shawl  for  one  in- 
stant.    Then    she    became    calm,    and 
I  for  him  to  say  more. 

"  Lucy  ! "  he  continued,  turning  to- 
wards her,  "you  have  a  right  to  think 
me  a  fool.  I  can  talk  to  anybody  else 
more  freely  than  to  you,  and  the  reason 
is,  I  \vant  to  say  more  to  you  than  to  any 
other  woman  !  There  's  no  use  in  my 
being  a  coward  any  longer  ;  it 's  a  des- 
perate venture  I  ?m  making,  but  it  must 
be  made.  Have  you  never  guessed 
how  I  feel  towards  you  ?  " 

s,"  she  answered,  very  quietly. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  it  ? " 
lie  tried  to  speak  calmly,  but  his 
breath  came  thick  and  hard,  and  the 
words  sounded  hoarsely. 

"  I  will  say  this,  Klwood,"'  said  she, 
"  that  because  I  saw  your  heart,  I  have 
watched  your  ways  and  studied  your 
character.  I  find  you  honest  and  man- 
ly in  everything,  and  so  tender  and 
faithful  that  I  wish  I  could  return  your 
affection  in  the  same  measure/' 

•  am,  as  of  lightning,  passed  over 
his  face. 

'•  O,  don't  misunderstand  me  !  ''  she 
crLd,  her   calmness  forsaking  her,  "I 
i.  I  honor  you,  and  that  makes  it 
for  me  to  seem  ungrateful,  un- 
feeling, —  as     I    must.       Elwood,   if   I 
could,  I  would  answer  you  as  you  wish, 
but  I  cannot." 

••  If  1  wait  ?  v  he  whispered. 

'•  And  lose  your  best  years  in  a  vain 
hope  !  No,  Elwpod,  my  friend,  —  let 
me  always  call  you  so,  —  I  have  been 
cowardly  also.  I  knew  an  explanation 
must  come,  and  I  shrank  from  the  pain 
I  should  feel  in  giving  you  pain.  It  is 
hard  ;  and  better  for  both  of  us  that  it 
should  not  be  repeated  !  " 

''  There 's  something  wrong  in  this 
world ! "  he  exclaimed,  after  a  long 
pause.  "  I  suppose  you  could  no  more 
force  yourself  to  love  me  than  I  could 
force  myself  to  love  Anna  Warriner  or 


that  Miss  Blessing.  Then  what  put  it 
into  my  heart  to  love  you  ?  Was  it 
God  or  the  Devil  ?  " 

"  Elwood !  " 

"How  can  I  help  myself?  Can  I 
help  drawing  my  breath  ?  Did  I  set 
about  it  of  my  own  will  ?  Here  I  see  a 
life  that  belongs  to  my  own  life,  —  as 
much  a  part  of  it  as  my  head  or  heart ; 
but  I  can't  reach  it,  —  it  draws  away 
from  me,  and  maybe  joins  itself  to  some 
one  else  forever  !  O  my  God  !  " 

Lucy  burst  into  such  a  violent  pas- 
sion of  weeping,  that  Elwood  forgot 
himself  in  his  trouble  for  her.  He 
had  never  witnessed  such  grief,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  and  his  honest  heart 
was  filled  with  self-reproach  at  having 
caused  it. 

"  Forgive  me,  Lucy  !  "  he  said,  very 
tenderly  encircling  her  with  his  arm, 
and  drawing  her  head  upon  his  shoul- 
der ;  "'  I  spoke  rashly  and  wickedly,  in 
my  disappointment.  I  thought  only  of 
myself,  and  forgot  that  I  might  hurt 
you  by  my  words.  I  !m  not  the  only 
man  who  has  this  kind  of  trouble  to 
»nd  perhaps  if  I  could  see  clear- 
er—  but  I  don't  know  ;  I  can  only  see 
one  thing." 

She  grew  calmer  as  he  spoke.  Lift- 
ing her  head  from  his  shoulder,  she 
took  his  hand,  and  said:  "You  are  a 
true  and  a  noble  man,  Elwood.  It 
is  only  a  grief  to  me  that  I  cannot 
love  you  as  a  wife  should  love  her  hus- 
band. But  my  will  is  as  powerless  as 
yours." 

"  I  believe  you,  Lucy,"  he  answered, 
sadly.  "It's  not  your  fault,  —  but, 
then,  it  is  n't  mine,  either.  You  make 
me  feel  that  the  same  rule  fits  both  of 
us,  leastways  so  far  as  helping  the 
matter  is  concerned.  You  need  n't  tell 
me  I  may  find  another  woman  to  love; 
the  very  thought  of  it  makes  me  sick  at 
heart.  I  'm  rougher  than  you  are,  and 
awkward  in  my  ways —  :' 

"  It  is  not  that !  O,  believe  me,  it  is 
not  that ! "  cried  Lucy,  interrupting 
him.  "  Have  you  ever  sought  for  rea- 
sons to  account  for  your  feeling  toward 
me  ?  Is  it  not  something  that  does  not 
seem  to  depend  upon  what  I  am,  — 


136 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[February, 


upon  any  qualities  that  distinguish  me 
from  other  women  ?  " 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  ?"  El- 
wood  asked.  "  Have  you  —  "  He  com- 
menced, but  did  not  finish  the  ques- 
tion. He  leaned  silently  forward,  urged 
on  the  horse,  and  Lucy  could  see  that 
his  face  was  very  stern. 

"They  say,"  she  began,  on  finding 
that  he  was  not  inclined  to  speak, — 
"  they  say  that  women  have  a  natural 
instinct  which  helps  them  to  understand 
many  things ;  and  I  think  it  must  be 
true.  Why  can  you  not  spare  me  the 
demand  for  reasons  which  I  have  not  ? 
If  I  were  to  take  time,  and  consider  it, 
and  try  to  explain,  it  would  be  of  no 
help  to  you:  it  would  not  change  the 
fact.  I  suppose  a  man  feels  humiliat- 
ed when  this  trouble  comes  upon  him. 
He  shows  his  heart,  and  there  seems 
to  be  a  claim  upon  the  woman  of  his 
choice  to  show  hers  in  return.  The 
sense  of  injustice  is  worse  than  humili- 
ation, Elwood.  Though  I  cannot,  can- 
not do  otherwise,  I  shall  always  have 
the  feeling  that  I  have  wronged  you." 

"  O  Lucy,"  he  murmured,  in  a  very 
sad,  but  not  reproachful  voice,  "  every 
word  you  say,  in  showing  me  that  I 
must  give  you  up,  only  makes  it  more 
impossible  to  me.  And  it  is  just  im- 
possible, —  that 's  the  end  of  the  mat- 
ter !  I  know  how  people  talk  about  trials 
being  sent  us  for  our  good,  and  its  be- 
ing the  will  of  God,  and  all  that.  It 's 
a  trial,  that 's  true  :  whether  it 's  for  my 
good  or  not,  I  shall  learn  after  a  while  ; 
but  I  can  find  out  God's  will  only  by 
trying  the  strength  of  my  own.  Don't 
be  afeared,  Lucy !  I  've  no  notion  of 
saying  or  doing  anything  from  this  time 
on  to  disturb  you,  but  here  you  are  " 
(striking  his  breast  with  his  clenched 
hand),  "and  here  you  will  be  when  the 
clay  comes,  as  I  feel  that  it  must  and 
shall  come,  to  bring  us  together  !  " 

She  could  see  the  glow  of  his  face  in 
the  gathering  dusk,  as  he  turned  to- 
wards her  and  offered  his  hand.  How 
could  she  help  taking  it  ?  If  some 
pulse  in  her  own  betrayed  the  thrill  of 
admiring  recognition  of  the  man's  pow- 
erful and  tender  nature,  which  sudden- 


ly warmed  her  oppressed  blood,  she 
did  not  fear  that  he  would  draw  cour- 
age from  the  token.  She  wished  to 
speak,  but  found  no  words  which,  com- 
ing after  his,  would  not  have  seemed 
either  cold  and  unsympathetic,  or  too 
near  the  verge  of  the  hope  which  she 
would  gladly  have  crushed. 

Elwood  was  silent  for  a  while,  and 
hardly  appeared  to  be  awaiting  an  an- 
swer. Meanwhile  the  road  left  the  val- 
ley, climbing  the  shoulders  of  its  enclos- 
ing hills,  where  the  moist  meadow  fra- 
grance was  left  behind,  and  dry,  warm 
breezes,  filled  with  the  peculiar  smell  of 
the  wheat-fields,  blew  over  them.  It  was 
but  a  mile  farther  to  the  Corner,  near 
which  Lucy's  parents  resided. 

"  How  came  you  three  to  go  to  Jo- 
seph's place  this  afternoon  ?"  he  asked. 
"Was  n't  it  a  dodge  of  Miss  Bless- 
ing's ? " 

"She  proposed  it,  —  partly  in  play,  I 
think ;  and  when  she  afterwards  insist- 
ed on  our  going,  there  seemed  to  be  no 
good  reason  for  refusing." 

"  O,  of  course  not,"  said  Elwood ; 
"but  tell  me  now,  honestly,  Lucy,  what 
do  you  make  out  of  her  ? " 

Lucy  hesitated  a  moment.  "  She  is 
a  little  wilful  in  her  ways,  perhaps,  but 
we  must  n't  judge  too  hastily.  We  have 
known  her  such  a  short  time.  Her 
manner  is  very  amiable." 

«« I  don't  know  about  that,"  Elwood 
remarked.  "  It  reminds  me  of  one  of 
her  dresses,  —  so  rufHed,  and  puckered, 
and  stuck  over  with  ribbons  and  things, 
that  you  can't  rightly  tell  what  the  stuff 
is.  I  'd  like  to  be  sure  whether  she 
has  an  eye  to  Joseph." 

"  To  him  !  "  Lucy  exclaimed. 

"  Him  first  and  fqremost !  He  's  as 
innocent  as  a  year-old  baby.  There 
is  n't  a  better  fellow  living  than  Joseph 
Asten,  but  his  bringing  up  has  been  fit- 
ter for  a  girl  than  a  boy.  He  hasn't 
had  his  eye-teeth  cut  yet,  and  it 's  my 
opinion  that  she  has." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  No  harm.  Used  to  the  world,  as 
much  as  anything  else.  He  don't 
know  how  to  take  people  ;  he  thinks 
th'  outside  color  runs  down  to  the  core. 


1 870.] 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


137 


So  it  does  with  him  ;  but  /  can't  see 
what  that  girl  is,  under  her  pleasant 
ways,  and  he  won't  guess  that  there  's 
anything  else  of  her.  Between  our- 
selves, Lucy,  —  you  don't  like  her.  I 
saw  that  when  you  came  away,  though 
you  were  kissing  each  other  at  the 
time." 

"  What  a  hypocrite  I  must  be  !  " 
cried  Lucy,  rather  fiercely. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Women  kiss  as 
men  shake  hands.  You  don't  go  around., 
saying,  'Julia  dear!'  like  Anna  War- 
riner." 

Lucy  could  not  help  laughing. 
"There,"  she  said,  "that's  enough, 
Elwood  !  I  'd  rather  you  would  think 
yourself  in  the  right  than  to  say  any- 
thing more  about  her  this  evening." 

She  sighed  wearily,  not  attempting 
to  conceal  her  fatigue  and  depression. 

"Well,  well!"  he  replied;  "I'll 
pester  you  no  more  with  disagreeable 
subjects.  There  's  the  house,  now,  and 
you  '11  soon  be  rid  of  me.  I  won't  tell 
you,  Lucy,  that  if  you  ever  want  for 
friendly  service,  you  must  look  to  me, 
—  because  I  'm  afeared  you  won't  feel 
free  to  do  it ;  but  you  '11  take  all  I  can 
find  to  do  without  your  asking." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  he 
drew  up  his  horse  at  the  gate  of  her 
home,  handed  her  out,  said  "  Good 
night !  "  and  drove  away. 


Such  a  singular  restlessness  took 
possession  of  Joseph,  after  the  depar- 
ture of  his  guests,  that  the  evening 
quiet  of  the  farm  became  intolerable. 
He  saddled  his  horse  and  set  out  for 
the  village,  readily  inventing  an  errand 
which  explained  the  ride  to  himself  as 
well  as  to  his  aunt 

The  regular  movements  of  the  ani- 
mal did  not  banish  the  unquiet  motions 
of  his  mind,  but  it  relieved  him  by  giv- 
ing them  a  wider  sweep  and  a  more 
definite  form.  The  man  who  walks  is 
subject  to  the  power  of  his  Antaeus  of 
a  body,  moving  forwards  only  by  means 
of  the  weight  which  holds  it  to  the 
earth.  There  is  a  clog  upon  all  his 
thoughts,  an  ever-present  sense  of  re- 


striction and  impotence.  But  when 
he  is  lifted  above  the  soil,  with  the  air 
under  his  foot  -  soles,  swiftly  moving 
without  effort,  his  mind,  a  poising  Mer- 
cury, mounts  on  winged  heels.  He 
feels  the  liberation  of  new  and  nimble 
powers  ;  wider  horizons  stretch  around 
his  inward  vision  ;  obstacles  are  meas- 
ured or  overlooked  ;  the  brute  strength 
under  him  charges  his  whole  nature 
with  a  more  vigorous  electricity. 

The  fresh,  warm,  healthy  vital  force 
which  filled  Joseph's  body  to  the  last 
embranchment  of  every  nerve  and  vein 
—  the  hum  of  those  multitudinous  spir- 
its of  life,  which,  while  building  their 
glorious  abode,  march  as  if  in  trium- 
phant procession  through  its  secret 
passages,  and  summon  all  the  fairest 
phantoms  of  sense  to  their  completed 
chambers  —  constituted,  far  more  than 
he  suspected,  an  element  of  his  disturb- 
ance. This  was  the  strong  pinion  on 
which  his  mind  and  soul  hung  bal- 
anced, above  the  close  atmosphere 
which  he  seemed  to  ride  away  from,  as 
he  rode.  The  great  joy  of  human  life 
filled  and  thrilled  him  ;  all  possibilities 
of  action  and  pleasure  and  emotion 
swam  before  his  sight ;  all  he  had  read 
or  heard  of  individual  careers  in  all 
ages,  climates,  and  conditions  of  the 
race  —  dazzling  pictures  of  the  myriad- 
sided  earth,  to  be  won  by  whosoever 
dared  arbitrarily  to  seize  the  freedom 
waiting  for  his  grasp  —  floated  through 
his  brain. 

Hitherto  a  conscience  not  born  of 
his  own  nature,  —  a  very  fair  and  saint- 
ly-visaged  jailer  of  thought,  but  a  jailer 
none  the  less,  —  had  kept  strict  guard 
over  every  outward  movement  of  his 
mind,  gently  touching  hope  and  desire 
and  conjecture  when  they  reached 
a  certain  line,  and  saying,  "  No ;  no 
farther :  it  is  prohibited."  But  now, 
with  one  strong,  involuntary  throb,  he 
found  himself  beyond  the  line,  with  all 
the  ranges  ever  trodden  by  man  stretch- 
ing forward  to  a  limitless  horizon.  He 
rose  in  his  stirrups,  threw  out  his  arms, 
lifted  his  face  towards  the  sky,  and 
cried,  "  God  !  I  see  what  I  amj  " 

It  was  only  a  glimpse,  —  like  that  of  a 


338 


Joseph  and  Jus  Friend. 


[February, 


landscape  struck  in  golden  fire  by  light- 
ning, from  the  darkness.  "  What  is 
it,"  he  mused,  "  that  stands  between 
me  and  this  vision  of  life  ?  Who  built 
.1  wall  of  imaginary  law  around  these 
needs,  which  are  in  themselves  inex- 
orable laws?  The  World,  the  Flesh, 
and  the  Devil,  they  say  in  warning. 
Bright,  boundless  world,  my  home,  my 
play-ground,  my  battle-field,  my  king- 
dom to  be  conquered  !  And  this  body 
they  tell  me  to  despise,  —  this  perish- 
ing house  of  clay,  which  is  so  intimate- 
ly myself  that  its  comfort  and  delight 
cheer  me  to  the  inmost  soul :  it  is  a 
dwelling  fit  for  an  angel  to  inhabit ! 
Shall  not  its  hungering  senses  all  be 
fed  ?  Who  shall  decide  for  me  —  if  not 
myself — on  their  claims, —  who  can 
judge  for  me  what  strength  requires  to 
be  exercised,  what  pleasure  to  be  en- 
joyed, what  growth  to  be  forwarded  ? 
All  around  me,  everywhere,  are  the 
means  of  gratification,  —  I  have  but  to 
reach  forth  my  hand  and  grasp ;  but 
a  narrow  cell,  built  ages  ago,  encloses 
me  wherever  I  go  !  " 

Such  was  the  vague  substance  of  his 
thoughts.  It  was  the  old  struggle  be- 
tween life —  primitive,  untamed  life,  as 
the  first  man  may  have  felt  it  —  and 
its  many  masters  :  assertion  and  resist- 
ance, all  the  more  fierce  because  so 
many  influences  laid  their  hands  upon 
its  forces.  As  he  came  back  to  his 
usual  self,  refreshed  by  this  temporary 
escape,  Joseph  wondered  whether  oth- 
er men  shared  the  same  longing  and 
impatience  ;  and  this  turned  his  mus- 
ings into  another  channel.  "  Why  do 
men  so  carefully  conceal  what  is  deep- 
est and  strongest  in  their  natures  ? 
Why  is  so  little  of  spiritual  struggle 
and  experience  ever  imparted  ?  The 
convert  publicly  admits  his  sinful  ex- 
perience, and  tries  to  explain  the  en- 
trance of  grace  into  his  regenerated 
nature  ;  the  reformed  drunkard  seems 
to  take  a  positive  delight  in  making  his 
former  condition  degraded  and  loath- 
some ;  but  the  opening  of  the  individ- 
ual life  to  the  knowledge  of  power  and 
passion^and  all  the  possibilities  of  the 
world  is  kept  more  secret  than  sin. 


Love  is  hidden  as  if  it  were  a  reproach ; 
friendship  watched,  lest  it  express  its 
warmth  too  frankly  ;  joy  and  grief  and 
doubt  and  anxiety  repressed  as  much 
as  possible.  A  great  lid  is  shut  down 
upon  the  human  race.  The)-  must 
painfully  stoop  and  creep,  instead  of 
standing  erect  with  only  God's  heaven 
over  their  heads.  I  am  lonely,  but  I 
know  not  how  to  cry  for  companion- 
ship ;  my  words  would'  not  be  under- 
stood, or,  if  they  were,  would  not  be 
answered.  Only  one  gate  is  free  to  me, 
—  that  leading  to  the  love  of  woman. 
There,  at  least,  must  be  such  an  in- 
tense, intimate  sympathy  as  shall  make 
the  reciprocal  revelation  of  the  lives 
possible  !  " 

Full  of  this  single  certainty,  which, 
the  more  he  pondered  upon  it,  seemed 
to  be  his  nearest  chance  of  help,  Joseph 
rode  slowly  homewards.  Rachel  Mil- 
ler, who  had  impatiently  awaited  his 
corning,  remarked  the  abstraction  of 
his  face,  and  attributed  it  to  a  very  dif- 
ferent cause.  She  was  thereby  won- 
derfully strengthened  to  make  her  com- 
munication in  regard  to  the  evening 
company;  nevertheless,  the  subject  was 
so  slowly  approached  and  so  ambigu- 
ously alluded  to,  that  Joseph  could  not 
immediately  understand  it. 

"  That  is  something  !  That  is  a 
step  !  "  he  said  to  himself;  then,  turn- 
ing towards  her  with  a  genuine  satis- 
faction in  his  face,  added  :  "  Aunt,  do 
you  know  that  I  have  never  really  felt 
until  now  that  I  am  the  owner  of  this 
property  ?  It  will  be  more  of  a  home 
to  me  after  I  have  received  the  neigh- 
borhood as  my  guests.  It  has  always 
controlled  me,  but  now  it  must  serve 
me  !  " 

He  laughed  in  great  good-humor,  and 
Rachel  Miller,  in  her  heart,  thanked 
Miss  Julia  Blessing. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

RACHEL  MILLER  was  not  a  woman 
to  do  a  thing  by  halves.  As  soon  as 
the  question  was  settled,  she  gave  her 
heart  and  mind  to  the  necessary  prep- 
arations. There  might  have  been  a 


1 8/o.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


139 


little  surprise  in  some  quarters,  when 
the  fact  became  known  in  the  neigh- 
borhood through  Joseph's  invitation, 
but  no  expression  of  it  reached  the 
Asten  place.  Mrs.  Warriner.  Anna's 
mother,  called  to  inquire  if  she  could 
be  of  service,  and  also  to  suggest,  in- 
directly, her  plan  of  entertaining  com- 
pany. Rachel  detected  the  latter  pur- 
pose, and  was  a  little  more  acquiescent 
than  could  have  been  justified  to  her 
own  conscience,  seeing  that  at  the  very 
moment  when  she  was  listening  with 
much  apparent  meekness,  she  was  men- 
tally occupied  with  plans  for  outdoing 
Mrs.  Warriner.  Moreover,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Chaffinch  had  graciously  signified 
his  willingness  to  be  present,  and  the 
stamp  of  strictest  orthodoxy  was  thus 
set  upon  the  entertainment.  She  was 
both  assured  and  stimulated,  as  the 
time  drew  near,  and  even  surprised 
Joseph  by  saying:  "  If  I  was  better 
acquainted  with  Miss  Blessing,  she 
might  help  me  a  good  deal  in  fixing 
everything  just  as  it  should  be.  There 
are  times,  it  seems,  when  it 's  an  advan- 
tage to  know  something  of  the  world." 

"  I  '11  ask  her!  "  Joseph  exclaimed. 

"  You  !  And  a  mess  you  'd  make 
of  it,  very  likely ;  men  think  they  've 
only  to  agree  to  invite  a  company,  and 
that 's  all !  There  's  a  hundred  things 
to  be  thought  of  that  women  must  look 
to  ;  you  could  n't  even  understand  'em. 
As  for  speaking  to  her,  —  she  's  one  of 
the  invites,  and  it  would  never  do  in 
the  world." 

Joseph  said  no  more,  but  he  silently 
determined  to  ask  Miss  Blessing  on 
her  arrival  ;  there  would  still  be  time. 
She,  with  her  wonderful  instinct,  her 
power  of  accommodating  people  to  each 
other,  and  the  influence  which  she  had 
already  acquired  with  his  aunt,  would 
certainly  see  at  a  glance  how  the  cur- 
rent was  setting,  and  guide  it  in  the 
proper  direction. 

But,  as  the  day  drew  near,  he  grew 
so  restless  and  uneasy  that  there 
seemed  nothing  better  to  do  than  to 
ride  over  to  Warriner's  in  the  hope  of 
catching  a  moment's  conference  with 
her,  in  advance  of  the  occasion. 


He  was  entirely  fortunate.  Anna 
was  apparently  very  busy  with  house- 
hold duties,  and  after  the  first  greetings 
left  him  alone  with  Miss  Blessing.  He 
had  anticipated  a  little  difficulty  in 
making  his  message  known,  and  was 
therefore  much  relieved  when  she 
said :  "  Now,  Mr.  Asten,  I  see  by  your 
face  that  you  have  something  particular 
to  say.  It's  about  to-morrow  night, 
is  n't  it  ?  You  must  let  me  help  you, 
if  I  can,  because  I  am  afraid  I  have 
been,  without  exactly  intending  it,  the 
cause  of  so  much  trouble  to  you  and 
your  aunt." 

Joseph  opened  his  heart  at  once.  All 
that  he  had  meant  to  say  came  easily 
and  naturally  to  his  lips,  because  Miss 
Blessing  seemed  to  feel  and  under- 
stand the  situation,  and  met  him  half- 
way in  her  bright,  cheerful  acquiescence. 
Almost  before  he  knew  it,  he  had  made 
her  acquainted  with  what  had  been  said 
and  done  at  home.  How  easily  she 
solved  the  absurd  doubts  and  difficul- 
ties which  had  so  unnecessarily  tor- 
mented him  !  How  clearly,  through 
her  fine  female  instinct,  she  grasped 
little  peculiarities  of  his  aunt's  nature, 
which  he,  after  years  of  close  compan- 
ionship, had  failed  to  define  !  Miss 
Rachel,  she  said,  was  both  shy  and 
inexperienced,  and  it  was  only  the 
struggle  to  conceal  these  conscious  de- 
fects which  made  her  seem — not  un- 
amiable,  exactly,  but  irregular  in  her 
manner.  Her  age,  and  her  character 
in  the  neighborhood,  did  not  permit  her 
to  appedr  incompetent  to  any  emer- 
gency :  it  was  a  very  natural  pride,  and 
must  be  treated  both  delicately  and 
tenderly. 

Would  Joseph  trust  the  matter  en- 
tirely to  her,  Miss  Blessing  ?  It  was 
a  great  deal  to  ask,  she  knew,  compara- 
tive^ stranger  as  she  was;  but  she  be- 
lieved that  a  woman,  when  her  nature 
had  not  been  distorted  by  the  conven- 
tionalities of  life,  had  a  natural  talent 
for  smoothing  difficulties,  and  removing 
obstacles  for  others.  Her  friends  had 
told  her  that  she  possessed  this  power; 
and  it  was  a  great  happiness  to  think 
so.  In  the  present  case,  she  was  sure 


140 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[February, 


she  should  make  no  mistake.  She 
would  endeavor  not  to  seem  to  suggest 
anything,  but  merely  to  assist  in  such 
a  way  that  Miss  Rachel  would  of  her- 
self see  what  else  was  necessary  to  be 
done. 

"  Now,"  she  remarked,  in  conclusion, 
"this  sounds  like  vanity  in  me;  but  I 
really  hope  it  is  not.  You  must  re- 
member that  in  the  city  we  are  obliged 
to  know  all  the  little  social  arts,  — and 
artifices,  I  am  afraid.  It  is  not  always 
to  our  credit,  but  then,  the  heart  may 
be  kept  fresh  and  uncorrupted." 

She  sighed,  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 
Joseph  felt  the  increasing  charm  of  a 
nature  so  frank  and  so  trustful,  con- 
stantly luring  to  the  surface  the  maiden 
secrets  of  his  own.  The  confidence 
already  established  between  them  was 
wholly  delightful,  because  their  sense 
of  reciprocity  increased  as  it  deepened. 
He  felt  so  free  to  speak  that  he  could 
not  measure  the  fitness  of  his  words, 
but  exclaimed,  without  a  pause  for 
thought : — 

"  Tell  me,  Miss  Julia,  did  you  not 
suggest  this  party  to  Aunt  Rachel  ?  " 

"  Don't  give  me  too  much  credit !  " 
she  answered ;  "  it  was  talked  about, 
and  I  could  n't  help  saying  Ay.  I 
longed  so  much  to  see  you  —  all  — 
again  before  I  go  away." 

"  And  Lucy  Henderson  objected  to 
it?" 

"  Lucy,  I  think,  wanted  to  save  your 
aunt  trouble.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
guess  that  the  real  objection  was  inex- 
perience, and  not  want  of  will  to  enter- 
tain company.  And  very  likely  she 
helped  to  bring  it  about,  by  seeming  to 
oppose  it ;  so  you  must  not  be  angry 
with  Lucy,  —  promise  me  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  irresisti- 
bly entreating  expression,  and  extend- 
ed her  hand,  which  he  seized  so  warmly 
as  to  give  her  pain.  But  she  returned 
the  pressure,  and  there  was  a  moment's 
silence,  which  Anna  Warriner  inter- 
rupted at  the  right  time. 

The  next  day,  on  the  Asten  farm,  all 
the  preparations  were  quietly  and  suc- 
cessfully made  long  in  advance  of  the 
first  arrivals.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Chaffinch 


and  a  few  other  specially  chosen  guests 
made  their  appearance  in  the  afternoon. 
To  Joseph's  surprise,  the  Warriners 
and  Miss  Blessing  speedily  joined 
them.  It  was,  in  reality,  a  private  ar- 
rangement which  his  aunt  had  made, 
in  order  to  secure  at  the  start  the  very 
assistance  which  he  had  been  plotting 
to  render.  One  half  the  secret  of  the 
ease  and  harmony  which  he  felt  was 
established  was  thus  unknown  to  him. 
He  looked  for  hints  or  indications  of 
management  on  Miss  Blessing's  part, 
but  saw  none.  The  two  women,  meet- 
ing each  other  half-way,  needed  no 
words  in  order  to  understand  each  oth- 
er, and  Miss  Rachel,  gradually  made 
secure  in  her  part  of  hostess,  experi- 
enced a  most  unaccustomed  sense  of 
triumph. 

At  the  supper-table  Mr.  Chaffinch 
asked  a  blessing  with  fervor  ;  a  great, 
balmy  dish  of  chickens  stewed  in  cream 
was  smoking  before  his  nostrils,  and 
his  fourth  cup  of  tea  made  Rachel  Mil- 
ler supremely  happy.  The  meal  was 
honored  in  silence,  as  is  the  case  where 
there  is  much  to  eat  and  a  proper  de- 
sire and  capacity  to  do  it :  only  towards 
its  close,  when  the  excellence  of  the 
jams  required  acknowledgment,  were 
the  tongues  of  the  guests  loosened, 
and  content  made  them  cheerful. 

"You  have  entertained  us  almost 
too  sumptuously,  Miss  Miller,"  said 
the  clergyman.  "  And  now  let  us  go 
out  on  the  portico,  and  welcome  the 
young  people  as  they  arrive." 

"  I  need  hardly  ask  you,  then,  Mr. 
Chaffinch,"  said  she,  "whether  you 
think  it  right  for  them  to  come  together 
in  this  way." 

"  Decidedly  ! "  he  answered  ;  "  that 
is,  so  long  as  their  conversation  is 
modest  and  becoming.  It  is  easy  for 
the  vanities  of  the  world  to  slip  in,  but 
we  must  watch,  —  we  must  watch." 

Rachel  Miller  took  a  seat  near  him, 
beholding  the  gates  of  perfect  enjoyment 
opened  to  her  mind.  Dress,  the  opera, 
the  race-course,  literature,  stocks,  poli- 
tics, have  their  fascination  for  so  many 
several  classes  of  the  human  race  ;  but 
to  her  there  was  nothing  on  this  earth 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


141 


so  delightful  as  to  be  told  of  temptation 
and  backsliding  and  sin,  and  to  feel 
that  she  was  still  secure.  The  fact 
that  there  was  always  danger  added 
a  zest  to  the  feeling  ;  she  gave  herself 
credit  for  a  vigilance  which  had  really 
not  been  exercised. 

The  older  guests  moved  their  chairs 
nearer,  and  listened,  forgetting  the 
sweetness  of  sunset  which  lay  upon  the 
hills  down  the  valley.  Anna  Warriner 
laid  her  arm  around  Miss  Chaffinch's 
waist,  and  drew  her  towards  the  mown 
field  beyond  the  barn  ;  and  presently, 
by  a  natural  chance,  as  it  seemed,  Jo- 
seph found  himself  beside  Miss  Bless- 
ing, at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn. 

All  the  western  hills  were  covered 
with  one  cool,  broad  shadbw.  A  rich 
orange  flush  touched  the  tops  of  the 
woods  to  the  eastward,  and  brightened 
as  the  sky  above  them  deepened  into 
the  violet-gray  of  coming  dusk.  The 
moist,  delicious  freshness  which  filled 
the  bed  of  the  valley  slowly  crept  up 
the  branching  glen,  and  already  tem- 
pered the  air  about  them.  Now  and 
then  a  bird  chirped  happily  from  a 
neighboring  bush,  or  the  low  of  cattle 
was  heard  from  the  pasture-fields. 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  Miss  Blessing,  "  this 
is  too  sweet  to  last :  I  must  learn  to  do 
without  it." 

She  looked  at  him  swiftly,  and  then 
glanced  away.  It  seemed  that  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Joseph  was  about  to  speak,  but  she 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Hush!" 
she  said  ;  "  let  us  wait  until  the  light 
has  faded." 

The  glow  had  withdrawn  to  the  sum- 
mits of  the  distant  hills,  fringing  them 
with  a  thin,  wonderful  radiance.  But 
it  was  only  momentary.  The  next  mo- 
ment it  broke  on  the  irregular  topmost 
boughs,  and  then  disappeared,  as  if 
blown  out  by  a  breeze  whiclj  came  with 
the  sudden  lifting  of  the  sky.  She 
turned  away  in  silence,  and  they  walked 
slowly  together  towards  the  house.  At 
the  garden  gate  she  paused. 

"  That  superb  avenue  of  box  !  "  she 
exclaimed  ;  "  I  must  see  it  again,  if 
only  to  say  farewell." 


They  entered  the  garden,  and  in  a 
moment  the  dense  green  wall,  breath- 
ing an  odor  seductive  to  heart  and 
senses,  had  hidden  them  from  the  sight 

—  and  almost  from  the  hearing  —  of  the 
guests  on  the  portico.     Looking  down 
through    the   southern  opening  of  the 
avenue,  they  seemed  alone  in  the  even- 
ing valley. 

Joseph's  heart  was  beating  fast  and 
strong ;  he  was  conscious  of  a  wild 
fear,  so  interfused  with  pleasure,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  separate  the  sensa- 
tions. Miss  Blessing's  hand  was  on  his 
arm,  and  he  fancied  that  it  trembled. 

"  If  life  were  as  beautiful  and  peace- 
ful as  this,"  she  whispered,  at  last, 
"  we  should  not  need  to  seek  for  truth 
and  —  and  —  sympathy  :  we  should  find 
them  everywhere." 

"  Do  you  not  think  they  are  to  be 
found  ? "  he  asked. 

"  O,  in  how  few  hearts  !  I  can  say 
it  to  you,  and  you  will  not  misunder- 
stand me.  Until  lately  I  was  satisfied 
with  life  as  I  found  it :  I  thought  it 
meant  diversion,  and  dress,  and  gossip, 
and  common  daily  duties,  but  now  — 
now  I  see  that  it  is  the  union  oY  kin- 
dred souls ! " 

She  clasped  both  her  hands  over  his 
arm  as  she  spoke,  and  leaned  slightly 
towards  him,  as  if  drawing  away  from 
the  dreary,  homeless  world.  Joseph 
felt  all  that  the  action  expressed,  and 
answered  in  an  unsteady  voice  :  — 

"And  yet  —  with  a  nature  like  yours 

—  you  must  surely  find  them." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  an- 
swered :  "  Ah,  a  woman  cannot  seek. 
I  never  thought  I  should  be  able  to 
say  —  to  any  human  being — that  I 
have  sought,  or  waited  for  recognition. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  should  say  it  now. 
I  try  to  be  myself — my  true  self  — 
with  all  persons  ;  but  it  seems  impossi- 
ble :  my  nature  shrinks  from  some  and 
is  drawn  towards  other.  Why  is  this  ? 
what  is  the  mystery  that  surrounds  us  ?  " 

"  Do  you  believe,"  Joseph  asked, 
"that  two  souls  may  be  so  united  that 
they  shall  dare  to  surrender  all  knowl- 
edge of  themselves  to  each  other,  as 
we  do,  helplessly,  before  God  ? " 


142 

"O,"  she  murmured,  "it  is  my 
dream  !  I  thought  I  was  alone  in  cher- 
ishing it !  Can  it  ever  be  realized  ?  " 

Joseph's  brain  grew  hot :  the  release 
he  had  invoked  sprang  to  life  and  urged 
him  forward.  Words  came  to  his  lips, 
he  knew  not  how. 

"  If  it  is  my  dream  and  yours,  —  if 
we  both  have  come  to  the  faith  and  the 
hope  we  find  in  no  others,  and  which 
alone  will  satisfy  our  lives,  is  it  not  a 
sign  that  the  dream  is  over  and  the 
reality  has  begun  ?  " 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  Do 
not  tempt  me  with  what  I  had  given 
up,  unless  you  can  teach  me  to  believe 
again  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  do  not  tempt  you,"  he  answered 
breathlessly.  "  I  tempt  myself.  I  be- 
lieve." 

She  turned  suddenly,  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  lifted  her  face  and 
looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  expression 
of  passionate  eagerness  and  joy.  All 
her  attitude  breathed  of  the  pause  of 
the  wave  that  only  seems  to  hesitate 
an  instant  before  throwing  itself  upon 
the  waiting  strand.  Joseph  had  no 
defend,  knew  of  none,  dreamt  of  none. 
The  pale-brown  eyes,  now  dark,  deep, 
and  almost  tearful,  drew  him  with  irre- 
sistible force  :  the  sense  of  his  own 
shy  reticent  self  was  lost,  dissolved  in 
the  strength  of  an  instinct  which  pos- 
sessed him  body  and  soul,  —  which  bent 
him  nearer  to  the  slight  form,  which 
stretched  his  arms  to  answer  its  appeal, 
and  left  him,  after  one  dizzy  moment, 
with  Miss  Blessing's  head  upon  his 
breast. 

"  I  should  like  to  die  now,"  she  mur- 
mured :  u  I  never  can  be  so  happy 
again." 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  bending  over  her ; 
"live  for  me  !  " 

She  raised  herself,  and  kissed  him 
again  and  again,  and  this  frank,  almost 
childlike  betrayal  of  her  heart  seemed 
to  claim  from  Joseph  the  full  surrender 
of  his  own.  He  returned  her  caresses 
with  equal  warmth,  and  the  twilight 
deepened  around  them  as  they  stood, 
still  half-embracing. 

"  Can  I  make  you  happy,  Joseph  ?  " 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[February, 


"Julia,  I  am  already  happier  than  I 
ever  thought  it  possible  to  be." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  drew 
away  from  him.  "  Joseph  !  "  she  whis- 
pered, "will  you  always  bear  in  mind 
what  a  cold,  selfish,  worldly  life  mine 
has  been  ?  You  do  not  know  me  ;  you 
cannot  understand  the  school  in  which 
I  have  been  taught.  I  tell  you,  now, 
that  I  have  had  to  learn  cunning  and 
artifice  and  equivocation.  I  am  dark 
beside  a  nature  so  pure  and  good  as 
yours  !  If  you  must  ever  learn  to  hate 
me,  begin  now  !  Take  back  your  love  : 
I  have  lived  so  long  without  the  love 
of  a  noble  human  heart,  that  I  can  live 
so  to  the  end  !  " 

She  again  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  »her  frame  shrank,  as  if 
dreading  a  mortal  blow.  But  Joseph 
caught  her  back  to  his  breast,  touched 
and  even  humiliated  by  such  sharp  self- 
accusation.  Presently  she  looked  up  : 
her  eyes  were  wet,  and  she  said,  with  a 
pitiful  smile :  — 

"  I  believe  you  do  love  me." 

"  And  I  will  not  give  you  up,"  said 
Joseph,  "  though  you  should  be  full  of 
evil  as  I  am,  myself." 

She  laughed,  and  patted  his  cheek  : 
all  her  frank,  bright,  winning  manner 
returned  at  once.  Then  commenced 
those  reciprocal  expressions  of  bliss, 
which  are  so  inexhaustibly  fresh  to 
lovers,  so  endlessly  monotonous  to  ev- 
erybody else  ;  and  Joseph,  lost  to  time, 
place,  and  circumstance,  would  have 
prolonged  them  far  into  the  night,  but 
for  Miss  Julia's  returning  self-posses- 
sion. 

"  I  hear  wheels,"  she  warned  ;  "  the 
evening  guests  are  coming,  and  they 
will  expect  you  to  receive  them,  Joseph. 
And  your  dear,  good  old  aunt  will  be 
looking  for  me.  O,  the  world,  the  world  ! 
We  must  give  ourselves  up  to  it,  and 
be  as  if  we  had  never  found,  each 
other.  I  shall  be  wild  unless  you  set 
me  an  example  of  self-control.  Let  me 
look  at  you  once,  —  one  full,  precious, 
perfect  look,  to  carry  in  my  heart 
through  the  evening  !  " 

Then  they  looked  in  each  other's 
faces ;  and  looking  was  not  enough ; 


1870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend, 


and  their  lips,  without  the  use  of  words, 
said  the  temporary  farewell.  While  Jo- 
seph hurried  across  the  bottom  of  the 
lawn,  to  meet  the  stream  of  approach- 
ing guests  which  filled  the  lane,  Miss 
Julia,  at  the  top  of  the  garden,  plucked 
amaranth  leaves  for  a  wreath  which 
would  look  well  upon  her  dark  hair,  and 
sang-,  in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  from  the  portico  :  — 

"  Kver  be  happy,  li;;ht  as  thou  art, 
Pride  of  the;  pirate's  heart  !  " 

Everybody  who  had  been  invited  — 
and  quite  a  number  who  had  not  been, 
availing  themselves  of  the  easy  habits 
of  country  society  —  came  to  the  Asten 
farm  that  evening.  Joseph,  as  host, 
seemed  at  times  a  little  confused  and 
flurried,  but  his  face  bloomed,  his  blue 
eyes  sparkled,  and  even  his  nearest 
acquaintances  were  astonished  at  the 
courage  and  cordiality  with  which  he 
performed  his  duties.  The  presence  of 
iMr.  Chaffinch  kept  the  gayety  of  the 
company  within  decorous  bounds  ;  per- 
haps the  number  of  detached  groups 
v.-d  to  form  too  many  separate  cir- 
cles, or  atmospheres  of  talk,  but  they 
easily  dissolved,  or  gave  to  and  took 
from  each  other.  Rachel  Miller  was 
not  inclined  to  act  the  part  of  a  moral 
detective  in  the  house  which  she  man- 
aged ;  she  saw  nothing  which  the  strict- 
est sense  of  propriety  could  condemn. 

Early  in  the  evening,  Joseph  met 
Lucy  Henderson  in  the  hall.  He  could 
not  see  the  graver  change  in  her  face  ; 
he  only  noticed  that  her  manner  was 
not  so  quietly  attractive  as  usual.  Yet 
on  meeting  her  eyes  he  felt  the  absurd 
blood  rushing  to  his  cheeks  and  brow, 
and  his  tongue  hesitated  and  stam- 
mered. This  want  of  self-possession 
vexed  him  :  he  could  not  account  for 
it ;  and  he  cut  short  the  interview  by 
moving  abruptly  away. 

Lucy  half  turned,  and  looked  after 
him,  with  an  expression  rather  of  sur- 
prise than  of  pain.  As  she  did  so 
she  felt  that  there  was  an  eye  upon 
her,  and  by  a  strong  effort  entered  the 
room  without  encountering  the  face  of 
Elwood  Withers. 

When  the  company  broke  up,  Miss 


Blessing,  who  was  obliged  to  leave  with 
the  Warriners,  found  an  opportunity 
to  whisper  to  Joseph  :  "  Come  soon  !  " 
There  was  a  long,  fervent  clasp  of 
hands  under  her  shawl,  and  then  the 
carriage  drove  away.  lie  could  not 
see  how  the  hand  was  transferred  to 
that  of  Anna  Warriner,  which  received 
from  it  a  squeeze  conveying  an  entire 
narrative  to  that  young  lady's  mind. 

Joseph's  duties  to  his  many  guests 
prevented  him  from  seeing  much  of 
Elwood  during  the  evening  ;  but,  when 
the  last  were  preparing  to  leave,  he 
turned  to  the  latter,  conscious  of  a 
tenderer  feeling  of  friendship  than  he 
had  ever  before  felt,  and  begged  him 
to  stay  for  the  night.  Elwood  held  up 
the  lantern,  with  which  he  had  been 
examining  the  harness  of  a  carriage 
that  had  just  rolled  away,  and  let  its 
light  fall  upon  Joseph's  face. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  "  he  then 
asked. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Elwood." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  understand  my- 
self." But  the  next  moment  he  laughed, 
and  then  added,  in  his  usual  tone : 
"  Never  mind  :  I  '11  stay." 

They  occupied  the  same  room ;  and 
neither  seemed  inclined  to  sleep.  Af- 
ter the  company  had  been  discussed, 
in  a  way  which  both  felt  to  be  awkward 
and  mechanical,  Elwood  said :  u  Do 
you  know  anything  more  about  love, 
by  this  time  ?  " 

Joseph  was  silent,  debating  with  him- 
self whether  he  should  confide  the  won- 
derful secret.  Elwood  suddenly  rose 
up  in  his  bed,  leaned  forward  and 
whispered:  "I  see,  —  you  need  not 
answer.  But  tell  me  this  one  thing : 
is  it  Lucy  Henderson?" 

"  No  ;  O,  no  !  " 

"  Does  she  know  of  it  ?  Your  face 
told  some  sort  of  a  tale  when  you  met 
her  to-night." 

"  Not  to  her,  —  surely  not  to  her  !  " 
Joseph  exclaimed. 

"  I  hope  not,"  Elwood  quietly  said  : 
"  I  love  her." 

With  a  bound  Joseph  crossed  the 
room  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his 
friend's  bed.  "  Elwood  !  "  he  cried  ; 


144 

"  and  you  are  happy,  too  !  O,  now  I 
can  tell  you  all,  —  it  is  Julia  Blessing  !  " 

"Ha!  ha!"  Elwood  laughed, —a 
short,  bitter  laugh,  which  seemed  to 
signify  anything  but  happiness.  "  For- 
give me,  Joseph  !  "  he  presently  added, 
"  but  there  's  a  deal  of  difference  be- 
tween a  mitten  and  a  ring.  You  will 
have  one  and  I  have  the  other.  I  did 
think,  for  a  little  while,  that  you  stood 
between  Lucy  and  me  ;  but  I  suppose 
disappointment  makes  men  fools." 

Something  in  Joseph's  breast  seemed 
to  stop  the  warm  flood  of  his  feel- 
ings. He  could  only  stammer,  after 
a  long  pause  :  "  But  I  am  not  in  your 
way." 

'•So  I  see,  —  and  perhaps  nobody 
is,  except  myself.  We  won't  talk  of 
this  any  more  ;  there  's  many  a  round- 
about road  that  comes  out  into  the 
straight  one  at  last.  But  you,  —  I 
can't  understand  the  thing  at  all.  How 
did  she  —  did  you  come  to  love  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  hardly  guessed  it 
until  this  evening." 

"  Then,  Joseph,  go  slowly,  and  feel 
your  way.  I  'm  not  the  one  to  advise, 
after  what  has  happened  to  me ;  but 
maybe  I  know  a  little  more  of  woman- 


Rhyme  Slayeth  Shame. 


[February, 


kind  than  you.  It's  best  to  have  a 
longer  acquaintance  than  yours  has 
been  ;  a  fellow  can't  always  tell  a  sud- 
den fancy  from  a  love  that  has  the  grip 
of  death." 

"  Now  I  might  turn  your  own  words 
against  you,  El  Wood,  for  you  tried  to 
tell  me  what  love  is." 

"  I  did  ;  and  before  I  knew  the  half. 
But  come,  Joseph  :  promise  me  that 
you  won't  let  Miss  Blessing  know  how 
much  you  feel,  until  —  " 

"  Elwood  !  "  Joseph  breathlessly  in- 
terrupted, "  she  knows  it  now  !  We 
were  together  this  evening." 

Elwood  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  with 
a  groan.  "  I  'm  a  poor  friend  to  you," 
he  said  :  "  I  want  to  wish  you  joy,  but 
I  can't,  —  not  to-night.  The  way  things 
are  fixed  in  this  world  stumps  me,  out 
and  out.  Nothing  fits  as  it  ought,  and 
if  I  did  n't  take  my  head  in  my  own 
hands  and  hold  it  towards  the  light  by 
main  force,  I  'd  only  see  blackness,  and 
death,  and  hell !  " 

Joseph  stole  back  to  his  bed,  and  lay 
there  silently.  There  was  a  subtle  chill 
in  the  heart  of  his  happiness,  which  all 
the  remembered  glow  of  that  tender 
scene  in  the  garden  could  not  thaw. 


RHYME     SLAYETH     SHAME. 


TF  as  I  come  unto  her  she  might  hear, 
L    If  words  might  reach  her  when  from  her  I  go, 
Then  speech  a  little  of  my  heart  might  show, 
Because  indeed  nor  joy  nor  grief  nor  fear 
Silence  my  love  ;  but  her  gray  eyes  and  clear, 
Truer  than  truth,  pierce  through  my  weal  and  woe ; 
The  world  fades  with  its  words,  and  naught  I  know 
But  that  my  changed  life  to  My  Life  is  near. 

Go,  then,  poor  rhymes,  who  know  my  heart  indeed, 
And  sing  to  her  the  words  I  cannot  say, — 
That  Love  has  slain  Time,  and  knows  no  to-day 
And  no  to-morrow  ;  tell  her  of  my  need, 
And  how  I  follow  where  her  footsteps  lead, 
Until  the  veil  of  speech  death  draws  away. 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


THE    PRESSURE    UPON    CONGRESS. 


ONE  of  the  oddities  of  human  na- 
ture is  its  patient  endurance 
of  obvious,  easily  remedied  inconven- 
iences. No  man  ever  spoke,  and  no 
man  ever  listened  to  a  speech,  in  the 
Representatives'  Hall  at  Washington, 
without  being  painfully  aware  of  its  un- 
suitableness  to  the  purpose  for  which 
it  was  intended.  It  was  intended  to  af- 
ford accommodation  for  three  hundred 
gentlemen  while  they  debated  pub- 
lic questions  and  conversed  on  public 
business.  Almost  all  debate  in  a  mod- 
ern parliamentary  body  naturally  takes 
the  tone  of  conversation,  because  near- 
ly every  topic  that  arises  is  some  ques- 
tion of  detail  the  principle  of  which  is 
not  disputed.  It  is  only  on  rare  occa- 
sions that  the  voice  of  a  speaker  en- 
dowed with  reason  would  naturally  rise 
above  the  conversational  tone.  The 
main  business  of  Congress  is  to  deter- 
mine how  much  money  shall  be  raised, 
how  it  shall  be  raised,  and  for  what  ob- 
jects it  shall  be  spent.  The  stricter 
States-rights  men  of  the  early  time  used 
to  say,  that,  when  Congress  had  made 
the  annual  appropriations,  only  one  du- 
ty remained,  which  was  to  adjourn  and 
go  home.  This  was  an  extreme  state- 
ment. It  is,  I  think,  a  most  important 
part  of  the  duty  of  Congressmen  to  con- 
verse together,  in  the  presence  of  the 
whole  people  in  reporters'  gallery  as- 
sembled, on  subjects  of  national  con- 
cern ;  but  even  on  a  field-day  of  general 
debate,  when  principles  are  up  for  dis- 
cussion, it  is  still  calm,  enlightened,  dig- 
nified conversation  that  is  most  desira- 
ble. Members  are  well  aware  of  this. 
Flights  of  oratory  generally  excite  deri- 
sive smiles  upon  the  floor  of  the  House, 
and  no  man  is  much  regarded  by  his 
fellow-members  who  is  addicted  to  that 
species  of  composition. 

But  neither  conversation  nor  calm 
debate  is  possible  in  the  Representa- 
tives' Chamber.  It  is  large  enough  for 
n  mass-meeting.  The  members  are 

VOL.  xxv. —  NO.  148.  10 


spread  over  a  wide  expanse  of  floor, 
each  seated  at  a  desk  covered  and  filled 
with  documents  and  papers,  and  they 
see  themselves  surrounded  by  vast  gal- 
leries rising,  row  above  row,  to  the 
ceiling.  When  a  man  begins  to  speak, 
though  he  may  be  the  least  oratorical 
of  mortals,  he  is  soon  forced  into  an 
oratorical  condition  of  mind  by  the 
physical  difficulty  of  making  himself 
heard.  Compelled  to  exert  his  lungs 
violently,  he  endeavors  to  assist  and 
relieve  the  muscles  of  his  chest  and 
throat  by  gesticulation,  and  this  brings 
the  color  to  his  cheeks  and  contributes 
to  work  up  the  whole  man  into  the  ora- 
torical frenzy  that  puts  a  stop  to  all 
useful,  elucidating  operation  of  the 
brain.  Often,  very  often,  have  I  seen 
a  member  of  the  House,  superior  by 
nature,  age,  and  education  to  the  clap- 
trap of  harangue,  rise  in  his  place,  full- 
charged  with  weighty  matter  on  a  sub- 
ject utterly  unsuited  to  oratory,  and  at- 
tempt to  address  the  House  in  the  tem- 
perate, serene  manner  which  is  alone 
proper  when  intelligent  minds  are 
sought  to  be  convinced.  At  once  he  be- 
comes conscious  that  no  one  can  hear 
him  beyond  the  fifth  desk.  His  voice 
is  lost  in  space.  He  raises  it ;  but  he 
cannot  make  the  honorable  member 
hear  to  whose  argument  he  is  replying. 
He  calls  upon  the  Speaker  to  come  to 
his  rescue,  and  Mr.  Speaker  uses  his 
hammer  with  promptitude  and  vigor. 
The  low  roar  of  conversation,  the  rus- 
tle of  paper,  the  loud  clapping  for  the 
pages,  subside  for  a  moment,  and  the 
member  resumes.  But  even  during 
that  instant  of  comparative  silence,  he 
is  scarcely  heard,  —  he  is  not  heard  un- 
less he  "  orates,"  —  and,  a  moment  af- 
ter, his  voice  is  drowned  again  in  the 
multitudinous  sea  of  noise.  Still  he 
will  not  give  up  the  attempt,  and  he 
finishes  with  the  wildest  pump-handle 
oratory  of  the  stump.  It  is  not  his 
fault.  He  is  no  fool.  He  would  not 


146 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


[February, 


naturally  discuss  army  estimates  in  the 
style  of  Patrick  Henry  rousing  his 
countrymen  to  arms.  If  he  does  so,  it 
is  because  nature  has  so  limited  the 
reach  and  compass  of  the  human  voice, 
that  lie  cannot  make  himself  heard  un- 
less he  roars  ;  and  no  man  can  keep  on 
roaring  long  without  other  parts  of  the 
body  joining  his  lungs  in  the  tumult. 

This  is  really  a  matter  of  first-rate  im- 
portance ;  for,  whatever  else  man  is  or 
has,  we  are  sure  he  possesses  an  ani- 
mal nature,  and  hence  is  subject  to 
physical  conditions  that  are  inexora- 
ble. If  we  could  assemble  in  that  enor- 
mous room  the  sages,  statesmen,  and 
orators  of  all  the  ages,  we  should  not 
get  from  them  much  profitable  debate. 
The  hall  is  good  enough  ;  only  it  wants 
taking  in.  There  is  no  need  of  such  ex- 
tensive accommodation  for  the  chance 
visitors  to  the  Capitol ;  since  the  whole 
people,  as  just  remarked,  as  well  as  a 
respectable  representation  from  foreign 
countries,  are  present  in  the  gallery  of 
the  reporters.  Three  or  four  hundred 
gallery  seats  would  answer  better  than 
the  present  thousand. 

We  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  to  learn 
something  of  the  details  of  parliamen- 
tary management  from  a  people  who 
have  had  a  Parliament  for  eight  centu- 
ries. When  the  city  of  Washington 
was  laid  out,  —  1790  to  1800,  —  the  peo- 
ple of  the  United  States  had  caught 
from  the  enthusiastic  Republicans  of 
France  a  certain  infatuation  for  the  an- 
cient Romans  ;  and  hence  the  building 
for  the  accommodation  of  Congress 
was  styled  the  Capitol ;  and,  in  fur- 
nishing the  chambers  for  the  Senate 
and  House,  the  seats  were  arranged  in 
semicircles,  after  the  manner  of  the 
Roman  senate-house.  There  was  such 
a  relish  then  for  everything  Roman, 
that  it  is  rather  surprising  honorable 
members  were  not  required  to  appear 
in  their  places  wearing  Roman  togas. 
Nothing  seems  to  have  been  copied 
from  the  British  Parliament,  except 
that  object  which  Oliver  Cromwell  saw 
before  him  when  he  dissolved  Parlia- 
ment, one  April  day  in  1653,  and  bade  a 
soldier  near  him  take  away  that  fool's 


bawble,  • —  the  mace.  But  perhaps  there 
are  one  or  two  other  features  of  the 
British  House  of  Commons  that  might 
have-been  considered.  Never  would  the 
House  of  Commons  have  formed  a  Fox, 
a  Sheridan,  a  Canning,  a  Peel,  a  Pal- 
merston,  or  a  Gladstone,  if  those  mas- 
ters of  parliamentary  conversation  had 
been  obliged  to  speak  in  such  an  apart- 
ment as  our  present  Representatives 
Hall.  I  have  been  in  the  House  of 
Commons  when  important  debates  oc- 
curred, and  every  leading  speaker  on 
both  sides  did  his  best,  but  no  man  put 
forth  any  great  physical  exertion.  Sir 
Robert  Peel  rarely,  Palmerston  never, 
departed  from  the  easy  manner  and 
unforced  tone  of  conversation.  A  great 
debate  was  only  the  more  or  less  ani- 
mated talk  of  able,  experienced,  well- 
informed  gentlemen  ;  and  it  retained 
this  tone  chiefly  because  the  auditors 
were  so  close  around  the  speakers  that 
conversation  could  be  heard.  No  desks 
obstructed  and  filled  up  the  floor,  tempt- 
ing members  to  write.  No  heaps  of 
pamphlets  and  newspapers  rose  before 
them,  luring  them  to  read.  All  reading 
and  writing  had  been  done  before  the. 
House  met,  and  nothing  remained  but 
to  talk  it  over.  Ministerial  and  oppo- 
sition members  sat  on  long  benches, 
facing  one  another,  with  a  mere  alley 
between  them ;  and  the  strangers'  gal- 
lery was  a  cockloft  up  near  the  ceiling, 
which  would  hold,  when  crammed,  a 
hundred  and  twenty  people. 

The  reader  has  perhaps  not  forgot- 
ten the  astonishment  that  seized  him 
when  first  he  caught  sight  of  the  tumul- 
tuous scene  afforded  by  the  House  of 
Representatives  in  session.  I  suppose 
we  are  all  so  used  to  it  now,  that  we 
have  ceased  to  see  in  it  anything  extra- 
ordinary. A  deliberative  body,  indeed! 
From  the  gallery  we  look  down  upon 
semicircles  of  desks,  at  which  members 
are  writing,  reading,  and  gossiping,  ap- 
parently inattentive  to  what  is  going 
on.  Outside  of  the  outer  semicircle 
is  a  crowd  of  men  standing  in  groups 
talking  together.  The  sofas  that  line 
the  walls  are  usually  occupied  by  men 
engaged  in  conversation ;  and  in  the  lob- 


1 870.] 


77/6'  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


'47 


bies  beyond  there  is  a  dense  crowd  of 
talkers,  who  contribute  their  share  to  the 
volume  of  noise.  Inside  the  inner  row 
of  desks,  between  the  members  and  the 
Speaker's  lofty  throne  of  marble,  the 
business  of  the  House  is  brought  to  a 
focus.  There,  at  a  long  row  of  marble 
desks,  sit  the  shorthand  reporters,  who 
prepare  for  the  "  Globe  "  the  official  ver- 
batim report  of  the  proceedings.  Above 
and  behind  them,  at  another  row  of 
marble  desks,  sit  the  clerks  who  keep 
an  official  record  of  whatever  is  clone. 
Above  and  behind  these,  in  his  marble 
pulpit,  with  his  mace  at  his  right  hand, 
his  compass-like  clock  and  excellent 
ivory  hammer  before  him,  behold  the 
Speaker,  most  attentive  of  members, 
and  the  only  one  among  them  all  who 
is  expected  to  know  at  every  instant 
the  business  before  the  House.  On 
the  marble  steps  connecting  these  three 
platforms  are  the  pages,  the  circulating- 
medium  of  the  House,  who  spring  at 
the  clapping  of  a  member's  hands  to 
execute  his  will.  From  the  midst  of 
the  great  chaos  o.f  members,  members' 
desks,  boots,  and  litter  of  documents, 
a  Voice  is  heard,  —  the  voice  of  one 
who  is  supposed  to  be  addressing  the 
House.  Not  a  member  listens,  per- 
haps, nor  pretends  to  listen  ;  not  even 
the  Speaker,  who  may  be  at  the  mo- 
ment conversing  with  a  stranger  just 
presented  to  him,  or  may  be  signing 
doeuments.  He  knows  that  the  Voice 
has  seventeen  minutes  and  three  quar- 
ters longer  to  run,  and  his  sole  duty 
with  regard  to  that  Voice  is,  to  bring 

»down  his  well-made  hammer  with  a 
good  rap  on  the  desk  when  its  time 
is  up.  The  only  attentive  persons  are 
the  shorthand  reporters  ;  but  as  they 
merely  sit  and  write,  without  ever  look- 
ing up,  the  absurd  spectacle  is  often 
presented,  of  a  distinguished  gentle- 
man delivering  a  most  animated  ha- 
rangue to  a  great  crowd  of  people,  not 
one  of  whom  appears  to  be  regarding 
him.  His  right  hand  quivers  in  the  air. 
He  cries  aloud.  His  body  sways  about 
like  a  tall  pine  in  a  torturing  gale. 
"  Yes,  Mr.  Speaker,  I  repeat  the  asser- 
tion "  j —  but  Mr.  Speaker  is  giving 


audience  to  three  of  his  constituents,, 
who  stand,  hat  in  hand,  on  the  steps  of 
his  throne.  "  I  appeal  to  gentlemen  on. 
the  other  side  of  the  House";  —  but 
no :  neither  the  gentlemen  on  the  other 
side  of  the  House,  nor  his  own  intimate 
friends  near  by,  pay  him  the  poor  com- 
pliment of  laying  down  their  newspa- 
pers or  looking  up  from  the  letters 
they  are  writing. 

Why  these  desks  ?  why  this  general 
absorption  of  members  in  writing,  read- 
ing, and  conferring  ?  Why  the  frequent 
necessity  of  hunting  up  members  in 
their  committee-rooms  ?  It  is  because 
Congress  meets  four  hours  too  soon  ! 
It  meets  at  12  M.  instead  of  41'.  M.  It 
meets  long  before  the  daily  work  of 
members  is  done,  before  the  morn- 
ing's news  is  stale,  before  the  relish 
of  the  mind  for  excitement  is  sated, 
before  the  mood  has  come  for  inter- 
change of  ideas,  for  converse  with  other 
minds. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  hard  labor 
of  Congress  is  done  in  committee-rooms 
and  in  the  private  offices  of  members  ; 
but,  I  presume,  few  persons  are  aware 
of  the  great  amount  and  variety  of 
duty  which  now  devolves  upon  mem- 
bers who  are  capable  of  industry  and 
public  spirit.  There  are  idle  members, 
of  course ;  for  in  Congress,  as  every- 
where else,  it  is  the  willing  and  gener- 
ous mind  that  bears  the  burden  and  pulls 
the  load.  It  is  with  members  of  Con- 
gress as  with  editors,  —  most  of  their  la- 
bor consists  in  considering  and  quietly 
rejecting  what  the  public  never  hears 
anything  about.  Beau  I^rummel  wore 
but  one  necktie,  but  his  servant  carried 
down  stairs  half  a  dozen  failures.  A 
magazine  contains  twenty  articles  ;  but, 
in  order  to  get  that  twenty,  the  editor 
may  have  had  to  examine  feur  hundred. 
During  the  session,  Washington  being 
the  centre  of  interest  to  forty  millions 
of  people,  it  is  the  common  recepta- 
cle of  the  infinite  variety  of  schemes, 
dreams,  ideas,  vagaries,  notions,  pub- 
lications, which  the  year  generates. 
When  a  citizen  of  the  United  States 
conceives  an  idea  or  plans  an  enter- 
prise, one  of  the  things  he  is  likely  to 


148 


The  Pressure  tipon  Congress. 


[February, 


do  is  to  write  a  pamphlet  about  it,  and 
either  send  a  copy  to  each  member  of 
Congress,  or  hire  a  small  boy  to  place 
a  copy  upon  each  member's  desk  just 
before  twelve  o'clock.  The  interna- 
tional-copyrightists,  I  remember,  took 
that  enlightened  course,  fondly  believ- 
ing that  no  member  who  called  himself 
a  human  being  could  read  such  moving 
arguments  without  being  impatient  to 
vote  for  the  measure  proposed.  But 
when  I  began  to  look  into  Washington 
affairs,  I  discovered  that  hundreds  of 
other  people  were  continually  employ- 
ing the  same  too  obvious  tactics.  Pam- 
phlets come  raining  down  upon  mem- 
bers in  a  pitiless  storm.  On  going 
into  the  office  of  a  member  one  morn- 
ing, when  he  had  been  absent  twenty- 
four  hours,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  glance 
at  the  mail  which  had  accumulated  in 
that  short  time.  It  consisted  of  one 
hundred  and  eight  packages,  —  about 
one  third  letters,  and  two  thirds  news- 
papers and  pamphlets.  I  think  a  mem- 
ber whose  name  is  familiar  to  the  coun- 
try will  usually  receive,  in  the  course 
of  a  long  session,  a  good  cart-load  of 
printed  matter  designed  expressly  to 
influence  legislation. 

More  vigorous  schemers,  or  rather 
schemers  with  longer  purses,  soon  dis- 
cover that  pamphlets  are  rather  a  drug 
in  Washington,  and  send  delegations 
or  agents  to  "push"  their  projects  by 
personal  interviews.  Nearly  all  these 
enterprises  are  either  in  themselves 
absurd,  or  else  they  are  beyond  the 
range  of  legislation  ;  but  members  have 
to  bestow  attention  enough  upon  them 
to  ascertain  their  nature  and  claims. 
At  least,  many  members  do  this,  and 
by  doing  it  effect  a  great  deal  of  unre- 
corded good.  Many  a  member  of  Con- 
gress does  a  fair  day's  work  for  his 
country  outside  of  the  chamber  in 
which  he  sits  and  the  committee-rooms 
in  which  he  labors.  Many  members, 
too,  have  extensive  affairs  of  their  own, 
—  factories  or  banks  to  direct,  causes  to 
plead  in  the  national  courts,  articles  to 
write  for  their  newspapers. 

Let  them  get  all  this  work  and  all 
committee  work  done  before  the  Houses 


meet,  and  then  come  together  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in  snug  con- 
venient rooms  without  desks,  and  talk 
things  over  in  the  hearing  of  mankind. 
This  would  obviate  the  necessity  for 
the  two  sessions  which  give  the  Ser- 
geant-at-arms  so  much  lucrative  em- 
ployment, and  party-going  members 
such  annoyance.  I.  think,  too,  it  would 
discourage  and  finally  abolish  the  per- 
nicious custom  of  reading  speeches,  as 
well  as  that  kindred  falsehood  of  get- 
ting speeches  printed  in  the  "  Globe  " 
which  have  never  been  delivered  at 
all.  A  distinguished  senator  remarked 
in  conversation  last  winter,  that  when 
he  came  to  Congress,  fifteen  years  ago, 
not  more  than  one  speech  in  five  was 
written  out  and  read,  but  that  now 
four  in  five  are.  I  have  known  a  mem- 
ber, who  had  an  important  speech  pre- 
pared, seriously  consider  whether  he 
should  deliver  it  in  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives, or  offer  it  as  a  contribu- 
tion to  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly."  He 
concluded,  after  deliberation,  to  deliver 
the  speech  to  the  House,  because  he 
could  reach  the  country  quicker  in  that 
way ;  and  he  accordingly  roared  it,  in 
the  usual  manner,  from  printed  slips, 
few  members  regarding  him.  The 
next  morning,  the  speech  was  printed 
in  every  important  daily  newspaper 
within  fifteen  hundred  miles  of  Wash- 
ington. 

Among  the  great  purposes  of  a  na- 
tional parliament  are  these  two  :  first, 
to  train  men  for  practical  statesman- 
ship;  and,  secondly,  to  exhibit  them 
to  the  country,  so  that,  when  men  of 
ability  are  wanted,  they  can  be  found 
without  anxious  search  and  perilous 
trial.  The  people  of  free  countries  can 
form  little  idea  of  the  embarrassment 
which  a  patriotic  despot  suffers  when 
he  must  have  an  able,  commanding 
man  for  the  public  service,  and  there  is 
no  tried  and  tested  body  of  public  men 
from  which  to  choose.  The  present 
Emperor  of  Russia,  at  more  than  one 
critical  time,  I  have  been  assured,  has 
experienced  this  difficulty  :  the  whole 
vast  empire  with  its  teeming  millions 
lies  before  him  subject  to  his  will ;  but 


1870.] 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


149 


it  is  dumb.  Russia  has  no  voice.  Her 
able  men  have  no  arena.  No  man  is 
celebrated,  except  as  heir  to  an  ancient 
name,  or  commandant  of  an  impor- 
tant post.  No  class  of  men  have  had 
the  opportunity  to  stand  up  before  their 
countrymen,  year  after  year,  and  show 
what  they  are,  what  they  know,  what 
they  can  bear,  what  they  can  do,  and 
what  they  can  refrain  from  doing,  in 
keen,  honorable,  courteous  encounter 
with  their  peers.  One  lamentable  con- 
sequence is,  that  when  an  emperor,  ris- 
ing superior  to  the  traditions  of  his  or- 
der, strikes  into  a  new  and  a  nobler 
path,  and  looks  about  him  for  new  men 
to  carry  out  the  new  ideas,  he  has  no 
knowledge  to  act  upon.  France  has 
been  muzzlefl  for  nearly  twenty  years. 
The  time  is  at  hand  when  the  muzzle 
will  fall  off;  but  the  controlling  men 
who  should  have  been  formed  and  cel- 
ebrated by  twenty  years  of  public  life 
in  a  parliament  are  unformed  and  un- 
known. The  people  will  want  leaders  ; 
but  leaders  that  can  be  trusted  are  not 
extemporized. 

This  congressional  essay- writing 
threatens  to  reduce  us  to  the  same 
condition.  The  composition  of  an  es- 
say, in  the  quiet  solitude  of  a  library, 
is  a  useful  and  honorable  exertion  of 
the  human  mind ;  but  it  is  a  thing  es- 
sentially different  from  taking  part  in 
public  debate,  and  does  not  afford  the 
kind  of  training  which  a  public  man 
needs.  It  does  not  give  him  nerve, 
self-command,  and  the  habit  of  defer- 
ence to  the  judgment  of  other  minds. 
It  does  not  give  him  practice  in  the  art 
of  convincing  others.  We  cannot  get 
in  a  library  that  intimate  knowledge  of 
human  vanities,  timidities,  prejudices, 
ignorance,  and  habits,  which  shut  the 
mind  to  unaccustomed  truth,  and  turn 
the  best-intentioned  men  into  instru- 
ments of  evil.  The  triumphant  refuta- 
tion of  an  opponent  in  a  composition 
calmly  written  in  the  absence  of  that 
opponent,  —  how  easy  it  is,  compared 
with  meeting  him  face  to  face,  and  so 
refuting  him  in  the  hearing  of  an  em- 
pire, that  if  he  be  not  convinced,  tens 
of  thousands  of  other  men  are  !  Essay- 


writing  does  not  knock  the  conceit  out 
of  a  man  like  open  debate ;  nor  yet  does 
it  fortify  that  just  self-confidence  which 
enables  one  to  hold  his  own  against 
eloquent  error  and  witty  invective,  and 
sit  unmoved  amidst  the  applause  and 
laughter  that  frequently  follow  them.  It 
does  really  unfit  a  person  for  grappling 
with  the  homely,  every-day  difficulties 
of  government.  It  tends  to  lessen  that 
unnamed  something  in  human  beings 
which  gives  ascendency  over  others, 
and  it  diminishes  a  man's  power  to  de- 
cide promptly  at  a  time  when  his  decis- 
ion is  to  take  visible  effect.  Nor  does 
a  written  essay  give  any  trustworthy 
indication  of  its  author's  character  or 
force.  A  false,  barren,  unfeeling  soul 
has  been  an  "absolute  monarch  of 
words,"  capable  of  giving  most  pow- 
erful expression  to  emotions  which  it 
never  felt,  and  to  thoughts  imbibed 
from  better  and  greater  men. 

The  substitution  of  written  essays, 
read  from  printed  slips,  for  extempo- 
rized debate,  deprives  the  public,  there- 
fore, of  one  of  the  means  of  knowing 
and  weighing  the  men  from  whom  the 
leading  persons  of  the  government 
would  naturally  be  taken;  and  it  de- 
prives members  of  Congress  of  part  of 
the  training  which  public  men  peculiar- 
ly need.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  when 
the  House  of  Representatives  moves 
into  a  smaller  room,  and  Congress 
meets  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  the  read- 
ing of  speeches  will  be  coughed  down, 
and  that  Congress  will  resume  its  place 
as  one  of  the  national  parliaments  of 
the  world. 

If  the  reader  has  ever  been  so  unfor- 
tunate as  to  be  personally  interested  in 
a  measure  before  Congress,  he  has 
doubtless  been  exasperated  by  observ- 
ing that,  while  Congress  has  much 
more  to  do  than  it  can  do,  it  wastes 
much  more  than  half  its  time.  The 
waste  of  time,  in  the  last  days  of  a 
short  session,  with  the  appropriation 
bills  still  to  be  acted  upon,  and  a 
crowd  of  expectants  in  the  lobbies 
waiting  for  their  bills  to  "come  up."  is 
sometimes  excessive,  absurd,  and,  to 
parties  concerned,  almost  maddening. 


150 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


[February, 


I  shall  long  remember  a  certain  day  in 
the  House  of  Representatives,  when  I 
chanced  to  sit  next  to  a  gentleman 
whose  whole  fortune  and  entire  future 
career,  as  he  thought,  depended  upon 
the  action  of  the  House  concerning  a 
bill  which  was  expected  to  come  up  in 
the  course  of  the  afternoon.  He  was  a 
stranger  to  me,  but  I  gathered  from 
his  conversation  with  his  friends,  who 
clustered  around  him  on  the  floor  be- 
fore the  session  began,  that  he  had 
been  a  waiter  upon  Congress  for  two 
years.  Now,  he  thought,  the  decisive 
hour  had  come  :  that  day,  he  believed, 
would  send  him  home  made  or  marred 
for  life.  Sitting  so  near  him  as  I  did, 
I  could  not  help  regarding  the  proce.ed- 
ings  of  the  House  that  day  with  his 
eyes  and  his  feelings. 

Punctually  at  twelve,  the  rap  of  the 
Speaker's  ivory  hammer  was  heard 
above  the  din  of  conversation,  the  rus- 
tle of  papers,  and  the  noise  of  the 
ushers  admonishing  strangers  to  with- 
draw. A  chaplain  entered,  who  took 
his  stand  at  the  Clerk's  desk,  just  be- 
low the  Speaker,  and  began  the  usual 
prayer.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  ascer- 
tain the  exact  number  of  persons  who 
appeared  to  attend  to  this  exercise. 
The  number  was  three  :  first,  the  Speak- 
er, who  stood  in  a  graceful  attitude, 
with  clasped  hands  and  bowed  head,  as 
though  he  felt  the  necessity  of  repre- 
senting the  House  in  a  duty  which  it  did 
not  choose  itself  to  perform ;  second, 
one  member,  who  also  stood  ;  third,  one 
spectator  in  the  gallery.  Scarcely  any 
members  were  yet  in  their  seats,  and 
the  hall  exhibited  a  scene  of  faded  mo- 
rocco chair-backs,  with  a  fringe  of  peo- 
ple in  the  distance  walking,  standing, 
conversing ;  the  prayer  being  an  ex- 
tempore one,  the  chaplain  grew  warm, 
became  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of 
time,  and  prolonged  his  prayer  unusual- 
ly. Never  was  there  a  religious  ser- 
vice that  seemed  more  ill-timed  or  more 
ill  placed  than  that  which  opens  the 
daily  sessions  of  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives. There  is  a  time  for  all 
things  ;  but  members  evidently  think 
that  the  time  to  pray  is  not  then  nor 


there.  The  prayer  can  have  no  effect 
in  calming  members'  minds,  open- 
ing them  to  conviction,  or  preparing 
them  for  the  duties  of  the  occasion,  be- 
cause members'  minds  are  absorbed, 
at  the  time,  in  hurrying  the  work  of 
their  committee-rooms  to  a  conclusion. 
We  might  as  well  open  the  Gold- Room 
with  prayer,  or  the  daily  sessions  of 
the  stock-brokers.  Mr.  Daniel  Drew 
would  probably  assume  an  attitude  of 
profound  devotion,  but  other  gentlemen 
would  do  what  many  members  of  Con- 
do,  • —  avoid  going  in  until  the  prayer  is 
finished.  In  fixing  times  and  places  for 
devotional  acts,  we  are  now  advanced 
far  enough,  I  trust,  to  use  our  sense  of 
the  becoming  and  the  suitable,  and  to 
obey  its  dictates.  MembeVs  should  cer- 
tainly come  in  and  "  behave,"  or  else 
abolish  the  chaplain. 

My  Expectant  did  not  fret  under  the 
prolongation  of  the  prayer.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  that  apparently. 
Nor  was  he  moved  when  a  member 
rose  and  asked  to  have  a  totally  unim- 
portant error  corrected  in  yesterday's 
"  Globe."  After  this  was  done  began  a 
scene  that  wasted  an  hour  and  a  half, 
and  disgraced,  not  this  House  alone, 
but  the  country  and  its  institutions. 
Two  witnesses,  who  had  refused  to 
answer  the  questions  of  an  investi- 
gating-committee,  and  had  afterwards 
thought  better  of  it,  and  given  the  in- 
formation sought,  were  to  be  discharged 
from  the  custody  of  the  Sergeant-at- 
arms.  The  prisoners  were  of  the  low- 
est grade  of  New  York  politician. 
One  of  them,  a  good-humored,  disso- 
lute ruffian  of  twenty-three,  was  so 
precocious  in  depravity  that  he  had  al- 
ready been  an  alderman,  and  had  after- 
wards been  concerned  in  the  congenial 
business  of  distributing  forged  natural- 
ization-papers. I  became  acquainted 
with  this  fellow-citizen  during  his  de- 
tention in  the  lobby,  and  he  informed 
me,  as  I  contemplated  the  diamond  pin 
in  his  shirt,  that  he  would  have  come 
on  to  Washington  that  winter,  not  as  a 
prisoner,  but  as  a  member  of  Congress, 
if  he  had  been  old  enough.  This  was  a 
flight  of  the  imagination.  The  despots 


i8;a] 


Pressure  upon  Congress. 


of  the  Democratic  party  in  the  city  of 
.  ork  take  excellent  care  that  the 
really  desirable  things  at  their  disposal 
fall  to  the  men  who  can  pay  for  them. 
They  give  the  wretches  whose  votes 
they  employ  showers  of  Roman  can- 
dles about  election  time,  but  they  do 
not  pave  their  streets,  nor  remove  their 
heaps  of  garbage.  They  have  no  objec- 
tions to  a  poor  devil's  picking  up  a  dia- 
mond pin  or  so  as  alderman  or  council- 
man ;  but  when  it  comes  to  member  of 
Congress  —  O  dear,  no  !  they  rarely 
take  such  things  even  for  themselves. 

These  prisoners  being  residents  of 
New  York,  there  was  an  opportunity 
for  a  few  members  to  make  a  little 
home  capital  by  publicly  taking  their 
part.  One  after  another  the  city  mem- 
bers, in  the  view  of  the  whole  House 
and  the  crowded  galleries,  went  up  to 
the  ex-alderman,  as  he  stood  in  front 
of  the  Speaker,  shook  hands  with  him, 
smiled  upon  him,  and  exchanged  joc- 
ular observations  with  him.  A  chair 
was  brought  for  his  convenience,  and 
while  his  case  was  under  consideration, 
he  held  a  levee  in  the  aisle,  sitting ; 
while  the  Sergeant-at-arms,  represent- 
ing the  authority  of  the  House,  stood 
behind  him.  Mr.  James  Brooks  paid 
him  his  respects,  nodding  benignantly. 
Mr.  Fernando  Wood  bowed  with  court- 
ly grace,  and  uttered  friendly  words. 
Mr.  Robinson  (ah!  Richelieu,  you  de- 
serve better  company  ! )  \^.s  merry  with 
him.  A  member  moved  that  one  of 
the  prisoners  be  "discharged  from  cus- 
tody." ^  -  Why  not  say  honorably  dis- 
charged ? "  asked  a  Democratic  brother; 
which,  of  course,  led  to  the  expected 
wrangle.  But  the  main  effort  was  to 
get  the  ex-alderman  clear  without  his 
paying  the  costs  of  his  arrest  and  trans- 
portation to  Washington,  —  seventy-five 
dollars.  Now  mark  the  purposed  waste 
of  time.  It  was  moved  that  the  pris- 
oner be  discharged  on  paying  the  costs 
of  his  arrest.  A  Democratic  member 
moved  to  amend  by  striking  out  the 
words,  "on  paying  the  costs  of  arrest," 
alleging  that  the  witness  was  a  poor 
man,  and  could  not  procure  so  large  a 
sum.  The  diamond  pin  glittered  at  this 


remark.  I  think,  too,  that  the  officer 
who  had  had  charge  of  the  prisoner 
'_;ht  before  must  have  smiled;  for 
img  alderman  had  not  been  ab- 
stemious, and  he  had  broken  one  of 
the  commandments  in  an  expensive 
manner.  The  question  was  put.  A 
few  scattered  ayes  responded ;  and 
these  were  followed  by  such  a  simul- 
taneous and  emphatic  roar  of  NOES  as 
ought  to  rjave  settled  the  question.  A 
Democratic  member  demanded  the  yeas 
and  nays ;  and,  as  it  was  doubtful 
whether  this  demand  would  be  sus- 
tained, he  called  for  tellers  on  the 
question  whether  the  yeas  and  nays 
should  be  taken  or  not.  Monstrous 
robbery  of  precious  time  !  First,  two 
members  take  their  stand  in  front  of 
the  Speaker,  and  the  whole  House,  first 
the  yeas  and  then  the  nays,  pass  be- 
tween them,  —  a  curious  scene  of  hud- 
dle and  confusion.  The  tellers  report- 
ing that  the  demand  is  sustained,  the 
ayes  and  noes  are  ordered ;  which, 
with  the  time  already  consumed,  wastes 
three  quarters  of  an  hour.  The  amend- 
ment, as  every  one  knew  it  would  be, 
was  voted  down. 

Nothing  had  yet  been  done  in  the 
case.  An  amendment  had  been  offered 
and  rejected, — no  more.  The  main 
question  now  recurred  :  Shall  the  pris- 
oner be  discharged  on  paying  the  costs  ? 
The  sense  of  the  House  was  known  to 
every  creature  ;  but  the  few  Democrats 
from  New  York,  not  regarding  the  con- 
venience and  dignity  of  the  House,  but 
thinking  only  of  the  Sixth  Ward  and 
the  possible  effect  of  their  conduct 
there,  must  needs  repeat  this  costly 
farce.  Again  they  forced  members  to 
file  between  tellers ;  again  they  con- 
demned two  thousand  persons  to  en- 
dure the  tedium  of  the  roll-call;  again 
they  compelled  anxious  expectants  to 
chafe  and  fret  for  three  quarters  of  an 
hour.  It  was  past  two  o'clock  before 
this  trifling  matter  was  disposed  of. 
The  House  was  then  in  no  mood  for 
private  business,  and  this  unhappy  man 
was  kept  in  suspense  till  another  day. 

He  received  his  quietus,  however, 
before  the  session  ended.  I  saw  him, 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


[February, 


a  few  days  after,  come  into  a  com- 
mittee-room, followed  by  two  or  three 
members,  who,  I  suppose,  had  been 
pleading  his  cause.  His  face  was  very 
red,  and  it  betrayed  in  every  lineament 
that  the  vote  of  the  House  had  crushed 
his  hopes.  If  any  dramatist  would  like 
to  know  how  a  man  comports  himself 
under  such  a  stroke,  I  will  state  that 
this  gentleman  did  not  thrust  either  of 
his  hands  into  his  hair,  nor  throw  him- 
self into  a  chair  and  bury  his  face  in 
his  hands,  nor  do  any  other  of  those 
acts  which  gentlemen  in  such  circum- 
stances do  upon  the  stage.  He  walked 
hastily  to  the  faucet,  filled  a  glass  with 
water,  and  drank  it  very  fast.  Then  he 
filled  another  glass,  and  drank  that 
very  fast.  He  then  said  to  the  mem- 
bers present,  who  expressed  sympathy 
with  his  disappointment,  "  Gentlemen, 
you  did  the  best  you  could  for  me." 
Next,  he  put  on  his  overcoat,  took  up 
his  hat,  went  out  into  the  lobby,  and 
so  vanished  from  history. 

It  was  not  this  unfortunate  suitor 
alone,  nor  the  class  whom  he  repre- 
sented, that  suffered  keenly  upon  the 
occasion  before  mentioned.  Commit- 
tees were  anxious  to  report ;  members 
were  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  in- 
troduce matters  of  great  pith  and  mo- 
ment ;  foreign  agents  were  waiting  for 
the  House  to  act  upon  the  affairs  which 
they  had  in  charge  ;  an  important  re- 
vision of  the  internal-revenue  system, 
upon  which  a  committee  had  expended 
months  of  labor,  was  pending,  and  was 
finally  lost  for  want  of  the  time  thus 
wantonly  wasted.  Surely  it  is  within 
the  compass  of  human  ingenuity  to  de- 
vise a  method  of  preventing  a  handful 
of  members  from  frustrating  the  wishes 
of  a  majority  ?  Three  fourths  of  the 
House  desired  to  go  on  with  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day  ;  and,  of  the  remaining 
fourth,  only  half  a  dozen  really  cared  to 
conciliate  the  class  represented  by  the 
prisoner.  Why  not  take  the  yeas  and 
nays  by  a  machine  similar  to  the  hotel 
indicator  ?  From  the  remotest  corner 
of  the  largest  hotel,  a  traveller  sends 
the  number  of  his  room  to  the  office 
by  a  pull  of  the  bell-rope.  The  in- 


ventor of  that  machine  could  doubtless 
arrange  a  system  of  wires  and  words 
by  which  the  vote  of  the  House  could 
be  taken,  and  even  permanently  re- 
corded, by  a  click  of  a  key  on  each 
member's  desk.  In  an  instant  every 
name  might  be  exhibited  in  bold  char- 
acters, —  the  ayes  on  the  Speaker's 
right,  and  the  noes  on  his  left,  —  legi- 
ble to  the  whole  House  ;  or  the  ayes 
and  noes  might  be  printed  on  pre- 
pared lists.  Until  such  a  contrivance 
is  completed,  the  Speaker  might  be 
empowered  to  put  a  stpp  to  such  obvi- 
ous filibustering  as  that  just  described. 
There  has  never  yet,  I  believe,  been 
a  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Represent- 
atives who  might  not  have  been  safely 
entrusted  with  much  addition  to  his 
power.  "  All  power  is  abused,'1  says 
Niebuhr ;  "and  yet  some  one  must 
have  it."  Such  Speakers  as  Henry 
Clay,  General  Banks,  Mr.  Colfax,  and 
Mr.  Elaine  would  not  be  likely  to  abuse 
power  so  abominably  as  the  minority 
of  the  House  do  whenever  they  fancy 
they  can  please  sweet  Buncombe  there- 
by. 

A  good  deal  of  precious  time  is  con- 
sumed by  Congress  in  misgoverning 
the  District  of  Columbia,  or  in  doing 
just  enough  to  prevent  the  people  of 
the  District  from  governing  themselves. 
Who  invented  the  District  of  Colum- 
bia ?  Why  a  District  of  Columbia  ? 
It  is  a  joke*in  Washington,  that,  for 
sixty-five  years,  Congress  voted  fifteen 
hundred  dollars  every  session  for  the 
salary  of  "  the  keeper  of  the  crypt," 
because  no  member  had  the  moral 
courage  to  confess  his  ignorance  of 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  The  jokers 
say  that  many  members  thought  it  was 
some  mysterious  object,  like  the  mace, 
without  which  Congress  would  not 
be  Congress.  Certain  it  is  that  the 
money  was  voted  without  question  ev- 
ery year,  until  in  1868  the  item  caught 
the  eye  of  General  Butler,  and  he  asked 
members  of  the  Committee  on  Appro- 
priations what  it  meant.  No  one  be- 
ing able  to  tell  him;  he  went  down 
forthwith  into  the  crypt  of  the  Capitol 
in  search  of  its  "keeper."  No  such 


1 870.] 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


officer  was  known  in  those  subterra- 
nean regions.  After  a  prolonged  in- 
quiry, he  discovered  that  soon  after  the 
death  of  General  Washington,  when 
it  was  expected  that  his  remains  would 
be  deposited  in  the  crypt  under  the 
dome,  Congress  created  the  office  in 
question,  for  the  better  protection  of 
the  sacred  vault.  Mrs.  Washington 
refusing  her  consent,  the  crypt  remained 
vacant;  but  the  office  was  not  abol- 
ished, and  the  appropriation  passed  un- 
challenged until  General  Butler  made 
his  inquiry,  when  it  was  stricken  out. 
Is  not  cur  District  of  Columbia  a  simi- 
lar case  ?  The  District  is  instilled  into 
the  tender  mind  of  infancy,  and  we 
have  all  taken  it  for  granted.  But 
what  need  is  there  of  depriving  a  por- 
tion of  the  American  people  of  part  of 
their  rights,  or  of  compelling  them  to 
travel  across  a  continent  to  vote  ? 
Why  use  an  apparatus  so  costly,  com- 
plicated, and  cumbersome  as  the  Con- 
gress of  the  United  States  to  get  a 
little  paving  done  in  Pennsylvania  Ave- 
nue, or  some  soup  given  out  to  a  few 
hundred  hungry  negroes  ?  Do  Califor- 
nia and  Oregon  send  members  across 
the  continent  to  attend  to  the  lamp- 
posts of  a  country  town  ?  Are  honora- 
ble gentlemen  to  travel  all  the  way  from 
the  extremity  of  Florida  or  the  farthest 
confines  of  Texas  to  order  some  new 
boards  to  be  nailed  down  on  the  Long 
Bridge  ? 

Unable  to  answer  such  questions  as 
these,  or  get  them  answered,  I  thought 
that  possibly  there  might  be  some 
military  advantage  arising  from  the 
system,  which  would  serve  as  an  offset 
to  its  manifest  inconveniences.  But 
the  jurisdiction  of  Congress  did  not 
prevent  officers  of  a  hostile  army  from 
walking  into  the  White  House  one 
very  warm  day  in  the  summer  of  1814, 
and  eating  Mrs.  Madison's  excellent 
dinner,  while  the  soldiers  under  their 
command  were  ravaging  the  town  and 
burning  the  Capitol.  Nor  was  it  the 
authority  of  Congress  that  kept  the 
Confederate  Army  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Potomac  after  the  battle  of  Bull 
Run.  No  harm  appears  to  have  come 


from  giving  back  to  Virginia  the  forty 
square  miles  which  she  contributed  to 
the  original  hundred ;  and  I  cannot 
think  of  any  evil  or  any  inconvenience 
that  would  result  if  Congress  were  to 
restore  to  Maryland  her  sixty,  and  pay 
taxes  on  the  property  of  the  United 
States,  like  any  other  guardian  or  trus- 
tee. 

This  is  a  matter  of  much  importance, 
because  there  seems  to  be  some  dan- 
ger of  the  government's  repeating  the 
stupendous  folly  of  creating  a  Federal 
City.  No  less  distinguished  a  person 
than  General  Sherman  appears  to  take 
it  for  granted  that  there  is  some  neces- 
sity for  the  government  to  be  sovereign 
in  a  little  principality  around  the  pub- 
lic edifices.  "  In  my  opinion,"  he  late- 
ly wrote,  "  if  the  capital  is  changed 
from  Washington  to  the  West,  a  new 
place  will  be  chosen  on  the  Mississippi 
River,  several  hundred  miles  above  St. 

Louis I  have  interests  in  St. 

Louis,  and  if  allowed  to  vote  on  this 
question,  I  would  vote  against  surren- 
dering St.  Louis  city  and  county,  with 
its  vast  commercial  and  manufacturing 
interests,  to  the  exclusive  jurisdiction 
of  a  Congress  that  would  make  these 
interests  subordinate  to  the  mere  polit- 
ical uses  of  a  Federal  capital.  Nor 
would  any  National  Congress  make  the 
capital  where  it  had  not  exclusive  and 
absolute  jurisdiction  for  its  own  protec- 
tion and  that  of  the  employes  of  the 
government.  Therefore,  if  the  capital 
be  moved  at  all,  it  must  go  to  a  place 
willing  to  surrender  its  former  charac- 
ter and  become  a  second  Washington 
City." 

This  is  an  appalling  prospect  for 
posterity,  —  a  second  Washington  City  ! 
I  could  wish  that  General  Sherman 
had  given  some  reasons  for  his  assump- 
tion ;  for  while  the  good  resulting  from 
the  jurisdiction  of  Congress  is  not  ap- 
parent, the  evils  are  manifest.  The  ar- 
riving stranger,  who  usually  has  the 
pain  of  riding  a  mile  or  two  in  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  naturally  asks  why 
that  celebrated  street  is  so  ill  paved,  so 
dusty,  so  ill  lighted.  It  is  one  of  the 
widest  streets  in  the  world ;  and  as 


154 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


[February, 


it  runs  two  miles  without  a  bend 
and  without  a  hill,  the  winds  rushing 
along  it  from  the  distant  gap  in  the 
mountains  raise  clouds  of  dust  that  are 
wonderful  to  behold  and  terrible  to  en- 
counter. At  other  times  the  street  is 
so  muddy  that  people  call  a  carriage  to 
take  them  across.  In  the  evening  the 
whole  city  is  dim,  dismal,  and  dan- 
gerous from  the  short  supply  of  gas. 
Ladies  who  intend  to  give  a  party  en- 
deavor to  select  an  evening  when  there 
will  be  no  evening  session ;  because 
when  the  Capitol  is  lighted  the  gas- 
works are  so  overtasked  that  every 
drawing-room  in  the  city  is  dull.  The 
dilapidation  of  the  bridges,  the  neglect- 
ed appearance  of  the  public  squares, 
the  general  shabbiness  and  sprawling 
incompleteness  of  the  town,  strike  ev- 
ery one  who  comes  from  the  trim  and 
vigorous  cities  of  the  North.  In  things 
of  more  importance  there  is  equal  inef- 
ficiency. Since  the  war  closed,  Wash- 
ington has  been  a  poverty  -  stricken 
place.  The  war  gathered  there  several 
thousands  of  poor  people,  who  became 
instantly  helpless  and  miserable  when 
the  army  was  withdrawn,  with  its  train 
of  sutlers,  storekeepers,  embalmers,  and 
miscellaneous  hangers-on.  In  one  of 
the  last  weeks  of  the  last  session,  I  re- 
member the  business  of  the  nation  was 
brought  to  a  stand  while  a  member 
coaxed  and  begged  a  small  appropria- 
tion from  Congress  to  keep  several 
hundreds  of  colored  people  from  starv- 
ing. I  myself  saw  the  soup-houses  sur- 
rounded by  ragged,  shivering  wretch- 
es, with  their  pails  and  kettles,  soon 
after  ten  in  the  morning,  although  the 
soup  was  not  distributed  until  twelve. 
Washington,  being  peopled  chiefly  by 
under-paid  clerks  and  their  worse  paid 
chiefs,  the  charity  of  the  city  was 
even  more  overtasked  than  its  gas- 
works ;  and  there  seemed  no  way  in 
which  those  poor  people  could  be 
saved  from  starvation,  except  by  a  gift 
of  public  money,  —  national  money, — 
the  property  of  Maine,  Oregon,  Florida, 
California,  and  the  other  States.  The 
absurdity  of  the  act  was  undeniable  ; 
but  when  human  beings  are  seen  to  be 


in  the  agonies  of  starvation,  constitu- 
tional scruples  generally  give  way. 
Congress  might  just  as  properly  have 
voted  thirty  thousand  dollars  to  relieve 
the  suffering  poor  of  San  Francisco. 
The  accidental  proximity  of  those  per- 
ishing people  gave  them  no  claim 
upon  the  national  treasury  which  the 
poor  of  other  cities  did  not  possess. 

The  stranger,  I  repeat,  observing 
these  and  many  other  evidences  of  in- 
efficient government,  naturally  asks  an 
explanation.  The  explanation  is,  that 
the  unhappy  city  has  two  governments, 
namely,  Congress,  and  its  own  Mayor 
and  Aldermen,  —  one  very  rich  and 
close,  the  other  very  poor  and  heavily 
burdened  with  expense.  Between  these 
two  powers  there  is  a  chronic  ill-feel- 
ing, similar  to  that  which  might  exist 
between  a  rich  uncle  and  a  married 
nephew  with  a  large  family  and  many 
wants,  —  both  living  in  the  same  house. 
The  old  man  is  under  the  impression 
that  he  makes  his  nephew  a  munificent 
allowance,  to  which  he  adds  Christmas 
and  other  gifts  on  what  he  considers  a 
liberal  scale.  His  numerous  other 
heirs  and  dependents  share  this  opin- 
ion. They  even  reproach  him  for  his 
lavish  benefactions.  They  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  he  ought  not  to  have  paid 
that  last  heavy  plumbing  bill  for  letting 
the  water  into  the  house.  The  young 
man,  on  the  other  hand,  so  far  from  be- 
ing grateful  for  his  uncle's  generosity, 
is  always  grumbling  at  his  parsimony ; 
and  every  time  an  unusual  expense  has 
to  be  incurred,  there  is  a  struggle  and 
a  wrangle  between  them  as  to  which 
shall  pay  it.  "  Pay  it  out  of  your  in- 
come," says  Uncle  Sam.  "No,  my 
dear  sir :  this  is  a  permanent  addition 
to  your  estate,"  replies  the  nephew. 
"  You  require  me,"  he  continues,  "  for 
your  own  convenience  and  advantage, 
to  reside  in  this  huge,  rambling,  expen- 
sive mansion,  far  away  from  towns  and 
markets  ;  and  I  am  thus  compelled  to 
live  on  a  scale  which  is  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  my  slender  means.  It  is 
but  fair  that  you  should  help  me  out." 
The  old  gentleman  assents  to  the 
principle  ;  but  he  never  can  be  brought 


1 870.] 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


'55 


to  come  down  as  handsomely  as  the 
young  nephew  feels  he  ought.  Hence, 
the  feud  between  the  two. 

This  state  of  things  is  injurious  to 
both  ;  but  to  the  city  government  it  is 
demoralization  and  paralysis.  After 
many  years  of  silent  and  of  vocal  strife, 
there  has  come  about  a  kind  of  "  under- 
standing "  that  Congress  is  to  <;  take 
care  "  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  and  the 
city  government  is  to  do  all  the  rest. 
But  the  real  object  of  strife  appears  to 
be,  which  government  shall  most  com- 
pletely neglect  the  duty  assigned  it ; 
and  each  excuses  its  neglect  by  point- 
ing to  the  inefficiency  of  the  other. 
The  remedy  appears  simple  and  feasi- 
ble. Let  Congress  restore  to  Maryland 
her  sixty  square  miles,  and  pay  taxes 
on  the  national  property.  By  this  in- 
expensive expedient,  Congress  would 
get  rid  of  the  troublesome  task  of  mis- 
governing a  small  principality,  and  the 
city  government  would  be  put  upon  its 
good  behavior,  and  supplied  with  ade- 
quate means  and  motive. 

The  question  of  the  removal  of  the 
capital  is  scarcely  ripe  even  for  serious 
consideration,  since  we  cannot  know 
for  ten  years  or  more  what  effects  will 
be  produced  by  the  Pacific  railroads, 
built  and  to  be  built ;  nor  whether  the 
country  is  to  extend  northward,  south- 
ward, in  both  directions,  or  in  neither. 
If  Canada  is  to  "come  in,"  then  Mr. 
Seward  may  be  right  in  his  conjecture 
that  the  final  capital  of  the  United 
States  will  be  somewhere  near  the  city 
of  St.  Paul.  If  Cuba  is  to  be  ours,  if 
the  other  large  islands  of  the  West 
Indies  are  to  follow,  if  we  are  to  dig  the 
Darien  Canal,  and  the  United  States  is 
to  compete  with  Great  Britain  for  the 
commerce  of  the  world,  then  the  future 
capital  may  properly  be  an  Atlantic 
seaport,  New  York  perhaps.  If  we  are 
to  take  upon  ourselves  the  grievous 
burden  of  Mexico,  and  extend  our  em- 
pire along  the  Pacific  coast,  then  some 
central  city  yet  to  be  created  may  be 
the  predestined  spot.  If  none  of  these 
things  is  to  happen,  the  beautiful  and 
commodious  city  of  St.  Louis  presents 
almost  every  advantage  that  can  be 


desired.  Many  years  must  probably 
elapse  before  any  of  these  ifs  are  out 
of  the  way.  In  the  mean  time  no  rea- 
son appears  why  Congress  should  not 
gladly  permit  the  people  residing  in 
the  District  of  Columbia  to  take  care 
of  their  own  municipal  affairs.  There 
would  then  be  one  committee  the  less, 
one  lobby  the  less,  one  whole  class  of 
ill-defined  and  undefinable  claims  the 
less.  It  would  not  require  ten  years 
of  lobbying,  under  that  system,  to  get 
Pennsylvania  Avenue  paved;  nor  would 
Congress  have  to  spend  precious  time 
in  providing  soup  for  the  poor. 

But  the  greatest  time-consumer  of 
all  is  the  frequently  settled  but  always 
reopening  controversy  respecting  the 
right  of  Congress  to  appropriate  money 
for  "internal  improvements."  We  are 
at  sea  again  on  this  subject.  It  will  not 
remain  settled.  The  stranger  in  the 
Capitol,  who  looks  over  the  heaps  of 
pamphlets  and  documents  lying  about 
on  members'  desks  and  on  commit- 
tee-room tables,  discovers  that  a  large 
number  of  able  and  worthy  people  are 
under  the  impression  that  Congress 
may  be  reasonably  asked  to  undertake 
anything,  provided  it  is  a  desirable 
work,  and  will  cost  more  money  than 
parties  interested  find  it  convenient  to 
raise,  —  anything,  from  a  Darien  Canal 
to  the  draining  of  a  silver  mine,  from 
the  construction  of  a  whole  system  of 
railroads  to  the  making  of  an  experi- 
mental balloon.  There  are  those  who 
want  Congress  to  buy  all  the  telegraphic 
lines,  and  others  who  think  that  all  the 
railroads  should  be  public  property. 
The  strict-constructionists  are  reduced 
to  a  feeble  cohort,  and  yet  Congress 
adheres  to  the  tradition  of  their  doc- 
trines, and  is  fain  to  employ  devices 
and  subterfuges  to  cover  up  its  depart- 
ures therefrom.  But  no  one  knows 
how  far  Congress  will  go,  and  this  un- 
certainty lures  to  the  capital  many  an 
expensive  lobby,  who  wear  out  their 
hearts  in  waiting,  and  who  waste  at 
Washington  the  money  and  the  energy 
that  might  have  started  their  enterprise. 

While  waiting  one  day  in  the  room 
of  a  Washington  correspondent,  I  no- 


156 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


[February, 


ticed  upon  the  table  a  large,  square, 
gilt-edged,  handsomely  bound  volume, 
resembling  in  appearance  the  illustrat- 
ed annuals  which  appear  on  the  book- 
sellers' counters  during  the  month  of 
December.  Upon  taking  it  up,  I  ob- 
served upon  the  cover  a  picture,  in  gold, 
of  a  miner  gracefully  swinging  a  pick- 
axe, with  golden  letters  above  and  be- 
low him  informing  me  that  the  work  was 
upon  the  "  Sutro  Tunnel,  Nevada."  I 
opened  the  volume.  Upon  one  of  the 
fly-leaves  I  had  the  pleasure  of  reading 
a  letter,  in  fac-simile,  signed  Adolf  Su- 
tro, which  showed  that  Mr.  Sutro  was 
an  elegant  penman  and  wrote  in  the 
French  manner,  —  one  sentence  to  a 
paragraph,  —  thus  :  — 

"  We  have  a  vast  mining-interest : 
we  also  have  a  large  national  debt. 

"  The  development  of  the  former  will 
secure  the  early  payment  of  the  latter. 

"The  annexed  book  contains  much 
information  on  the  subject. 

"  A  few  hours  devoted  to  its  perusal 
will  prove  useful,  interesting,  and  in- 
structive." 

Having  read  this  neat  epistle,  I  turned 
over  a  leaf  or  two,  and  discovered  an 
engraving  of  "  Virginia  City,  N.  T.," 
and  opposite  to  the  same  the  title-page, 
of  which  the  following  is  a  copy : 
"  The  Mineral  Resources  of  the  United 
States,  and  the  Importance  and  Neces- 
sity of  Inaugurating  a  Rational  System 
of  Mining,  with  Special  Reference  to 
the  Comstock  Lode  and  the  Sutro 
Tunnel  in  Nevada.  By  Adolf  Su- 
tro. Baltimore  :  John  Murphy  &  Co., 
1868."  The  work  consisted  of  two 
hundred  and  thirty-two  large  pages,  of 
which  both  the  paper  and  the  printing 
were  of  the  most  expensive  kind.  The 
substance  of  Mr.  Sutro's  message  can 
be  given  in  a  few  sentences  :  i.  The 
Comstock  Lode  in  Nevada,  the  most 
productive  series  of  silver  mines  in 
the  world,  having  yielded  seventy-five 
million  dollars'  worth  of  silver  in  six 
years,  has  now  been  dug  so  deep  that 
it  costs  nearly  as  much  to  pump  out 
the  water  as  the  mines  yield.  2.  Mr. 
Sutro  wants  Congress  to  tap  the  moun- 
tain by  means  of  a  tunnel,  —  the  Sutro 


Tunnel,  —  so  that  the  water  will  all  run 
out  at  the  bottom,  far  below  the  silver, 
leaving  the  mines  dry.  3.  If  that  is 
not  done,  the  mines  cannot  be  worked 
much  longer  at  a  profit.  4.  Capitalists 
will  not  undertake  the  tunnel,  because 
they  are  not  sure  there  is  silver  enough 
in  the  lode  to  pay  for  it.  5.  Mr.  Sutro 
is  perfectly  sure  there  is.  6.  There 
are  many  similar  lodes  in  Nevada. 
7.  Therefore  it  is  "  the  duty  and  inter- 
est of  the  government  to  aid  in  the  con- 
struction of  one  tunnel  as  an  index 
work,"  to  show  that  there  is  silver 
enough  in  such  lodes  to  pay  for  such 
tunnels. 

This  is  the  milk  in  that  magnificent 
cocoanut.  The  idea  is  ingenious  and 
plausible.  I  should  like  to  see  it  tried. 
But  who  needs  to  be  told  that,  under 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States, 
as  formerly  interpreted,  Congress  has 
no  more  right  to  advance  money  —  or, 
as  the  polite  phrase  now  is,  "  lend  the 
credit  of  the  government  "  —  for  such 
an  object  as  this,  than  it  has  to  build  a 
new  kind  of  steamboat  for  the  Fulton 
Ferry  Company,  because  the  company 
is  not  certain  it  will  answer  ?  The  in- 
ventor is  certain.  He  gets  a  great  al- 
bum printed,  and  goes  to  Washington 
to  lobby  for  the  money.  Now,  to  pro- 
duce a  thousand  copies  of  such  a  work 
as  this  costs  ten  thousand  dollars  ;  and 
it  indicates  a  lobby  that  may  have  cost 
twenty  thousand  or  fifty  thousand  more. 
What  a  waste  is  this  !  And  there  are 
fifty  lobbies  every  winter,  in  Washing- 
ton, pushing  for  objects  as  obviously 
beyond  the  constitutional  power  of 
Congress  as  the  Sutro  Tunnel.  These 
lobbies  not  only  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money,  but  they  demoralize,  in  some 
degree,  almost  every  person  who  has 
anything  to  do  with  them.  Nearly  all 
of  them  fail,  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  but 
not  until  they  have  tempted,  warped, 
perverted,  corrupted,  men  who,  but  for 
such  projects,  would  leave  Washington 
as  innocent  as  they  came  to  it. 

Take  this  scene  for  example.  A 
Washington  correspondent,  sauntering 
towards  the  Capitol,  is  joined  by  the 
chief  of  one  of  these  lobbies,  to  whom. 


1870.] 


TJtc  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


he  has  been  casually  introduced.  There 
are  about  sixty  correspondents  usually 
residing  in  Washington  during  the  win- 
ter, of  whom  fifty-five  are  honorable 
and  industrious  ;  having  no  object  but 
to  serve  faithfully  the  newspapers  to 
which  they  are  attached ;  and  general- 
ly no  source  of  income  but  the  salary 
which  they  draw  from  those  newspa- 
pers, —  from  thirty  to  a  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week.  The  other  five  are  vulgar, 
unscrupulous,  and  rich.  They  belong 
to  insignificant  papers,  and  sell  their 
paragraphs  to  inexperienced  men  who 
come  to  Washington  to  get  things 
"  through,"  and  desire  the  aid  of  the 
press.  Lobbyists  who  understand  their 
business  seldom  approach  correspond- 
ents with  illegitimate  propositions,  be- 
cause they  know  that  the  representa- 
tives of  influential  newspapers  cannot 
sell  their  columns,  and  would  disdain 
to  attempt  doing  so.  The  corrupt  five, 
who  prey  generally  upon  the  inexperi- 
enced, occasionally  get  lucrative  jobs 
from  men  who  ought  to  be  ashamed  to 
employ  them.  They  make  it  a  point 
to  cultivate  a  certain  kind  of  intimacy 
with  members, —  a  billiard-room  inti- 
macy, a  champagne -supper  intimacy. 
They  like  to  be  seen  on  the  floor  of 
the  House  of  Representatives,  and  may 
go  so  far  as  to  slap  a  senatorial  carpet- 
baggcr  on  the  back.  It  is  part  of  their 
game  to  walk  down  Pennsylvania  Ave- 
nue arm-in-arm  with  a  member  of  Con- 
gress, and  to  get  the  entree  of  as  many 
members'  apartments  as  possible.  Some 
members,  who  know  and  despise  them, 
are  yet  in  some  degree  afraid  of  them  ; 
for  any  man  who  can  get  access  to  a 
newspaper  can  do  harm  and  give  pain. 
To  the  publicity  of  the  press  there  are 
as  many  avenues  in  the  country  as 
there  are  newspapers  to  exchange  with  ; 
and  any  paper,  even  the  most  remote 
and  least  important,  is  competent  to 
start  a  falsehood  which  the  great  thuri- 
derers  of  the  press  may  copy,  and 
which  no  denial  can  ever  quite  eradi- 
cate from  the  public  mind.  These  jo- 
vial fellows,  who  treat  green  members 
to  champagne,  and  ask  them  to  vote  for 
dubious  measures,  are  also  the  chief 


calumniators  of  Congress.  It  is  they 
who  have  caused  so  many  timid  and 
credulous  people  to  think  that  the  Con- 
gress of  the  United  States  is  a  corrupt 
body.  They  revenge  themselves  for 
their  failure  to  carry  improper  meas- 
ures by  slandering  the  honest  men 
whose  votes  defeated  them.  They 
thrive  on  the  preposterous  schemes  to 
which  a  loose  interpretation  of  the 
Constitution  has  given  birth. 

But  my  friend  who  was  strolling  to- 
ward the  Capitol  was  not  one  of  the 
scurvy  five,  but  of  the  honorable  fifty- 
five  ;  and,  strange  to  relate,  the  lobby 
chief  who  escorted  and  took  him  aside 
was  a  master  of  his  art.  But  the  scheme 
which  he  represented  was  in  imminent 
peril,  and  it  was  deemed  essential  that 
the  leading  papers  of  the  West  should, 
at  least,  not  oppose  it.  It  was  thought 
better  that  the  papers  should  even 
leave  the  subject  unmentioned.  It  were 
needless  to  give  in  detail  the  interview. 
The  substance  of  what  our  lobbyist 
had  to  propose  to  this  young  journal- 
ist was  this  :  "  Take  this  roll  of  green- 
backs, and  don't  send  a  word  over  the 
wires  about  our  measure."  From  the 
appearance  of  the  roll,  it  was  supposed 
to  contain  about  as  much  money  as 
the  correspondent  would  earn  in  the 
whole  of  a  short  session  of  Congress. 
What  a  temptation  to  a  young  married 
man  and  father  !  —  a  quarter's  salary 
for  merely  not  writing  a  short  paragraph, 
which,  in  any  case,  he  need  not  have 
written,  and  might  not  have  thought  of 
writing.  He  was  not  tempted,  how- 
ever ;  but  only  blushed,  and  turned 
away  with  the  remark  that  he  was  sorry 
the  tempter  thought  so  meanly  of  him. 
It  is  illegitimate  schemes,  such  as 
ought  never  to  get  as  far  as  Wash- 
ington, that  are  usually  sought  to  be 
advanced  by  such  tactics  as  these. 

Either  by  a  new  article  of  the  Con- 
stitution, such  as  President  Jefferson 
proposed  sixty-five  years  ago,  or  by  a 
clearly  defined  interpretation  of  exist- 
ing articles,  the  people  should  be  no- 
tified anew  that  Congress  is  not  au- 
thorized to  expend  the  public  money, 
or  "  lend  the  public  credit,"  for  any 


158 


The  Pressure  upon  Congress. 


[February, 


but  strictly  national  objects,  —  objects 
necessary  to  the  defence  and  protection 
of  the  whole  people,  and  such  as  the 
State  governments  and  private  individ- 
uals cannot  do  for  themselves.  Any 
one  who  has  been  in  Washington  dur- 
ing the  last  few  winters,  and  kept  his 
eyes  open,  must  have  felt  that  this 
was  a  most  pressing  need  of  the  time. 
It  is  sorrowful  to  see  so  much  effort 
and  so  much  money  wasted  in  urging 
Congress  to  do  what  it  cannot  do 
without  the  grossest  violation  of  the 
great  charter  that  created  it. 

I  feel  all  the  difficulty  of  laying  down 
a  rule  that  will  stand  the  test  of  strong 
temptation.  The  difficulty  is  shown  by 
our  failures  hitherto  ;  for  this  question 
of  the  power  of  Congress  to  do  desira- 
ble works  has  been  an  "  issue "  in 
Presidential  contests,  and  the  theme  of 
a  hundred  debates  in  both  Houses. 
President  Washington,  influenced  per- 
haps by  his  English-minded  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury,  Hamilton,  evidently 
thought  that  Congress  could  do  almost 
anything  which  the  British  Parliament 
could  do  ;  and  we  see  him  urging  Con- 
gress to  realize  Hamilton's  dream  of  a 
great  National  University.  John  Ad- 
ams shared  this  opinion.  When  Mr. 
Jefferson  came  into  power,  in  1801,  on 
a  strict-constructionist  issue,  Republi- 
cans thought  the  thing  was  settled. 
But  no  :  there  occurred  an  opportunity 
to  buy  Louisiana,  and  that  opportunity 
seemed  transient.  Napoleon  wanted 
money  desperately,  and  had  sense 
enough  to  understand  the  uselessness  of 
Louisiana  to  France.  Jefferson  yielded. 
He  bought  Louisiana,  and  then  asked 
Congress  to  frame  an  amendment  to 
the  Constitution  that  would  cover  the 
act.  I  never  could  see  the  necessity 
for  an  amendment  for  that  case  ;  for  it 
certainly  belonged  to  "  the  common 
defence  "  for  the  United  States  to  own 
its  own  back  door.  Then  came  that 
perplexing  surplus  of  1805,  when  Mr. 
Jefferson  asked  Congress  to  take  the 
whole  subject  of  internal  improvements 
into  consideration,  and  frame  an  arti- 
cle of  the  Constitution  which  would  be 
a  clear  guide  for  all  future  legislation. 


It  was  not  done.  The  war  of  1812  be- 
trayed the  weakness  of  the  country  in 
some  essential  particulars,  and  broke 
down  the  strict-construction  theory, 
while  confirming  in  power  the  party 
of  strict-constructionists.  Madison  re- 
vived the  project  of  a  National  Univer- 
sity, without  asking  for  a  new  article ; 
and  the  old  Federalist  ideas  gained 
such  ground,  that,  when  John  Ouincy 
Adams  came  into  power,  in  1825,  Con- 
gress was  asked  to  do  more  than  Hamil- 
ton had  so  much  as  proposed  in  Cab- 
inet-meeting. Jackson,  impelled  by 
his  puerile  hatred  of  Henry  Clay,  re- 
established the  strict-construction  prin- 
ciple ;  but  it  would  not  remain  re-estab- 
lished. In  1843,  Congress  gave  Pro- 
fessor Morse  twenty  thousand  dollars 
with  which  to  try  his  immortal  experi- 
ment with  the  telegraph.  Congress  had 
no  right  to  do  this  ;  but  the  splendor 
of  the  result  dazzled  every  mind  and 
silenced  all  reproach.  Then  came  Mr. 
Douglas's  device  by  which  a  Demo- 
cratic Congress  was  enabled  to  set  up 
a  railroad  company  with  capital  from 
the  sale  of  the  public  lands,  and  leave 
to  the  railroad  company  all  the  profit 
upon  the  investment.  Finally  was 
achieved  the  masterpiece  of  evasion 
called  "  lending  the  public  credit." 

I  never  could  see  the  necessity 
of  any  device  to  justify  Congress  in 
constructing  one  Pacific  Railroad  out- 
right ;  because  it  was  a  cheap  and  ne- 
cessary measure  of  "  common  defence." 
That  railroad  defends  the  frontiers 
against  the  Indians  better  than  mount- 
ed regiments,  and  defends  the  Pacific 
States  better  than  costly  fleets.  But  the 
most  strained  reading  of  the  Constitu- 
tion cannot  make  it  authorize  the  build- 
ing of  a  railroad  beginning  and  ending 
in  the  same  State,  nor  justify  the  voting 
of  public  money  to  make  scientific  ex- 
periments. Probably  there  are  now  in 
Washington  at  least  fifty  lobbies  (or  will 
be  erelong)  working  for  schemes  sug- 
gested by  those  two  violations  of  trust, 
to  the  sore  tribulation  of  members  of 
Congress,  and  to  the  grievous  loss  of 
persons  interested. 

The  time  is  favorable  for  an  attempt 


1 870.] 


Quaff. 


to  settle  this  question,  because  it  does 
not  now  enter  into  the  conflict  of  par- 
ties. Perhaps  the  Congress  of  an  em- 
pire like  this  outfit  to  have  power  to 
aid  in  such  a  work  as  the  Darien  Ca- 


vice, for  example,  as  that  rendered  by 
the  discoverers  of  the  pain-suspending 
power  of  ether.  If  so,  let  the  power  be 
frankly  granted,  but  carefully  defined. 
If  not,  let  the  fact  be  known.  There 


nal.      Perhaps  the  mere  magnitude  of     should  be  an  end  of  evasions,  devices, 


the  undertaking  makes  it  exceptional, 
makes  it  necessarily  national.  It  may 
properly  belong  to  an  imperial  par- 
liament to  aid  scientific  experiments 
which  are  too  costly  for  individuals  to 
undertake.  Perhaps  a  national  Con- 
gress is  incompletely  endowed  un- 
less it  can  reward  services  that  cannot 
otherwise  be  rewarded,  —  such  a  ser- 


and tricks  for  doing  what  the  Consti- 
tution does  not  authorize.  A  tolerably 
well-informed  citizen  of  the  United 
States  should  be  able  to  ascertain  with 
certainty,  before  going  to  Washington' 
and  publishing  a  gorgeous  album, 
whether  his  enterprise  is  one  which 
Congress  has  or  has  not  the  constitu- 
tional right  to  assist. 


QUAFF: 

HIS   CAPERS;^CONTRADICTIONS,  AND   PURE   CUSSEDNESSES. 


"  POSSESSED  of  that  thirsty  devil 
-1-  whose  name  is  Quaff":  so  said 
Luther  of  his  potationary  German  gen- 
eration ;  and  Luther  knew  whereof  he 
spoke,  being  familiar  with  the  Satanic 
administration,  and  commissioned  to 
hold  the  light  of  truth  to  the  Prince  of 
Darkness  in  person.  I  esteem  myself 
happy  in  the  chance  to  '•  sling  ink  "  at 
this  deputy  diabolos  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  spiritual  pluck  that  once  hurled 
the  full  horn  at  the  head  of  the  Arch 
Fiend  himself. 

There  are  just  two  orders  of  mind  to 
which  the  idea  of  an  actual,  personal 
Devil  is  acceptable,  in  any  debate,  with- 
out qualification  or  demur.  And  these 
are  the  truly  great  and  the  truly  simple, 
the  intellectual  planet  and  the  intel- 
lectual spark,  —  Bacon  and  a  booby, 
Luther  and  a  lout ;  and,  standing  be- 
tween these  two  extremes,  I  gratefully 
accept  the  ray  of  truth  that  reaches  me 
from  either  end. 

Would  1  be  understood  as  asserting 

—  say  confessing,  if  you  feel  scornful 

—  that  I  believe  in  a  downright  Dev- 
il, with    an    entity  as    vulgar   as   John 
Smith's,  and  a  mission  as  meddling  as 


Paul  Pry's  ?  —  a  Devil  with  a  will  and 
a  plan,  with  attributes,  prerogatives, 
and  a  jurisdiction?  —  a  Devil  with 
knowledge,  penetration,  and  device  ?  — 
a  Devil  who  can  expand  himself  like 
cant  and  contract  himself  like  avarice, 
"  limber "  himself  like  servility  and 
stiffen  himself  like  pride,  consent  like 
superstition  and  resist  like  bigotry, 
flow  like  folly  and  stand  fast  like  fate, 
grovel  like  a  pariah  and  grow  like  a 
demi-god,  solicit  like  a  parasite  and 
patronize  like  a  priest  ? 

Even  so ;  for  I  was  born  with  a  note 
of  interrogation  for  a  birthmark,  and 
—  granted  a  Devil  for  a  key  —  I  have 
guessed  to  the  heart  of  many  a  mystery 
that  else  might  have  puzzled  me  mad. 
He  has  accounted  to  me  for  so  many 
phenomena,  physiological,  phrenologi- 
cal, psychological,  sociological,  —  every- 
thing but  logical,  —  which  might  have 
fretted  my  spirit  and  muddled  my  wits 
by  insisting  on  being  accounted  for, 
that,  if  one  may  orthodoxly  thank  the 
Enemy,  I  owe  him  grateful  assurances 
of  my  distinguished  consideration. 
Recognizing  the  Father  of  Lies,  I 
have  enjoyed  a  philosophical  and 


160 


Quaff. 


[February, 


moral  dispensation  from  entertaining 
the  distracting  bedlam  of  his  offspring. 
Therefore  I  invoke  the  nimble  pres- 
ence of  Luther's  thirsty  Quaff,  that, 
plunging  plump  into  the  flowing  bowl, 
he  may  bring  me  to  light  the  mystery 
of  iniquity  that  lurks  beneath  the  "  ruby 
main  "  of  every  lusty  brimmer,  —  a  tipsy 
little  truth  at  the  bottom  of  a  wicked 
little  well;  and,  science  having  dived 
for  it,  and  the  law  dragged  for  it,  and 
philanthropy  drained  for  it,  all  in  vain, 
here  comes  religion,  or  common  sense, 
— by  this  light  it  may  be  either,  or 
both  at  once,  —  and  says,  let 's  try  the 
Devil ! 

Every  Ouaff-possessed  wretch,  who 
topes  up  to  the  raging  climax,  and  then 
rolls  over  trembling  into  the  abyss  of 
"  horrors,"  is  familiar  with  the  appari- 
tion of  certain  psychological  phenom- 
ena, diverse  but  akin,  which  at  one 
time  or  another  —  in  the  exaltation  of 
carouse,  or  the  prostration  of  "jim- 
jams  "  —  are  sure  to  confront  him  ;  and 
which,  be  he  Luther  or  lout,  he  knows 
—  with  a  knowledge  instinctive  and  un- 
erring—  are  not  to  be  peddled  from  the 
carpet-bag  of  any  professional  moun- 
tebank, nor  to  be  demonstrated  on 
the  blackboard  of  any  scientific  penny 
showman. 

I  believe  there  are  few  of  us  —  we  of 
the  world  and  the  flesh  —  who  do  not 
keep  a  private  demon  (once  frankly 
termed  a  "familiar").  Disguised  as  a 
"  devilish  cute,"  or  a  devilish  clever,  or 
a  devilish  brilliant  fellow,  and  shrewd- 
ly sinking  the  professional  in  the  ele- 
gant amateur,  this  protean  guide,  phi- 
losopher, and  friend  is  ready  to  attend 
us  with  his  experience  and  his  arts 
whenever  we  feel  like  rushing  in  where 
angels  fear  to  tread.  He  is  the  Mephis- 
topheles  to  the  Faust  of  our  dreams, 
the  Mulberry  Hawk  to  the  Verisopht 
of  our  debauches. 

When  you  would  wend  to  that  land 
of  the  forbidden,  by  the  route  "  obscure 
and  lonely,  haunted  by  ill  angels  only," 
which  Foe  had  so  often  traversed,  be 
honest  like  him,  and  engage  one  of  the 
regular  guides.  Don't  pretend  that  you 
have  strayed  unwillingly,  unwittingly, 


from  the  plain  road  of  revelation,  mis- 
lighted  by  any  will-o'-the-wisps  of  sham 
science,  or  luminous  spectre  of  dyspep- 
sia, or  corpse-candle  of  superstition.  In 
this  injunction  (if  in  no  other  notion),  I 
find  Swedenborg  and  the  spiritualists 
with  me,  since  they  alike  acknowledge 
the  presence  and  influence  of  vulgar, 
lying,  and  spiteful  spooks,  whose  ac- 
complishments, arts,  and  functions  are 
essentially  human ;  and  Swedenborg 
describes  their  favorite  pastime  as  the 
dementing  of  mortal  fools  and  gulls. 

The  state  of  the  man  rabidly  ad- 
dicted to  drink  is  unquestionably  a 
state  of  disease,  whether  contracted  in 
the  natural  course  of  a  vicious  self- 
indulgence  or  fatally  inherited,  —  a  dis- 
ease, primarily  or  ultimately,  of  the 
nervous  organism  and  function.  But 
the  nervous  system,  being  the  medium 
of  all  imparted  or  transmitted  impres- 
sions, intellectual  or  moral,  of  all  emo- 
tions, psychological  and  spiritual,  is 
naturally  the  instrument  for  the  expres- 
sion of  character.  Then,  granted  a 
Devil,  crafty,  expert,  and  malign,  —  and 
in  each  of  us  he  finds  a  sort  of  mag- 
netic telegraph,  ingeniously  devised  for 
his  peculiar  manipulations.  Hence  the 
"  pure  cussednesses  "  of  drink,  the  fas- 
cinating diableries  of  animal  magnetism, 
clairvoyance,  necromancy,  —  even  vam- 
pyrism,  which  is  but  the  monstrous  em- 
bodiment of  a  horrid  bent  of  the  night- 
mared  soul.  "  Need,  therefore,  have 
ministers,  when  they  meddle  with  af- 
flicted men,  to  call  to  Heaven  aforehand 
to  assist  them,  being  sure  they  shall 
have  Hell  itself  to  oppose  them."* 
Even  they  who  reject  the  actuality  and 
personality  of  Satan  may  be  willing  to 
accept  him  as  the  spiritual  symbol  of 
the  power  and  ubiquity  of  co-operative 
presumptions  and  deceits  ;  and  for  this 
purpose,  whether  the  power  be  omni- 
present or  simply  divisible  and  multi- 
form, may  rest  an  open  question. 

"  A  disease  "  surely  ;  but  diseases, 
like  desires,  may  be  unholy  ;  and  the 
nervous  system  has  a  diabolic  nosology 
all  its  own,  — a  dictionary  of  disorders 
familiarly  demonic.  Of  these  is,  first 

*  Thomas  Fuller,  A  Wounded  Conscience. 


8;o.] 


Quaff. 


161 


of  all,  that  Scriptural  "  possession " 
which  is  the  intimate  office  of  Quaff 
and  his  crew,  and  of  which  the  phe- 
nomena, in  all  their  ancient  horrors  of 
bruising  and  rending  and  foaming  and 
defiling,  may  even  in  these  days  be 
observed  in  Pagan  lands.  These  may 
be  regarded  as  at  once  the  revelation 
and  the  type  of  this  class  of  visitations. 

Next  (an  exaggerated  development 
of  the  preceding,  merely),  come  certain 
forms  of  insanity,  especially  shocking 
in  their  shapes  of  despair  or  blasphemy. 
In  a  madhouse  in  Maryland,  I  saw  a 
spell-bound  young  woman,  whose  coun- 
tenance and  habitual  attitude  might  have 
moved  a  professional  philanthropist  to 
pity.  She  was  a  Cuban,  fair  and  dainty, 
forced  by  her  family  to  marry  a  man 
she  hated,  to  the  sudden  ruin  of  a  man 
she  loved.  From  the  first,  she  refused 
to  hide  her  disgust  of  her  husband, 
who  very  soon  began  to  resent  her 
repulsions  with  an  implacable  revenge. 
He  removed  her  to  Spain,  where,  by  a 
deliberate  system  of  patient  and  ruth- 
less provocations,  he  finally  drove  her 
mad,  with  a  distraction  sufficiently 
hideous  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting 
of  the  spasmodic  school  of  tragedy; 
then,  with  savage  mockery,  he  sent 
her  back  to  her  parents,  who  forthwith 
consigned  her  to  the  safe  keeping  of 
nurses  in  a  barred  and  bolted  cham- 
ber. 

She  told  me  she  was  "possessed  of 
a  devil,"  —  only  she  did  not  style  him 
husband,  —  who,  night  and  day,  tor- 
mented her  to  destroy  all  whom  she 
loved  or  pitied.  One  object  in  life  was 
yet  left  to  her,  —  death.  With  super- 
natural secrecy  and  patience,  she  waited 
and  watched  for  the  chance  of  self- 
destruction.  Her  cell  was  in  a"  tower, 
five  stories  from  the  ground ;  and  I 
saw,  on  the  window-sash,  how,  with 
resolute  and  busy  little  teeth,  she  had 
gnawed  the  frame  away  around  two 
panes,  that  she  might  fling  the  dark- 
ness of  her  life  out  into  the  darkness 
of  the  night ;  for  so  they  caught  her 
at  midnight,  with  tender  budding  lips 
all  bloody. 

In  another  asylum  in  the  same  State  I 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  148.  n 


have  seen  impious  "  services  "of  fright- 
ful mockery,  conducted  by  a  mad  preach- 
er, in  a  style  to  make  the  pit  of  perdition 
roar  with  fun.  The  man  had  been  a 
champion  "exhorter,"  eminent  for  his 
muscular  fervor,  and  very  aggressive 
in  prayer.  His  hymnophony  was  sten- 
torian, and  he  led  the  psalmody  with 
a  robust  air  of  business  that  "  improved 
an  occasion  "  like  a  steam-engine.  He 
had  been  the  ''first  trump :>  of  camp- 
meetings  and  the  last  trump  of  revi- 
vals. 

I  saw  this  poor  mountebank  of  the 
conventicle  uncowled,  but  terribly  in 
earnest  at  last.  To  his  distraught  im- 
agination his  narrow  cell  expanded  to 
a  tabernacle,  and  he  thronged  it  with 
such  a  congregation  as  may  be  looked 
for  only  in  a  vision  of  Dante,  or  a 
masque  of  Milton,  or  a  grotesque  of 
Rabelais,  or  a  dream  of  Poe,  or  a  pic- 
ture of  Dord.  Then  he  arose  in  the 
midst  of  his  invisible  flock,  and  in 
the  conventional  phrases,  tones,  and 
gestures  of  his  school  proceeded  to 
direct  a  most  monstrous  worship.  "  Let 
us  sing  to  the  glory  of  Satan  !  "  he  said, 
and  forthwith  began  most  horribly  to 
parody  himself,  —  deliberately  "  deacon- 
ing," in  the  familiar  nasal  twang  and 
drawl,  two  lines  at  a  time,  a  hymn  of 
his  own  improvising,  an  astounding  far- 
rago of  blasphemous  and  db^.cene  in- 
coherences ;  and  this  with  Watts  and 
Wesley  open  in  his  hand.  That  done, 
he  read  (as  if  from  the  sacred  volume 
before  him)  something  that  he  termed 
"a  portion  of  the  gospel  according  to 
Old  Scratch  "  :  shocking  as  the  devil- 
ish drollery  may  sound,  such  were  his 
very  words.  (There  are  those  who 
will  read  these  pages  who  knew  the 
smitten  wretch,  and  have  heard  his 
mad  ministry;  it  is  but  seven  years 
since.)  Then  a  prayer  !  —  the  prayer 
of  Legion  to  Lucifer :  shall  I  dare  to 
describe  it, —  I,  who  listened  to  it  be- 
witched, and  turned  away  appalled  ? 
And  then  a  closing  hymn,  "  deaconed  " 
as  before  ;  and  last  of  all,  a  literal  mal- 
ediction, 

Now,  holding  this  case  before  your 
eyes,  have  the  manliness  to  look  straight 


l62 


Quaff- 


[February, 


through  it  at  two  other  cases,  as  you 
find  them  described  in  the  evidence  of 
St.  Luke,  ch.  iv.  33~35>  and  ch-  viiil 
27  _  36  ;  and  tell  me  what  distinction 
you  make  in  the  diagnosis.  Were 
they,  or  were  they  not,  true  devils,  that 
were  cast  out  in  Capernaum  and  the 
land  of  the  Gadarenes  ?  and  do  they 
cease  to  be  spirits,  and  become  mere 
symptoms,  by  a  simple  accident  of 
time  and  geography?  Are  the  four 
Gospels  to  be  superseded  by  the  forty 
ologies,  and  Revelation  by  the  New 
American  Cyclopaedia  ?  Do  we,  or  do 
we  not,  "  believe  "  ?  Shall  we  entertain 
no  devouter  thought  for  the  record  of 
His  divine  exorcisms  in  Judaea  than 
the  good-humored  tolerance  we  grant 
to  the  legend  of  St.  Patrick's  vermifu- 
gal  exterminations  in  Ireland  ?  Let  us 
take  heed  to  our  whimseys  and  our 
crotchets,  for  a  fierce  little  apostolic 
conservative  is  after  us  sharply,  with 
his  i  Timothy  iv.  I. 

Well,  close  upon  the  heels  of  the 
outright  mad,  in  my  diabolic  nosology, 
follows  the  more  methodical,  though 
scarcely  milder,  procession  of  the  hy- 
sterical-possessed :  of  whom  are  the 
Hindoo  devotees  of  the  churruck-post ; 
the  Malay  slashers  of  the  amok  ; 
dervishes,  whirling  and  howling ;  the 
Convulsionnaires  of  St.  Medard  ;  the 
Flagellants  ;  the  later  spawn  of  Rus- 
sian "  Mutilators  "  ;  Salem  witchcraft, 

—  smuggled,  by  way  of  revival  trances, 
into    the    respectable    communion    of 
Rochester   Spiritualism,  with  its  prize 
tricks   of   table-tipping  and   crockery- 
slam-banging.    And  who  has  not  known 
very  small  children  in  whose  total  de- 
pravity of  wilfulness,  rebellion,  deceit, 
cruelty,  profanity,  impurity,  the  Devil 
asserts  his  presence  with  absolute  inso- 
lence ? 

This  brings  us  to  Pure  Cussedness, 

—  the  peculiar  domain  of  Quaff  and  his 
confederates,  chief  of  whom  is  the  Imp 
of  the  Perverse.    That  is  a  true  Satanic 
discord  which  thrusts  itself  between  the 
man  and  his  affections,  between  the  judg- 
ment and  the  word  or  act,  between  the 
will  and  the  power,  dividing,  estranging, 
conflicting  them.     And  in  this  impair- 


ment or  paralysis  of  will  or  power,  or 
both,  this  depraved  antagonism  of  two 
that  should  be  co-operative,  lies  all  the 
mystery  of  the  drunkard's  iniquity,— 
a  mystery  no  longer  physiological  or 
pathological,  but  simply  demonological. 
Once  acknowledge  (as  I  have  done  these 
twenty  years)  that  a  peculiar  doom  of 
sudden  stunning  is  provided  for  the 
will  of  him  who  wantonly  tampers  with 
the  forbidden,  and  sports  with  death 
and  Devil,  and  at  once  you  have  the 
key  to  the  mystery  of  many  a  tragedy 
infinitely  more  dark  and  haunting  than 
the  contradictions  of  Quaff,  or  the  per- 
versities of  Pure  Cussedness.  The 
will  abused,  or  set  to  wicked  work  for 
pastime,  or  deceit,  or  avarice,  or  pas- 
sion, will,  without  warning,  die,  or 
hide  itself,  or  withhold  its  help,  in  the 
crisis  of  terrible  predicament  and  peril. 
By  the  illustration  of  authentic  cases  I 
may  make  my  meaning  clear. 

Mildest  of  these  may  be  reckoned 
that  weird  fascination  of  impulse  to 
fling  one's  self  headlong  from  towers 
and  precipices,  or  from  the  "  tops  "  into 
the  sea,  which  in  the  tempting  circum- 
stances almost  overcomes  the  shud- 
dering resistance  of  certain  persons 
sensitively  organized,  if  for  a  moment 
they  permit  themselves  to  toy  with  the 
thought.  There  is  a  kindred  fascina- 
tion in  simulated  insanity,  which  often 
deceives  the  shrewdest  and  most  sus- 
picious observer,  by  force  of  that  par- 
tial or  transient  reality  which  is  its 
appropriate  punishment.  When  chil- 
dren cruelly  mimic  the  afflictions  of 
the  blind  or  lame,  the  grave  warning  of 
an  old-fashioned  nurse,  "  Stop,  child, 
or  you  '11  grow  so  !  "  is  something  more 
than  a  crone's  bugbear. 

The  following  cases  may  be  accepted 
as  examples  of  retributive  paralysis  of 
will :  — 

A  lad  in  New  Jersey,  infuriated  by  a 
flogging  his  father  had  administered  to 
him,  in  a  delirium  of  rage  and  hate, 
thrust  his  head  under  water  in  a  com- 
mon tub,  and  drowned  himself.  His 
arms  and  legs  were  free  ;  no  earthly 
circumstance  disabled  him  at  any  mo- 
ment from  rising  and  living  ;  his  power 


1 870.] 


Quaff. 


163 


was  at  his  service  ;  but  his  will  had  left 
him  to  his  fate. 

A  man  in  Pennsylvania  hung  him- 
self. When  found,  his  arms  were  quite 
at  liberty  ;  and,  not  only  were  his  toes 
on  thp  floor,  but  almost  his  knees  also. 
The  appearances  plainly  indicated  thai, 
to  effect  his  purpose,  he  had  drawn  up 
his  legs.  He  had  the  power  to  stand 
erect,  and  slacken  his  rope  loosely ; 
yet  he  could  not.  There  was  no  sign 
or  suspicion  of  insanity  in  this  case. 

A  woman  in  Connecticut  tied  a  silk 
scarf,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  form  a 
wide,  loose  loop,  round  her  bed-post, 
within  a  foot  and  a  half  of  the  floor. 
Then  lying  prone  on  the  carpet,  she 
passed  the  loop  over  her  head,  adjust- 
ing it  to  her  throat,  and  very  slow- 
ly strangled  herself,  by  allowing  the 
weight  of  her  body  to  bear  upon  the 
sling.  It  must  have  been  a  tedious 
process  of  self-murder ;  and  if  her  pa- 
tience had  become  exhausted,  she  had 
but  to  raise  her  head,  or  interpose 
her  hand;  yet  she  could  iwl.  In  this 
case  there  had  been  some  natural  mel- 
ancholy, following  the  death  of  her 
child  ;  but  not  a  trace  of  insanity. 

A  gentleman  residing  near  Troy, 
vork,  who  had  been  a  curious 
.  cr  of  such  phenomena,  and  had 
sought  in  vain  for  an  explanation  (that 
might  satisfy  both  his  reason  and  his 
faith)  of  the  failure  of  the  natural  muscu- 
lar impulse  to  respond  to  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  having  heard  a  shrewd 
old  farmer  say,  "  If  the  Devil  once  fairly 
puts  it  into  a  fellow's  head  to  kill  him- 
self, he  can  do  it  by  just  holding  his 
breath,''  determined  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem by  experiment.  He  went  alone 
into  his  barn,  confiding  his  purpose  to 
no  one,  and  with  a  rope  suspended 
himself  far  coll.  to  a  beam  ;  but  his 
toes  touched  the  floor  fairly,  so  that 
he  could  support  his  body  upon  them  ; 
and  he  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
place  a  block  or  stool  within  reach  of 
his  foot ;  and  his  hands  and  arms  were 
free:  yet  he  could  not!  If  a  farm- 
hand, opportunely  entering,  had  not 
cut  him  down,  he  could  not  have  lived 
to  explain,  that  "  from  the  moment  he 


allowed  his  body  to  hang  heavily  by 
the  rope,  feeling  for  the  floor  with  his 
heels,  all  muscular  impulse  to  save 
himself  was  gone  :  he  was  horrified, 
fascinated,  paralyzed." 

In  Vermont,  two  boys,  schoolmates 
and  intimate  playfellows,  but  not  re- 
lated, hung  themselves  at  the  same 
time,  as  if  by  concert  of  plan,  in  the 
barns  of  their  separate  homes.  "They 
were  healthy  cheerful  lads,  apparently 
without  a  grievance,  at  home  or  at 
school,  to  afford  a  motive  for  the 
strangely  dreadful  deed.  How  came 
it  to  pass,  then  ?  I  believe  it  to  have 
been  but  another  example  of  impious 
inquisitiveness,  without  a  purpose  more 
serious  than  the  exploit  of  a  boy's  har- 
dihood, —  a  young  Bohemian's  prying 
into  the  Unholy,  a  truant's  trespass  on 
the  domain  of  the  forbidden.  Any 
pictorial  sheet  of  "  Police  Gazette  "  en- 
terprise may  have  furnished  the  taking 
hint,  which,  without  the  aid  of  any  sub- 
tler instrument  of  hell,  was  safe  to  con- 
duct itself  to  the  tragic  conclusion  ; 
for  the  hint  itself  was  Satan. 

Now,  why  is  it  that  a  criminal  on  the 
gallows,  if  he  succeed  in  his  preternatu- 
ral struggles  to  free  his  thonged  wrists, 
may,  for  the  time,  defeat  the  careful 
plans  of  the  executioner,  and  delay  his 
own  doom,  by  seizing  the  rope  above 
his  head,  or  thrusting  his  hands  be- 
tween his  throat  and  the  slip-knot? 
What  constitutes  the  difference  (phys- 
ical or  spiritual)  between  his  case  and 
either  of  those  I  have  described  ?  Why 
is  it  that  the  bound  murderer  of  anoth- 
er, fighting  desperately  against  the  law 
and  the  penalty,  is  so  often  permitted 
to  rescue  or  reprieve  himself;  the  un- 
bound self-murderer,  however  pitifully 
his  heart  may  Tail  him,  so  very  seldom  ? 
Is  it  simply  that  in  the  former  case  the 
man's  will  stands  his  friend,  in  the  lat- 
ter is  his  executioner  ? 

Thus,  I  think,  men  and  women  have 
starved  themselves  to  death.  When 
they  could  eat,  they  would  not ;  when, 
for  life's  sake,  they  would,  they  could 
not.  Outraged  Nature  hushed  her 
own  cry  of  self-preservation,  and 
stunned  her  saving  craving,  setting  up 


164 


Quaff. 


[February, 


a  loathing  in  its  place.     "  I  too,"  she 
said,  "can  starve  myself!" 

"  If  the  Devil  once  fairly  puts  it  into 
a  fellow's  head  to  kill  himself,  he  can 
do  it  by  just  holding  his  breath."  The 


the  West-Indian  slaves.  When  he  had 
been  disinterred,  and  resuscitated  by 
the  bathings,  anointings,  and  other 
manipulations  of  his  servant,  the  Fa- 
keer,  at  last  opening  his  eyes  and  rec- 


'cute   old  countryman  who  enunciated'   ognizing  Runjeet  Singh  and  Sir  Claude, 


that  axiom  had  probably  never  seen 
Braid  on  Trance  ("  Self-Hypnotism," 
"  Human  Hybernation,"  "  Voluntary 
Catalepsy  "),  or  he  would  have  found 
there  some  authentic  modern  instances 
to  back  his  wise  saw  with.  He  might 
have  read  of  negro  slaves  in  the  West 
Indies  who  committed  suicide,  under 
the  lash,  by  tightly  closing  the  mouth, 
"and  at  the  same  time  stopping  the 
interior  opening  of  the  nostrils  with  the 
tongue."  He  might  have  read  of  Hin- 
doo Fakeers  who  had  "acquired  the 
power  of  suffering  themselves  to  be 
buried  alive,  enclosed  in  bags,  shut  up 
in  sealed  boxes,  or  even  of  being  bur- 
ied for  days  or  for  weeks  in  common 
graves,  and  assuming  their  wonted  ac- 
tivity on  being  released  from  their  tem- 
porary confinement  or  sepulture."  He 
might  have  read  of  Balik  Natha,  who 
lived  to  the  age  of  one  hundred,  and 
could  suppress  his  breath  for  a  week  at 
a  time.  He  might  have  read  the  nar- 
rative recorded  by  the  eminent  Dr. 
Cheyne  of  Dublin,  and  attested  by  Dr. 
Baynard  and  Mr.  Skrine,  of  the  case  of 
Colonel  Townsend,  who  could  die,  or 
expire,  when  he  pleased,  and  yet  by 
some  mysterious  power  come  to  life 
again.  "  Dr.  Baynard  could  not  feel 
the  least  motion  in  the  heart,  nor  Mr. 
Skrine  perceive  the  least  soil  of  breath 
on  the  bright  mirror  he  held  to  the 

mouth We  were  satisfied  that  he 

was  actually  dead,  and  were  just  ready 
to  leave  him." 

He  might  have  read  the  narrative  of 
Sir  Claude  Martin  Wade,  political 
agent  at  the  Court  of  Runjeet  Singh, 
"  Regarding  the  Fakeer  who  Buried 
himself  Alive  (for  Six  Weeks)  at  Lahore, 
in  1837."  This  man  deliberately  com- 
posed himself  for  his  long  death-sleep 
by  plugging  his  nostrils  and  ears  with 
wax  and  cotton,  and  "  closing  the  in- 
ternal air -passages  by  curving  the 
tongue  upward,"  as  in  the  practice  of 


"  articulated  in  a  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
scarcely  audible,  '  Do  you  believe 
now  ? '  " 

He  might  have  read  the  report  of 
Sir  C.  S.  Trevelyan,  of  the  treasury, 
formerly  (in  1829-30)  acting  political 
agent  at  Kotah,  of  the  burial  and  "  res- 
urrection," after  ten  days,  of  another 
fakeer,  resulting  in  the  complete  con- 
vincing of  the  agent,  the  commandant 
of  the  escort,  and  the  surgeon  to  the 
agency.  He  might  have  read  the  ex- 
tracts from  Lieutenant  A.  Boileau's 
"Narrative  of  a  Journey  in  Rajvvarra, 
in  1835,"  relating  to  the  case  of  the 
fakeer  at  Jesulmer,  who  "  had  been 
buried  alive,  of  his  own  free  will,  at  the 
back  of  the  tank  close  to  our  tents,  and 
was  to  remain  under  ground  for  a  whole 
month."  The  prescribed  period  having 
elapsed,  the  man  was  dug  out  alive,  in 
the  presence  of  Goshur  Lai,  one  of  the 
ministers  of  the  court.  "  The  cell  or 
grave  in  which  he  had  been  interred 

was  lined  with  masonry Two 

heavy  slabs  of  stone,  five  or  six  feet 
long,  several  inches  thick,  and  broad 
enough  to  cover  the  mouth  of  the 
grave,  were  then  laid  over  him,  so  that 
he  could  not  escape.  The  door  of  the 
house  was  also  built  up,  and  people 
stationed  outside  to  mount  guard  dur- 
ing the  whole  month,  that  no  tricks 
might  be  played,  nor  any  deception 
practised."  On  recovering  his  senses, 
under  the  treatment  described  in  Sir 
Claude  Wade's  report,  "  he  conversed 
with  us,"  says  Lieutenant  Boileau,  "  in 
a  low,  gentle  tone  of  voice,  as  if  his 
animal  functions  were  still  in  a  very  fee- 
ble state  ;  but  so  far  from  appearing  dis- 
tressed in  mind  by  the  long  interment 
from  which  he  had  just  been  released, 
he  said  we  w&ght  bury  Jiim  again  for  a 
twelvemonth  if  ive  pleased  !  " 

Now,  I  think  the  key  of  my  theory 
of  "  Spell-bound  Will  "  may  fit  this 
mystery  also.  By  an  unnatural  convul- 


8;o.] 


Quaff. 


sion,  not  by  a  natural  effort,  of  the  will 
wrested  from  its  appointed  function 
and  directed  to  a  presumptuous  and 
unholy  exploit,  thef  man  holds  his 
breath  for  a  time,  having  first  taken 
rude  mechanical  precautions  (with  plugs 
of  wax  and  cotton,  and  that  practised 
trick  of  retroverting  his  tongue)  to  dis- 
able the  muscular  impulse  from  obey- 
ing the  instinct  of  self-preservation  by 
involuntary  respiration.  A  few  spasms 
of  such  monstrous  fortitude,  and  the 
will  (the  spiritual  life  ?)  retires  from  the 
struggle  altogether,  leaving  the  mere 
animal  life  to  itself.  From  that  in- 
stant, not  only  is  an  effort  of  the  will 
not  required  to  hold  the  breath,  but 
the  breath  holds  itself,  and  no  will  is 
present  to  reproduce  respiration  ;  the 
man  has  wantonly  estranged  the  will 
from  the  power  and  set  up  a  devilish 
conflict  between  them.  For  the  space 
of  such  a  spell  the  will  is  inert  and  the 
power  impotent. 

And  now  for  the  application  of  these 
principles,  fancies,  fantastic  crotchets, 
—  what  you  will, — to  the  solution  of 
that  mystery  of  thirst,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  lies  Quaff  the  conjurer.  Not 
physiology,  nor  social  science,  but  psy- 
chology, even  demonology,  must  be  our 
Seer  in  this.  For  every  confirmed 
inebriate  is  familiar,  in  all  his  restless- 
ness and  Tantalus  pains,  all  his  dis- 
tractions, horrors,  and  remorses,  with 
the  diabolic  perversities  of  his  own  in- 
firmity. Though  he  be  stupid  and 
tongue-tied  in  every  other  matter,  he 
suddenly  bursts  into  brightness  and 
fluency  when  he  comes  to  the  analyz- 
ing of  his  curse.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
he  has  the  advantage  of  you,  in  being 
at  times  a  mere  uncomplicated  unem- 
barrassed animal,  that  he  can  under- 
stand with  the  natural  impulse  of  his 
heart  that  which  you  can  only  ques- 
tion with  the  artificial  habit  of  your 
brains,  —  the  agonizing  conflict  be- 
tween will  and  power,  between  the 
conviction  and  the  act  or  word,  the 
affection  and  the  manifestation. 

Does  the  inebriate,  once  sunk  from 
the  vicious  dilettanteisms  of  the  super- 
fine debauchee  to  the  pothouse  satu- 


rations of  the  indiscriminate  sot,  love 
the  taste  of  liquor  ?  Believe  me,  he 
resents  and  abhors  and  makes  faces 
at  it,  with  his  very  soul.  'T  is  Circe, 
the  charm  of  the  forbidden.  If  whis- 
key ran  like  water  from  the  common 
conduits,  no  thirsty  lip  would  touch  it. 
The  spell  would  be  lifted,  the  normal 
instinct  of  the  animal  restored,  and  the 
man  would  be  as  sensible  and  safe  as 
a  horse  or  a  dog.  But  forbid  him, 
with  taxes  and  fines,  and  penalties  and 
pains,  and  shames  and  outcastings,  and 
weepings  and  wailings  and  gnashings 
of  teeth  ;  and  forthwith  he  gasps,  with 
the  torments  of  Dives,  for  the  fiery 
spirit  of  thirst  itself. 

But  if  it  behooves  him  to  be  deaf  to 
Quaff's  cry  of  thirst,  how  much  more 
should  he  beware  of  Quaff  when  he 
whimsically  declines  the  comfortable 
cup  !  — here  is  a  delusion  that  may  dis- 
guise a  death.  I  saw  at  an  asylum  for 
inebriates  two  men,  intelligent,  honest, 
in  earnest,  who  were  there  for  a  brave 
purpose  of  reform.  They  had  come  to 
the  place  together,  and  had  been  com- 
rades in  fortitude  for  six  months,  anx- 
iously interchanging  their  experiences, 
observations,  hopes,  and  fears.  Though 
free  to  go  and  come  on  their  parole, 
and  daily  confronting  temptation,  nei- 
ther had  forgotten  his  self-imposed 
taboo,  during  all  their  half-year's  pro- 
bation ;  yet,  while  one  assured  me  that, 
from  the  hour  he  entered  the  retreat, 
he  had  never  once  had  to  suppress  an 
inclination  or  turn  from  the  allure- 
ment of  a  pleasant  memory,  "  nor  did 
he  fear  he  should  ever  again  be  over- 
taken," the  other  confessed,  with  a 
certain  fierce  frankness,  that  every 
hour,  with  almost  every  thought,  he 
had  longed  for  a  deep  drink.  Well, 
these  two  departed  as  they  had  come, 
together.  They  had  a  nine  hours'  ride 
by  rail  to  take  ; 

"  and  viewlessly, 
Rode  spirits  by  their  side." 

That  confident  man  was  very  drunk  be- 
fore their  journey  was  half  made,  for 
Quaff  had  claimed  his  own  ;  but  the 
tormented  gladiator  stands  fast  to  this 
day. 


1 66 


Quaff. 


[February, 


The  "  periodical "  inebriate  —  the 
phrase  so  commonly  employed  to  des- 
ignate "one  who  drinks  an  uncertain 
enormous  quantity  at  irregular  inter- 
vals "  —  is  a  misnomer ;  the  term 
should  be  "spasmodic."  Among  ten 
thousand  drunkards  whose  ways  I  have 
noted,  from  New  York  around  the 
world  and  back  again,  I  have  not  cer- 
tainly known  ten  who  got  drunk  at  reg- 
ularly recurring  intervals  of  so  many 
days  or  weeks,  apparently  for  no  other 
provocation  than  that  "  the  time  had 
come,"  —  as  if  their  sprees  were  but  so 
many  shakes  of  fever-and-ague.  Your 
bosom-friend,  a  fire-eater  on  a  point  of 
veracity,  being  in  a  state  of  boozy  im- 
becility, assures  you  he  never  drinks, 
"  unless  it  may  be  a  glass  of  wine  now 
and  then  at  the  club."  You  are  natu- 
rally astounded  at  the  intrepid  lie  ;  but 
Quaff  laughs  at  you,  for  he  knows  all 
about  it,  and  the  lie  is  but  a  little  sur- 
prise of  his  own.  Riding  boisterously 
on  the  top  wave  of  a  "bender,"  he  sud- 
denly recollects  that  he  is  thirsty,  it 
being  "just  three  hours  since  he  had  a 
drink."  You  assure  yourself  that  he 
did  not  say  three  minutes,  and  imme- 
diately experience  another  shock  in  the 
most  conscientious  part  of  your  inno- 
cence ;  but  again  Quaff  laughs  at  you, 
for  he  has  set  forward  the  clock  of 
your  bosom-friend's  torment.  Having 
at  last  attained  the  dignified  and  su- 
percilious degree  of  fuddle,  he  resents 
with  scorn  your  kind  offer  to  see  him 
home,  as  if  you  imagined  him  "intros'- 
ricrared."  You  are  dumbfounded  and 
discomfited  by  his  impudence ;  and 
again  Quaff  laughs  at  your  limpid  re- 
spectability. Come  round  to  his  head 
again,  by  the  route  of  megrims  and  re- 
morse, a  glimpse  of  his  late  condition 
reflected  in  the  aspect  and  utterance  of 
another  man  excites  his  wonder  and 
compassion.  You  are  profoundly  dis- 
'  by  his  hypocrisy ;  and  again 
is  at  that  myopy  of  the  mind 
which  cannot  discriminate  between  the 
cant  of  pride  and  the  confession  of  hu- 
miliation. I  fear  it  is  precisely  this 
element  of  comedy  in  drunkenness 
which  procures  for  it  all  the  vicious 


popularity,  and  most  of  the  virtuous 
tolerance,  it  enjoys  :  the  vice  is  a  mon- 
ster of  so  funny  mien,  as  to  be  hated 
never  should  be  Seen. 

It  is  not  the  least  noticeable  of  the 
contradictions  of  Quaff  that  his  pos- 
sessed are  often  moved  by  a  sentiment 
of  delicacy  and  scruple,  at  once  con- 
trite and  tender,  as  though  an  angel 
were  watching  their  fiend.  For  exam- 
ple, many  drunkards,  otherwise  thought- 
less and  prodigal  enough,  will  never 
invite  another  drunkard  to  drink  :  their 
resentment  of  the  pagan  cruelty  which 
would  proffer  the  cup  of  ruin  to  a  child 
is  manly  and  severe  ;  and  for  a  total- 
abstinence  discourse,  searching  and 
solemn,  without  clap -trap,  cant,  or 
twaddle,  commend  me  to  the  trembling, 
longing  warning  of  a  sot.  There  are 
drunkards,  also,  who,  when  the  rage  is 
upon  them,  scrupulously  shun  their 
friends,  lest  they  should  bring  them  to 
shame  or  trouble  or  pain,  yet  never 
shrink  from  owning  with  meekness 
their  evil  behavior.  This  is  that  Bohe- 
mian-like soul  -  assertion,  which  ex- 
presses itself  in  the  inebriate's  tribal 
sentiment  of  high  scorn  for  him  who 
denies  or  disguises  his  fellowship ; 
while  it  pities  and  applauds  the  moral 
vagabond  who,  having  a  frank  horror 
of  his  reproach,  cannot  heal  and  would 
not  hide  it.  Item  :  I  claim  for  my  cli- 
ent (who  cannot  spare  one  tittle  of  his 
poor  plea),  that  his  promises  are  usual- 
ly undertaken  in  good  faith,  made  in 
the  gratitude  and  hopefulness  of  an 
illusive  escape,  and  forsworn  in  the  for- 
lorn rage  and  desperation  of  his  own 
broken  strength  and  courage.  Feebly 
distrusting  them  from  the  first,  he 
learns  to  fear  them  at  last  as  the  Deli- 
lahs  of  his  sleeping  strength. 

The  capricious  suddenness  with 
which  his  rabid  thirst  may  leave  the 
drunkard  or  return  upon  him,  is  per- 
haps the  most  disheartening,  as  it  is 
also  the  most  transparent,  of  the  de- 
vices of  Quaff:  the  eccentric  freak  of 
indifference,  as  when  the  toper  in  the 
high  heat  of  a  carouse  leaves  his  dar- 
ling draught  untouched  and  unnoticed ; 
the  stranger  fascination,  as  when  he 


Quaff. 


I67 


springs  from  his  bed  at  midnight,  and 
plunges  through  miles  of  darkness  and 
storm,  to  rouse  a  drowsy  and  dis 
rum-seller ;  the  very  slight  excitement 
which  suffices  to  air   the  smouldering 

. .  I  have  known  those  who,  on 
their  discharge  from  an  asylum,  after 
many  months  of  perfect  abstinence  and 
repose,  have  rushed  forthwith  into  a 
fierce  orgie,  inflamed  by  the  mere 
ilurry  and  impatience  of  anticipation  in 
approaching  once  more  the  old  famil- 
iar places  and  faces,  with  contending 
emotions  of  triumph  and  humiliation. 
There  are  surely  seasons  and  condi- 
tions in  which  it  is  not  safe  for  the  ine- 
briate (wrestling  with  his  bondage)  to 
discuss,  however  wisely,  even  to  medi- 
tate upon,  his  treacherous  infirmity. 
At  such  times,  let  him  prudently  es- 

he  literature  of  temperance  tracts 
and  talcs,  and  stop  his  ears  to  the  voice 
of  the  cunning  charmer  who  dispenses 
the  dry  sensation  of  cold-water  ha- 
rangues at  two  shillings  a  head.  Espe- 
cially let  him  acknowledge,  with  whole- 
some fear,  the  force  of  association,  and 
keep  warily  aloof  from  localities  en- 

to    him    by  many  drunl, 
this  moment  I  have  in  my  mini 
two    ready    writers,    shrewd    thinkers 
both,  and  of  notable  culture  and  skill 
in   letters,  who,  safe  everywhere    else, 
are  lost  from  the  moment  they  turn  into 
JJroadway,  and  encounter  the  bcwilder- 

•'  -cession  and  wit's-endy  hubbub 
hat  street  of  distractions. 
What  man  who  has  noted  and  con- 
scientiously  considered   this  fatal   fas- 
cination   of    drink  in  another  ;  —  the 

>s  relinquishment  of  every  con- 
sideration of  advantage,  honor,  pride, 
personal  safety, — shame  accepted  and 
death  defied,  —  to  procure  it ;  —  who 

served  that  for  the  wretch  once 
subject  to  the  spell  there  is  no  earthly 
talisman  ;  —  will  rest  content  with  the 
shallow  and  fallacious  guesses  of  a 
smattering  philosophy?  If  you  would 
know  the  reason  why  a  sailor  swims 
ashore  through  two  miles  of  sharks  and 
back  again,  to  find  a  dozen  with  the 

vaiting  him,  and  all  for  a  swig 
of  arrack,  you  should  ask  IMS  chum 


chaplain,  rather  than   the  sur- 

This  ingenious  Quaff  has  provided 
drunkenness  with  a  peculiar  magnet- 
ism whereby  to  multiply  itself.  This 
is  a  phenomenon  especially  trouble- 
some in  inebriate-asylums  where  free- 
dom of  excursion  beyond  bound 
lowed  to  the  inmates.  Let  but  one 
weak  or  dishonorable  "  liberty  man " 
violate  his  parole,  and  immediately  an. 
endemic  of  thirst  breaks  out  among 
his  kind,  and  a  dozen  fellow-culprits 
share  his  caging.  At  a  railroad  station 
in  New  York  a  drunken  man  fell  froth- 
ing in  an  epileptic  fit.  A  young  physi- 
cian who  was  just  waiting  for  a  train, 
and  who  had  himself  been  drinking 
freely,  went  to  the  man's  assistance. 
Instantly  the  sight  of  the  convulsions 
—  to  him  a  familiar  spectacle,  upon 
which  at  any  other  time  he  would  have 
gazed  unmoved  —  so  furiously  enraged 
him  that  he  seized  his  possessed  broth- 
tr  by  the  hair,  and  would  have  dashed 
out  his  brains  against  the  granite  steps, 
had  not  the  bystanders  dragged  him  off. 
Up  to  the  moment  of  looking  into  the 
face  of  the  fallen  stranger  he  had  not 
even  been  drunk  :  now  he  was  wild 
with  delirium,  and  for  several  days  his 
condition  was  precarious. 

A  promising  young  lawyer  of  Wash- 
ington had  become  a  confirmed  sot. 
The  bar-keeper  of  the  hotel  to  which 
he  habitually  resorted  when  in  his  cups 
was,  if  not  strictly  abstemious  (as  the 
better  sort  of  bar-keepers  often  are),  at 
least  most  prudent  in  his  potations. 
By  the  charm  of  generous  impulses  and 
fine  social  qualities,  he  of  the  bar  of  in- 
jury had  become  attached  to  him  of  the 
bar  of  justice  with  an  ardent,  tenacious, 
and  obsequious  regard ;  so  that  he 
resolutely,  but  without  ostentation,  im- 
posed upon  himself  the  responsibility 
of  rescuing  and  reforming  his  engaging 
but  erratic  customer.  Three  years  of  his 
faithful  following,  vigilant  guarding,  un- 
flinching firmness,  and  almost  feminine 
tenderness  and  tact  resulted  in  the 
making  of  a  matt,  who  is  now  a  power 
in  his  profession  and  a  pleasure  in  soci- 
ety ;  but  the  bar-keeper  died  Q{  mania- 


168 


Quaff. 


[February, 


d-potu,  "contracted  in  the  discharge 
of  his  extraordinary  duty."  Ouaff's 
practice  in  this  case  seems  to  have 
been  pure  obeah. 

Any  anxiety,  distraction,  or  trouble, 
sudden  shock  or  wild  sorrow,  may  in- 
cite the  craving  for  the  accustomed 
draught  of  cheap  lethe.  I  have  seen  a 
stunned  and  miserable  man  drunk  at 
the  open  grave  of  his  wife,  whom  he 
tenderly  loved.  I  doubt  not  the  angels 
pitied  him. 

But  of  all  the  contradictions  of  Quaff, 
the  ugliest,  the  meanest,  the  most 
thankless,  the  most  offensive  alike  to 
instinct  and  reason,  is  that  by  which  he 
inspires  the  inebriate  with  his  mon- 
strous perversion  of  natural  affection, 
his  depraved  sensitiveness  to  every 
word  and  tone  and  look  and  gesture  of 
those  he  loves.  With  equal  outrage 
he  "damns"  their  notice  and  their 
avoidance,  their  sympathy  and  their  si- 
lence, their  endearments  aqd  their  re- 
pulsions, their  patience  and  their  vexa- 
tion, their  tenderness  and  their  scorn, 
their  fidelity  and  their  desertion,  their 
fast-clinging  and  their  fleeing  from  him. 
He  resents  their  reproaches,  while  he 
curses  himself;  he  resents  their  com- 
passion, while  he  profoundly  pities  both 
himself  and  them  ;  he  resents  their  as- 
sistance, while  he  cries  aloud  for  help  ; 
he  resents  their  companionship,  while 
he  trembles  if  they  leave  him  alone. 
His  horror  of  his  "  flesh  and  blood  "  is 
extreme,  while  from  his  soul  he  yearns 
for  them.  With  them  he  cannot  live  ; 
without  them  he  must  die.  It  is  per- 
haps his  freak  of  conscience  never  to 
drink  at  home  ;  it  is  his  freak  of  hell  to 
curse  his  mother,  or  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, that  they  will  not  give  him  more 
drink.  His  friends  are  his  most  spite- 
ful foes,  his  enemies  his  truest  lovers. 
He  is,  in  truth,  least  understood  by 
those  who  are  most  concerned  for  him  ; 
most  shrewdly  managed  by  an  uncon- 
scious child. 

His  transitions  of  feeling  are  as  sud- 
den and  inconsistent  as  his  alternations 
of  moral  strength  and  weakness.  In 
all  earnestness  and  eagerness  he  will 
implore  you  to  place  him  under  re- 


straint and  discipline  ;  and  at  the  very 
portal  of  some  refuge  of  his  own  choos- 
ing, will,  with  a  flash  of  almost  insane 
cunning,  mock  you  and  give  you  the 
slip.  Under  certain  circumstances  of 
physical  exhaustion  and  mental  depres- 
sion, his  most  heroic  abstinence,  no 
less  than  his  debauches,  has  its  "hor- 
rors." With  the  same  frightful  phan- 
tasms with  which  he  scourges  his  frail- 
ties, Quaff  torments  and  tempts  his 
fortitude.  His  self-denial  may  have  its 
rats  and  snakes,  its  beasts  and  creep- 
ing things,  as  well  as  his  self-indul- 
gence. One  who,  after  a  twelvemonth 
of  unchecked  debauch,  impetuously 
cast  out  his  own  devil,  in  the  name  of 
God  and  duty  and  affection,  described 
his  physical  pangs  as  excruciating,  and 
his  mental  terrors  as  appalling.  For 
five  long  years  he  fled  trembling,  while 
seven  spirits  pursued,  demanding  re- 
admittance  to  their  swept  and  garnished 
quarters.  "  Horrors  "  intercepted  him, 
and  despair  mocked  him,  and  pain  im- 
plored him,  and  comfort  enticed  him, 
till,  beset  on  all  sides  and  wellnigh 
mad,  he  found  himself  at  last  at  a  hos- 
pitable bar,  with  the  dear  old  decanters 
waiting  for  him,  and  that  pertinacious 
but  pleasant  Quaff  panting  and  smiling 
at  his  elbow.  Then  he  dashed  down 
the  untasted  death  and  fled,  and  Quaff 
sought  other  lodgings.  But  every  wak- 
ing hour  of  those  five  years  he  felt  how 
a  man  may  hate  and  fear  the  accursed 
thing,  yet  have  no  wish  to  shun  it ;  how 
he  may  groan  and  rage  for  it,  yet  not 
have  the  courage  to  try  it. 

In  all  the  disheartening  disclosures 
of  the  dipsomaniac  demonology  I  think 
no  fact  shall  be  found  so  curiously  per- 
nicious, in  its  impression  and  influence, 
as  the  drunkenness  of  the  priesthood. 
"  But  that  is  so  extremely  rare  !  "  you 
think.  By  no  means  so  exceptional 
that  the  American  clergy  of  any  de- 
nomination might  venture  to  contribute 
to  the  arithmetic  of  intemperance  an 
honest  enumeration  of  them  who 
"  drink  and  forget  the  law,  and  pervert 
the  judgnfent  of  the  afflicted."  In  the- 
Report  (for  1868)  of  the  superintendent 
of  a  noted  institution  for  the  reforma- 


8;o.] 


Quaff. 


169 


tion  of  inebriates,  we  find  in  the  sched- 
ule of  "  occupations  "  three  clergymen. 
What  proportion  of  those  who,  turning 
self-accused  from  the  water  of  life,  tarry 
long  at  the  wine,  and  weep,  with  red- 
ness of  eyes,  between  the  sideboard 
and  the  altar,  do  these  three  represent  ? 
—  seeing  that  the  pass  must  be  desper- 
ate indeed  which  brings  the  world's 
revered  exemplars  to  the  brave  abdica- 
tions of  such  a  publicity.  Let  these  three 
remember,  to  their  comfort,  that  their 
aspiring  part  remains  to  them.  "  When 
Job  looked  on  himself  as  an  outcast, 
the  Infinite  spirit  and  the  Wicked  spir- 
it were  holding  a  dialogue  on  his 
case."*  A  pastor,  of  mature  experi- 
ence and  the  purest  life,  once  confessed 
to  an  inebriate,  whom  he  would  have 
comforted,  that,  although  the  sensual 
gratification  that  wines  or  spirits  af- 
ford was  to  him  an  untried  pleasure,  he 
was  at  no  time  indifferent  to  the  zest 
of  their  aroma,  which  never  failed  to 
provoke  in  him  a  sensible  penchant,  if 
not  a  positive  craving,  for  their  forbid- 
den charm  ;  he  had  been  more  than 
once  possessed  with  a  momentary  curi- 
osity—  "amusing,  but  nevertheless  not 
safe  ;?  —  to  experience  the  sensations 
of  a  drunken  man.  But  he  thanked 
God  that  the  inclination  had  never  been 
provoked,  or  the  fancy  suggested,  by 
the  sight  or  savor  of  the  sacramental 
cup. 

There  is  a  divination  in  the  drunk- 
ard's dreams  which  any  hardy  man  may 
try  who  demands  an  argument  more 
conclusive  than  any  that  I  have  mar- 
shalled here.  Their  supernatural  viv- 
idness, coherence,  and  circumstantial 
particularity  imparts  to  them  all  the  im- 
press! veness  of  an  actual  experience, 
while  from  their  infernal  terrors  they 
dcrive^an  allegorical  import  most  start- 
ling and  weird.  The  accusatory  and 
threatening  character  of  the  illusions 
of  sight  and  hearing  in  the  waking  hor- 
rors are  related  to  these  dreams  by  a 
continuity  of  plan  and  purpose  which  is 
beyond  the  possibilities  of  stomach, 
and  surpasses  the  unassisted  perform- 
ances of  brain.  Many  inebriates  of 
*  Cecil. 


liberal  education,  unbiased  by  super- 
stitious susceptibilities,  recognize  in 
these  hallucinations,  and  in  the  de- 
lirium which  is  but  an  aggravation  of 
them,  true  proofs  and  foretastes  of  hell, 
and  discover  in  their  rats  and  snakes, 
and  other  hideous  infestings  of  the 
mind,  a  symbolic  significance  and 
warning. 

If  this  characteristic  phenomenon  be 
indeed  a  veritable  portent,  how  horrid 
does  its  aspect  become  when  it  as- 
sumes the  chronic  form  !  —  happily  so 
rare.  In  Maryland,  in  1860,  I  met  a 
gentleman,  very  intelligent,  cheerful, 
and  entertaining,  who,  seven  years  be- 
fore, had  narrowly  escaped  death  by 
mania-a-potu.  From  that  time  the  se- 
verest abstinence  had  been  the  rule  of 
his  living.  He  was  .in  robust  health 
and  high  spirits  ;  a  man,  too,  of  shrewd 
sense,  and  various  information.  But 
his  spectral  snakes  had  never  left  him  ; 
and  as  he  conversed,  however  viva- 
ciously, he  flung  them  every  moment 
from  his  arms  or  legs,  or  shook  them 
from  his  clothing,  or  drew  them  from 
his  bosom,  still  chatting  gayly  on,  un- 
interrupted and  unconcerned  :  so  shock- 
ingly familiar  to  him,  and  tame,  had  the 
creatures  become.  Strangest  of  all,  — 
though  he  perfectly  appreciated  the  .na- 
ture of  his  hallucination,  could  give  you 
a  most  interesting  account  of  his  case, 
and  knew  well  that  his  serpents  were 
invisible  to  you,  —  to  him  they  were 
always  real,  though  no  longer  alarming. 
In  the  dark  he  felt  them,  as  in  the  light 
he  saw  them  ;  and  he  lay  down  among 
them,  and  slept  unterrified.  He  ac- 
cepted them  with  resignation,  as  the 
tangible  remembrancers  of  his  trans- 
gression. 

"  Sorrow  for  sin  and  sorrow  for  suf- 
fering," saith  our  just  and  sympathetic 
Thomas  Fuller,  "are  ofttimes  so  twist- 
ed and  interwoven  in  the  same  person, 
yea,  in  the  same  sigh  and  groan,  that 
sometimes  it  is  impossible  for  the  party 
himself  so  to  separate  and  divide  them, 
in  his  own  sense  and  feeling,  as  to  know 
which  proceeds  from  the  one  and  which 
from  the  other.  Only  the  all-seeing 
eye  of  an  infinite  God  is  aWe  to  discern 


170 


Quaff- 


[February, 


and  distinguish  them."  I  have  sat  by 
the  bedside  of  a  trembling,  tossing, 
starting  wretch,  whose  harp  of  a  thou- 
sand strings  was  all  unstrung  and  jan- 
gled, and  heard  him  exhaust  his  prodi- 
gai's-cry  for  help  and  rest  and  hope, 
in  the  Lord's  Prayer,  iterated  and 
reiterated  —  from  "  Our  Father  "  to 
"Amen,"  with  imploring  importunity 
lingering  at  "  Deliver  us  from  evil !  " 
—  over  and  over,  the  livelong  night. 
If  he  should  stop,  he  said,  he  must 
scream  and  rend  himself  in  his  anguish 
of  soul  and  body,  his  sorrow  for  his  sin 
and  his  sorrow  for  his  suffering. 

If  once  in  a  long  while  your  solemn 
service  is  disturbed,  your  pensive  com- 
pany of  worshippers  agitated,  and  your 
good  meeting  broken  with  the  "  most 
admired  disorder "  of  a  strange  and 
sudden  burst  of  pent-up  pain  from  a 
back  seat  in  a  dark  corner,  consider 
if  it  be  not  the  double  sorrow  of  such 
another  inquisition  of  torture  and  re- 
morse, expressed  in  the  same  groan 
and  cry.  Hence  the  wrestling  drunk- 
ard's longing  (by  no  means  uncommon) 
for  the  help  and  rescue  of  religion.  It 
is  this  which  excites  him  to  displays  of 
undue  eagerness  and  zeal;  it  is  this 
which  ensnares  him  in  a  seeming  hy- 
pocrisy ;  it  is  by  this  that  Quaff  be- 
trays him  in  the  end  to  a  new  and 
crueler  shape  of  shame  and  despair. 

May  a  genuine  and  healthy  "con- 
version "  (I  use  that  term,  not  for  any 
technicality  of  dogma,  but  simply  be- 
cause, in  its  radical  sense,  it  most  con- 
veniently expresses  my  meaning),  suf- 
fice to  reform  the  inebriate's  habit,  as 
well  as  save  his  soul  ?  Out  of  the  can- 
did catholicity  of  my  godlessness  I  an- 
swer, Yes  !  if  only  by  superseding 
his  selfish  passion  with  a  noble  inspi- 
ration and  a  potent  discipline.  An  as- 
tute clergyman  once  maintained  in  my 
hearing  that  religion  could  no  more 
cure  "nerves  "  or  sprees  than  it  could 
cure  corns  :  but  corns  are  never  moral. 
When  you  see  a  "professor"  again 
and  again  describing  zigzag  diagrams 
of  gait,  on  his  way  from  the  Bible 
House  to  the  rooms  of  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association,  I  think 


you  may  conclude,  without  detriment 
to  your  charity,  that  he  did  not  procure 
his  "grace"  from  a 'certified  agent. 
"  My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee  "  ;  but 
not  the  cheap  and  spurious  article  so 
vulgarly  puffed  and  peddled,  the  Devil's 
counterfeit,  manufactured  and  sold  to 
discredit  the  pure  and  priceless.  The 
dealers  in  this  cheat  are  often  hawkers 
likewise  of  that  most  scandalous  and 
spiteful  of  blasphemies,  —  handy  for  the 
use  of  vagabond  lecturers,  trading  phi- 
lanthropists, and  mountebank  doctors, 
—  that  a  reformed  inebriate,  however 
true  his  piety  and  pure  his  life,  may  not 
safely  approach  the  sacramental  chalice. 
I  protest  that  such  a  man,  though  he 
have  been  fished  from  the  very  sewers 
and  sinks  of  sottishness,  is  at  least  as 
safe  at  the  Lord's  table  as  in  a  Broad- 
way lunch-room.  Only  first  let  him  see 
to  it  that  his  Quaff  is  of  a  truth  cast 
out ;  for  he  "  cannot  drink  the  cup  of 
the  Lord  and  the  cup  of  devils,"  and 
any  damnation  that  he  eateth  or  drink- 
eth  there,  he  eateth  or  drinketh  uto 
himself." 

So  then,  granted  !  Drunkenness 
is  a  disease ;  but  a  disease  may  be 
a  retributive  visitation  or  judgment. 
Drunkenness  is  transient  insanity  (furor 
brevis) ;  but  madness  may  be  diabolic. 
Drunkenness  may  be  despair;  but  de- 
spair is  infidel.  Drunkenness  may  be 
hereditary  taint;  but  taint  is  corrup- 
tion. Drunkenness  comes  to  Medi- 
cine and  says,  "  I  am  jnfected,  and  I 
shall  die."  Medicine  replies,  "  Go 
wash,  and  live  cleanly!  We  cannot 
smuggle  you  through  the  lazaretto  of 
society  by  labelling  you  Idiosyncrasy." 
Drunkenness  comes  to  Law,  and  says, 
"  I  am  mad,  and  I  have  shed  innocent 
blood."  Law  answers,  "  Go  hang  !  we 
cannot  cheat  Justice  of  her  right  ia 
you,  by  quibbling  you  Irresponsible." 
Drunkenness  comes  to  Religion,  and 
says,  "  I  have  a  devil."  Religion  an- 
swers, "  Believe,  and  sin  no  more ! 
This  kind  goeth  not  out  save  by  prayer 
and  fasting." 

I  hope  that  by  this  time  the  reader 
has  perceived  that  I  have  no  sectarian 
end  to  serve  in  what  I  have  written 


8;o.] 


Winter   Woods. 


171 


here,  no  arbitrary  dogma  to  enforce. 
I  shall  be  satisfied  if  I  have  shown  that 
there  is  in  drunkenness  a  true  mystery, 
which  one  can  more  certainly  divine 
by  texts  than  determine  by  axioms.  It 
is  the  Ghost  against  Horatio's  philoso- 
phy, revelation  against  speculation. 

From  a  most  curious  and  conscien- 
tious little  work,  printed  in  1779,  and 
entitled  ';  A  Geographical,  Historical, 
and  Religious  Account  of  the  Parish 
of  Aberystruth,  in  the  County  of  ^Ion- 
mouth,  Wales.  By  Edmund  Jones,"  I 
take  a  passage  which  shall  serve  for  my 
apology.  I  find  it  in  Chapter  14  :  "  Of 
Apparitions  and  Agencies  of  Spirits, 
in  the  Parish  of  Aberystruth  "  :  — 

"  Every  truth  may  be  of  use,  whether 
it  comes  from  heaven  or  from  hell.  And 
this  kind  of  truth  hath  been  of  great 
use  in  this  country,  to  prevent  a  doubt 


of  eternity  and  of  the  world  to  come. 
Why  then  should  not  the  account  of 
apparitions  and  the  agencies  of  spirits 
have  some  place  in  Christian  conversa- 
tion and  writings  ? 

"  These  are  the  good  effects  arising 
from  it ;  and  I  will  ask  no  man's  par- 
don for  this  account  of  apparitions  in 
the  parish  of  Aberystruth,  though  it  is 
the  only  thing  in  this  writing  which,  in  re- 
spect of  some  people,  needs  an  apology ; 
for  why  should  the  sons  of  infidelity  be 
gratified,  whose  notions  tend  to  weaken 
the  important  belief  of  eternity,  to  dis- 
sipate religion,  and  to  banish  it  out  of 
the  world?" 

So,  flout  my  honest  convictions  if 
you  like  ;  but  rescue  the  prostrate  ine- 
briate from  the  moral  vivisections  of 
the  thimblerigging  philanthropist  and 
the  gypsy  apostle. 


WINTER    WOODS. 

'VIGZAG  branches  darkly  traced 
^-^  On  a  chilly  and  ashen  sky ; 
Puffs  of  powdery  snow  displaced 
When  the  winds  go  by. 

Sudden  voices  in  the  air, — 

They  are  crooning  a  tale  of  woe, 

And  my  heart  is  wooed  to  share 
The  sadness  of  the  snow. 

Stillness  in  the  naked  woods, 

Save  the  click  of  a  twig  that  breaks ; 
In  these  dim  white  solitudes, 

Nothing  living  wakes  ;  — 


Nothing,  but  a  wandering  bird, 

Which  has  never  a  song  to  sing, — 

To  my  heart  a  whispered  word 
And  a  dream  of  spring  ! 


172 


The   Value  of  Accident. 


[February, 


THE    VALUE    OF    ACCIDENT. 


"  T  HAVE  ever,"  remarks  Mr.  Shan- 
i-  dy,  when  the  celebrated  sermon 
on  conscience  tumbles  out  of  my  Uncle 
Toby's  copy  of  Stevinus,  "a  strong 
propensity  to  look  into  things  which 
cross  my  way  by  such  strange  fatalities 
as  these  "  ;  an  observation  which  shows 
that  this  gentleman,  or  rather  the  au- 
thor whose  mouthpiece  he  is,  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  large  measure  of  sagacity 
and  knowledge  of  the  world.  Nor  does 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Sterne  by  any  means  stand 
alone  in  thus  bearing  witness  to  the 
value  of  accidental  suggestion.  There 
is  a  similar  testimony  contained  in  one 
of  the  lectures  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
in  which  that  wise  and  experienced 
teacher  informs  his  listeners  that  "  it  is 
a  great  matter  to  be  in  the  way  of  acci- 
dent, and  to  be  watchful  and  ready  to 
take  advantage  of  it"  ;  a  precept  which 
this  great  man  was  himself  ever  ready 
to  carry  out,  as  the  following  anecdote, 
related  to  the  author  by  a  personal 
friend  of  the  late  Mrs.  Siddons,  will 
show.  When  this  great  actress  gave  her 
first  sitting  to  Reynolds  for  the  picture  of 
the  tragic  muse,  the  artist,  on  his  mettle 
to  do  his  very  best,  placed  her  in  all 
sorts  of  different  positions  of  his  own 
devising,  such  as  seemed  to  him  the 
best  calculated  to  develop  his  own  con- 
ception and  the  peculiar  beauties  and 
characteristics  of  his  sitter.  He  was 
not  satisfied  with  any  of  them ;  and  de- 
sisting for  a  while  from  the  attempt  to 
force  his  model  into  such  a  pose  as 
should  agree  with  the  ideal  in  his  own 
mind,  he  fell  into  talk  with  his  sitter, 
and  for  the  moment  forgot  all  about  his 
intended  picture.  The  artistic  faculty, 
never  entirely  dormant  in  the  mind  of  a 
great  genius,  was  however  destined  to 
be  quickly  called  into  action  ;  for  sud- 
denly, while  discussing  some  subject 
which  interested  her,  the  great  actress, 
as  she  reposed  in  the  sitters'  arm-chair, 
fell,  of  herself,  into  an  attitude  which 
expressed  all  that  the  artist  sought  to 


portray,  and  which  was  at  once  entirely 
graceful  and  entirely  easy.  "  Don't 
move,"  said  Reynolds,  speaking  in  a 
hushed  tone  lest  he  should  startle  his 
sitter ;  and  then  putting  away  his  ear- 
trumpet  and  resuming  his  palette  and 
brushes,  he  hastened  to  trace  the  out- 
lines of  that  glorious  figure  which  has 
now  taken  its  place  forever  among 
the  masterpieces  of  art.  Many  anoth- 
er great  artist  besides  Reynolds  has 
doubtless  been  similarly  indebted  to 
accident  for  the  suggestion  of  combi- 
nations which  the  connoisseurs  have 
vaunted  as  the  results  of  deep  study 
and  learned  arrangement.  Nor  is  it  any 
disparagement  to  the  genius  of  such 
artists  to  make  this  assertion  ;  the  pro- 
foundest  professional  knowledge  and 
the  keenest  and  most  cultivated  judg- 
ment being  needed  to  enable  the  artist 
to  take  advantage  of  the  chance  which 
has  so  come  in  his  way,  and  something 
of  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  as  well,  to 
make  him  ready  to  abandon  his  own  con- 
ception in  favor  of  the  new  one  thus 
unexpectedly  thrown  in  his  way.  Self- 
abnegation,  vigilance,  anticipation  of 
results,  are  great  qualities,  and  he  who 
possesses  them  will  be  no  small  man.* 
But  it  is  not  alone  in  connection  with 
the  pursuit  of  the  arts  that  accident  is 
valuable  and  worthy  of  consideration. 
A  faithful  and  exhaustive  history  of  ac- 
cident—  and  a  worse  subject  for  a  trea- 
tise on  a  much  more  extensive  scale 
than  this  might  be  found  —  would  re- 
veal many  astonishing  instances  of  the 
part  which  this  element  of  chance  has 
played  in  the  world's  history,  and  how 
it  has  led  to  all  sorts  of  discoveries, 
inventions,  and  achievements,  which 
have  in  a  variety  of  practical  ways  been 
of  exceeding  use  to  mankind.  The 
variety  of  the  discoveries  thus  attributa- 

*  Rembrandt,  in  order  to  take  the  advantage  of 
accident,  appears  often  to  have  used  the  palette-knife 
to  lay  his  colors  on  the  canvas,  instead  of  the  pen- 
cil. (Sir  Joshua  Reyuolds's  Twelfth  Discourse.) 


1 870.] 


The  Value  of  Accident. 


173 


ble  to  accident  is  very  great :  scientific, 
mechanical,  even  medical  discoveries 
are  among  them.  One  of  these  last  may 
be  taken  as  a  specimen  to  begin  with. 
Those  persons  who  have  had  experi- 
ence of  the  disease  called  ague,  and  who 
have  shivered  and  burned  in  its  alter- 
nate fits  of  heat  and  cold,  may  be  inter- 
ested to  hear  of  the  accidental  origin 
of  the  one  special  medicine  which  is 
always  to  be  relied  on  as  a  means  of 
cure  for  that  particular  form  of  disease. 
It  is  said  that  the  discovery  of  the 
medical  virtues  of  quinine  originated 
thus :  An  ignorant  native  of  South 
America,  suffering  from  the  fierce  thirst 
which  accompanies  certain  stages  of 
ague,  drank  copiously  of  the  only  wa- 
ter which  was  within  his  reach,  and 
which  he  got  from  a  pond  into  which  a 
tree  of  the  kind  since  called  cinchona 
had  fallen.  The  tree  had  lain  long  in 
the  pool,  it  being  nobody's  especial 
business  to  pull  it  out ;  the  water  had 
become  powerfully  impregnated  with 
the  qualities  contained  in  its  bark ; 
and,  the  sufferer  who  had  drunk  of  this 
water  recovering  from  his  ague  with 
unexampled  rapidity,  the  pond  got  to 
be  celebrated  for  its  medicinal  virtues  ; 
and  so,  some  person,  more  thoughtful 
than  others,  connecting  the  curative 
quality  of  the  water  with  the  fact  of  the 
timber  having  fallen  into  it,  it  began  to 
be  rumored  that  there  was  healing  power 
in  this  particular  tree,  and  in  due  time 
its  bark  came  to  be  admitted  among  the 
materia  medica  of  the  schools,  and  to  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  more  important 
exports  of  the  South  American  conti- 
nent. The  Jesuits,  with  the  activity 
which  always  characterized  that  ambi- 
tious fraternity,  got  hold  of  this  drug, 
which  was,  in  consequence,  called 
"  The  Jesuits'  Bark,"  and  soon  it  be- 
came so  celebrated  that  we  find  La 
Condamine  in  his  travels  telling  how 
he  carried  some  specimens  of  the  young 
trees  which  furnished  the  bark  from 
one  part  of  South  America  to  another, 
in  order  that  the  supply  of  so  valuable 
a  commodity  as  cinchona  bark  might 
not  be  confined  to  one  particular  local- 
ity. 


The  influence  of  accident  is  again  to 
be  traced  as  affecting  another  medical 
discovery  apparently  attributable  only 
to  prolonged  reflection  and  deep  study, 
—  that  of  vaccination  by  Jenner.  Dr. 
Baron,  in  his  life  of  this  illustrious  per- 
son, says  :  "  It  has  been  stated  that  his 
attention  was  drawn  forcibly  to  the 
subject  of  cow-pox  whilst  he  was  yet  a 
youth.  This  event  was  brought  about 
in  the  following  manner :  he  was  pur- 
suing his  professional  education  in  the 
house  of  his  master  at  Sudbury ;  a 
young  country-woman  came  to  seek 
advice  ;  the  subject  of  small-pox  was 
mentioned  in  her  presence  ;  she  im- 
mediately observed,  '  I  cannot  take 
that  disease,  for  I  have  had  cow- 
pox.'  This  incident  riveted  the  at- 
tention of  Jenner.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  the  popular  notion,  which  was  not 
at  all  uncommon  in  the  district,  had 
been  brought  home  to  him  with  force 
and  influence."  The  "  popular  notion  " 
above  referred  to  was  subsequently  in- 
vestigated by  Jenner,  when  he  found 
that  there  was  a  particular  eruptive  dis- 
ease to  which  cows  were  liable,  which 
the  milkers  of  such  cows  sometimes 
caught  from  them,  and  an  attack  of 
which  conferred  immunity  from  small- 
pox. "  Upon  this  hint "  he  began  to 
speculate,  with  results  which  we  all 
know  of.  What  he  thus  heard  acci- 
dentally gave  a  special  bias  to  his 
thoughts.  A  very  small  boat  will  serve 
to  carry  a  man  to  the  ship  in  which  he 
is  to  make  a  great  voyage. 

It  will  sometimes  happen  that  a  cir- 
cumstance in  itself  disconcerting,  or 
even  alarming,  will  affect  in  a  highly 
propitious  manner  the  fortunes  of  him 
of  whose  career  it  forms  a  part.  When 
Samuel  Lee,  who  ultimately  became 
Regius  Professor  of  Hebrew  at  Oxford, 
but  who  began  life  as  a  village  carpen- 
ter, lost  his  chest  of  tools  in  a  fire,  he 
no  doubt  deplored  the  loss  profoundly. 
Yet  this  accident  was  in  reality  the 
making  of  him.  He  had  no  money  with 
which  to  get  a  fresh  set  of  tools,  or  in- 
deed to  set  himself  up  in  any  sort  of 
business  ;  the  only  occupation  open  to 
him,  as  requiring  no  capital,  was  that 


174 


The   Value  of  Accident. 


[February, 


of  a  schoolmaster.  This  he  at  once 
adopted,  and,  learning  himself  while  he 
taught  others,  gradually  rose  higher  and 
higher,  till  he  reached  one  of  the  most 
exalted  positions  which  can  be  attained 
by  human  learning.  Yet  this  man 
doubtless  thought  that  he  was  ruined 
when  his  chest  of  tools  was  burnt,  and 
took  to  the  new  business  which  was  to 
lead  him  on  to  such  great  things,  only 
as  a  pis-allcr,  and  in  sheer  despera- 
tion. 

When  the  wife  of  Louis  Galvani  fell 
ill,  and  in  her  sickness  conceived  a  long- 
ing for  frog  soup,  her  husband  little 
suspected  that  this  circumstance  would 
be  instrumental  in  rendering  his  name 
immortal.  The  frogs  were  slain  and 
skinned  and  made  ready  for  the  stew- 
ing-pot,  when  the  invalid  lady  happened 
to  touch  the  leg  of  one  of  them  with  a 
knife  which  had  become  impregnated 
with  magnetic  power  from  a  neighbor- 
ing electrical  machine.  To  her  surprise 
the  leg  of  the  frog,  on  being  thus  brought 
in  contact  with  the  electric  force,  began 
to  move  with  a  convulsive  action  as  if 
the  life  were  still  in  it,  becoming  passive 
again  on  the  withdrawal  of  the  instru- 
ment. Of  course  the  good  lady  —  her- 
self a  physician's  daughter,  and  prob- 
ably possessed  of  some  smattering  at 
least  of  medical  knowledge  —  commu- 
nicated what  she  had  observed  to  her 
husband ;  and  he,  after  making  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  experiments,  —  the  same  in 
character  as  this  which  had  been  made 
unconsciously  by  his  wife,  but  carried, 
of  course,  much  farther,  — contrived  to 
wring  from  nature  the  secret  of  that 
strange  phenomenon  which  we  now 
call  galvanism. 

The  first  idea  of  the  balloon,  which  in 
its  perfected  state  we  see  leaping  up 
from  the  ground  into  the  sky  and  drag- 
ging after  it  a  heavy  cargo,  is  said  to 
have  presented  itself  to  Stephen  Mont- 
golfier  owing  to  an  accidental  occur- 
rence, which  his  different  biographers 
narrate  in  two  ways.  One  version  of 
the  story  is,  that  Montgolfier,  a  paper- 
maker  by  profession,  happening  to  fling 
a  paper  bag  into  the  fire,  it  became  full 
of  smoke,  and  in  that  condition  hung 


for  a  time  suspended  in  the  chimney. 
According  to  another  version,  Mont- 
golfier is  represented  as  boiling  water 
in  a  coffee-pot  over  which  there  was 
a  conical  paper  cover,  which  was  ob- 
served gradually  to  swell  and  rise  as 
it  became  filled  with  vapor.  In  either 
event,  it  was  owing  to  accident  that  the 
idea  of  a  bag  rendered  lighter  than  the 
surrounding  atmosphere  by  inflation 
came  into  his  head,  and  reached  in  due 
time  full  development  in  the  balloon. 
Not  every  paper-maker  is  a  man  of  a 
speculative  and  philosophic  turn  of 
mind  ;  yet  had  not  this  Stephen  Mont- 
golfier been  both  the  one  and  the  other, 
he  certainly  would  never  have  got  what 
he  did  out  of  this  small  hint. 

And  the  gas  with  which  the  balloon 
in  its  present  complete  form  has  to  be 
filled,  —  how  was  that  discovered  ?  Still 
in  some  sort  accidentally.  The  Rev. 
John  Clayton,  a  clergyman  living  about 
the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, and  devoted  in  a  great  degree  to 
scientific  pursuits,  was  on  a  certain  oc- 
casion making  some  experiments  with 
coal,  when  he  observed  certain  phe- 
nomena which  he  describes  so  lucidly 
that  it  will  be  best  to  let  him  tell 
his  own  story.  After  placing  some  coal 
in  a  retort,  and  heating  it,  he  says, 
"there  came  first  only  phlegm,  after- 
wards a  black  oil,  and  then  likewise  a 
spirit  arose  which  I  could  in  noways 
condense ;  but  it  forced  my  lute,  or 
broke  my  glasses.  Once  when  it  had 
forced  my  lute,  coming  close  thereto  in 
order  to  try  to  repair  it,  I  observed  that 
the  spirit  which  issued  out  caught  fire 
at  the  flame  of  the  candle,  and  contin- 
ued burning  with  violence  as  it  issued 
out  in  a  stream,  which  I  blew  out  and 
lighted  again  alternately,  for  several 
times.  I  then  had  a  mind  to  try  if  I 
could  save  any  of  this  spirit  ;  in  order 
to  which  I  took  a  turbinated  receiver, 
and  putting  a  candle  to  the  pipe  of  the 
receiver  whilst  the  spirit  arose,  I  ob- 
served that  it  catched  flame  and  con- 
tinued burning  at  the  end  of  the  pipe, 
though  you  could  not  discern  what 
fed  the  flame.  I  then  blew  it  out  and 
lighted  it  again  several  times,  after 


1 870.] 


The   Value  of  Accident. 


which  I  fixed  a  bladder  squeezed  and 
void  of  air  to  the  pipe  of  the  receiver. 
The  oil  and  phelgm  descended  into  the 
receiver,  but  the  spirit,  still  ascending, 
blew  up  the  bladder.  1  then  filled  a 

good  many  bladders  therewith I 

kept  this  spirit  in  the  bladders  a  con- 
siderable time,  and  endeavored  several 
ways  to  condense  it,  but  in  vain  ;  and 
when  I  had  a  mind  to,  divert  strangers 
or  friends,  I  have  frequently  taken  one 

o  bladders,  and,  pricking  a  hole 
therein  with  a  pin,  and  compressing 
gently  the  bladder  near  the  flame  of 
a  candle  till  it  once  took  fire,  it  would 
then  continue  flaming  till  all  the  spirit 
.impressed  out  of  the  bladder." 

,-t  of  inventions  attributable 
to  accident  is  by  no  means  exhausted. 
Vitruvius  describes  the  origin  of  the 
Corinthian  capital  in  this  wise:  "A 
Corinthian  virgin  of  marriageable  age 
fell  a  victim  to  a  violent  disorder.  Af- 
ter her  interment,  her  nurse,  collecting 
in  a  basket  those  articles  to  which  she 
had  shown  a  partiality  when  alive,  car- 
ried them  to  her  tomb,  and  placed  a  tile 
on  the  basket  for  the  longer  preserva- 
tion of  its  contents.  The  basket  was 

itally  placed  on  the  root  of  an 
acanthus-plant,  which,  pressed  by  the 
weight,  shot  forth,  towards  spring,  its 

and  large  foliage,  and  in  the 
course  of  its  growth  reached  the  angles 
of  the  tile,  and  then  formed  volutes  at 
the  extremities.  Callimachus  happen- 

the  time  to  pass  by  the  tomb, 
observed  the  basket,  and  the  delicacy 
of  the  foliage  which  surrounded  it. 
Pleased  with  the  form  and  novelty  of 
the  combination,  he  constructed  from 
the  hint  thus  afforded  columns  of  this 
species  in  the  country  about  Corinth, 
and  arranged  its  proportions,  determin- 
ing their  proper  measures  by  perfect 
rules."  No  doubt  Vitruvius  is  an  au- 
thority whose  statements  should  gen- 
erally be  regarded  with  something  of 
suspicion,  but  in  this  case  there  seems 
no  particular  reason  why  his  account 
should  be  looked  upon  as  untrustwor- 
thy. If  the  thing  is  not  true,  it  is  at 
least  splendidly  invented. 

Returning  to  days  more  recent,  we 


find,  on  the  authority  of  historians  of 
a  less  imaginative  type  than  Vitruvius, 
that  accident  has  had  a  share  in  bring- 
ing about  many  mechanical  inventions 
by  which  mankind  has  since  profited 
largely.  The  well-known  story  of  the 
invention  of  the  stocking-loom  has,  in 
its  several  versions,  the  element  of  acci- 
dent. According  to  the  first  of  these, 
William  Lee,  an  Oxford  student,  was 
courting  a  young  lady  who  paid  more 
attention  to  her  knitting  than  to  her 
lover's  wooing;  and  so,  as  he  watched 
her  deftly  moving  fingers,  the  idea 
came  to  him  of  a  mechanical  invention 
which  should  supersede  this  knitting 
business  altogether,  and  leave  his  mis- 
tress no  excuse  for  bad  listening.  The 
other  version  of  the  story,  and  far  the 
more  probable,  concerns  still  this  same 
William  Lee,  but  suggests  the  appli- 
cation of  a  more  powerful  stimulus 
to  his  inventive  powers  than  even  the 
desire  to  get  full  possession  of  his 
sweetheart's  attention.  Here,  the  stu- 
dent and  the  young  lady  with  the  knit- 
ting propensities  are  married,  and  Lee 
is  turned  out  of  the  university  for 
contracting  a  matrimonial  engagement, 
contrary  to  the  statutes.  They  are  en- 
tirely destitute  of  means,  and  the  young 
wife  turns  her  knitting  to  account,  and 
makes  stockings  for  the  joint  support 
of  herself  and  her  husband.  Then  it 
is  that  Lee,  watching  the  movements 
by  which  the  stockings  are  made,  gets 
the  idea,  of  the  machine  which  he 
subsequently  brought  to  perfection. 
There  is  a  very  barren  account,  in 
Thornton's  "  Nottinghamshire,"  of  the 
origin  of  this  invention,  in  which  Lee 
is  represented  as  belonging,  not  to  Ox- 
ford, but  to  Cambridge.  It  runs  thus  : 
"  At  Culonton  \vas  born  William  Lee, 
Master  of  Arts  in  Cambridge,  and  heir 
to  a  pretty  freehold  there,  who,  seeing 
a  woman  /•////,  invented  a  loom  to 
knit." 

There  are  more  instances  on  record, 
besides  this  of  Lee  and  his  stocking- 
loom,  of  mechanical  inventions  the 
first  idea  of  which  was  suggested  ac- 
cidentally. Among  the  excellent  "Sto- 
ries of  Inventors  and  Discoverers,'' 


176 


The  Value  of  Accident. 


[February, 


by  Mr.  Timbs,  it  is  stated  that  Har- 
greaves,  the  inventor  of  the  spinning- 
jenny,  "  divined  the  idea  of  the  jenny 
from  the  following  incident :  Seeing  a 
hand-wheel  with  a  single  spindle  over- 
turned, he  remarked  that  the  spindle 
which  was  before  horizontal  was  then 
vertical,  and,  as  it  continued  to  re- 
volve, he  drew  the  roving  of  wool  to- 
wards him  into  a  thread.  It  then 
seemed  to  Hargreaves  plausible  that, 
if  something  could  be  applied  to  hold 
the  rovings  as  the  finger  and  thumb  did, 
and  that  contrivance  to  travel  back- 
wards on  wheels,  six  or  eight  or  even 
twelve  threads  from  as  many  spindles 
might  be  spun  at  once."  On  the  au- 
thority of  Mr.  Timbs,  we  learn  also 
that  the  invention  of  "spinning  by 
rollers "  was  suggested  originally  by 
chance.  "  Arkwright  stated,"  says  Mr. 
Timbs,  "that  he  accidentally  derived 
the  first  hint  of  his  invention  from 
seeing  a  red-hot  iron  bar  elongated 
by  being  made  to  pass  through  rol- 
lers.'1 

Nor  is  it  only  in  pointing  out  the 
way  which  has  led  to  so  many  remark- 
able discoveries  and  inventions  that 
the  effect  of  accident  has  been  clear- 
ly demonstrated.  The  destiny  of  many 
individuals  has  more  than  once  been, 
in  like  manner,  influenced  by  its  agen- 
cy. We  have  seen  how  Samuel  Lee 
became  Regius  Professor  of  Hebrew 
through  the  destruction  of  his  carpen- 
ter's-tools  by  fire,  and  how,  Jenner's 
attention  was  drawn  to  the  subject  of 
vaccination  by  the  chance  remark  of  a 
patient  who  came  to  his  master's  sur- 
gery for  advice,  and  how  his  future 
career  came  to  be  marked  out  for  him 
in  consequence.  These  are  not  iso- 
lated instances.  Granville  Sharp,  the 
great  opponent  of  the  slave-trade,  who 
preceded  Wilberforce  and  Clarkson,  and 
who  established  the  right  of  negroes  to 
their  freedom  while  in  England,  and  in- 
stituted the  society  for  the  abolition  of 
the  slave-trade,  —  this  man  was  sitting 
on  a  certain  occasion  in  the  surgery 
of  his  brother,  when  a  wretched  Af- 
rican, covered  with  wounds  and  scars, 
the  consequence  of  brutal  ill-treatment 


by  his  owner,  came  to  ask  advice  as  to 
the  treatment  of  his  maimed  limbs  and 
body.  It  was  the  indignation  excited 
by  witnessing  the  sufferings  of  this  poor 
slave  which  awakened  in  the  breast  of 
Granville  Sharp  the  desire  to  espouse 
the  cause  of  the  injured  blacks,  and  led 
him  to  devote  the  principal  part  of  his 
life  to  their  service.  A  more  recent 
instance  of  a  career  diverted  from  its 
original  course  by  a  mere  chance  is 
found  in  the  life  of  Faraday  the  chem- 
ist. He  was  originally  a  bookbinder, 
and  his  perusal  of  an  article  on  chemis- 
try in  an  encyclopaedia,  which  he  read 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  binding 
it,  ultimately  led  to  his  taking  up  these 
peculiar  studies  in  which  he  subse- 
quently so  greatly  distinguished  him- 
self. 

It  is  not  within  the  compass  of  an 
ordinary  magazine  article  that  all  the 
cases  in  which  accident  has  powerfully 
affected  human  destiny  can  be  dealt 
with.  Enough  have  been  cited  here  to 
prove  the  fact  that  the  influence  of 
accident,  when  it  has  formed  an  ele- 
ment in  the  career  of  men  who  have 
known  how  to  take  advantage  of  it,  has 
been  very  remarkable.  There  are  many 
more  such  incidents,  which,  by  reason 
of  their  being  so  well  known,  do  not 
need  to  be  enlarged  on  at  length,  but 
which  are  yet  deserving  of  some  sort 
of  mention.  The  apple  of  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  has  been  cooked  in  so  many 
literary  forms  that  it  Is  no  longer  pos- 
sible to  dish  it  up  in  such  a  fashion  as 
to  make  it  palatable  ;  yet  the  incident 
of  which  it  forms  an  integral  part  must 
needs  be  mentioned  in  such  a  chapter 
of  accidents  as  this.  So  should  that 
story  of  James  Watt  as  a  boy  ponder- 
ing over  the  fact  that  the  lid  of  the 
teakettle  was  forced  up  by  the  accu- 
mulated steam  within  the  vessel,  and 
so  having  his  attention  drawn  to  the 
possible  uses  that  could  be  made  of  this 
great  power.  A  story  somewhat  of  the 
same  kind  is  extant  of  the  Marquis  of 
Worcester,  whose  thoughts  were  sim- 
ilarly directed  in  consequence  of  his 
having  seen  the  cover  of  a  certain  iron 
pot,  in  which  water  was  boiling,  blown 


The   Value  of  Accident. 


177 


off  into  the  room  in  which  he  was 
sitting.  This  nobleman  was  fond  of 
scientific  pursuits,  and  wrote  an  ac- 
count of  his  observations  in  a  work 
which  was  afterwards  consulted  by  the 
earlier  members  of  the  engineering  pro- 
fession. There  are  many  more  well- 
known  stories  of  the  same  sort ;  such 
as  that  of  Galileo  watching  the  hanging 
lamp  in  the  Pisa  cathedral,  and  so  con- 
ceiving the  idea  of  the  pendulum;  of 
Captain  Brown  getting  the  notion  of 
the  Suspension  Bridge  from  a  line  of 
gossamer  hung  from  one  bough  to 
another  across  his  path ;  of  Liffersheim, 
the  spectacle-maker,  to  whom  the  in- 
vention of  the  telescope  is  said  to  have 
occurred  from  his  having  seen  two 
spectacle  -  glasses  placed  accidentally 
one  before -the  other.  This  story  is 
generally  told  of  Galileo,  but  there  is 
more  reason  to  think  that  it  concerns 
the  spectacle-maker  than  the  astron- 
omer. 

The  daring  fox -hunter,  when  he 
clothes  himself  in  his  "pink"  on  a  fine 
December  morning,  is  probably  as  little 
aware  as  the  ensign,  trying  on  his  first 
regimental  coat,  that  he  is  indebted  to 
an  accident  for  the  gorgeous  color  of 
the  garment  in  which  he  finds  delight. 
"The  Dutch  chemist  Drebbel,"  says 
Brande  in  one  of  his  lectures,  "resident 
at  Alkmaar,  had  prepared  some  decoc- 
tions of  cochineal  for  filling  a  ther- 
mometer tube.  The  preparation  was 
effected  in  a  tin  vessel ;  and  into  this 
some  nitro-muriatic  acid  having  been 
spilled  by  accident,  a  rich  scarlet  color 
was  observed.  Thus  by  mere  chance 
was  the  discovery  made  that  oxide  of 
tin,  in  solution,  yielded,  by  combination 
with  the  coloring  matter  of  cochineal, 
a  scarlet  dye."  This  anecdote  is 
quoted  in  the  "  Curiosities  of  Science," 
and  in  the  same  work  we  find  it  stated 
that  the  elementary  body  called  phos- 
phorus was  two  centuries  ago  discov- 
ered "accidentally"  by  Brandt,  the  al- 
chemist of  Hamburg,  while  he  was 
engaged  in  the  search  for  gold.  And 
so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  pursuit  of 
one  of  the  wildest  chimeras  that  ever 
Jed  mortals  astray  was  actually  made 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  148.  12 


subservient  to  a  discovery  of  consid- 
erable practical  value  and  importance. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  in 
addition  to  these  instances  of  the 
known  influence  of  accident  in  leading 
to  certain  inventions  and  discoveries, 
there  must  have  been  many  others 
which  we  do  not  know  of,  but  which 
we  can  conceive  readily  enough  as 
having  had  an  accidental  origin.  We 
can  fancy  the  idea  of  the  speaking- 
trumpet,  for  instance,  having  occurred 
to  the  first  man  who  in  calling  to  an- 
other instinctively  made  a  tube  of  his 
hand,  and  found  that  the  volume  of  his 
voice  was  increased  owing  to  its  being 
thus  enclosed  ;  a  discovery  acted  upon 
to  this  day  by  every  costermonger 
who  hawks  his  "  sparrer-grass  "  in  the 
public  streets.  The  invention  of  the 
speaking-trumpet  would  follow  logical- 
ly. Another  similar  gathering  togeth- 
er of  sound,  by  the  hand  enclosing  the 
orifice  of-  the  ear,  is  practised  always 
instinctively  by  the  deaf,  and  may  in 
a  precisely  similar  manner  have  been 
the  origin  of  the  ear-trumpet.  This 
increase  of  the  fulness  of  sound  got  by 
enclosure  once  an  ascertained  fact,  and 
another  great  invention,  that  of  the 
stethoscope,  follows  almost  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Many  other  discoveries  are 
equally  suggestive  of  an  accidental  ori- 
gin. 

Grafting  is  another  invention  which 
we  may  well  imagine  to  have  had  a 
chance  origin  of  this  sort.  In  the  Cy- 
clopaedia of  Agriculture  we  read  that 
"  it  could  scarcely  happen  otherwise 
than  that  the  attention  of  mankind 
should  be  arrested  by  the  frequent  oc- 
currence of  natural  grafts  produced  ac- 
cidentally;  and  an  attempt  to  imitate 
them  would  naturally  follow."  The  in- 
vention of  glass  is  certainly  suggestive 
of  an  accidental  origin.  "  It  is  almost 
impossible,"  says  the  writer  on  this 
subject  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica,  "  to  excite  a  very  violent  fire  such 
as  is  necessary  in  metallurgic  opera- 
tions, without  vitrifying  part  of  the 
bricks  or  stone  wherewith  the  furnace 
is  built.  This,  indeed,  might  furnish 
the  first  hints  of  glass-making." 


1 78 


The   Value  of  Accident. 


[I/cbruary, 


But  besides  these  public  examples 
of  the  powerful  influence  which  the 
element  of  chance  has  from  time  to 
time  exercised  on  human  destiny,  it 
must  have  been  noted  by  every  one 
who  is,  even  in  a  moderate  degree, 
observant  of  what  goes  on  within  and 
around  him,  that  even  in  the  uneventful 
private  career  of  the  most  ordinary  and 
obscure  individual  a  multiplicity  of  cir- 
cumstances affecting  that  career  in  all 
sorts  of  ways  have  been  brought  about 
entirely  by  accident,  and  not  uncom- 
monly by  accident  of  the  most  trifling 
description.  You  are  sitting  in  your 
study  or  your  office,  attending  to  your 
ordinary  concerns,  when  a  friend  comes 
in  and  persuades  you  to  go  with  him  to 
see  an  exhibition  of  pictures,  to  hear  a 
scientific  discourse,  or  what  not;  and 
straightway  you  meet  with  some  one, 
or  you  hear  some  tidings,  and  by  such 
meeting  or  such  hearing  you  are  led  to 
do  something,  or  maybe  to  abstain  from 
doing  something,  of  importance,  by  do- 
ing or  not  doing  which  all  the  rest  of 
your  life  is  affected.  Surely  there  is  no 
one  but  can  remember,  if  lie  will  take 
the  trouble  to  try,  important  issues  con» 
nected  with  his  own  career  or  that  of 
his  friends,  which  have  been  brought 
about  directly  or  indirectly  by  circum- 
stances so  exceedingly  trivial  in  them- 
selves as  to  appear  unworthy  of  notice. 
A  man  intends  to  join  a  certain  party 
of  friends  on  some  occasion  of  social 
festivity,  but,  going  to  his  drawer,  finds 
that  he  has  no  gloves,  and  so  spends 
the  evening  at  his  club  instead,  where 
he  has  a  quarrel  about  the  odd  trick  at 
whist,  which  causes  him  ultimately  to 
abandon  that  particular  club,  and  to  join 
another,  where  he  becomes  acquainted 
with  a  man  by  whom  a  couple  of  years 
afterwards  he  is  led  into  some  commer- 
cial enterprise  which  is  his  ultimate 
ruin.  Yet  all,  in  this  case,  would  come 
of  a  mere  chance. 


Since  the  above  was  written,  an  in- 
stance quite  as  remarkable  as  any  of 
those  already  quoted,  of  the  influence 
of  accident  on  the  history  of  invention,, 
has  been  made  public.  In  a  review 
contained  in  the  "Times"  of  August 
28,  1869,  in  which  a  recent  work,  de- 
scriptive of  a  new  invention  called  the 
graphotype,  is  brought  under  notice, 
the  discovery  of  the  new  process  is 
thus  described  :  "  A  year  or  two  since, 
Mr.  Clinton  Hitchcock,  an  American 
draughtsman,  was  making  a  drawing 
upon  a  boxwood  block,  and,  having 
made  an  error,  was  painting  it  out, 
as  is  customary,  with  a  white  pig- 
ment. The  material  he  used  for  the 
purpose  was  the  white  enamel  taken 
off  by  a  moistened  brush  from  the  sur- 
face of  an  ordinary  glazed  visiting-card 
printed  from  a  copperplate.  By  de- 
grees, he  removed  all  the  composition 
forming  the  enamel,  and  then  he  found 
that  the  letters  were  undisturbed,  and 
were  standing  up  in  bold  relief?Jrom 
the  surface  of  the  card,  the  ink  forming 
the  letters  having  protected  the  enamel 
beneath  them  from  the  action  of  the 
brush,  while  all  the  surrounding  parts 
were  washed  or  rubbed  away.  With  a 
keen  eye  to  application,  Mr.  Hitchcock 
saw  in  the  abraded  address-card  the 
basis  of  a  mode  of  producing  a  relief 
printing-plate  without  the  skill  cf  the 
engraver,  and  he  set  about  experiment- 
ing to  reduce  the  method  to  practice. 
He  took  a  plate  of  common  chalk,  and 
drew  a  picture  with  a  silicious  ink  upon 
it.  When  the  ink  was  dry,  he  brushed 
the  chalk  all  over  with  a  tooth-brush  : 
the  interstices  between  the  lines  were 
brushed  away,  and  there  stood  the 
drawing  in  relief,  ready  to  be  petrified 
by  the  means  of  a  chemical  solution, 
and  printed  from  direct,  or  to  be  handed 
over  to  the  stereotypist  to  have  'ster- 
eo '  made  of  it  after  the  usual  man- 
ner/' 


8/o.] 


rather  Mend's  Bell. 


FATHER    MERIEL'S    UKLI,. 


"  i\/T  Y  c^ear  J05*0^1'  tlic>T  've  put  >'ou 

1VJL  on  the  committee  for  examin- 
ing old  documents." 

"  Now,  Miranda,  love."  said  I  to  my 
wife,  "  think  of  my  asthma,  with  mus- 
ty old  papers  !  Is  not  the  Seminary 
enough  for  any  one  man,  with  the  mis- 
erable Institute  at  the  West  Village 
going  ahead  so  ?  Why  could  n't  '  they ' 
rr  the  town-clerk,  or 
Parson  White  ?  "  And  I  went  out  of 
the  house  at  once,  to  sec  why  they 
could  not.  But  Farr  had  weak  eyes  ; 
and  a  deacon  told  me  that  Mr.  White 
had  preached  some  heresy,  and  no 
doubt  would  have  to  leave  before  the 
bi-centcnnial  came  off.  I  was  obliged 
to  give  it  up,  and  spend  a  quantity 
of  time  trying  to  find  something  in- 
teresting, in  the  old  records,  for  Mead- 
owboro's  great  celebration.  Thus  it 
was  that  I  came  to  look  over  the  man- 
uscripts left  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wood- 
roffe,  first  minister  of  the  town,  who 
had  discharged  the  duties  of  his  post 
for  more  than  fifty  years.  The  yellow 
pile  was  made  up  for  the  most  part  of 
sermons.  I  found  among  them,  how- 
>ne  manuscript  in  a  different 
hand,  upon  which  the  minister  had 
made  the  following  indorsement  : 
'•  The  narrative  of  Goodwife  Thankful 
Pumry,  The  Returned  Captive  ;  for 
some  years  formerly  a  beloved  inmate 
of  my  own  household,  and  in  those 
days  a  comely  and  gracious  maid  ;  put 
into  my  hands  on  her  early  death-bed, 
to  the  end  that  I  might  know  what  h:id 
burthcncd  her.  Undoubtedly  correct 
as  regards  matters  that  happened  be- 
fore the  Burning.  To  be  kept  secret 
in  the  fear  that  otherwise  family  trouble 
might  come  to  pass,  inasmuch  as  her 
husband  yet  survives.  Somewhat  cu- 
rious as  giving  good  proof  of  what 
some  doubt,  strange  doings  of  the 
Devil  on  the  earth.  I  hold  the  woman 
to  have  been  bewitched." 

I    do   not    think    Thankful    Pumry 's 


confession  had  been  unfolded  since  the 
minister  wrote  upon  it,  until  it  fell  into 
my  hands.  I  found  that,  while  hunting 
among  these  withered  leaves,  which  had 
fallen  perhaps  a  hundred  and  seventy 
years  ago,  I  had  come  upon  a  bunch  of 
dewy  and  blooming  arbutus,  in  the 
story  of  a  tender-souled  woman  who 
died  through  sorrow.  I  give  it  with 
some  abbreviation,  and  taken  out  of  its 
ancient  phraseology.  I  have  not  left 
out  the  superstition  which  pervades  it. 
May-flowers  would  hardly  sec-m  so 
sweet  to  us  without  the  foil  to  their 
beauty  which  comes  from  the  trail  of 
the  worm,  seen  here  and  there  upon 
the  leaves.  The  reader  shall  see  how 
life  looked  through  the  eyes  of  a  young 
Puritan  woman,  full  of  sentiment  and 
vivid  fancy. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  a  new  meeting-house  was  built 
in  Meadowboro.  A  small  surplus  re- 
mained over  from  the  fund  appropri- 
ated by  the  Plantation  for  the  work, 
which  it  was  resolved  should  be  ap- 
plied to  the  purchase  of  a  bell.  The 
minister,  the  deputy  to  the  General 
Court,  and  a  certain  ensign  in  the 
train-band,  were  empowered  to  do  this 
business  in  behalf  of  their  fellow-towns- 
men. Thankful  Pumry  gives  the  story 
of  the  purchase  as  follows  :  The 
three  deputies,  meeting  at  Boston,  went 
to  a  warehouse  at  the  water-side,  where 
it  was  known  a  consignment  of  bells 
had  been  received.  The  minister  told 
the  merchant  their  errand  ;  upon  which 
the  deputies  were  led  to  a  corner  of  the 
warehouse,  to  a  number  of  bells  that 
lay,  among  various  merchandise,  upon 
the  floor.  One  or  two  had  been  cast  in 
England,  and  sent  to  the  Colony  by 
their  makers,  and  some  had  been  taken 
from  church  towers  in  the  English  civil 
war.  The  bells  were  of  various  sizes, 
dull  in  their  color,  and  spotted  with 
green  rust.  There  was  one,  however. 


i8o 


Father  Muriel's  Bell. 


[February, 


which  showed  upon  its  bright  surface 
not  a  single  spot  of  oxidation.  From 
its  top  to  its  rim  the  color  was  golden 
and  untarnished  ;  a  cross  was  heavily 
embossed  upon  its  side ;  and  beneath 
it,  running  about  the  edge  of  the  bell, 
was  the  motto,  "  O  Maria,  tuis  precibus 
protege  nos  !  "  Above  the  cross,  also, 
running  about  the  top  of  the  bell,  was 
the  legend,  "  Ad  majorem  Dei  gloriam," 
the  motto  of  the  Jesuits.  In  spite  of 
its  beauty,  it  appeared  that  the  Romish 
emblem  and  legends  with  which  the 
bell  was  decorated  made  it  less  salable 
than  the  others.  The  merchant  could 
tell  nothing  of  its  history,  except  that 
it  had  been  sent  to  him  by  his  corre- 
spondent at  Bristol.  Upon  being  ques- 
tioned, he  admitted,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, that  the  bell  had  been  declared  to 
be  possessed.  In  order  that  its  tone 
might  be  heard,  some  laborers  were 
called  ;  the  bell  was  carried  to  the  open 
air,  and  hung  to  a  projecting  beam  upon 
the  wharf.  The  merchant  threw  the 
tongue  against  the  side.  A  sweet  and 
most  melancholy  sound  arose  above 
the  clatter  of  the  harbor.  It  was  clear 
and  musical.  It  diminished  with  a 
tremulous  vibration,  through  moment 
after  moment,  in  a  tone  almost  pathetic, 
as  if  it  sighed  and  moaned,  conscious 
of  indignity,  in  being  made  to  sound  in 
such  a  place  and  by  such  hands.  The 
tone  was  in  some  way  suggestive  of 
tmrest.  When  the  vibrations  had 
fully  died  away,  the  minister  spoke. 
He  made  light  of  the  story  of  the  mer- 
chant. Alluding  to  the  Popish  emblem, 
he  said,  with  some  formality,  for  a  con- 
siderable group  of  people  had  gathered, 
"that  howsoever  it  might  have  done 
service  for  the  Devil,  it  had  now  been 
snatched  away  unto  the  Lord.  He  re- 
joiced that  an  instrument  of  idolatrous 
ceremonies  might  be  used  to  call  true 
saints  to  worship  of  the  Gospel  order." 

These  considerations  and  the  low 
price  availed  with  the  deputies  of 
Meadovvboro,  and  the  bargain  was  con- 
cluded. At  last,  one  Saturday  evening, 
it  was  laid  on  the  green  in  the  frontier 
village.  It  was  presently  hung  in  the 
belfry  of  the  little  meeting-house,  with 


the  bell-rope  passing  through  a  hole 
beneath,  down  into  the  centre  of  the 
broad  aisle.  On  Sunday  morning  the 
sound  of  it  went  forth  over  the  roofs 
of  the  village  for  the  first  time,  beyond 
the  palisades,  until  all  the  outer  farms 
were  listening.  It  took  the  place  of 
the  drum-beat,  which  had  hitherto  been 
the  signal  for  assembling.  The  tone 
of  the  bell,  as  heard,  through  the  un- 
broken wilderness,  from  that  little  spot 
of  civilization,  still  suggested  disquiet 
and  loneliness.  The  people,  gathered 
on  the  green,  looked  with  some  awe  at 
the  shining  metal  with  its  device.  The 
children,  who  saw  it  turn  its  edge  up 
into  the  sunlight  while  the  ringer  was 
invisible,  believed  it  had  life  of  its  own. 
Thankful  says  she  stood,  with  her 
townspeople,  —  then  an  unmarried  girl, 
—  half  disposed  to  adopt  this  childish 
notion.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  a  ques- 
tion came  to  her  mind:  "This  bell, 
which  they  say  possesses  some  strange 
spell,  and  whose  story  is  unknown, 
what  is  its  secret  ?  "  It  was  then  sim- 
ple girlish  curiosity;  but  she  was  des- 
tined to  repeat  the  question,  many 
times  in  years  to  come,  with  interest 
that  continually  deepened. 

Meadowboro  at  this  time  was  shut 
in  within  a  palisade  of  hewn  timbers 
sharpened  at  the  top,  which  enclosed 
it  like  a  line  of  grenadiers  in  peaked 
caps,  dressed  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
Some  were  freshly  cut,  and  stood  like 
new  recruits  put  into  line  yesterday ; 
others  were  gray  old  veterans,  which 
had  stood  ranked  twenty  years,  since 
the  days  of  Philip's  war,  and  were  dec- 
orated all  over  with  pale  green  medals 
of  lichen.  The  houses  were  built  with 
regard  to  defence.  Down  into  the 
meadows  went  the  people,  beside  their 
teams,  with  goad  in  one  hand,  and  long 
gun  in  the  other  ;  and  sometimes,  when 
the  corn  was  high,  they  were  driven 
within  the  gates  of  the  palisade  by 
the  rifles  of  Indians,  or  hostile  French 
from  Canada.  They  paraded  weekly 
in  the  train-band,  and  sat  austerely  on 
Sunday  in  the  square  unpainted  meet- 
ing-house, beneath  the  eyes  of  tithing- 
men  and  ruling  elders.  At  town-meet- 


1 870.] 


Father  MtrieVs  Bell. 


181 


ings  they  voted  for  selectman  and 
fence-viewer,  deer-reeve  and  constable, 
with  grains  of  corn  for  "  ay,"  and  dark 
beans  for  "nay";  and  Farr  says  there 
are  traditions  that,  when  the  voting 
was  done,  the  rival  parties  sometimes 
grew  amiable  again  over  a  hearty  dish 
of  succotash  made  out  of  the  ballots. 

Not  unknown  in  the  village  was  the 
howl  of  wolves.  Against  wild  beast 
and  savage  every  man  went  armed. 
Even  in  the  minister's  study,  buff  coat, 
pistol,  and  heavy  sword  had  a  place 
beside  Bible  and  Psalm-book.  This 
was  the  village  ;  these  were  its  peo- 
ple ;  and  over  all  from  the  belfry,  the 
bell  whose  past  was  unknown  from 
time  to  time  sounded.  On  Sundays, 
at  the  weekly  lecture,  on  Fast  and 
Thanskgiving,  and  each  evening  at  the 
hour  of  nine,  its  vibrations  were  poured 
over  the  meadows  and  into  the  moun- 
tain-hollows ;  and  when  the  hand  of  the 
ringer  was  taken  from  the  rope,  the 
moan-like  prolongation  came  always 
for  some  moments,  until  it  fainted  upon 
the  ear,  as  if  it  were  protesting  through 
the  sombre  forest  that  it  would  be  else- 
where. 

With  regard  to  Thankful,  I  make  out 
these  facts  from  hints  in  her  confes- 
sion :  —  Remembrance  Pumry,  whom 
she  did  not  love,  paid  court  to  her.  In 
girlish  sport,  she  encouraged  him  ;  and 
he  came  to  see  her,  against  the  will  of 
the  minister,  her  guardian.  For  this, 
according  to  the  harsh  custom  of  the 
Puritan  villages,  he  one  day  underwent 
some  discipline  beneath  the  whipping- 
tree.  I  look  up  daily  into  the  top  of 
the  same  tree,  still  vigorous,  and  see 
what  a  writhing  there  is  of  the  great 
branches  in  its  leafy  brain.  Does  it 
have  uncomfortable  qualms,  I  wonder, 
because  it  was  the  whipping-tree  when 
it  was  a  sapling  ?  If  it  was  unkind  to 
Remembrance,  it  is  somewhat  too  gen- 
tle to  the  young  people,  now,  in  its  old 
age.  Alack  !  alack  !  the  large  girls 
of  my  Seminary  will  flirt  beyond  all 
bounds  summer  evenings  on  the  bench 
around  its  trunk,  apparently  with  its 
ready  connivance  ! 

Thankful's  heart  was  touched  at  the 


suffering  which  she  had  brought  up- 
on Remembrance.  Without  sufficient 
thought,  she  won  her  guardian  to  favor 
his  suit,  and  at  last  married  him.  She 
found,  too  late,  that  she  had  only  given 
him  her  hand,  and  from  the  first  hour 
of  her  marriage  was  unhappy.  Her 
narrative  shows  her  to  have  been  of 
better  education  than  most  women  of 
her  position.  I  do  not  know  whether 
she  was  the  victim  of  a  spell  or  not. 
She  believed  it  herself,  and  so  did  the 
minister.  Her  confession,  at  least,  has 
a  most  singular,  pensive  charm,  which 
I  would  I  might  preserve  in  my  render- 
ing, but  which,  I  fear,  is  too  subtle. 
After  laying  down  the  mildewed  leaves,. 
I  have  sometimes  felt  as  if  the  sound 
of  the  bell  with  which  her  fate  became 
connected  had  just  died  upon  my  ear. 

Not  long  after  her  marriage,  Thank- 
ful went  one  evening  to  the  house  of 
the  minister,  and  found  there  a  stranger 
who  had  arrived  since  sundown.  He 
was  dusty  with  travel ;  his  complexion 
was  olive,  his  eye  dark  and  penetrat- 
ing, his  stature  tall.  His  manners 
were  full  of  a  dignified  affability  and 
elegance,  strange  to  one  accustomed 
only  to  the  English  Puritans.  He  was 
made  known  to  Thankful  by  the  minis^- 
ter  as  a  Huguenot  exile,  "  certified  to 
be  of  worth  by  the  minister  of  the 
French  congregation  in  Boston,  from 
whom  he  hath  letters  to  whomsoever  it 
may  concern."  The  worshipful  Cotton 
Mather,  moreover,  had  provided  him 
with  a  letter  to  the  authorities  of  the 
frontier  towns,  speaking  of  him  as  one 
"anxious  to  proceed  even  into  the 
wilderness,  to  behold  thoroughly  God's 
mercies  to  New  England,  and  in  what 
manner  this  goodly  vine  hath  waxed 
and  grown  onward  even  at  the  end 
thereof."  The  stranger  spoke  in  fluent 
English,  but  with  a  foreign  accent  and 
an  occasional  use  of  foreign  idioms. 
The  talk  through  the  evening  was  of 
his  country,  and  the  persecution  of  the 
Protestants  under  the  Revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Nantes.  The  stranger 
described  many  a  terrible  scene,  his- 
hands  and  expressive  features  giving 
graphic  emphasis  to  his  words. 


182 


Father  Mend's  Bell. 


[February, 


When  the  evening  was  well  advanced, 
the  Huguenot,  with  a  polite  inclina- 
tion toward  the  minister's  wife,  said  : 
«*  Will  madame  permit  me  ?  — the  good- 
ness in  her  face  is  so  great,  it  must  be 
I  seek  to  give  her  pleasure.  I  have 
here  my  flute.  Ah  me !  companion 
of  voyage  to  me,  poor  exile  !  and  in 
my  far  home,  one  said  I  played  it 
well."  It  was  hardly  with  cordiality 
that  the  guest  was  invited  to  produce 
his  flute,  for  music  was  held  a  trivial 
matter  in  the  Puritan  villages.  The  en- 
couragement was  great  enough,  how- 
ever, to  induce  him  to  open  his  pack 
and  joint  the  instrument.  He  began  to 
play  a  lively  measure,  but  Thankful  re- 
lates that  here  this  incident  took  place : 
—  From  the  belfry,  close  at  hand,  the 
nine-o'clock  peal  was  heard.  She  says 
she  could  not  help  noticing  that  the  bell 
had  in  its  tone  a  quality  of  anxious  dis- 
tress she  had  never  heard  before.  The 
effect  of  the  sound  upon  the  stranger 
was  startling.  His  flute  dropped  from 
his  hands  upon  the  floor.  He  leaped 
to  his  feet,  catching  his  breath.  At 
the  same  time  he  made  a  quick  ges- 
ture, quite  inexplicable  to  all  present. 
Throwing  his  left  arm  across  his  breast, 
he  brought  his  right  hand,  with  his  two 
fingers  extended,  to  his  forehead,  drew 
it  rapidly  from  his  forehead  to  his 
chest,  and  then  carried  it  across  to  his 
left  shoulder.  Here  suddenly,  as  if 
recollecting  himself,  he  dropped  his 
arms  to  his  side  and  took  his  seat  in 
hasty  confusion.  After  profuse  apolo- 
gies, he  at  length  recovered  self-pos- 
session. The  company  were  greatly 
surprised.  They  received  the  stran- 
ger's explanations,  however,  without 
•question.  His  letters  were  of  the  high- 
est character,  and,  after  all,  no  one 
•could  see  that  there  was  anything  in 
his  conduct  to  excite  suspicion.  "  Our 
friend  must  know,"  said  the  minister, 
gravely  jesting,  "that  the  bell  is  pos- 
sessed ;  but  straightway,  if  means  can 
be  found,  it  shall  learn  courtesy  to 
strangers."  The  next  day,  after  a 
keen  glance  toward  the  belfry,  the 
Huguenot  stranger  departed.  Some 
months  after,  however,  he  reappeared 


in  Meadowboro.  Thankful  says  he 
comported  himself  in  the  most  unex- 
ceptionable manner.  There  was  noth- 
ing strange  in  his  demeanor,  but  a  habit 
xof  muttering  to  himself,  and  a  familiar- 
ity he  seemed  to  have  with  birds. 

With  his  flute,  or  by  whistling,  he 
could  imitate  their  notes  to  a  remarka- 
ble degree,  calling  out  from  them  re- 
plies, and  bringing  them  sometimes  to 
flutter  about  him.  This  he  occasion- 
ally did  for  the  amusement  of  the  chil- 
dren. He  took  much  interest  in  the 
better  fortification  of  the  town,  a  meas- 
ure judged  necessary  from  the  increased 
danger  of  an  invasion  from  Canada,  in 
the  war  then  raging.  As  the  winter 
went  forward  he  spent  much  time  in 
hunting  to  the  northward,  and  was 
commissioned  by  the  town  authorities 
to  watch  for  signs  of  the  enemy. 

In  her  unreserved  communication, 
Thankful  says  it  had  become  her  habit 
to  take  long  rambles,  to  divert  her 
mind  from  the  gloom  to  which  she  felt 
herself  disposed.  She  appears  to  have 
been  fearless,  and  to  have  taken  her 
lonely  walks  in  winter  as -well  as  in 
summer,  and  sometimes  even  after 
dark.  She  says  that  a  favorite  resort 
of  hers  was  a  meadow  some  two  miles 
away  from  the  village.  One  quiet  even- 
ing toward  the  close  of  winter  she  set 
forth  alone,  as  was  not  unusual.  The 
deep  snow  was  sheathed  with  a  thick 
crust.  The  sky  was  clear,  and,  as  she 
walked  onward  over  the  palisade,  at  a 
point  where  a  drift  had  completely  bur- 
ied it,  out  into  the  solitude  of  the 
meadow,  a  bright  aurora  streamed  be- 
fore her.  There  was  no  moving  thing 
upon  the  snow,  and  the  only  sound 
upon  the  sharp  air  was  the  crisp  tread 
of  her  feet  upon  the  frozen  surface. 
She  kept  on  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
a  low  hill,  whose  lines  rose  from  the 
whiteness  of  the  meadow  that  encom- 
passed them,  like  a  dark  island.  Grow- 
ing warm  with  the  exercise,  she  threw 
back  her  hood  and  received  upon  her 
face,  with  a  sensation  of  pleasure,  the 
freshness  of  the  winter  night.  She 
skirted  the  whole  length  of  the  hill  on 
the  eastern  side,  and  turning,  began  to 


1 870.] 


Father  Mirier*  />V//. 


go  round  its  northern  end.  All  was 
perfectly  cold,  still,  and  lonely.  Just 
then  she  began  to  hear  the  bell  in  the 
village,  distant  but  perfectly  clear,  be- 
gin to  ring  for  nine  o'clock.  The  sound 
came  over  the  snow  far  and  sweet,  now 
faint,  now  sending  out  its  penetrating 
melancholy  with  great  distinctness. 
Thankful  paused ;  for  she  says  the 
quality  of  the  tone  again  seemed  differ- 
>:n  anything  she  had  before  heard. 
There  s-.-mecl  blended  with  it  yearn- 
ing and  soft  invitation.  Resuming  her 

B  step  or  two  brought  her 
through  a   little  belt  of  trees,  beyond 
which   the   bare   and  solitary  meadow 
stretched    in    perfect  whiteness   west- 
ward.    The  intervening  hill  now  shut 
off  all  view   of  the   one  or  two   faint 
ihat   yet  twinkled   from  the  vil- 
The  aurora  threw  a  dim  and  fit- 
ful illumination  upon  the  dreary  stretch 
of  plain,  upon  which   the   pines  flung 
down  an  almost  awful  darkness.     Sud- 
denly Thankful  paused,  with  a  move- 
ment of  quick  terror,  and  almost  sank 
upon  the  snow.    A  few  rods  in  advance 
of  her  rose  ar  tall  figure,  wrapped  from 
head   to   foot    in    the    deepest    black. 
ild  be  more  ghastly.  "The 
arms  were  folded  upon  the  breast,  and 
forward  perfectly  mo- 
'.'cantime  the  sound  of  the 
bell  went  and  came,  doubly  full,  as  it 
inexpressible  yearning  and 
tender  summons.     At    last   it   ceased. 
The  ligure  tossed   its   arms  aloft  as  if 
exultant.      The    spectral    light   in    the 
northern  sky  at  the  same  time  appeared 
to  waver  and   loom  with  new  activity. 
Pale  hands  of  giant  ghosts  appeared  to 
pass   athwart    the    heavens.      Fingers 
solemnly  beckoned,  then  in  an  instant 
clutched  high  towards  the  zenith,  quiv- 
ering as  if  in  sympathy  with,  or   per- 
. nocking,  the    tall    spectre  which 
red  dark  upon  the  snow. 
At    length    the    shape   turned,   and 
swept  rapidly  northward.     It  seemed  to 
disappear  in  the  shadow  of  the  sombre 
woods  which  lay  in  that  direction.     No 
other    thought    occurred   to   Thankful 
than  that  she  had  seen  a  ghost.     Re- 
covering with  an  effort  from  her  stupor 


of  fear,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and 
keeping  close  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hill,  hurried  homeward.  A  light  or 
two  still  burned  from  within  the  pali- 
.hen  she  came  within  sight  of  it. 
Toward  these  she  hurried  over  the 
crust,  the -agitated  beating  of  her  heart 
becoming  gradually  calmer  as  the  dis- 
tance lessened.  At  length  she  heard 
quick  footsteps  behind  her,  and  an  in- 
stant after  was  seized  roughly  by  the 
arm.  Casting  her  eyes  up  in  a  fright,  she 
discovered  it  was  only  the  French  stran- 
ger, who,  however,  looked  at  her  with 
impatient  fierceness.  But  now  down 
from  the  palisade  a  soldier  of  the  town- 
guard  came  sauntering.  The  French- 
man loosed  his  hold,  and  with  some  ap- 
parent difficulty  forced  the  dark  expres- 
sion from  his  face.  Assuming  as  much 
as  he  could  of  his  usual  courtesy,  and 
speaking  as  if  in  surprise,  "  Indeed," 
he  said,  "  it  is  Goodwife  Pumry.  I  was 
frightened  to  see  this  figure  in  the 
night."  Then  with  anxious  eagerness  : 
"What  have  you  seen  to  make  you 
run  ?  Some  spectre,  perhaps,  or  beast 
of  prey."  Thankful  briefly  gave  an 
account  of  the  apparition.  The  sol- 
dier listened  with  dull  wonder,  while 
the  Frenchman  seemed  hardly  able  to 
contain  himself.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished, he  broke  out  in  voluble  declara- 
tions that  it  was  no  doubt  a.  ghost. 
Thankful  went  forward  to  her  home, 
while  the  two  men  remained  together 
near  the  quarters  of  the  guard. 

She  went  at  once  to  her  chamber. 
Looking  out  of  the  small  panes  of  the 
window,  she  saw  that  the  tremulous 
glare  still  overspread  the  northern  sky. 
Sheeted  arms  of  phantom  light  were 
tossed  from  the  horizon  toward  the  ze- 
nith. Happening  to  look  toward  the 
belfry  of  the  meeting-house,  she  relates 
that  the  bell  shone  strangely,  as  if  from 
a  light  within  itself.  Taking  her  place 
at  her  husband's  side,  Thankful  re- 
viewed in  her  mind  the  events  of  the 
evening,  until  she  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep.  From  this  she  awoke  at  last, 
much  oppressed.  The  shock  of  the 
strange  occurrence  still  lay  heavy  upon 
her  mind,  and  she  found  herself  a  prey 


1 84 


Father  McrieVs  Bell. 


[February, 


to  superstitious  terror  such  as  she  had 
never  known  before.  She  thought  of 
the  portents  which  were  said  to  have 
appeared  in  different  parts  of  the  Colony 
before  dreadful  events.  Before  the  des- 
olating Philip's  war,  an  Indian  bow  and 
scalp  had  been  seen  imprinted  upon 
the  disk  of  the  moon.  Gloucester  one 
evening  was  beleaguered  by  an  army 
of  ghosts.  At  Maiden,  the  shock  of 
cannon  was  heard,  the  singing  of  bul- 
lets, and  the  beating  of  phantom  drums 
passing  through  the  heavens  to  the 
westward ;  and  the  people  of  Plymouth 
had  been  startled  by  the  hoof-beats  of 
a  great  invisible  troop  of  horse  riding 
through  the  night,  as  if  for  life. 

At  length,  Thankful  thought  she 
heard  the  sound  of  rising  wind.  It  was 
a  long  faint  sound  as  if  a  distant  blast 
were  passing  over  the  crust  of  the 
meadow,  hurrying  before  it  broken 
twigs,  morsels  of  ice,  and  dry  leaves. 
As  it  died  away,  she  rose  and  went  to 
the  window.  From  the  belfry  of  the 
meeting-house,  she  feels  sure  she  saw 
again  a  supernatural  lustre  in  the  bell. 
Meantime  the  sound  of  the  wind  again 
arose,  but  nearer  and  with  a  stronger 
rush.  It  came  from  the  northwest,  from 
the  meadow ;  but  when  Thankful  waited 
to  hear  the  gale,  as  it  swept  against 
the  forest  near  the  town,  there  was  no 
sound,  and  she  could  see  that  the  trees 
remained  motionless.  It  flashed  upon 
her  mind  that  a  troop  of  men  advan- 
cing over  the  crust,  with  new  and  then  a 
pause,  under  an  artful  leader,  might  thus 
counterfeit  the  noise  of  a  storm,  and 
deceive  a  drowsy  guard ;  but  just  then 
the  rush  deepened  into  a  heavy  tumult, 
out  of  which  burst  a  wild  quavering 
howl,  caught  up  by  a  multitude  of 
voices,  and  the  quick  discharge  of  guns. 
Thankful  wakened  her  husband  by  a 
scream.  While  they  hastily  assumed 
their  clothing,  scores  of  indistinct 
shapes  bounded  beneath  the  window, 
into  the  centre  of  the  village,  from  the 
direction  of  the  palisade.  Figures  were 
seen  flitting  from  house  to  house,  bran- 
dishing weapons,  and  from  every  throat 
came  the  terrifying  whoop.  Here  and 
there  began  to  appear  sudden  gleams 


of  fire,  and  presently  upon  the  door 
rattled  the  hatchets  of  a  party  that  was 
seeking  entrance.  For  a  moment  the 
snow  beneath  the  window  was  clear  of 
figures.  Thankful  and  her  husband, 
throwing  up  the  sash,  leaped  to  the 
hard  crust.  Her  husband  sprang  up 
uninjured;  but  Thankful,  as  she  bore 
her  weight  Upon  her  limbs,  found  that 
one  ankle  was  severely  sprained.  She 
moved  a  step  or  two,  but  the  tramp 
and  shouts  of  a  party  close  at  hand 
were  heard.  The  next  instant  figures 
swept  around  the  house,  dimly  revealed 
in  the  wavering  conflagration  that  be- 
gan to  blaze.  Her  husband  fled.  A 
hand  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  the 
swarthy  face  of  a  Canadian  ranger  was 
thrust  into  hers.  Her  captor  dragged 
her  to  the  door  of  the  meeting-house, 
before  which  was  now  drawn  up  a 
body  of  men,  showing  some  approach 
to  discipline.  They  were  French  and 
half-breed  rangers,  as  revealed  by  the 
firelight,  with  rough  coats  of  blanket  girt 
about  the  waist  with  leathern  thongs  ; 
their  legs  incased  in  fringed  leggings 
and  moccasins ;  their  heads  covered 
with  loose  red  woollen  caps,  or  head- 
gear" of  fur.  The  rattle  of  musketry 
was  constant.  The  company  of  cap- 
tives continually  increased,  each  pour- 
ing out  some  story  of  terror.  At  length, 
driven  along  by  a  tall  savage,  whose 
hands  were  marked  with  blood,  the 
minister  was  brought  to  the  meeting- 
house, followed  by  his  feeble  wife  and  a 
part  of  his  children.  ThankfuPs  mind 
since  her  capture  had  been  so  taken 
up  with  the  immediate  horror  and  dan- 
ger, that  all  thought  of  preceding  events 
had  passed  from  her.  Now,  however, 
as  she  looked  forth  upon  the  burning 
village,  with  a  quick,  hasty  stride  there 
appeared  directly  in  front  the  same 
mysterious  figure  she  had  seen  in  the 
meadow.  In  the  bright  light,  the  figure 
appeared  as  a  tall  man  in  the  prime 
of  life,  in  a  straight,  close-fitting  robe 
of  black.  A  small  book  was  suspended 
about  his  neck,  and  from  a  girdle  at 
his  waist  hung  a  chain  of  beads,  with 
a  cross  of  silver  at  the  end.  Close  at 
his  side,  with  a  manner  of  friendly  in- 


87o.] 


Father  Mend's  Bell. 


timacy,  the  wondering  captives  saw 
no  other  than  the  supposed  Huguenot 
stranger.  The  two  men  paused,  and  the 
spy,  for  such  now  all  felt  sure  that  he 
was,  extending  his  hand,  pointed  out 
the  bell  to  his  companion.  The  figure 
in  black  looked  toward  it  with  most 
eager  attention,  even  letting  tears  fall 
from  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he  fell  upon  his 
knees,  uncovering  his  head,  and  cross- 
ing his  hands  upon  his  breast.  The 
crown  of  the  head  was  entirely  shaven, 
and  surrounded  by  a  ring  of  jet-black 
hair.  Thankful  could  not  refrain  from 
noticing  that  the  face  was  exceedingly 
noble.  The  upturned  eyes  were  full  of 
intense  feeling  ;  the  forehead  was  broad, 
above  well-defined  brows  ;  the  nose  was 
prominent  and  finely  curved  ;  the  lips, 
moving  in  prayer,  and  the  firm  chin, 
showed  both  strength  and  gentleness. 
The  entire  face,  though  wasted,  was 
then  full  of  joy,  gratitude,  and  rever- 
ence. Nor  could  Thankful  fail  to  no- 
tice the  demeanor  of  the  spy.  As  he 
looked  at  the  kneeling  man,  his  face 
assumed  an  expression  of  deep  malig- 
nity ;  whereas,  just  before,  the  two  men 
had  approached  one  another  apparently 
in  most  friendly  mood.  Suddenly  the 
spy  appeared  to  bethink  himself,  and 
repeated  the  same  singular  gesture  he 
h:ul  begun  to  make  the  evening  of 
his  first  appearance  in  Meadowboro, 
when  startled  by  the  bell.  He  rapidly 
brought  his  hand  from  his  forehead  to 
his  breast,  then  from  his  left  shoulder 
to  his  right,  at  the  same  time  mutter- 
ing as  was  his  habit ;  and  Thankful 
understood  that  he  crossed  himself. 
As  the  man  in  black  arose  to  his  feet, 
the  spy  turned  to  him  again  with  a  face 
of  friendship.  Thankful  is  sure  that 
the  light  flashing  from  the  bell  was 
something  more  than  a  mere  reflection 
of  the  wavering  blaze  of  the  village. 
It  was  weird  and  exultant;  and  she 
felt  then  convinced  there  must  be  some 
strange  sympathy  between  it  and  the 
figure  in  black.  The  captives  were  not 
left  long  in  doubt  as  to  the  true  charac- 
ter of  this  personage.  Mr.  Woodroffe, 
who  had  hitherto  remained  silent,  broke 
out  into  an  angry  exclamation  :  "In 


truth,  our  fathers  came  here  in  good 
part  to  raise  a  bulwark  against  the 
kingdom  of  Antichrist  which  the  Jes- 
uits labor  to  rear ;  but  lo !  the  feet  of 
the  priests  of  Baal  are  within  the  very 
shrine  of  Israel  !  "  The  Jesuit  mean- 
time had  recovered  his  feet,  and  taking 
his  attention  from  the  bell  as  if  with 
some  effort,  went  to  work  with  active 
humanity  to  stop  the  massacre.  With 
prompt  energy  he  knocked  up  the  gun 
of  a  Frenchman  aimed  at  a  flying  vil- 
lager. In  another  moment,  he  caught 
the  arm  of  a  savage  uplifted  with  a 
tomahawk  above  the  head  of  a  woman. 
Then  seizing  a  wild  creature,  who  was 
about  clashing  out  the  brains  of  a  babe 
upon  a  stone,  he  took  the  infant  in  his 
arms  and  brought  it  toward  the  church. 
The  French  guard  gave  way,  as  he  ap- 
proached, with  much  respect.  Passing 
through  their  line  and  holding  up  the 
child  tenderly,  he  said,  in  broken  Eng- 
lish, "  Where  is  the  mother  of  this  mis- 
erable ? "  She  was  not  there.  The 
Jesuit  placed  the  babe  carefully  in  the 
arms  of  a  woman  near,  while  the  beads 
of  his  rosary  rattled ;  then,  looking 
around  upon  the  group  of  prisoners,  he 
broke  out  again :  "  Poor  captives,  I 
have  for  you  much  of  pity."  In  anoth- 
er moment  he  was  expostulating  with 
animation  at  the  side  of  the  spy  and 
of  another  figure,  whose  dress  and  cha- 
peau  had  some  badges  of  rank. 

Day  had  now  begun  to  break.  The 
prisoners  were  marched  rapidly  down 
from  the  meeting-house  through  the 
northern  gate  of  the  palisade.  The 
outline  of  the  eastern  hills  shone 
calm  as  usual  before"  the  brightening 
sky  behind.  Thankful's  captor,  who, 
she  found,  was  called  Antoine,  sup- 
ported her  not  unkindly  as  she  went 
forward  halting  with  her  painful  sprain. 
Turning  her  eyes  backward,  she  saw 
only  a  volume  of  murky  smoke  roll  up 
into  the  reddening  morning,  where  be- 
fore had  been  the  village.  Presently 
the  spot  was  passed,  where,  the  evening 
previous,  Thankful  had  seen  the  Jesuit 
listening  to  the  bell.  Then,  behind  a 
belt  of  woods,  a  place  was  reached, 
strewn  with  packs  and  snow-shoes, 


i86 


Father  Mend's  Bell. 


[February, 


from  which  it  appeared  the  attacking 
party  had  advanced.  From  a  quick 
firing  now  heard  in  the  direction  of  the 
village,  it  was  plain  that,  as  the  Cana- 
dians retreated,  the  surviving  settlers 
were  rallying  to  impede  their  depar- 
ture. The  guard  placed  over  the  cap- 
tives was  withdrawn  to  re-enforce  the 
combatants,  giving  the  prisoners  who 
were  not  injured  opportunity  to  escape. 
Thankful,  however,  while  attempting 
to  fly,  was  easily  overtaken  by  an  In- 
dian boy  who  had  remained  behind, 
and  forced  with  a  threatening  toma- 
hawk to  remain  quiet.  Looking  through 
the  belt  of  timber,  unable  to  escape, 
she  saw  the  skirmish.  The  French 
seemed  to  have  thrown  away  almost  all 
their  booty,  except,  singularly  enough, 
the  most  cumbrous  part,  the  bell ;  which 
had  been  taken  from  its  place,  swung 
upon  a  stout  sapling,  and  was  now 
carried  forward  by  men,  its  tongue 
muffler;!,  and  the  sun  flashing  back 
from  its  surface.  Thus  impeded,  their 
retreat  was  but  slow.  The  Jesuit  with 
-energy  directed  the  carrying  of  the 
burden;  while  the  spy  could  be  seen 
animating  the  fighters  and  vigorously 
using  weapons  himself.  In  a  sudden 
onset  made  by  the  English,  Thankful 
distinctly  saw  the  life  of  the  priest 
threatened,  near  at  hand,  when  the  spy 
quickly  interposed  his  own  body  before 
the  danger,  receiving  a  wound,  but  yet 
not  being  disabled.  The  English  at 
length  were  driven  back,  and  the  ran- 
gers and  savages,  bearing  many  marks 
of  a  hard  encounter,  came  into  their 
camp.  Almost  the  sole  booty  from  the 
attack  was  the  bell,  yet  with  this  the 
leaders  of  the  party  seemed  satisfied. 
Looking  toward  it,  the  rangers  rever- 
ently crossed  themselves,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  Jesuit  were  full  of  emotion.  The 
priest  bound  up  the  wound  of  the  spy 
with  demonstrations  of  warm  affection. 
In  spite  of  her  anxiety  about  herself, 
Thankful  says  she  felt  the  question 
again  rising  in  her  mind,  "  What  is  the 
secret  of  the  bell  ?''  Then  as  she  saw 
the  apparent  affection  of  the  two  per- 
sonages, as  she  remembered  that  the 
spy  had  just  saved  the  Jesuit  from  great 


peril,  and  then  recalled  that  still  earlier 
scene,  when  the  face  of  the  spy  was 
turned  upon  the  Jesuit,  full  of  hatred, 
this  further  question  came  to  her, 
"  What  is  the  relation  of  these  two 
men  ?  " 

The  retreat  to  Canada  was  long  and 
dangerous.  Thankful,  often  drawn  up- 
on a  sledge,  received  kind  treatment; 
and  gradually,  in  spite  of  the  hardships 
and  constant  activity,  recovered  from 
her  lameness.  Becoming  straitened 
for  food,  the  life  of  the  party  was  found 
to  depend  upon  the  temporary  aban- 
donment of  the  bell,  which  had  much 
impeded  their  progress.  With  great  un- 
willingness on  the  part  of  Father  Me- 
riel,  as  the  Jesuit  was  called,  the  bell 
was  buried  at  length  upon  the  bank  of 
a  stream  flowing  into  the  St.  Lawrence, 
whence  it  might  easily  be  conveyed  by 
batteau  when  the  ice  broke  up.  One 
afternoon  at  last,  the  great  river  of  Can- 
ada, still  sheeted  with  ice,  was  seen 
through  the  trees,  and  close  at  hand 
the  low  white  houses  of  the  village  of 
St.  Laudry,  where  Thankful  was  kindly 
received  into  the  house  of  Antoine,  her 
captor. 

The  season  came  rapidly  forward. 
The  broad  blue  river  was  freed  from 
its  ice.  At  first  the  only  color  in  the 
forest  burned  on  the  flame-shaped  tufts 
at  the  tops  of  the  leafless  sumachs  ; 
but  soon  Thankful  bit  off  in  her  walks 
the  crimson  fruit  and  savory  leaf  of  the 
checkerberry,  and  watched  the  fledging 
of  the  woods.  Just  in  front  of  St.  Lau- 
dry,  the  river  was  calm  and  deep  ;  but 
by  a  forest  path  it  was  no  long  walk, 
following  in  the  direction  of  a  low  sub- 
lime roar  which  grew  upon  the  ear,  to 
come  out  at  last  upon  a  promontory 
from  which  the  stream  could  be  seen 
surging  and  sounding  in  a  frantic  rap- 
id. Annette,  Antoine's  pleasant  wife, 
speaking  in  a  whisper,  told  Thankful  a 
wild  tale  of  a  Recollet  friar,  in  his  gray 
robe  and  cowl,  who  had  been  drowned 
in  the  rapid,  and  whose  ghost  might 
sometimes  be  seen  leaping  and  telling 
the  beads  of  his  rosary,  at  the  pitch 
where  he  had  been  ingulfed. 

The   spy,  it   seemed,  was   no   other 


1870.1 


Father  Mend's  Sett. 


187 


than  a  French  gentleman  of  rank, 
the  Seigneur  of  St.  Laudry,  holding 
a  grant,  from  the  king,  of  a  territory 
fronting  tw®  leagues  upon  the  river. 
Annette  spoke  of  him  as  having 
been  much  absent  from  the  village. 
His  demeanor  among  the  people  was 
somewhat  stately  and  formal.  When 
lie  chanced  to  meet  Thankful,  it  was 
with  a  bare  look  of  recognition.  The 
affability  with  which  he  had  borne 
himself  in  the  English  settlement,  it 
seemed,  had  merely  been  assumed  for 
the  time.  He  retained,  however,  his 
habit  of  muttering  to  himself.  More- 
over, he  continued  to  imitate  the  notes 
of  the  birds,  and  called  them  around 
him,  appearing  to  find  in  this,  so  far  as 
Thankful  could  see,  his  only  recrea- 
tion. Father  Mc'riel  was  priest  of  the 
village,  also  a  man  of  high  birth.  No 
one  knew  the  facts  of  his  early  history, 
except  perhaps  to  the  Sieur  of  St. 
Laudry,  between  whom  and  the  priest 
the  closest  friendship  appeared  to  ex- 
ist. MeYiel  had  been  in  Canada  long 
enough,  it  was  plain,  to  gain  great  influ- 
ence among  both  French  and  savages. 
On  the  bank  of  the  river,  a  little  apart 
from  the  village,  stood  the  chapel,  with 
a  large  cross  before  it,  and  the  lodge  of 

uit  close  at  hand.  As  he  moved 
about  among  the  people,  with  his  noble 
features  sad  through  some  unknown 
sorrow,  but  full  of  charity  and  enthu- 
siasm, or  walked  on  the  river  margin, 
repeating  the  prayers  from  his  breviary 
in  reverent  abstraction,  Thankful  says 
she  could  not  but  feel,  from  the  first, 
that  there  was  something  in  the  priest 
finer  than  she  had  ever  known,  al- 
though the  effect  of  her  nurture  was  to 
make  her  regard  his  office  for  a  long 
time  with  repugnance.  Among  these 
surroundings,  Thankful  soon  began  to 
be  at  ease.  In  reality,  she  felt  more 
happiness  than  she  had  known  for 
some  time.  She  hardly  confessed  it 
to  herself,  —  but  it  was  a  relief  to 
be  absent  from  her  unloved  husband. 
The  genial  manners  of  the  people,  too, 
among  whom  she  had  come,  were  a 

it  change  from  the  austerity  of 
the  Knglish  settlers.  She  took  part 


with  energy  in  Annette's  duties,  and 
began  —  with  a  sense  of  guilt  all  the 
time  —  to  feel  again  something  of  the 
buoyancy  of.  her  maidenhood. 

There  were  at  length  signs,  in  the  vil- 
f  some  approaching  great  event. 
-  What  is  it  ? ;'  said  Thankful,  who  was 
becoming  proficient  in  \\\Q  patois. 

"Ah,  child,"  .said  Annette,  "do  you 
not  know  ?  The  bell  is  to  be  brought  to 
the  village  and  hung  in  the  tree  before 
the  church." 

••  And  what  is  the  secret  of  the  bell  ?  " 
said  Thankful. 

"Dear  child,  do  you  not  know  the 
story  ?  The  bell  is  the  cause  of  your 
captivity.  It  was  cast  for  the  Holy  So- 
ciety of  Jesus,  but  the  heretics  in  some 
way  captured  it.  Our  Sieur  came  home 
with  the  news  that  he  had  found  it  in 
your  village.  Ah  !  how  the  Father  spoke 
at  the  Mass  when  he  told  us !  He  said 
it  was  an  instrument  for  the  service  of 
the  true  faith.  It  had  been  consecrat- 
ed, and  ought  hardly  to  be  rung  except 
by  the  hands  of  priests  ;  now  it  was  in 
the  power  of  heretics.  So  it  was  that 
the  men  were  gathered  from  far  and 
near,  and  went  southward  to  get  the 
bell."  When  Annette  had  finished, 
Thankful  felt  she  might  have  told  all 
she  knew,  but  that  it  was  not  the  whole 
truth.  « 

The  day  came  at  last.  The  batteau 
which  had  been  sent  for  the  buried  bell 
had  returned,  and  a  procession  had 
been  arranged.  The  women  of  the  vil- 
lage were  out  in  their  brightest  attire, 
with  white  caps  and  bodices,  and  striped 
petticoats  trimmed  with  ribbons.  There 
were  voyageurs  and  conreurs  dc  bois, 
with  locks  decorated  with  eagles'  feath- 
ers, beaded  frocks  trimmed  with  tufts  of 
elk  hair,  and  the  tails  of  rattlesnakes  car- 
ried as  amulets  rattling  in  their  bullet 
pouches.  There  were  Indians  in  half- 
European  attire  of  red  and  blue  cloth, 
in  sashes  and  collars  heavily  set  off 
with  beads  and  the  quills  of  the  porcu- 
pine. In  good  time  came  the  proces- 
sion through  the  irregular  street.  From 
Thankful's  description  it  must  have 
had  much  pomp.  The  trumpets,  dnrTij:, 
and  silken  banners  of  a  detachment  of 


i88 


Father  MerieVs  Bell. 


[February, 


French  troops,  temporarily  in  the  vil- 
lage, lent  it  a  martial  interest.  Among 
the  soldiers  marched  the  military  figure 
of  the  Sieur  in  a  bright  .cuirass  and 
plumed  head-piece,  which  he  wore  as 
if  he  were  accustomed  to  them.  In  the 
centre  of  the  procession  came  the  Jes- 
uit, with  a  look  of  joy  upon  his  pale  face 
which  was  habitually  so  sad.  Beneath 
a  canopy  of  velvet  was  borne  the  bell. 
Before  it,  children  with  shining  censers 
wafted  incense  toward  it,  and  a  choir 
of  singers  immediately  following  chant- 
ed a  psalm  in  its  honor. 

"  Lattdate  Dominum  in  cymbalis  sonantibus, 
Laudate  eum  in  cymbalis  jubilationis." 

The  unrusted  surface  of  the  bell  had 
caught  no  spot  from  its  journey  or  its 
burial.  The  cross  glowed  brightly 
forth  ;  so  the  motto  about  the  rim,  O 
Maria,  ttiis  precibus  protege  nos,  and 
the  inscription  on  the  upper  part,  Ad 
majorem  Dei  gloriam  j  its  tongue  had 
been  muffled  since  its  capture.  Its  last 
tones  had  been  those  Thankful  had 
heard  when  it  rang  its  mysterious  sum- 
mons to  Father  Meriel  listening  alone 
upon  the  snow.  The  people  fell  into 
the  rear  of  the  procession,  and  it  soon 
reached  the  church.  A  few  moments 
were  enough  to  swing  the  bell  into 
the  tree-top  already  prepared  to  be 
the  belfry.  * 

Then  began  the  celebration  of  the 
Mass.  The  richness  of  the  appoint- 
ments of  the  chapel  so  far  in  the  wil- 
derness had  already  struck  Thankful 
with  surprise.  "It  is  wealth  which 
the  Father  has  given  to  the  faith," 
said  Annette.  Vestments  and  utensils 
were,  many  of  them,  of  exceeding  beau- 
ty. Candles  made  from  the  wax  of 
the  wild  laurel  burned  on  the  altar  in 
chased  candlesticks.  The  wine  pressed 
from  wild  grapes  was  held  in  chalices 
of  glass  and  silver.  In  the  niche  above 
the  crucifix  was  a  hovering  dove,  sur- 
rounded by  a  halo,  symbolizing  the 
Holy  Ghost,  an  emblem  associated  by 
the  Indians  with  the  thunder-bird  of 
their  own  superstitions.  High  up  on 
the  wall  hung  a  painting  of  Sir  Francis 
Xavier,  his  attenuated  palms  crossed 
upon  his  breast,  his  face  upturned  in 


adoration,  a  face  wan  but  most  beauti- 
ful, with  aspiration  and  self-sacrifice 
written  in  the  eyes  and  features.  Pres- 
ently the  Jesuit  entered,  with  his  aco- 
lytes. As  he  stood  before  the  altar  in 
his  sweeping  chasuble,  his  mien  was 
more  imposing  than  ever.  His  move- 
ments were  full  of  dignity,  whether  he 
turned  toward  the  assembly  with  folded 
hands,  cr  raised  his  arm  to  make  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  In  the  chants  the 
voices  of  the  Indian  women  were  sweet 
and  low ;  deep  and  grand  often  the 
tones  of  the  men  ;  and  the  music  rolled 
with  solemn  effect,  in  the  intervals  of 
the  service,  through  the  little  temple. 

Meantime  the  Indians  on  their  bare 
knees,  the  impressible  women,  and  the 
gaunt  voyagetirs  in  their  fringes  and 
sashes,  reverently  knelt.  The  priest's 
tall  figure  bent  in  the  frequent  genuflec- 
tions. The  incense  rose,  and  Thankful, 
Puritan  though  she  was,  felt  her  soul 
subdued  before  the  sonorous  rhythm 
and  all-conquering  sweetness  of  the 
"  Miserere  "  and  "  Gloria."  At  length, 
as  the  Jesuit,  extending  his  hands  on 
high,  lifted  up  the  Host,  just  then  when 
the  awe  was  deepest,  the  mufflings  fell 
from  the  bell.  Once,  twice,  thrice  it 
sounded.  Thankful  says  it  had  its  old 
melody,  its  old  pathetic  melancholy, 
but  at  the  same  time  there  was  a 
sympathetic  tremor  that  in  some  in- 
describable way  indicated  content  and 
rest.  So  the  congregation  knelt,  and 
the  stately  priest  held  aloft  the  Host, 
and  there  was  no  sound  but  mut- 
tered .  prayers  and  sobs  of  emotion. 
In  this  way  the  villagers  of  St.  Lau- 
dry  heard  for  the  first  time  the  sound 
of  the  lost  bell.  It  went  out  deep  into 
the  dark  forests  among  the  homes  of 
the  village,  and  over  the  sweeping 
stream,  mingling  with  the  low  roar  of 
the  distant  rapids,  until  the  air,  holding 
its  pulsations,  seemed  consecrated.  At 
the  very  moment  when  the  bell  was 
struck,  Thankful  writes,  she  caught 
sight  of  the  figure  of  the  Sieur  in  his 
armor.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  head 
so  that  Thankful  could  see  his  face. 
It  indicated  intense  emotion  ;  and  lo  ! 
it  had  the  expression  which  she  had 


1 8;o.] 


Father  MfrieVs  Bell. 


189 


sec'n  it  wear  once  before.  His  eyes 
•were  fixed  upon  the  Jesuit,  and  to  her 
fancy  were  full  of  hate. 

Month  after  month,  Thankful  watched 
the  movements  of  the  priest.  Her  feel- 
ing was,  to  be  sure,  far  enough  from 
entire  approval  of  his  life.  It  was 
rumored  in  the  village  that  he  wore 
next  his  skin  a  girdle  studded  with 
spikes,  and  she  herself,  returning  from 
the  river-bank  one  night  when  lie  was 
holding  a  vigil,  heard  the  sound  of  a 
scourge  from  his  lodge.  She  remained 
a  Puritan  still ;  yet  she  beheld  admir- 
ingly the  amiable  grace  with  which  he 
mingled  in  the  life  of  the  village,  —  the 
meek  patience  with  which  he  stooped 
to  the  youngest  and  poorest,  and  to 
the  repulsive  savages  from  the  woods. 
Thankful  says  much  of  the  singular 
sympathy  which  seemed  to  hfir  to  exist 
between  the  Jesuit  and  the  bell,  and 
gives  a  number  of  incidents  which  in- 
dicate that  he  regarded  it  with  far  more 
veneration  than  any  of  the  other  fur- 
nishings of  the  altar  and  chapel. 

Thankful  was  received  everywhere  in 
the  village  with  confidence  and  friend- 
ship. At  the  service  the  face  of  the 
saint  above  the  altar  lifted  her  in  as- 
piration. So  the  chants.  And  more 
than  once,  when  the  words  and  music 
had  become  familiar  to  her,  the  people 
in  the  church  heard  the  voice  of  the 
captive  lending  volume  to  the  song. 
It  was  at  such  a  time  once,  when 
touched  with  the  music,  with  her  face 
bent  upon  Father  Meriel  at  the  Mass 
with  more  interest  than  she  knew,  as 
she  afterward  believed,  that,  suddenly 
happening  to  catch  sight  of  the  Sieur, 
she  found  him  attentively  regarding 
her.  Their  communication  since  her 
capture  had  been  very  slight ;  but  she 
relates  that  from  this  time  his  manner 
changed.  He  grew  attentive,  and  fre- 
quently engaged  her  in  talk.  About 
this  time  also,  Annette  broke  out  one 
evening,  while  the  villagers  were  dan- 
cing under  the  trees  to  the  flute  and 
violin,  "The  Sieur  is  pointing  Father 
Meriel  toward  our  house  !  "  After  this, 
it  was  noticed  that  the  priest's  visits 
to  Antoine's  cottage  became  more  fre- 


quent, during  which  he  never  failed  to 
show  his  desire  that  Thankful  should 
embrace  the  faith. 

I  declare  I  know  not  how  to  render 
the  suffering  expressed  henceforth  in 
poor  Thankful's  homely  words.  I 
would  give  the  story  in  her  own  lan- 
guage, were  it  not  that  I  must  be  brief; 
yet  I  fear  that,  transferred  into  a  dif- 
ferent form,  the  account  must  lose 
much  of  its  simple  pathos.  One  less 
dutiful  would  have  felt  in  the  circum- 
stances less  pain.  Thankful  underwent 
the  pangs  of  a  veritable  martyr.  An 
entangling  net  began  now  to  spread 
itself  before  her  feet ;  —  if  indeed  we 
refuse  to  believe,  as  she  believed  her- 
self, that  she  began  to  feel  the  influ- 
ence of  a  supernatural  spell.  She  con- 
fesses that  the  devotion  of  Mdriel,  and 
the  grace,  too,  of  his  features  and  fig- 
ure, charmed  her.  The  mystery  that 
hung  over  his  past  history  excited  her 
imagination.  Thankful  remembered 
afterwards,  though  she  hardly  perceived 
it  at  the  time,  that  the  Sieur  seemed 
to  take  pleasure  jp  partially  drawing 
the  veil,  hinting  at  courtly  splendors 
and  heroic  deeds,  which  increased  the 
fascination  that  the  Jesuit  exercised 
upon  her.  She  gives  scene  after  scene 
from  her  picturesque  life,  in  which  the 
white  cottages,  the  sounding  river,  the 
forests,  the  two  more  conspicuous 
figures,  and  the  bell  appear  and  reap- 
pear. Through  it  all  one  can  trace  a 
gradual  concentration  of  the  fervor  of 
her  spirit  upon  the*  enthusiastic  self- 
exiled  noble;  a  mysterious  process 
within  her,  which  she  protests  was  irre- 
sistible, and  believes  was  due  to  dia- 
bolic influence.  So  far  as  she  was 
conscious  of  it,  she  strove  against  it, 
but  utterly  in  vain.  Yet  her  sense  of 
guilt  continually  deepened. 

Thankful  now  often  talked  with  the 
Sieur.  She  had  cautiously  questioned 
him  as  to  the  history  of  the  bell ;  but 
always,  upon  the  mention  of  it,  he  had 
become  reserved,  and  changed  the 
topic.  On  one  occasion,  however,  of 
his  own  accord  he  began  to  unfold, 
more  freely  than  ever  before,  the  past 
career  of  Father  Mdriel  to  his  intent 


190 


Father  MtricVs  P>cll. 


[Februaryr 


r,  -He  is,  indeed,  a  noble  of 
France,"  said  the  Sieur,  "of  a  wealthy 
and  ancient  stock  of  Provence,  famous 
in  war  for  many  centuries.  Meriel  him- 
self had  scarcely  passed  his  boyhood 
when  he  became  a  soldier.  You  see 
him  now  in  his  cassock.  I  have  seen 
him  heroic,  in  a  cuirass,  with  sword  in 
hand."  The  Sieur  said  in  those  days 
he  was  Mend's  friend  and  companion, 
as  he  continued  to  be.  He  described 
with  animation  Meriel's  youthful  prow- 
ess in  a  certain  victory  of  the  French 
arms  over  William  of  Orange.  His 
prospects  for  advancement  to  high  posi- 
tion were  the  brightest,  when  suddenly 
his  ambition  underwent  a  change.  Re- 
signing the  world,  he  gave  himself  to 
religious  enthusiasm.  "  You  wonder 
about  the  bell.  I  will  tell  you  why  it 
is  so  dear  to  the  priest.  When  he  took 
upon  himself  the  vows,  he  gave  his 
wealth  to  the  faith.  The  bell  was  cast 
in  the  religious  house  of  his  first  retire- 
ment, with  sacred  ceremonies.  Meriel 
threw  into  the  molten  metal  a  profusion 
of  golden  ornamen1j0.  If  your  thrifty 
friends  at  Meadowboro,"  and  a  smile 
of  sarcasm  appeared  on  the  Sieur's 
dark  features,  "  had  known  the  compo- 
sition of  the  metal,  it  would  not  have 
hung  so  long  in  the  belfry.  When 
MeViel  turned  toward  Canada,  in  my 
frienclship  I  accompanied  him,  having 
obtained  from  the  king  the  grant  of 
St.  Laudry.  Setting  sail  from  Brest, 
we  were  captured  on  the  high  seas  and 
carried  to  England.  The  bell,  which 
Meriel  was  conveying  with  him  to  his 
mission,  was  taken  and  sold.  At  last 
we  escaped  and  made  our  way  to  Can- 
ada. I  had  heard  in  England  a  rumor 
that  the  bell  had  gone  to  the  Puritan 
Colony.  A  good  Catholic  could  not 
endure  the  sacrilege.  My  connection 
with  Meriel  made  the  bell's  recovery 
seem  important  to  me.  I  easily  de- 
ceived your  people,  and  went  in  dis- 
guise from  village  to  village.  You 
remember  the  evening  when  we  first 
met."  Thankful  sat  absorbed  at  the 
Sieur's  side.  "  Tell  me,"  said  she,  at 
length,  "what  led  the  soldier  to  change 
so  suddenly  and  become  a  priest  ? '' 


He  rose  quickly  at  the  question.  "  You 
have  learned  enough,"  he  said,  resum- 
ing suddenly  his  customary  haughti- 
ness, and  then  turned  away.  His  lips 
moved  rapidly,  but  Thankful  could 
catch  no  intelligible  sound. 

<;  Is  it  love  or  hate  that  the  Sieur 
has  for  the  priest  ?  "  said  Thankful  to 
Annette  ;  but  Annette  arched  her  eye- 
brows in  amazement  at  the  question. 
"  They  are  the  closest  friends,"  said 
she  ;  and  when  Thankful  told  of  the 
dark  expression  she  had  once  or  twice 
seen  in  the  Sieurs  face  when  bent  on 
Mdriel,  Annette  only  laughed  at  the 
suggestion.  "  Ask  him,"  said  she,  mer- 
rily. "Who  can  get  at  the  secret,  if 
there  is  one,  so  well  as  you  ?  "  They 
had  begun  to  rally  Thankful  upon  the 
notice  she  received. 

One  daf  in  early  spring,  word  came 
from  a  camp  of  Indians  on  the  north- 
ern bank  of  the  river,  that  a  hunter, 
gored  by  a  wounded  elk,  was  near  to 
death,  and  wanted  the  priest.  Father 
Meriel,  with  oil  for  the  extreme  unc- 
tion, at  once  set  out  over  the  ice, 
which  was  fast  becoming  infirm  in  the 
warmer  air.  During  the  day  the  loud 
rush  was  heard  which  indicated  the 
breaking  up  ;  and  the  waters  flowed 
downward  covered  with  white  masses, 
now  submerged,  and  now  lifting  their 
edges  from  the  whirling  depths.  The 
sun  set  clear,  and  a  northwest  wind 
began  to  blow  with  much  of  wintry  bit- 
terness. As  the  moon  rose,  the  foot- 
steps of  passers  began  to  sound  crisp 
in  the  ice  that  was  forming.  Upon  the 
river,  through  the  evening,  the  rush  of 
the  floating  fields  could  be  heard  by 
the  villagers  as  they  sat  about  their 
hearths.  When  bedtime  came,  Thank- 
ful unbarred  the  cottage  -  door  and 
stepped  out  into  the  air,  impressed 
with  the  tumult  of  the  liberated  river,, 
as,  like  Samson  at  Gaza,  it  took  upon  its 
shoulders  the  gates  that  had  confined 
it,  and  bore  them  away.  She  heard 
from  the  river  a  long-drawn  distant  cry, 
then  another,  and  another.  At  her 
hurried  exclamation  Antoine  came  to 
her,  and  the  village  was  soon  aroused. 
As  the  people  stood  on  the  bank,  the 


Father  Mend's  Bell. 


lighted  up  the  rushing  ice-fields 
and  the  black  chasms  of  water  between. 
At  intervals  came  the  cries  bprne  upon 
the  wind  from  more  voices  than  one, 
some  despairing,  but  one  linn  and  res- 
olute. It  was  recognized  by  all  as  the 
voice  of  Meriel.  Some  threw  them- 
selves upon  the  frozen  ground,  calling 
upon  the  Virgin  and  uttering  vows. 
The  cold  wind  from  time  to  time  smote 
the  forests,  and  their  roar  drowned 
other  sounds.  It  was  only  in  the 
pauses  that  the  cries  could  be  heard, 
plainly  moving  farther  and  farther 
down  the  current.  Experienced  boat- 
men believed  Meriel  had  put  out  with 
others  in  a  canoe,  which  had 
crushed  in  the  ice,  and  that  they  had 
succeeded  in  crawling  upon  a  floating 
cake.  "  Half  an  hour  at  this  rate  will 
carry  them  to  the  rapids/'  said  one. 

Answering  cries  were  sent  from  the 
bank,  which,  however,  the  wind  seemed 
to  throw  back.  "  The  bell !  "  cried 
one,  and  presently  it  sounded  from 
the  tree,  to  tell  the  priest  that  his  cries 
were  heard.  Thankful  reports  that  still 
another  change  was  now  to  be  noted. 
It  had  lost  its  ordinary  plaintiveness, 
and  seemed  to  pour  its  sound  against 
the  wind  in  quavering  tones  of  broken 
agony.  It  groaned  and  suffered,  wailed 
and  wept,  as  if  in  utter  despair.  For  a 
minute  it  ceased  ringing,  when  instant- 
ly an  answer  came  from  the  stream  in 
a  linn,  sustained  shout  Again  the 
bell  rang,  again  came  the  voice  in  re- 
ply ;  and  so  the  Jesuit  and  the  bell  an- 
swered one  another  across  the  chasms 
and  the  whirl  of  the  tossing  ice. 

A  woman  of  the  village  now  called 
attention  to  the  Sieur,  who  was  just 
approaching  the  company.  Thankful 
says  he  had  stopped  a  moment  upon 
the  summit  of  a  slight  ridge  at  a  little 
distance,  and  appeared  to  have  just 
become  aware  of  what  was  happening. 
She  well  knew  that  the  demonstrative 
people  among  whom  she  was  thrown 
expressed  their  emotions  in  more  forci- 
ble ways  than  her  own  race,  and  at  the 
time  the  movements  and  gestures  of 
the  Sieur  did  not  surprise  her ;  but, 
recalling  the  scene  in  the  light  of  events 


which  followed,  she  cannot  avoid  the 
belief  that  he  was  leaping  up  in  a  witch- 
dance  and  invoking  some  power  of  the 
air,  as  ho  suddenly  stretched  forth  and 
shook  his  hands.  The  moon  was  bright 
enough  for  her  to  see  that  his  features 
worked  strangely  as  he  muttered,  and 
one  or  two  indistinct  exclamations  from 
his  rapidly  moving  lips,  the  sound  of 
which  reached  her,  she  holds  to  have 
been  parts  of  incantations.  The  canoes 
of  the  village  had  been  laid  away  for 
the  winter.  At  the  command  of  the 
Sieur,  one  of  them  was  speedily  brought 
out,  in  which  he  with  two  other  men  at 
once  embarked,  defiant  of  the  peril. 
The  canoe  could  be  seen  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, as  it  pushed  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  cries.  Sometimes  it  dashed  into 
the  channels  between  the  cakes,  some- 
times the  men  could  be  seen  to  leap 
out  upon  the  more  solid  masses  and 
drag  their  canoe  with  them.  The  vil- 
lagers followed  together  confusedly 
down  the  bank,  with  sobs  and  prayers. 
Now  and  then  came  the  shouts  of  the 
rescue-party,  then  the  fainter  cry  of  the 
perishing  priest,  then  the  broken  wail 
of  the  bell.  The  rapids  at  last  came 
into  the  view  of  the  villagers.  Thank- 
ful could  plainly  see  the  tossing  of  the 
white  breaker  which  marked  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fall.  She  felt  cer- 
tain too  she  saw  the  spectre  of  the 
drowned  Franciscan  flung  upward  in 
his  gray  robe  by  the  tumultuous  waters. 
The  canoe  was  seen  in  the  distance,  re- 
turning. The  rescue-party  at  least  were 
safe.  The  approach  of  the  little  bark 
was  breathlessly  watched.  Three  fig- 
ures could  be  seen  bracing  themselves 
against  peril  on  every  side.  If  there 
were  others,  they  lay  helpless  in  the 
bottom.  At  length  the  wall  of  ice  bor- 
dering the  bank  was  reached.  Two  In- 
dians, in  a  state  of  insensibility,  were 
lifted  up,  then  the  stiffened  form  of  the 
Jesuit  himself.  For  a  moment  he  was 
laid  on  a  blanket~stretched  upon  the  ice. 
Against  his  torn  cassock,  stiff  as  iron, 
his  rosary  was  frozen.  His  hat  was 
gone,  his  hair  thick  with  ice,  his  quiet 
face  turned  up  before  the  moon  with 
the  pallor  of  death.  The  villagers  knelt 


192 


Father  MerieVs  Bell. 


[February, 


beside  him.  From  up  the  stream  came 
the  voice  of  the  bell,  anxious  almost 
like  the  voice  of  a  mother.  Thankful 
knelt  with  the  rest,  and  saw  Meriel 
give  at  last  a  sign  of  life.  As  she 
raised  her  eyes  they  fell  upon  the  face 
of  the  Sieur ;  when  lo  !  she  beheld 
again  a  black  scowl  of  hatred  upon  his 
features,  as  he  regarded  the  man  he 
had  just  brought  back  to  life.  In  a 
moment  it  was  gone,  as  the  people  rose 
about  him. 

Thankful  confesses  that,  although  her 
mind  had  been  unaccountably  turned 
upon  the  priest  and  she  had  struggled 
against  it,  she  had  never  admitted  to 
herself  that  her  feeling  was  inconsist- 
ent with  her  wifely  duty,  until  the 
evening  of  Muriel's  escape.  -Con- 
science -  smitten,  she  declares  patheti- 
cally that  she  must  have  been  under  the 
influence  of  some  supernatural  spell. 
Her  account  is  tragical,  of  her  internal 
conflicts  with  herself,  which  were  of  no 
avail.  Her  danger  became  plain  to 
her,  and  she  took  a  desperate  resolve. 

A  hundred  miles  of  wilderness  lay  be- 
tween St.  Laudry  and  the  nearest  New 
England  settlement.  From  time  to  time 
during  her  captivity,  there  had  been 
rumors  of  parties  from  New  England 
scouting  toward  Canada,  and  coming 
quite  near  to  some  of  the  villages  on 
the  St.  Lawrence.  It  so  happened  that 
within  a  short  time  word  had  been 
brought  that  a  village  had  been  closely 
approached  by  such  a  party,  who  were 
believed  to  be  still  near  at  hand.  The 
chance  that  this  party  might  be  met  in 
the  woods  was  slight,  but  not  quite  im- 
possible. In  returning,  Thankful  knew, 
they  would  be  likely  to  follow  the  course 
of  a  certain  stream,  which  she  resolved 
to  try  to  reach.  Filling  a  bag  with 
food,  she  prepared  for  flight.  Listen- 
ing for  a  moment,  one  night,  by  the 
beds  of  the  simple-hearted  family  into 
whose  love  she  had  been  adopted,  she 
shed  a  few  bitter  tears,  then  took  her 
departure.  But  after  two  days'  wander- 
ing she  fell  fainting  in  the  snow  with 
which  earth  and  air  were  still  clogged. 
Recovering  herself  slowly  from  this 
swoon,  as  if  from  some  deep  abyss, 


she  felt  hands  lifting  her  upwards,  and 
stimulants  poured  between  her  lips. 
Raising  her  heavy  lids,  close  at  her 
face  she  beheld  the  face  of  the  Sieur, 
his  beard  and  eyebrows  grizzled  with 
snow.  He  caught  her  pulse,  he  felt 
at  her  heart,  he  chafed  her  hands.  An 
expression  of  delight  passed  over  his 
countenance  as  she  came  back  to  life. 
As  soon  as  she  was  missed,  he  had 
headed  a  party,  following  through  the 
storm  her  fast  disappearing  trail.  They 
made  a  sledge  from  the  boughs  of  trees, 
and  Thankful  was  carried  back. 

Annette  received  her  on  her  return 
without  reproach.  "  Husband  and  coun- 
try so  far  away,"  she  said,  "  —  who 
could  wonder  that  captivity  was  hard  ? 
But  peace  was  at  hand,  and  Thank- 
ful should  return."  Thankful,  in  her 
weakness  and  hopeless  wretchedness, 
laid  her  head  upon  the  bosom  of  her 
friend,  whose  sympathy  was  very  pre- 
cious, though  she  so  utterly  misunder- 
stood the  case.  Annette  soothed  her 
as  she  soothed  her  children.  It  was 
the  Sieur,  Thankful  found,  who  had 
stirred  the  village  up  to  pursuit.  His 
manner  was  described  as  being  most 
earnest.  "  Come,"  said  Antoine,  for 
upon  the  roving  Frenchman  the  mar- 
riage-vows sat  too  lightly,  "  forget  your 
English  husband,  and  become  one  of 
us.  We  have  seen  that  the  Sieur  fol- 
lows you.  He  has  rank  and  riches. 
You  will  be  the  lady  of  the  village. 
There  is  not  a  girl  in  the  province  that 
would  not  envy  you."  "  Why  does  he 
seek  me  ?  "  said  Thankful,  in  her  own 
mind.  Though  attentive,  he  had  never 
by  hint  or  look  betrayed  a  sign  of  love. 
It  was  one  of  the  mysteries  she  could 
not  then  solve. 

"  There  stand  the  Sieur  and  the  Fa- 
ther," said  Annette,  one  day,  from  the 
window.  "  The  Sieur  points  this  way. 
Ah  !  Father  Meriel  is  coming."  Pres- 
ently, the  little  doorway  grew  dark  with 
the  Jesuit's  sweeping  robe.  He  sat 
down  by  the  couch  where  Thankful 
had  lain  since  they  had  brought  her 
back  after  her  attempt  to  escape,  bend- 
ing upon  her  his  saddened  face.  It 
was  mere  cruelty,  he  said,  that  she 


1870.] 


Father  McrieVs  Bell. 


193 


.  have  been  brought  away  from 
her  Lome.  It  was  done  against  his 
will.  She  should  soon  be  restored,  for 
peace  had  come.  He  had  thought  that 
Thankful  was  being  drawn  toward  the 
true  faith,  and  had  said  many  a  prayer, 
and  kept  many  a  vigil,  in  her  behalf. 
But  she  had  simply,  it  seemed,  been 
disarming  suspicion.  He  could  not 
judge  her  harshly,  but  he  besought  her 
with  a  full  heart  to  take  steps  that  her 
soul  might  be  saved.  Thankful 
lent,  not  daring  to  raise  her  eyes  to  his 
face.  Meriel  departed,  leaving  her  bur- 
dened with  wretchedness  and  sense  of 
guilt. 

When  Thankful  had  regained  her 
strength,  she  received  word  one  day 
from  the  French  governor  to  be  pre- 
pared 10  depart  soon  for  Quebec,  whence 
the  English  capli\es  were  to  be  sent 
home.  When  next  she  encountered  the 
Sieur,  his  manner  had  lost  its  usual 
calmness,  and  his  dark  face  was  growing 
haggard,  apparently  through  some  inter- 
nal passion  that  preyed  upon  him.  Pa- 
cing the  border  of  the  stream  near 
which  they  were  standing,  he  broke  out 
with  sudden  impatience  :  "  I  know  your 
thoughts.  You  shall  hear  the  secret  of 
the  bell.  I  have  told  you  of  Mend's 
noble  lineage,  of  his  brilliant  fame  as  a 
soldier,  of  his  choosing  at  last  the  life 
of  a  priest.  You  asked  me  the  cause  of 
the  change.  Listen  !  Among  the  nov- 
ices in  the  great  convent  of  Montmar- 
tre  was  a  youthful  lady,  high  -  born, 
beautiful,  of  qualities  most  saintly.  To 
her,  .Meriel,  a  gentleman  of  fame  and 
personal  grace,  paid  his  court.  She 
yielded  to  her  friends,  her  own  heart 
indeed  making  it  not  difficult,'  though 
she  felt  that  she  ought  rather  to  be- 
come a  spouse  of  Christ.  She  was 
beloved  not  alone  by  Mdriel.  The 
marriage-eve  came,  full  of  hope  and 
splendor,  honored  even  by  the  pres- 
ence of  the  great  Louis.  When  the 
guests  had  gone,  Meriel  and  his  wife 
sought  the  solitude  and  coolness  of 
the  gardens  of  the  chateau.  Suddenly 
from  a  thicket  close  to  their  arbor  a 
musket  was  discharged,  the  ball  nar- 
.rowly  missing  the  bridegroom.  He 

VOL.  xxv.  —  xo-  148.  13 


started  to  his  feet,  drawing  his  sword, 
and  rushed  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  shot  had  come.  He  sought  in  vain. 
Hurrying  back  at  last  to  the  spot  where 
he  had  left  his  wife,  he  heard  a  rustling 
of  branches  near  the  path,  as  of  a  person 
seeking  concealment.  Without  waiting 
to  challenge,  he  thrust  his  rapier  quick- 
ly into  the  thicket  which  concealed  the 
figure."  The  Sieur  turned  away  his 
face,  and  his  voice  sank.  "Alas!  it 
was  his  wife  whom  he  had  slain,  who, 
in  the  darkness,  not  recognizing  him, 
and  mistaking  him  for  the  assassin,  had 
sought  to  hide  herself.  Within  an  hour 
she  had  died  in  his  arms,  protesting  that 
Heaven  had  punished  her  for  her  faith- 
lessness, and  pledging  her  husband 
to  embrace  the  life  she  had  forsaken. 
'  Before  the  high  altar  of  Montmartre,' 
she  said,  'the  nuns,  relieving  one  an- 
other, have  a  sister  lying  prostrate  day 
and  night,  praying  for  the  conversion 
of  Canada.'  She  indicated  to  her  hus- 
band that  he  should  help  in  this  work, 
solemnly  promising  with  her  last  breath 
to  be  near  him  should  it  be  permitted. 
You  demand  to  know  the  secret  of  the 
bell; — listen!  The  gold  thrown  into 
the  molten  metal  by  Meriel  was  hers  ; 
—  a  heavy  crucifix  and  chalices ;  these, 
with  her  ornaments  as  a  bride  steeped 
in  her  life-blood.  In  some  way,  Meriel 
believes  the  spirit  of  his  virgin  wife  is 
bound  in  with  the  bell,  and  utters  it- 
self in  its  tones.  Ah,  woman  !  do  you 
wonder  that  he  clings  to  it  ? "  The 
Sieur  ceased,  but  his  features  worked 
with  his  inner  agitation. 

"  But  who  sought  to  kill  him  in  the 
garden  ?  "  said  Thankful,  after  a  breath- 
less pause. 

"It  was  never  known,"  said  the 
Sieur,  in  a  low  whisper,  "  perhaps  some 
mad  Huguenot." 

The  Sieur  paced  up  and  down  a 
few  moments  in  silence.  Then  he  ex- 
claimed, passionately,  with  a  wild  ges- 
ture, and  as  if  unconscious  of  Thank- 
ful's  presence,  "  Of  what  use  to  tell  her 
this  ?  It  cannot  help  !  Why  break  the 
seal  ?  Yet  I  must  gain  it !  "  He  abrupt- 
ly left  her  side,  rapidly  muttering. 

The  bell  was  ringing  for  Prime,  on 


194 


Fattier  McricVs  Bell. 


[February, 


the  day  of  the  Visitation  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  A  boat  from  Quebec  touched 
the  shore,  bearing  a  personage  of  con- 
sequence in  the  province,  the  Superior 
of  the  Jesuit  missions  in  New  France, 
an  old  man  with  face  marked  with  fire, 
and  hands  mutilated,  through  tortures 
by  the  Iroquois,  undergone  years  be- 
fore. The  boat  also  brought  word  that 
an  English  ship  had  been  sent  for  the 
captives;  and  that  Thankful  must  set 
forth  within  the  week.  Through  the 
day  she  quietly  and  sadly  prepared  for 
her  departure.  Night  came  close  and 
hot.  She  stepped  forth  for  air,  when 
the  Sieur  presented  himself,  as  if  he 
had 'been  waiting  for  her,  and  in  a 
strange,  peremptory  manner  bade  her 
go  at  midnight  to  the  lodge  of  Mdriel. 
It  was  a  startling  command.  It  was 
well  known  in  the  village  that  from 
dark  until  daylight  the  home  of  the 
priest  was  not  to  be  approached  except 
in  cases  of  life  and  death.  Thankful 
says  her  mind  was  oppressed  with 
a  presentiment  of  calamity.  Her  will 
was  overpowered  by  some  unearthly 
force  which  she  could  not  choose  but 
obey.  She  is  disposed  to  believe  that 
some  demon  controlled  her  feet.  Like 
a  person  lifted  by  invisible  arms,  she 
says,  she  was  forced  forth  at  the  hour 
appointed.  It  was  intensely  dark,  and 
the  oppressive  air  of  the  night  had  be- 
come even  more  heavy.  A  taper  burned 
from  Muriel's  window  as  she  knocked 
at  the  door,  which  was  presently  opened. 
"  Father,  I  have  obeyed  the  command," 
said  Thankful  from  the  threshold.  Me- 
riel,  however,  showed  great  surprise 
in  his  voice  and  look,  as  he  said  he 
had  not  sent  for  her.  "  At  least,"  said 
Thankful,  "  let  me  make  confession,  as 
I  go  hence  forever."  MeYiel  hesitated. 
"  The  time  is  most  unusual,"  said  he, 
"yet,  daughter,  I  would  fain  save  your 
soul.  May  the  Blessed  Virgin  give  me 
strength  for  it,  even  at  this  hour ! " 
Thankful  entered  the  Jesuit's  oratory. 
A  light  stood  upon  the  altar,  and  before 
it  lay  an  open  breviary.  A  knotted 
scourge  lay  upon  the  ground,  which 
was  deeply  indented  where  the  Jesuit 
had  knelt  in  his  devotions.  Thankful, 


thro  wing  herself  upon  her  knees,  had 
begun  the  story  of  her  life.  The  air 
grew  even  more  stifling,  so  that  the 
taper  seemed  prevented  from  giving 
forth  its  proper  light.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  attentive  face.  She  did  not 
mean  they  should  betray  her,  but  be- 
lieves they  may  have  done  so  in  spite 
of  her.  But  now  there  passed  beneath 
their  feet  a  convulsive  tremor.  Then 
the  earth  was  wrenched,  and  the  cruci- 
fix upon  the  altar  fell  forward.  Through 
the  air  the  bell,  close  at  hand,  sent  forth 
one  solitary  toll.  It  was  as  if  the  dead 
wife  were  uttering  a  warning,  for  the 
sound  fell  with  awful  solemnity  and. 
boding.  "  Marie  !  Marie  ! "  cried  Me- 
riel,  in  a  tone  of  horror.  Thankful  un- 
derstood that  he  called  upon  the  name 
of  his  wife.  He  threw  up  his  hands, 
averted  his  countenance,  and  retreated 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 
Footsteps  were  now  heard.  The  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  Sieur  strode 
hastily  into  the  little  room,  followed  by 
the  Jesuit  Superior.  The  Sieur  turned 
his  face,  marked  with  unmistakable 
hatred,  now  no  longer  furtive,  upon 
Muriel.  Pointing  toward  him,  and  ad- 
dressing the  Superior,  he  said,  "  I  de- 
nounce this  priest  as  false  to  his  vows." 
But  the  Superior,  after  a  moment  of 
deliberation,  signed  with  his  mutilated 
hand  that  attention  should  be  given. 
The  Sieur  stood  with  a  frown  upon  his 
face.  Meriel.  full  of  astonishment,  bent 
his  head  submissively  toward  his  chief. 
Thankful  writes  that  she  had  sunk  upon 
the  ground.  After  a  considerable  in- 
terval. "  Surely  the  Devil  is  abroad 
to-night,"  said  the  Superior.  "  All  the 
more  may  the  holy  Mother  of  God 
inspire  us  with  justice  !  The  Sieur 
of  St.  Laudry  has  brought  me  from 
Quebec  by  a  charge  of  faithlessness 
against  Mdriel,  hitherto  a  well-beloved 
Father  of  our  order.  The  Sieur's  posi- 
tion in  the  province  gives  weight  to  the 
charge,  but  it  is  unsustained.  There  is 
no  report  in  the  village  but  of  the  vir- 
tues of  the  priest.  To-night  the  Sieur 
has  offered  me  positive  proof.  We  fol- 
lowed this  woman  to  the  door,  but  we 
saw  and  heard  the  priest's  surprise 


iS/o.j 


-  MAriel's  Jlcll. 


195 


when  he  beheld  her.  Through  the 
window  we  witnessed  the  scene  in  the 
oratory.  It  was  innocent.  I  believe 
the  Father  has  simply  sought  to  lead 
this  unhappy  heretic  —  whose  motive 
I  know  not  —  to  the  truth."  Before 
the  Superior  had  finished,  the  Sieur 
had  gone.  The  Superior  also  warned 
Thankful  from  the  habitation  with  a  se- 
vere look  and  gesture.  As  she  passed 
out,  she  heard  him  say:  "Earth,  air, 
and  the  hearts  of  men  swarm  to-night 
with  the  emissaries  of  hell.  Let  us 
thwart  them."  Immediately  the  tolling 
of  the  bell  was  heard  through  the  agita- 
tion of  the  elements,  —  deep,  resolute, 
triumphant. 

As  Thankful  came  out  into  the  village 
street,  she  found  the  entire  population 
frightened  from  their  houses.  Although 
everything  was  now  as  usual,  through 
the  greater  part  of  the  night  the  people 
talked  of  the  earthquake.  The  most 
extraordinary  supernatural  phenomena 
were  reported  to  have  been  observed. 
One  had  seen  two  blazing  serpents 
entwined  in  the  air,  and  borne  forward 
by  the  wind;  to  another  there  had  ap- 
peared a  globe  of  fire  sending  out 
sparks  on  every,  side  ;  while  others  had 
seen  four  terrible  spectres,  that  stood 
rent  quarters  of  the  heavens, 
and  shook  the  earth  mightily,  as  if  to 
overturn  it. 

Like  all  the  details  of  this  recital, 
the  events  of  this  singular  night  have 
been  given  as  Thankful  describes  them. 
By  reference  to  old  documents,  I  have 
found  that,  in  the  early  period  of  Cana- 
da, earthquakes  and  extraordinary  at- 
mospheric phenomena  were  frequent, 
and  sometimes  quite  appalling.  Thank- 
ful's  story  gives  no  dates,  but  in  the 
old  Relations  tics  Je  suites  is  preserved 
a  report  which,  I  conjecture,  may  refer 
to  this  very  occasion,  detailing  a  com- 
motion which  caused  much  terror,  and 
is  referred  by  the  pious  author  to  dia- 
bolic agency. 

During  the  following  day,  a  fisher- 
man, whose  hut  was  some  distance 
from  the  village  down  the  river,  came 
in  with  the  startling  news  that  the 
corpse  of  the  Sieur,  much  disfigured, 


had  been  found  washed  up  on  a  rocky 
island  at  the  foot  of  the  rapids.  The 
news  excited  great  confusion.  There 
was  nothing  whatever  to  explain  the 
death,  though  the  people  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  event  was  con- 
nected in  a  mysterious  way  with  the 
supernatural  occurrences  of  the  pre- 
ceding night.  Thankful,  upon  whose 
distracted  spirit  the  intelligence  threw 
a  still  -gloomier  shade,  while  she  did 
not  by  any  means  reject  a  supernatural 
explanation  of  the  marvels,  yet  in  her 
knowledge  of  what  had  happened  dur- 
ing the  night  had  an  insight  which 
the  village  had  not.  Revolving  in  her 
mind  what  she  had  heard  and  observed 
since  her  fate  had  connected  her  with 
the  Sieur  and  Meriel,  she  suggests  the 
following  explanation  of  the  former's 
true  character,  purposes,  and  fate,  — 
that  at  some  time  he  had  sold  his  soul 
to  the  Devil.  "  What  could  his  indis- 
tinct mutterings  have  been,"  she  asks, 
"but  converse  with  invisible  demons? 
Were  not  the  birds  which  came  flutter- 
ing to  his  call  familiar  spirits  in  that 
disguise  ?  Just  so  the  witch,  Martha. 
Corey,  hanged  at  Salem,  was  seen  by 
the  afflicted  to  hold  converse  with  dev- 
ils in  the  guise  of  birds."  That  he  was 
an  early  companion  of  Meriel,  the 
Sieur  had  himself  confessed.  That  his 
heart  also  had  been  won  by  the  saint- 
ly novice  of  Montmartre,  Thankful  be- 
lieves was  betrayed  in  a  slight  tremor 
of  the  voice  with  which  she  remembers 
he  declared  that  Marie  was  beloved  by 
others  than  Meriel.  She  believes  his 
friendship  for  Meriel  became  hatred 
when  the  latter  won  Marie  for  himself. 
She  can  only  conjecture,  but  considers 
it  not  improbable,  that  it  was  the  Sieur, 
seeking  for  revenge,  who  fired  the 
shot  in  the  garden  of  Mend's  chateau. 
Why  he  did  not  take  his  life  afterward, 
during  the  intimacy  of  years  in  which 
they  lived  together,  she  can  only  at- 
tempt to  explain  doubtfully,  but  she 
asks  whether  this  may  not  have  been 
possible  :  that  the  Sieur  saw  that 
death  would  rather  be  relief  than  pun- 
ishment to  Me'riel  in  his  sorrow.  She 
says  it  was  well  known  in  the  village 


196 


Father  MerieVs  Bell. 


[February, 


that  the  Father  would  gladly  have  en- 
countered martyrdom,  if  it  had  been 
ordained  for  him  to  meet  it.  If,  how- 
ever, death  would  have  brought  no  suf- 
fering to  the  priest,  dishonor  would ; 
and  Thankful  suggests  that  it  was  with 
the  purpose  in  view  of  bringing  him  to 
dishonor  at  last,  that'  the  Sieur  so 
guarded  Meriel's  life.  She  believes 
that  he  read  in  her  face  the  fascination 
which  Muriel  early  began  to  exercise 
over  her.  Reviewing  their  intercourse, 
she  recalls  what  was  not  plain  to  her  at 
the  time,  —  that  from  first  to  last  Meriel 
was  a  frequent  theme  of  their  conver- 
sation, and  that,  without  attracting  her 
suspicion,  he  dwelt  upon  every  circum- 
stance in  Meriel's  life  likely  to  attract 
her  to  the  latter. 

Moreover  she  holds  that  he  wrought 
upon  her  with  some  diabolical  spell. 
She  knows  from  exclamations  which 
he  once  or  twice  let  fall,  that  some- 
times, excited  by  his  recollections,  he 
imparted  more  than  he  intended.  She 
feels  sure  that  as  he  sought  to  interest 
her  in  Meriel,  he  also  brought  Meriel 
to  seek  her,  —  by  representing  her  as 
disposed  to  embrace  the  faith,  —  with 
the  idea  that  their  relations  might 
come  to  seem  suspicious.  When  the 
time  for  her  return  drew  near  before 
his  plot  had  matured,  she  suggests 
that  he  may  have  grown  desperate,  as 
his  promised  revenge  seemed  about  to 
fail  ;  that  therefore  he  made  his  accu- 
sation to  the  Superior,  and  contrived 
his  last  plan,  in  the  hope  that  her 
strangely -timed  visit  to  the  Jesuit's 
lodge,  and  the  weight  of  his  own  au- 
thority, might  bring  about  Me'riel's 
disgrace.  When  the  plot  failed,  and 
Meriel  knew  him  in  his  true  char- 
acter as  an  enemy,  his  schemes  for 
revenge  having  at  last  miscarried, 
Thankful  thinks  it  not  strange  that  he 
should  have  hurried  out  to  throw  him- 
self into  the  river.  "  Perhaps  he  was 
flung  in,"  she  adds,  "  by  the  power  of 
Satan."  To  all  this  explanation,  she 
finds  some  confirmation  in  the  ele- 
mental tumult  of  the  night.  Believing 
that  demons  filled  the  air,  she  asks  if 
such  Satanic  activity  would  not  be  nat- 


ural in  the  neighborhood  of  a  powerful 
wizard  at  the  culmination  of  such  deep 
wickedness.  Thankful  gives  her  ex- 
planation doubtingly  ;  —  in  spite  of  cir- 
cumstances hardly  deeming  it  possible, 
—  with  her  inexperience  of  the  world, 
and  frank  English  nature,  —  that  such 
revenge  should  burn  through  long  years 
and  be  so  cunningly  masked. 

["  How  does  it  seem  to  you  ?  "  I  said 
to  my  wife,  after  we  had  read  it  to- 
gether. "Do  you  like  Thankful's  so- 
lution ? "  "I  hardly  know,  Joseph," 
said  my  wife.  "  There  's  such  a  preju- 
dice nowadays  against  the  poor  Devil ; 
won't  people  find  it  hard  to  believe  he 
^as  ever  around  so  much  ?  "  For  my- 
self, I  do  not  know  whether  to  accept 
Thankful's  explanation,  or  not,  and  I 
leave  the  reader  to  make  his  own  de- 
cision concerning  it.  Only  with  respect 
to  her  hesitation  at  the  end,  I  will  give 
a  conclusion  that  I  came  to  after  an 
experience  with  a  certain  Italian  and 
French  teacher,  who,  after  being  fos- 
tered in  my  very  bosom,  as  it  were, 
went  off  to  that  Institute  under  the 
most  exasperating  circumstances.  It 
is,  that  among  Southern  Europeans  a 
secret  and  malignant  type  of  character 
may  sometimes  be  encountered  ;  a  type 
to  which  the  natures  of  the  Sieur  and 
that  wretch  Passddcfini  may  perhaps 
have  belonged  ;  —  a  type  whose  reflec- 
tion given  in  the  mirror  of  Shakespeare 
lies  open  to  our  study  in  lago.] 

When  Thankful  embarked  at  last,  to 
leave  St.  Lauclry,  her  face  was  so  hag- 
gard that  Annette  exclaimed,  u  Has  the 
Devil  touched  you,  too,  poor  child  ?  " 
Thankful  considers  that  Annette's 
question  was  near  the  truth.  As  the 
batteau  gathered  headway  upon  the 
current,  from  the  church  came  the 
sound  of  the  Dies  Ira,  chanted  over 
the  body  of  the  Sieur.  Borne  upon 
the  wind  came  the  words :  — 

"  Ingemisco  tanquam  reus 
Culpa  rubet  vultus  meus 
Supplicant!  parce  Deus." 

She  made  the  words  her  own,  turning 
her  eyes  heavenward. 

The  English  ship,  after  delaying  a 
month  and  more  at  Quebec,  dropped 


i  S/o.] 


Father  MtricVs  Bell. 


197 


down  as  far  as  the  dreary  port  of  Ta- 
doussac,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Saguenay, 
and  before  putting  to  sea,  tarried  an 
hour  or  two  before  these  gloomy  rocks. 
A  few  huts  clung  to  the  base  of  bare 
cliffs,  past  which  the  wide  black  current 
of  the  Saguenay  poured  itself.  It  was 
just  dusk  of  the  long  summer  day  in 
that  northern  latitude,  and  Thankful, 
looking  from  the  anchorage,  saw  upon 
the  rocks  the  canoes  of  a  body  of  sav- 
ages. An  Indian  who  came  out  from 
the  shore  brought  word  that  it  was  a 
band  belonging  in  the  regions  about 
Hudson's  Bay.  They  had  been  to  Que- 
bec to  sell  furs,  and  were  about  return- 
ing with  a  Jesuit  priest  who  had  just 
been  assigned,  at  his  own  desire,  to  this 
most  dangerous  and  difficult  of  missions. 
At  early  dawn  they  were  to  depart  up 
the  melancholy  river,  and  were  now 
just  about  celebrating  the  Mass.  It  was 
too  far  to  catch  sight  of  any  object, 
except  most  faintly.  But  the  sound  of 
the  chanting,  done  probably  by  a  few 
fishermen  and  their  wives,  belonging 
to  the  hamlet,  came  sweetly  through  the 
silence  and  twilight  across  the  perfect- 
ly still  water.  Thankful  could  follow 
the  plaintive  Agnus  Dei,  and  the  louder 
swell  of  the  Jubilate ;  and  now  she 
knew  that  the  moment  approached 
when  the  Host  should  be  elevated. 
With  a  thrill  that  shook  her  whole 
being,  Thankful  heard  across  the  water 
the  sound  of  the  bell  that  marked  the 
event.  Lo !  it  was  the  sound  that  she 
had  come  to  know  so  well.  With  melo- 
dy unutterable,  from  where  it  hung 
suspended  in  some  crevice  of  the  rock, 
the  bell  within  which  was  bound  the 


soul  of  the  dead  wife  shook  forth  into 
the  stillness  its  tremulous  toll.  Now  it 
throbbed  upon  the  air  with  an  almost 
dying  cadence ;  then  it  reverberated 
from  the  bleak  precipice  with  a  soft 
power  like  the  peal  from  the  trumpet 
of  an  angel.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  came 
the  unearthly  music  of  its  vibration, 
until  the  air  seemed  to  Thankful  to 
murmur  with  the  pure  harmony  of  ce- 
lestial voices,  —  voices  that  sang  sub- 
limely of  sacrifice  and  holiness.  Then, 
as  it  fainted  into  silence,  and  the  dark- 
ness fell  upon  the  cold  wilderness,  the 
sail  above  Thankful  swelled  out  with 
the  wind,  and  from  beneath  was  heard 
the  ripple  of  the  ship's  departure. 

Here  ends  the  tale.  I  know  not  what 
may  have  been  the  fate  of  Me"riel, — 
whether  he  died  in  the  snow  like  Father 
Anne  de  Noue,  or  at  the  stake  like 
Brebeuf  and  Lallemant,  or  lost  in  some 
forest  like  Rene'  Mesnard,  or  by  some 
wilderness  stream,  close  to  his  altar, 
like  Marquette.  With  regard  to  poor 
Thankful  there  is  no  further  record 
or  tradition  than  the  minister's  brief 
note  upon  the  back  to  her  story.  A 
tall  slab  in  our  old  burying-ground 
informs  the  world  that  Remembrance 
Pumry  died,  well  advanced  in  life,  and 
possessed  of  many  virtues,  during  the 
old  French  War.  By  his  side  lies 
Judith,  "  his  desirable  consort  and 
relict,"  who  died  two  years  after.  The 
inscription  states  that  she  was  a  sec- 
ond wife  ;  and  this  is  the  only  exist- 
ing hint,  besides  the  mouldy  leaves 
of  the  narrative,  that  Thankful  ever 
lived. 


Risk.  [February, 


RISK. 

IN  the  quiet  of  the  evening 
Two  are  walking  in  unrest ; 
Man  has  touched  a  jealous  nature, — 
Anger  burns  in  woman's  breast. 

(These  are  neither  wed  nor  plighted, 
Yet  the  maybe  hangs  as  near 
And  as  fragrant  as  the  wild-rose 
Which  their  garments  hardly  clear. 

And  as  briery,  too,  you  fancy  ? 
Well,  perhaps  so  —  some  sad  morn 
One  or  both  may,  for  a  moment, 
Wish  they  never  had  been  born.) 

Happy  quips  and  honest  pleadings 
Meet  with  silence  or  a  sneer ; 
But  more  keenly  has  she  listened 
Since  she  vowed  she  would  not  hear. 

Now  a  great  oak  parts  the  pathway. 
"  Nature  '11  gratify  your  mood  : 
To  the  right,  —  let  this  divide  you; 
It  will  all  be  understood." 

So  Caprice,  with  childish  weakness, 
Yet  with  subtlety  of  thought, 
Whispered  in  the  ear  of  woman. 
Love,  with  dread,  the  answer  sought. 

Was  it  superstitious  feeling 
Struck  at  once  the  hearts  of  two  ? 
Had  he  seen  proud  eyes  half  sorry 
For  what  little  feet  must  do  ? 

For  he  stretched  an  arm  towards  her, 
Folding  nothing  but  the  air, 
Saying  nothing, — just  the  motion 
Drew,  without  offending  there. 

In  the  quiet  of  the  evening 
Two  are  walking  back  again  ; 
At  the  oak,  their  happy  voices 
Whisper  of  a  vanished  pain. 

What  if  they  to-night  be  plighted, 
And  the  maybe  hangs  more  near 
And  more  fragrant  than  the  wild-rose 
Which  their  garments  hardly  clear  !- 

And  more  briery,  too,  you  fancy  ? 
Well,  perhaps  so.     Thorns  are  ill, 
But  Love  draws  them  out  so  kindly, 
One  must  trust  him,  come  what  will. 


The  Street- Cries  of  Neiu    York. 


199 


THE     STREET-CRIES     OF     NEW     YORK. 


TO  rural  persons  visiting  New  York, 
who  have  wisely  avoided  the  crowd- 
ed hotels,  and  taken  lodging  in  com- 
paratively quiet  by-streets,  the  various 
cries  of  the  city  must  be  a  source  of 
wonder,  curiosity,  doubt,  fear,  and  sun- 
dry other  emotions,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances and  the  respective  temper- 
aments of  the  rural  persons.  Along 
Broadway,  the  cries  of  the  itinerant 
venders  and  tradesmen  are  seldom  to 
be  heard  ;  for  it  is  not  in  the  great 
business  thoroughfares  that  these  in- 
dustrials ply  their  vocations  ;  and  even 
if  they  did,  their  voices  would  be  lost 
in  the  dominant  din  of  that  clashing, 
rattling,  shrieking,  thundering  thor- 
oughfare. 

An  hour  or  two  after  midnight,  the 
milk-trains  from  the  rural  districts  ar- 
rive at  the  several  railway  stations  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  city.  By  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  the  depots  in 
which  the  milk  is  deposited  are  be- 
sieged by  crowds  of  milk-carriers  in 
their  one-horse  wagons,  each  waiting 
his  turn  to  have  his  cans  filled.  The 
wagons  are  generally  tidy  concerns, 
painted  in  bright  colors,  with  the  names 
of  the  owners,  and  of  the  counties  or 
districts  from  which  the  milk  comes, 
lettered  on  them.  The  horses  by  which 
they  are  drawn  are  mostly  compact, 
willing  animals,  and  they  are  almost 
invariably  well  fed  and  groomed.  As 
for  the  drivers,  the  greater  part  are 
strong- built,  sunburnt  fellows,  with 
coarse  flannel  shirts,  slouched  hats,  and 
tight  trousers  tucked  into  heavy  boots. 
They  have,  nearly  without  exception,  a 
strong  dash  of  the  New  York  "  rough  " 
in  them,  their  fiery  qualities  not  being  in 
the  least  modified  by  constant  contem- 
plation of  the  bland  fluid  in  which  they 
deal.  Before  five  o'clock,  all  the  mem- 
bers of  this  milk  brigade  are  away  on 
their  respective  rounds  throughout  the 
city. 

The  peculiar   cry  of  the   New  York 


milkman  is  the  first  that  breaks  the 
stillness  of  early  morning.  It  has  long 
been  a  puzzle  to  investigators  how  this 
fiendish  yell  originated,  and  why  that 
most  innocuous  and  pacifying  of  mar- 
ketables,  milk,  should  be  announced 
with  a  war-whoop  to  which  that  of  the 
blanketed  Arapahoe  of  the  plains  is 
but  as  the  bleat  of  a  spring  lamb.  The 
shriek  of  the  New  York  milkman  has 
no  appreciable  connection  with  the  word 
'•  milk."  The  rural  visitor  who  hears 
it  for  the  first  time  in  the  rosy  morn 
plunges  out  from  his  bedclothes  and 
rushes  to  the  window,  expectant  of  one 
of  those  sanguinary  hand-to-hand  con- 
flicts about  which  he  has  been  so  long 
reading  in  the  New  York  papers.  In- 
stead of  gore  he  sees  milk  ;  a  long-han- 
dled ladle  instead  of  a  knife  or  pistol ; 
and  a  taciturn  man  in  rusty  garments 
doling  out  that  fluid  with  it  to  the 
sleepy-eyed  Hebe  who  clambers  up 
from  the  basement  with  her  jug,  in- 
stead of  scalping  her  of  her  chignon 
and  adding  it  to  the  trophies  at  his  belt. 
The  cry  of  the  New  York  milkman  is 
an  outrage,  and  a  provocation  to  breach 
of  the  peace.  More  graciously  might 
his  presence  be  announced  by  the  tink- 
ling of  a  cow-bell,  or,  what  would  be 
equally  appropriate,  by  a  blast  from  the 
hollow-sounding  horn  of  a  cow. 

Among  the  sweetest  of  the  city  cries, 
and  with  a  sadness  about  it,  too,  sug- 
gestive of  the  passing  away  of  sum- 
mer, and  the  coming  of  chill  autumnal 
nights,  is  that  of."  Hot  corn  !  "  It  is 
long  after  dark  when  this  cry  begins  to 
resound  in  the  streets,  which  are  quiet 
now,  the  noisy  traffic  of  the  day  having 
ceased.  Most  of  the  venders  of  hot 
corn  are  women  or  young  girls,  though 
men  and  boys,  are  often  to  be  seen  en- 
gaged in  the  business.  Many  of  them 
are  of  the  colored  race,  and  it  is  from 
these,  chiefly,  that  the  most  characteris- 
tic and  musical  inflections  of  the  cry 
are  heard  in  the  still  hours  towards 


200 


The  Street-Cries  of  New   York. 


[February, 


midnight  One  of  these  strains,  which 
has  been  chanted  'night  after  night,  for 
several  autumns  past,  by  the  same 
voice,  in  a  central  walk  of  the  city,  has 
a  very  wild  and  plaintive  cadence,  as 
will  appear  from  the  following  :  — 


Hot  corn,  hot  corn,  here  's  your  fine  hot  corn  ! 


After  chanting  this  strain,  the  voice 
repeats  the  words  "  hot  corn  "  several 
times,  in  a  short,  jerking  note  ;  and 
then  the  plaintive  little  song  is  heard 
again,  dying  away  in  the  distance.  On 
a  still  September  night,  when  the  win- 
dows are  open,  and  sleep  has  not  yet 
locked  the  senses  of  the  drowsed  lis- 
tener, this  cry  of  "hot  corn,"  in  all 
its  variations,  has  a  very  pleasing  ef- 
fect. 

What  awful  -  looking  cylinder  on 
wheels  is  this  that  comes  slowly  along, 
floundering  over  the  cobble-stones  like 
a  car  of  Juggernaut,  or  the  chariot  of 
Vulcan  on  its  way  to  a  Cyclopean  revel  ? 
Within  the  grimy,  wooden  tunnel  sit 
two  stalwart  men,  the  most  observ- 
able quality  of  whom  is  blackness  from 
head  to  foot.  Whatever  color  their 
clothes  may  originally  have  been,  black- 
ness —  positive  and  extreme  blackness 
—  is  now  their  hue.  They  have  the 
features  of  the  Caucasian  races,  have 
these  fuliginous  sons  of  Erebus,  but 
their  teeth  flash  and  their  eyeballs 
gleam  silverly,  like  those  of  the  Afri- 
can, for  their  features  are  dusky  as  his. 
Slowly  drawled  out  in  a  deep,  sad 
monotone,  comes  the  cry  "  Charcoal  " 
from  the  chest  of  one  of  them.  It  is  a 
very  long-drawn,  mournful  cry,  like 
that  which  might  come  from  a  dead- 
cart  driven  round  during  a  pestilence 
for  the  bodies  of  the  victims.  Char- 
coal has  got  the  better  of  these  men, 
and  converted  them  to  its  own  moods 
and  shades.  The  thrones  on  which 
they  sit  within  the  great  black  cylinder 
are  piles  of  charcoal.  Burnt  cork  is 
chalk  compared  to  the  charcoal  nigres- 
cence of  their  faces  and  hands.  Char- 
coal is  all  over  them,  and  everywhere 


about.  When  the  charcoal  man  dies  he 
needs  no  embalming,  no  sarcophagus 
hermetically  sealed ;  for  his  system  is 
charged  with  the  great  antiseptic  by 
which  he  lives,  and  he  is  never  so  far 
gone  but  that  he  is  thoroughly  cured 
by  it  when  dead. 

In  pleasant  contrast  with  the  su'per- 
natural  cry  of  the  charcoal  man  is  that 
sweet  one  of  "  Strawber-rees  !  "  which 
first  falls  upon  the  ear  some  balmy 
morning  in  June,  when  the  fancies  of 
the  city  man  are  all  of  fragrant  mead- 
ows and  tinkling  brooks.  •  Not  pleas- 
ant, indeed,  as  it  comes  from  the  lips 
of  the  "  licensed  venders,"  who  hawk 
fruit  about  in  wagons  ;  for  nothing  in 
the  way  of  noise  can  be  more  disagree- 
able than  the  bawling  of  these  loud- 
mouthed men.  But  hark  to  the  clear 
tone  of  a  woman's  voice,  that  comes 
ringing  on  the  ear,  repeating  at  short 
intervals  the  one  word,  with  a  sudden 
pitch  of  the  last  syllable  to  the  octave 
above,  in  a  prolonged  sosteuuto  !  Pass- 
ing along  the  street,  there  goes  the 
singer,  generally  a  woman  of  middle 
age,  for  but  few  young  girls  are  observ- 
able in  this  branch  of  street  industry. 
The  procession  of  the  seasons  is  dis- 
tinctly marked  to  city  people  by  the 
cries  of  these  hawkers.  First,  the 
strawberries,  redolent  of  balmy  June 
with  its  lilac -blossoms  and  plumed 
horse-chestnuts.  Then,  when  the  fresh- 
ness of  June  has  passed  away,  and  the 
dog-day  heat  of  July  is  upon  us,  the 
same  note,  indeed,  is  to  be  heard  vi- 
brating in  the  sultry  street ;  but  the 
libretto  is  changed,  for  strawberries 
are  "  out  "  now,  and  raspberries  "  in." 
Later  still,  near  the  close  of  July,  and 
so  throughout  August,  the  wild  -  fla- 
vored medicinal  blackberry,  suggestive 
of  dusty  roadside  fences  and  retreats 
lonely,  takes  the  place  of  the  others, 
in  company  with  the  huckleberry;  and 
the  same  ringing  cry  announces  the 
progress  of  these  along  the  street. 

Among  the  musical  cries  of  New 
York  City,  one  of  the  most  peculiar  is 
that  of  the  chimney-sweeps.  Their  vo- 
cation is  confined  exclusively  to  col- 
ored people,  by  whom  also  the  shaking 


i8;o. 


The  Street-Cries  of 


York. 


2O I 


of  carpets  and  the  whitewashing  of 
walls  is  looked  on  as  a  monopoly  by 
right  of  usage.  The  chimney-sweeps 
go  in  pairs,  —  two  stalwart  negroes, 
thoroughly  saturated  by  nature  with  the 
color  appropriate  to  their  craft.  They 
bristle  all  over  with  the  implements  of 
their  trade.  Iron  scrapers  and  great 
spiky  trusses,  that  look  like  the  weap- 
ons of  some  savage  tribe,  are  sus- 
pended at  their  broad  backs.  So 
patched  are  their  garments, — which 
consist  of  nothing  more  than  the  rem- 
nants of  shirt  and  trousers, — that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  the  most  ex- 
pert cliUfonnijr  to  detect  the  origi- 
nal rag  to  which  all  the  others  have 
attached  themselves  in  the  course  of 
time.  A  very  singular  cry,  not  unlike 
the  yodlla^  refrain  of  Tyrolean  crags- 
men, is  that  of  the  chimney-sweep.  In- 

s  of  peculiar  qualities  of  voice 
are  not  uncommon  among  negroes. 
Miss  Greenwood,  well  known  in  mu- 
sical circles  as  the  "Black  Swan," 
sometimes  startles  her  hearers  by  de- 
scending from  the  fluty  upper  register 
of  a  woman's  voice  to  the  deep  chest 

'fa  masculine  barytone  or  basso. 
The  strain  uttered  by  the  sweep  is  usu- 
ally .:  simple  variation  of  three  notes  ; 
but  I  remember  one  who  used  to  per- 
ambulate a  west-side  ward  of  New 
York  some  years  ago,  and  who  extend- 
ed the  brief  song  of  his  craft  into  the 
air  of  ''Home,  Sweet  Home,"  adapted 
to  some  words  expressive  of  soot,  and 
smoke,  and  various  other  things  which, 
if  allowed  to  run  riot,  are  calculated  to 
render  "home  "very  much  the  reverse 
of  sweet. 

•rable  beyond  description  are  the 
various,  not  to  say  innumerable,  howls 

by  the  class  of  mounted  gue- 
rillas known  as  "licensed  venders." 
Tlmsc  hucksters  usually  go  by  twos, 
one  of  them  attending  to  the  wagon  in 
which  the  produce  for  sale  is  stowed, 
while  the  other  shambles  along  the 
sidewalk  to  announce  their  approach. 
The  alternate  stunning  roars  of  these 
importunate  retailers  make  windows 
rattle.  Sometimes  the  cart  contains 
several  kinds  of  vegetables  or  fruits,  and 


the  driver  bawls  out  something  intend- 
ed to  represent  the  names  of  these. 
No  sooner  has  his  roar  ceased  to  "split 
the  ears  of  the  groundlings,"  than  it  is 
taken  up  by  his  comrade  —  or  accom- 
plice, rather  —  on  the  sidewalk,  who, 
clapping  a  hand  to  one  ear,  as  if  to  pre- 
vent his  head  from  being  blown  off,  re- 
peats the  cry  with  a  hideous  augmenta- 
tion of  discordant  yell,  down  into  areas, 
and  up  at  three-story  windows.  As  in 
the  hailing  of  a  skipper  in  a  gale  of 
wind,  the  vowels  alone  of  these  vocif- 
erations are  intelligible,  the  consonants 
being  either  swallowed  by  the  vocifera- 
tor,  or  frittered  away  by  attrition  into- 
incomprehensible  spray.  The  hawkers 
of  this  class  who  deal  in  fish  do  not 
utter  any  cry,  but  herald  their  coming, 
not  indeed  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets, 
but  with  shattering  blasts  from  a  tin 
horn  of  execrable  tone. 

One  of  the  most  doleful  of  city  cries 
is  that  of  the  men  who  slowly  plod 
their  daily  rounds  with  brooms  for  sale. 
In  many  instances  these  men  are  blind, 
the  trade  in  brooms  being  almost  the 
only  street  occupation,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  mendicancy,  followed  by  blind 
persons  in  New  York.  It  is  its  asso- 
ciation with  blindness,  perhaps,  that 
gives  to  the  cry  of  "Brum  !  "  the  mel- 
ancholy sentiment  always  evoked  by  it 
in  the  more  tranquil  streets  of  the  city, 
—  a  cry  pitched  in  a  subdued,  hollow 
voice,  which,  "not  loud,  but  deep," 
reverberates  to  a  great  distance  along 
the  street.  Some  of  the  wanderers 
are  led  by  small  boys  or  girls,  while 
others  .grope  their  way  along  the  side- 
walk with  sticks.  I  have  never  seen 
one  of  them  led  by  a  dog.  Who  ever 
sees  a  blind  man  led  by  a  dog  in  this 
harassing  city  of  New  York  ?  "  Poor 
dog  Tray"  is  dead  long  ago,  and  if  he 
left  any  successors,  their  instinct  has 
told  them  that  they  have  no  business 
here.  There  is  one  blind  broom-hawker 
in  New  York  who  celebrates  his  bristly 
wares  in  song,  chanting  two  or  three 
verses  in  commendation  of  them,  at 
intervals,  as  he  gropes  his  way  along. 
The  ordinary  corn-broom  is  the  staple 
article  offered  by  these  hawkers,  but 


The  Street-dies  of  New    York. 


[February, 


their  outfit  usually  comprises  every  va- 
riety of  sweeping-brushes,  feather-dust- 
ers, and  other  such  articles,  known  to 
careful  housekeepers  by  sundry  dis- 
tinctive names. 

An  arrant  Bohemian,  to  be  met  with 
everywhere  in  New  York  streets,  as 
well  as  far  out  in  the  suburbs,  and  even 
along  the  quiet  country  roads  beyond, 
is  the  peripatetic  glazier.  No  street 
industrial  is  more  familiar  to  city  folks 
than  he.  He  is,  invariably,  a  wanderer 
from  some  country  of  Continental  Eu- 
rope,—Germany, 'Italy,  or  France, — 
and  he  seldom  possesses  more  English 
than  enables  him  to  higgle  for  a  job. 
The  itinerant  glazier  is  usually  an  un- 
dersized man,  adapted  to  worming  him- 
self through  vacuous  window  -  sashes 
and  broken  panes  of  glass.  He  is 
oftener  dark  of  complexion  than  other- 
wise, and  he  generally  wears  a  heavy 
fringe  of  frowzy  hair  around  his  un- 
washed face.  Slung  between  his  shoul- 
ders is  a  sort  of  wooden  rack,  in  the 
compartments  of  which  rest  vertically 
panes  of  glass  of  assorted  sizes.  He 
Avields  a  long  wooden  ruler,  to  one  end 
of  which  is  affixed  a  dab  of  putty,  and 
between  his  teeth  he  usually  clenches 
a  dirty  wooden  pipe,  with  the  fumes  of 
which,  slightly  corrected  by  those  of 
garlic  and  rancid  oil,  his  entire  person 
is  well  saturated.  From  coarse  feeding 
and  exposure  to  the  weather  his  voice 
is  generally  raucous,  and  yet  there  is 
nothing  positively  aggravating  in  his 
sing-song  cry  of  "  Glass  t'  p't  een  !  " 
delivered  with  a  long-drawn  enuncia- 
tion of  the  last  syllable.  This  man  fre- 
quents certain  of  the  lowest  haunts  of 
the  city,  where  he  harbors  with  his  like, 
spending  much  of  his  earnings  on  lager- 
beer  and  the  exciting  vicissitudes  of 

iy  with  a  very  greasy  pack  of  cards. 
He  is  frequently  a  great  convenience  to 
housekeepers  whose  windows  require 
immediate  repair;  but  his  character 
for  honesty  is  not  above  suspicion,  and 
it  is  generally  considered  advisable  to 
keep  a  good  watch  on  him  while  he  is 
occupied  about  the  windows  of  a  room 
in  which  articles  of  value  are  lying 
about.  It  has  been  asserted  that  num- 


bers of  these  men  were  engaged  in  the 
famous  draft  riots  by  which  New  York 
was  made  so  lively  in  July,  1863 ;  though 
the  principal  proof  against  them  seems 
to  have  been  the  vast  number  of  win- 
dows shattered  on  that  memorable  oc- 
casion, and  supposed  to  have  been  bro- 
ken with  an  eye  to  business. 

The  curt,  peremptory  cry  of  the 
pungent  person  who  jerks  clown  into 
every  basement,  as  he  passes,  the 
word  "soapfat !"  uttered  with  a  quick, 
barking  snap,  is  one  that  seldom  fails 
to  arouse  cook-maid  or  kitchen-wench 
from  reveries  of  dress  and  "  Sundays 
out."  He  usually  carries  a  very  large 
tin  pail,  into  which  he  crowds  the 
scrapings  of  the  kitchen  utensils  and 
the  fatty  fragments  of  cooked  meats, 
until  the  mass,  packed  and  pounded 
with  his  dirty  fists,  assumes  the  appear- 
ance of  axle-grease,  and  becomes  too 
heavy  for  him  to  carry  any  further  from 
door  to  door.  Then  he  slings  it  on  his 
back,  and  travels  away  with  it  to  one 
of  those  fragrant  establishments  in  the 
eastern  districts  of  the  city,  or  else- 
where, in  which  the  process  of  "  ren- 
dering" grease  for  various  manufac- 
tures is  carried  on.  Dogs  twitch  their 
sensitive  noses  at  him  as  he  goes,  and 
some  of  the  more  lean  and  hungry 
ones  will  even  follow  his  footsteps  for 
the  chance  of  picking  up  any  scraps  of 
the  savory  cargo  that  may  fall  in  his 
wake.  The  kitchen  stuff  that  forms 
the  staple  of  the  soapfat-man's  com- 
merce is  a  perquisite  of  the  cook,  who 
therefore  looks  upon  him  with  some 
degree  of  complacency.  He  enjoys  a 
very  extensive  acquaintance  among  the 
cook-maids  on  his  round,  and,  being 
oily  by  occupation  and  generally  Irish 
by  nativity,  he  has  his  larded  iokes  and 
tallowy  banter  for  each  and  all  of  them. 

"  Rags  !  —  rags  !  "  is  the  cry  of  a 
rough-looking  varlet  who  carries  a  large 
dirty  sack  for  the  reception  of  such 
worn-out  garments  and  discarded  tex- 
tiles in  general  as  are  made  a  source 
of  supplementary  revenue  by  thrifty 
housewives.  It  is  a  very  disagreeable 
cry,  being  usually  uttered  in  a  harsh, 
aggressive  tone,  and  at  short  intervals. 


1 870.] 


77/6'  Street-Cries  of  New   York. 


203 


When  the  ragman  has  filled  his  sack, 
lie  trudges  away  with  it  to  some  deep, 
musty  cellar,  to  the  troglodytes  in 
which  he  sells  his  motley  merchandise 
for  so  much  a  pound.  Here  it  is  sort- 
ed, packed  in  large  bales,  and  sent 
away  to  various  places  for  its  conver- 
sion into  paper.  And  so  it  is  that 
light  comes  to  men,  in  time,  through 
so  insignificant  a  medium  as  the  man 
who  contributes  to  the  din  of  the  city 
with  his  discordant  "Rags!  —  rags!" 
—  while  literature  is  indebted  to  him  in 
about  the  same  degree  that  it  is  to  the 
harsh-voiced  water-fowl  that  lends  aid 
to  it  with  its  quill. 

Yonder,  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  tak- 
ing tip  more  of  the  sidewalk  than  is  quite 
convenient  l  rs,  slowly  moves 

along  a  great  assortment  of  tin  uten- 
sils, ranging  from  the  skillet  of  small- 
est size  to  pans  and  pails  of  the  largest. 
The  unretentive  colander  is  there,  and 
the  porous  dredging-box  clinks  against 
the  teakettle,  which  will  sing  to  it  in 
some  snuggery  by  and  by.  In  the  cen- 
tre of  this  dazzling  arrangement  walks 
a  robust  woman,  —  the  sun  around 
which  this  system  of  tin  planets  re- 
volves. She  pauses  very  often,  chant- 
ing her  slirill  cry  of  "  Tin-ware  !  "  to  the 
clinking  accompaniment  of  her  pans 
and  kettles.  Sometimes  this  peripa- 
tetic female  leaves  off  roaming  the  city 
for  a  while,  and  displays  her  wares  at 
the  trap-door  of  some  cellar  beneath  a 
market-building,  or  on  a  sidewalk  in 
some  busy  street.  Then  she  does  not 
utter  her  cry  ;  but  it  shall  be  heard 
again,  here  and  there  throughout  the 
city,  when  the  weather  is  favorable  for 
"going  on  rounds." 

ry  that  is'  heard  less  frequently 
than  any  of  the  others  mentioned  in 
this  paper,  is  that  of  "Honeycomb!" 
For  a  brief  season  in  the  fall,  cleanly 
dressed  men,  in  white  jackets  and 
aprons,  and  with  white  linen  caps  on 
their  heads,  are  to  be  seen  hawking  the 
luscious  produce  of  the  bee  through  the 
city.  The  honeycomb  is  placed  on 
wooden  trays,  which  they  balance  on 
their  heads  with  much  dexterity,  turn- 
ing hit!  thither,  and  winding 


through  crowded  thoroughfares,  with- 
out putting  their  hands  to  the  trays. 
There  is  something  pleasantly  rural 
about  the  cry  of  these  men,  for  it  car- 
ries one  away  to  flowery  meadows 
where  bees  revel,  and  to  gardens  made 
more  delightful  by  their  drowsy  hum. 

A  persevering  persecutor  is  that  cai- 
tiff who  looks  up  at  your  window, 
should  you  happen  to  appear  at  it,  and 
inquires  of  you,  in  hoarse,  nasal  ac- 
cents, whether  you  have  "  any  old 
"  He  will  remain  gesticulating, 
and  jerking  his  query  at  you,  for  five 
minutes  together,  and  the  chances  are 
that  he  will  at  last  cross  over  to  your 
doorway,  and,  ringing  for  admittance, 
try  to  force  his  way  up  to  your  sanc- 
tum. This  trader  generally  wears  a  tall, 
greasy  stove-pipe  hat,  as  an  emblem 
of  his  vocation,  and  he  carries  battered 
hats  of  all  fashions  and  textures  in  both 
hands,  and  suspended  round  his  neck. 
Often  he  is  an  Irishman ;  not  unfre- 
quently  a  Polish  Jew.  The  domestics 
of  the  house,  with  whom  discarded  hats 
are  a  perquisite,  find  the  vagrant  under 
notice  a  very  hard  one  to  deal  with. 
His  power  of  undervaluing  articles  is 
almost  sublime  for  its  audacity,  and  his 
inward  chuckle,  as  he  walks  off  with 
his  bargain,  attests  his  appreciation  of 
the  swindle  perpetrated. 

The  monosyllabic  cry  of  "  Wud  !  "  re- 
peated in  quick  succession  and  mourn- 
ful tone,  announces  the  coming  of  the 
cart  in  which  the  firewood-man  and 
his  resinous  freight  are  trundled  along. 
It  is  in  winter,  chiefly,  that  this  deal- 
er plies  his  commerce.  He  is  very 
welcome  about  Christmas-time,  among 
those  people  especially,  whose  tradi- 
tions move  them  to  "  crowd  on  all 
steam "  at  that  festive  time,  and  to 
keep  their  stoves  aglow  with  firewood 
for  the  Christmas  turkey  and  its  anx- 
ious friends.  But  his  cry  has  nothing 
of  the  Christmas  carol  about  it,  nothing 
that  is  cheerful  and  appropriate  to  the 
season,  and  in  fact  is  one  of  the  most 
doleful  and  depressing  of  city  cries. 

The  tinker,  with  his  portable  fire- 
apparatus,  and  his  monotonous  "  Pots, 
pans,  'nd  IrottlV.  t'  r.iencl  ! :"  is  a  v/an- 


204 


Among-  tJie  Isles  of  SJioals. 


[February, 


dcring  mechanic  well  known  in  New 
York  streets,  as  likewise  is  the  man 
who  cries  for  "  Umbrellas  to  mend  ! ' 
and  usually  contrives  to  manipulate  the 
ribs  or  springs  of  those  intrusted  to 
him,  so  that  they  will  need  further  re- 
pairs at  a  time  to  suit  his  convenience. 
Various  cries  are  occasionally  to  be 
heard  throughout  the  city,  the  signifi- 
cance of  which  can  only  be  guessed  at 
from  the  kind  of  wares  hawked  by  the 
utterers  of  them.  Pedlers,  with  bas- 
kets full  of  fancy  glass-ware, —jars, 
vases,  and  other  such  knick-knacks  as 
are  used  for  table  or  chimney-piece 
ornaments,  —  carry  on  their  business  in 
the  by-streets.  They  utter  low,  droning 
cries  from  time  to  time,  as  they  slowly 
pace  along  by  the  area  railings,  but  it  is 
generally  impossible  to  recognize  any 
verbal  combination  in  their  smothered 
accents.  The  most  remarkable  instance 


of  an  unintelligible  street-cry  that  I 
remember  was  that  of  an  old  man, — 
a  German,  I  think,  —  who  went  his 
round  of  certain  streets  in  the  city  for  a 
brief  term,  a  year  or  two  since.  He 
carried  in  either  hand  a  tin  pail  with  a 
cover  on  it ;  and  so  remarkable  was  his 
note  that,  when  he  for  the  first  time 
made  himself  heard  in  the  street,  win- 
dows were  thrown  up,  and  unfeeling- 
gazers  greeted  him  therefrom  with 
shouts  of  ribald  laughter.  A  strenuous 
wheeze,  combined  with  a  sneeze,  and 
terminating  in  a  laborious  shriek,  were 
the  elements  of  which  this  unaccounta- 
ble proclamation  was  composed.  I  never 
knew  "any  person  who  could  explain  the 
cry,  or  the  article  which  it  was  intend- 
ed to  announce.  Nobody  ever  seemed 
to  buy  anything  from  the  old  man,  and 
so  he  shortly  passed  away  from  the 
busy  street,  a  hopeless  mystery. 


AMONG    THE     ISLES     OF     SHOALS. 


III. 


WITHIN  the  lovely  limits  of  sum- 
mer it  is  beautiful  to  live  almost 
anywhere ;  most  beautiful  where  the 
ocean  meets  the  land ;  and  here  partic- 
ularly, where  all  the  changing  splendor 
of  the  sea  encompasses  the  place,  and 
the  ceaseless  ebbing  and  flowing  of 
the  tides  brings  continual  refreshment 
into  the  life  of  every  day.  But  sum- 
mer is  late  and  slow  to  come,  and  long 
after  the  mainland  has  begun  to  bloom 
and  smile  beneath  the  influence  of 
spring,  the  bitter  northwest  winds  still 
sweep  the  cold,  green  water  about  these 
rocks,  and  tear  its  surface  into  long  and 
glittering  waves  from  morning  till  night, 
and  from  night  till  morning,  through 
many  weeks.  No  leaf  breaks  the  frozen 
soil,  and  no  bud  swells  on  the  shaggy 
bushes  that  clothe  the  slopes.  But  if 
summer  is  a  laggard  in  her  coming, 
she  makes  up  for  it  by  the  loveliness 


of  her  lingering  into  autumn  ;  for  when 
the  pride  and  glory  of  trees  and  flowers 
is  despoiled  by  frost  on  shore,  the  lit- 
tle gardens  here  are  glowing  at  their 
brightest,  and  day  after  day  of  mellow 
splendor  drops  like  a  benediction  from 
the  hand  of  God.  In  the  early  morn- 
ings in  September  the  mists  draw  away 
from  the  depths  of  inland  valleys,  and 
rise  into  the  lucid  western  sky,  —  tall 
columns  and  towers  of  cloud,  solid, 
compact,  superb  ;  their  pure  white 
shining  heads  uplifted  into  the  ether, 
solemn,  stately,  and  still,  till  some 
wandering  breeze  disturbs  their  perfect 
outline,  and  they  melt  about  the  heav- 
ens in  scattered  fragments  as  the  day 
goes  on.  Then  there  are  mornings  when 
"all  in  the  blue,  unclouded  weather'' 
the  coast-line  comes  out  so  distinctly 
that  houses,  trees,  bits  of  white  beach, 
are  clearly  visible,  and  with  a  glass, 


8;a] 


Among  tJic  Isles  of  Skoals. 


205 


moving  forms  of  carriages  and  cattle 
are  distinguishable  nine  miles  :i\vay. 
In  the  transparent  air  the  peaks  of 
Mounts  Madison,  Washington,  and  Jef- 
ferson are  seen  distinctly  at  a  distance 
of  one  hundred  miles.  In  the  early 
light  even  the  green  color  of  the  trees 
is  perceptible  on  the  Rye  shore.  All 
through  these  quiet  days  the  air  is  full 
uf  wandering  thistle-down,  the  inland 
golden-rod  waves  its  plumes,  and  close 
by  the  water's  edge,  in  rocky  clefts, 
its  seaside  sister  blossoms  in  gorgeous 
color ;  the  rose-haws  redden,  the  iris 
unlocks  its  shining  caskets,  and  casts 
its  closely  packed  seeds  about,  gray 
berries  cluster  on  the  bayberry-bushes, 
the  sweet  life-everlasting  sends  out  its 
wonderful,  delicious  fragrance,  and  the 
pale  asters  spread  their  flowers  in  many- 
tinted  sprays.  Through  October  and 
into  November,  the  fair,  mild  weather 
lasts.  At  the  first  breath  of  October, 
the  hillside  at  Appledore  fires  up  with 
the  living  crimson  of  the  huckleberry- 
bushes,  as  if  a  blazing  torch  had  been 
applied  to  it ;  the  slanting  light  at  sun- 
rise and  sunset  makes  a  wonderful 
glory  across  it.  The  sky  deepens  its 
blue,  beneath  it  the  brilliant  sea  glows 
into  violet,  and  flashes  into  splendid 
purple  where  the  "  tide-rip,"  or  eddying 
winds,  make  long  streaks  across  its 
surface,  —  poets  are  not  wrong  who 
talk  of  ';  purple  seas."  —  the  air  is  clear 
and  sparkling,  the  lovely  summer  haze 
withdraws,  all  things  take  a  crisp  and 
tender  outline,  and  the  cry  of  the  cur- 
lew and  the  plover  is  doubly  sweet 
through  the  pure  cool  air.  Then  sun- 
sets burn  in  clear  and  tranquil  skies, 
or  llame  in  piled  magnificence  of  clouds. 
Some  night  a  long  bar  lies  like  a 
smouldering  brand  along  the  horizon, 
deep  carmine  where  the  .  sun  has 
touched  it,  and  out  of  that  bar  breaks 
a  sudden  gale  before  morning,  and  a 
fine  fury  and  tumult  begins  to  rage. 
Then  comes  the  fitful  weather, — wild 
winds  and  hurrying  waves,  low,  scud- 
ding clouds,  tremendous  rains  that  shut 
out  everything;  and  the  rocks  lie  wel- 
tering between  the  sea  and  sky,  with 
the  brief  fire  of  the  leaves  quenched 


and  swept  away  on  the  hillside, — only 
rushing  wind  and  streaming  water  ev- 
erywhere, as  if  a  second  deluge  were 
flooding  the  world. 

After  such  a  rain  comes  a  gale  from, 
the  southeast  to  sweep  the  sky  clear, — 
a  gale  so  furious  that  it  blows  the  sails 
straight  out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  if  any 
vessel  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  caught 
in  it  with  a  rag  of  canvas  aloft,  and  the 
coast  is  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  such 
craft  as  happen  to  be  caught  on  the  lee 
shore,  for 

"  Anchors  drag,  and  topmasts  lap," 

and  nothing  can  hold  against  this  ter- 
rible blind  fury.  It  is  appalling  to 
listen  to  the  shriek  of  such  a  wind, 
even  though  one  is  safe  upon  a  rock 
that  cannot  move ;  and  more  dreadful 
is  it  to  see  the  destruction  one  cannot 
lift  a  finger  to  help. 

As  the  air  grows  colder,  curious  at- 
mospheric effects  become  visible.  At 
the  first  biting  cold  the  distant  main- 
land has  the  appearance  of  being  taken 
off  its  feet,  as  it  were,  —  the  line  shrunk- 
en and  distorted,  detached  from  the  wa- 
ter at  both  ends  :  it  is  as  if  one  looked 
under  it  and  saw  the  sky  beyond.  Then 
on  bright  mornings  with  a  brisk  wind, 
little  wafts  of  mist  rise  between  the 
quick,  short  waves,  and  melt  away  be- 
fore noon.  At  some  periods  of  intense 
cold  these  mists,  which  are  never  in 
banks  like  fog,  rise. in  irregular  whirl- 
ing columns  reaching  to  the  clouds,  — 
shadowy  phantoms,  torn  and  wild, 
that  stalk  past  like  Ossian's  ghosts, 
solemnly  and  noiselessly  throughout 
the  bitter  day.  When  the  sun  drops 
down  behind  these  weird  processions 
with  a  dark  red  lurid  light,  it  is  like  a 
vast  conflagration,  wonderful  and  terri- 
ble to  see.  The  columns,  that  strike 
and  fall  athwart  the  island,  sweep 
against  the  windows  with  a  sound  like 
sand,  and  lie  on  the  ground  in  ridges, 
like  fine  sharp  hail.  Yet  the  heavens 
are  clear,  the  heavily  rolling  sea  dark 
green  and  white,  and  between  the 
breaking  crests  the  misty  columns 
stream  toward  the  sky. 

Sometimes  a  totally  different  vapor, 


2O6 


Among  tlic  Isles  of  SJioals. 


[February, 


like  cold  black  smoke,  rolls  out  from 
the  land  and  flows  over  the  sea  to  an 
unknown  distance,  swallowing  up  the 
islands  on  its  way.  Its,  approach  is 
hideous  to  witness.  "  It 's  all  thick 
o'  black  vapor,"  some  islander  an- 
nounces, coming  in  from  out  of  doors ; 
just  as  they  say,  "It's  all  thick  o' 
white  foam,:'  when  the  sudden  squall 
tears  the  sea  into  fringes  of  spray. 

In  December  the  colors  seem  to 
fade  out  of  the  world,  and  utter  ungra- 
ciousness prevails.  The  great,  cool, 
whispering,  delieious  sea,  that  encircled 
us  with  a  thousand  caresses  the  beauti- 
ful summer  through,  turns  slowly  our 
sullen  and  inveterate  enemy  ;  leaden  it 
lies  beneath  a  sky  like  tin,  and  rolls 
its  "white  cold  heavy-plunging  foam" 
against  a  shore  of  iron.  Each  island 
wears  its  chalk-white  girdle  of  ice  be- 
tween the  rising  and  falling  tides  (edged 
with  black  at  low  water,  where  the  low- 
est-growing seaweed  is  exposed),  mak- 
ing the  stern  bare  rocks  above  more 
forbidding  by  their  contrast  with  its 
stark  whiteness, — and  the  whiteness 
of  salt-water  ice  is  ghastly.  Nothing 
stirs  abroad,  except  perhaps 

"  A  lonely  sea-bird  crosses, 
With  one  waft  of  wing," 

your  view,  as  you  gaze  from  some  spray- 
encrusted  window ;  or  you  behold  the 
weather-beaten  schooners  creeping 
along  the  blurred  coast-line  from  Cape 
Elizabeth  and  the  northern  ports  of 
Maine  towards  Cape  Ann,  laden  with 
lumber  or  lime,  and  sometimes,  rarely, 
with  hay  or  provisions. 

After  winter  has  fairly  set  in, 
the  lonely  dwellers  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  find  life  quite  as  much  as  they 
can  manage,  being  so  entirely  thrown 
upon  their  own  resources  that  it  re- 
quires all  the  philosophy  at  their  dis- 
posal to  answer  the  demand.  In  the 
village,  where  several  families  make  a 
little  community,  there  should  be  vari- 
ous human  interests  outside  each  sep- 
arate fireside  ;  but  of  their  mode  of  life 
I  know  little.  Upon  three  of  the  isl- 
ands live  isolated  families,  cut  off  by 
the  "  always  wind-obeying  deep  "  from 


each  other  and  from  the  mainland ; 
sometimes  for  weeks  together,  when  the 
gales  are  fiercest,  with  no  letters  nor 
any  intercourse  with  any  living  thing. 
Some  sullen  day  in  December  the  snow 
begins  to  fall,  and  the  last  touch  of 
desolation  is  laid  upon  the  scene :  there 
is  nothing  any  more  but  white  snow 
and  dark  water  hemmed  in  by  a  murky 
horizon,  and  nothing  moves  or  sounds 
within  its  circle  but  the  sea  harshly 
assailing  the  shore,  and  the  chill  wind 
that  sweeps  across.  Toward  night  the 
wind  begins  to  rise,  the  snow  whirls 
and  drifts  and  clings  wherever  it  can 
find  a  resting-place  ;  and  though  so 
much  is  blown  away,  yet  there  is 
enough  left  to  smother  up  the  rock  and 
make  it  almost  impossible  to  move 
about  on  it.  The  drifts  sometimes  are 
very  deep  in  the  hollows :  one  winter, 
sixteen  sheep  were  buried  in  a  drift, 
in  which  they  remained  a  week,  and, 
strange  to  say,  only  one  was  dead 
when  they  were  discovered.  One  goes 
to  sleep  in  the  muffled  roar  of  the  storm, 
and  wakes  to  find  it  still  raging  with 
senseless  fury  ;  all  day  it  continues  ;  to- 
wards night  the  curtain  of  falling  flakes 
withdraws,  a  faint  light  shows  west- 
ward ;  slowly  the  clouds  roll  together, 
the  lift  grows  bright  with  pale,  clear 
blue  over  the  land,  the  wind  has  hauled 
to  the  northwest,  and  the  storm  is  at  an 
end.  When  the  clouds  are  swept  away 
by  the  besom  of  the  pitiless  northwest, 
how  the  stars  glitter  in  the  frosty  sky  ! 
What  wondrous  streamers  of  northern 
lights  flare  through  the  winter  dark- 
ness !  I  have  seen  the  sky  at  midnight 
crimson  and  emerald  and  orange  and 
blue  in  palpitating  sheets  along  the 
whole  northern  half  of  the  heavens,  or 
rosy  to  the  zenith,  or  belted  with  a  bar 
of  solid  yellow  light  from  east  to  west, 
as  if  the  world  were  a  basket,  and  it 
the  golden  handle  thereto.  The  weath- 
er becomes  of  the  first  importance  to 
the  dwellers  on  the  rock  ;  the  changes 
of  the  sky  and  sea,  the  flitting  of  the 
coasters  to  and  fro,  the  visits  of  the 
sea-fowl,  sunrise  and  sunset,  the  chan- 
ging moon,  the  northern  lights,  the 
constellations  that  wheel  in  splendor 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


207 


h  the  winter  night,  —  all  are 
with  a  love  and  careful  scrutiny 
that  is  seldom  given  by  people  living 
in  populous  places.  One  grows  accus- 
tomed to  the  aspect  of  the  constella- 
tions, and  they  seem  like  the  faces  of 
old  friends  looking  down  out  of  the  aw- 
ful blackness,  and  when  in  summer 
the  great  Orion  disappears,  how  it  is 
missed  out  of  the  sky  !  I  remember 
the  delight  with  which  we  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  planet  Mercury,  in 
March,  1868,  following  close  at  the 
heels  of  the  sinking  sun,  redly  shining 
in  the  reddened  horizon,  a  stranger  mys- 
terious and  utterly  unknown  before. 

For  these  things  make  our  world : 
there  are  no  lectures,  operas,  concerts, 
theatres,  no  music  of  any  kind,  except 
what  the  waves  may  whisper  in  rarely 
gentle  moods  ;  no  galleries  of  won- 
ders like  the  Natural  History  rooms, 
in  which  it  is  so  fascinating  to  wander ; 
no  streets,  shops,  carriages,  no  post- 
man, no  neighbors,  not  a  door-bell 
within  the  compass  of  the  place ! 
Never  was  life  so  exempt  from  in- 
terruptions. The  eight  or  ten  small 
schooners  that  carry  on  winter  fishing, 
liying  to  and  fro  through  foam  and 
squall  to  set  and  haul  in  their  trawls, 
at  rare  intervals  bring  a  mail,  —  an  ac- 
cumulation of  letters,  magazines,  and 
newspapers  that  it  requires  a  long  time 
to  plod  through.  This  is  the  greatest 
excitement  of  the  long  winters  ;  and  no 
one  can  truly  appreciate  the  delight  of 
letters  till  he  has  lived  where  he  can 
hear  from  his  friends  only  once  in  a 
month. 

But  the  best-balanced  human  mind 
is  prone  to  lose  its  elasticity,  and  stag- 
nate, in  this  isolation.  One  learns  im- 
mediately the  value  of  work  to  keep 
one's  wits  clear,  cheerful,  and  steady ; 
just  as  much  real  work  of  the  body  as 
it  can  bear  without  weariness  being 
always  beneficent,  but  here  indispen- 
sable. And  in  this  matter  women  have 
the  advantage  of  men,  who  are  con- 
demned to  fold  their  hands  when  their 
tasks  are  done.  No  woman  need  ever 
have  a  vacant  minute,  —  there  are  so 
many  pleasant,  useful  things  which  she 


may,  and  had  better,  do.  Blessed  be 
the  man  who  invented  knitting!  (I 
never  heard  that  a  woman  invented 
this  or  any  other  art.)  It  is  the  most 
charming  and  picturesque  of  quiet  oc- 
cupations, leaving  the  knitter  free  to 
read  aloud,  or  talk,  or  think,  while 
steadily  and  surely  beneath  the  living 
!  the  comfortable  stocking  grmvs. 

No  one  can  dream  what  a  charm 
there  is  in  taking  care  of  pets,  singing- 
birds,  plants,  etc.,  with  such  advantages 
of  solitude;  how  every  leaf  and  bud 
and  flower  is  pored  over,  and  admired, 
and  loved  !  A  whole  conservatory, 
flushed  with  azaleas,  and  brilliant  with 
forests  of  camellias  and  every  precious 
exotic  that  blooms,  could  not  impart  so 
much  delight  as  I  have  known  a  single 
rose  to  give,  unfolding  in  the  bleak  bit- 
terness of  a  day  in  February,  when 
this  side  of  the  planet  seemed  to  have 
arrived  at  its  culmination  of  hopeless- 
ness, with  the  Isles  of  Shoals  the  most 
hopeless  speck  upon  its  surface.  One 
gets  close  to  the  heart  of  these  things  ; 
they  are  almost  as  precious  as  Picciola 
to  the  prisoner,  and  yield  a  fresh  and 
constant  joy,  such  as  the  pleasure-seek- 
ing inhabitants  of  cities  could  not  find 
in  their  whole  round  of  shifting  diver- 
sions. With  a  bright  and  cheerful  in- 
terior, open  fires,  books,  and  pictures, 
windows  full  of  thrifty  blossoming  plants 
and  climbing  vines,  a  family  of  singing- 
birds,  plenty  of  work,  and  a  clear  head 
and  quiet  conscience,  it  would  go  hard 
if  one  could  not  be  happy  even  in  such 
loneliness.  Books  of  course  are  ines- 
timable. Nowhere  does  one  follow  a 
play  of  Shakespeare's  with  greater 
zest,  for  it  brings  the  whole  world, 
which  you  need,  about  you ;  doubly 
precious  the  deep  thoughts  wise  men 
have  given  to  help  us, — doubly  sweet 
the  songs  of  all  the  poets  ;  for  nothing 
comes  between  to  distract  you. 

One  realizes  how  hard  it  was  for 
Robinson  Crusoe  to  keep  the  record  of 
his  lonely  days  ;  for  even  in  a  family  of 
eight  or  nine  the  succession  is  kept  with 
difficulty.  I  recollect  that,  after  an  un- 
usually busy  Saturday,  when  household 
work  was  done,  and  lessons  said,  and 


Among  tlic  Isles  of  SJioals. 


[February, 


the  family  were  looking  forward  to 
Sunday  and  merited  leisure,  at  sunset 
came  a  young  Star-Islander  on  some  er- 
rand to  our  door.  One  said  to  him, 
'•  Well,  Jud,  how  many  fish  have  they 
caught  to-day  at  Star?"  Jud  looked 
askance  and  answered,  like  one  who  did 
not  wish  to  be  trifled  with,  "  We  don't 
go  a-iishing  Sundays  !  "  So  we  had 
lost  our  Sunday,  thinking  it  was  Satur- 
day ;  and  next  day  began  the  usual  bus- 
iness, with  no  break  of  refreshing  rest 
between. 

Though  the  thermometer  says  that 
here  it  is  twelve  degrees  warmer  in 
winter  than  on  the  mainland,  the  differ- 
ence is  hardly  perceptible,  —  the  situa- 
tion is  so  bleak,  while  the  winds  of  the 
north  and  west  bite  like  demons,  with 
all  the  bitter  breath  of  the  snowy  conti- 
nent condensed  in  their  deadly  chill. 
Easterly  and  southerly  gales  are  mild- 
er ;  we  have  no  east  winds  such  as  sad- 
den humanity  on  shore  ;  they  are  tem- 
pered to  gentleness  by  some  mysterious 
means.  Sometimes  there  are  periods 
of  cold  which,  though  not  intense  (the 
mercury  seldom  falling  lower  than  1 1° 
above  zero),  are  of  such  long  duration 
that  the  fish  are  killed  in  the  sea. 
This  happens  frequently  with  perch, 
the  dead  bodies  of  which  strew  the 
shores  and  float  on  the  water  in 
masses.  Sometimes  ice  forms  in  the 
mouth  of  the  Piscataqua  River,  which, 
continually  broken  into  unequal  blocks 
by  the  rushing  tide  and  the  immense 
pressure  of  the  outer  ocean,  fill  the 
space  between  the  islands  and  the 
shore,  so  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  force 
a  boat  through.  The  few  schooners 
moored  about  the  islands  become  so 
loaded  with  ice  that  sometimes  they 
sink:  every  plunge  into  the  assailing 
waves  adds  a  fresh  crust,  infinitely 
thin  ;  but  in  twenty-four  hours  enough 
accumulates  to  sink  the  vessel ;  and  it 
is  part  of  the  day's  work  in  the  coldest 
weather  to  beat  off  the  ice,  — and  hard 
work  it  is.  Every  time  the  bowsprit 
dips  under,  the  man  who  sits  astride  it 
is  immersed  to  his  waist  in  the  freezing 
water,  as  he  beats  at  the  bow  to  free 
the  laboring  craft,  i  cannot  imagine 


a  harder  life  than  the  sailors  lead  in 
winter  in  the  coasting  -  vessels  that 
stream  in  endless  processions  to  and 
fro  along  the  shore  ;  and  they  seem 
to  be  the  hardest  set  of  people  under 
the  sun,  so  rough  and  reckless  that 
they  are  not  pleasant  even  at  a  dis- 
tance. Sometimes  they  land  here.  A 
crew  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  came  on 
shore  last  winter; — they  might  have 
been  the  ghosts  of  the  men  who 
manned  the  picaroons  that  used  to 
swarm  in  these  seas.  A  more  piratical- 
looking  set  could  not  well  be  imagined. 
They  roamed  about,  and  glared  in  at 
the  windows  with  weather-beaten,  bru- 
tal faces  and  eyes  that  showed  traces  of 
whiskey,  ugly  and  unmistakable. 

No  other  visitors  break  the  solitude 
of  Appledore,  except  neighbors  from 
Star  once  in  a  while :  if  any  one  is 
sick,  they  send  perhaps  for  medicine, 
or  milk  ;  or  they  bring  some  rare  fish; 
or  if  any  one  dies,  and  they  cannot 
reach  the  mainland,  they  come  to  get 
a  coffin  made.  I  never  shall  forget  one 
long,  dreary,  drizzly  northeast  storm, 
when  two  men  rowed  across  from  Star 
to  Appledore  on  this  errand.  A  little 
child  had  died,  and  they  could  not  sail 
to  the  mainland,  and  had  no  means  to 
construct  a  coffin  among  themselves. 
All  clay  I  watched  the  making  of  that 
little  chrysalis;  and  at  night  the  last 
nail  was  driven  in,  and  it  lay  across 
a  bench  in  the  midst  of  the  litter  of 
the  workshop,  and  a  curious  stillness 
seemed  to  emanate  from  the  senseless 
boards.  I  went  back  to  the  house  and 
gathered  a  handful  of  scarlet  geranium, 
and  returned  with  it  through  the  rain. 
The  brilliant  blossoms  were  sprinkled 
with  glittering  drops.  I  laid  them  in 
the  little  coffin,  while  the  wind  wailed  so 
sorrowfully  outside,  and  the  rain  poured 
against  the  windows.  Two  men  came 
through  the  mist  and  storm,  and  one 
swung  the  light  little  shell  to  his  shoul- 
der, and  they  carried  it  away,  and  the 
gathering  darkness  shut  down  and  hid 
them  as  they  tossed  among  the  waves. 
I  never  saw  the  little  girl,  but  where 
they  buried  her  I  know :  the  lighthouse 
shines  close  by,  and  every  night  the 


1870.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  SJioals. 


209 


quiet,  constant  ray  steals  to  her  grave 
and  softly  touches  it,  as  if  to  say,  with 
a  caress,  "  Sleep  well !  Be  thankful 
you  are  spared  so  much  that  I  see  hu- 
manity endure,  fixed  here  forever  where 
I  stand  ! " 

It  is  exhilarating,  spite  of  the  intense 
cold,  to  wake  to  the  brightness  the 
northwest  gale  always  brings,  after  the 
hopeless  smother  of  a  prolonged  snow- 
storm. The  sea  is  deep  indigo,  whit- 
ened with  flashing  waves  all  over  the 
surface  ;  the  sky  is  speckless  ;  no  cloud 
passes  across  it  the  whole  day  long ; 
and  the  sun  sets  red  and  clear,  without 
any  abatement  of  the  wind.  The  spray 
flying  on  the  western  shore  for  a  mo- 
ment is  rosy  as  the  sinking  sun  shines 
through,  but  for  a  moment  only, — and 
again  there  is  nothing  but  the  ghastly 
whiteness  of  the  salt-water  ice,  the  cold 
gray  rock,  the  sullen  foaming  brine, 
the  unrelenting  heavens,  and  the  sharp 
wind  cutting  like  a  knife.  All  night 
long  it  roars  beneath  the  hollow  sky,  — 
roars  still  at  sunrise.  Again  the  day 
passes  precisely  like  the  one  gone  be- 
fore, —  the  sun  lies  in  a  glare  of  quick- 
silver on  the  western  water,  sinks  again 
in  the  red  west  to  rise  on  just  such  an- 
other clay  ;  and  thus  goes  on,  for  weeks 
sometimes,  with  an  exasperating  perti- 
nacity that  would  try  the  most  philo- 
sophical patience.  There  comes  a  time 
when  just  that  glare  of  quicksilver  on 
the  water  is  not  to  be  endured  a  min- 
ute longer.  During  this  period  no  boat 
goes  to  or  comes  from  the  mainland, 
and  the  prisoners  on  the  rock  are  cut 
off  from  all  intercourse  with  their  kind. 
Abroad,  only  the  cattle  move,  crowding 
into  the  sunniest  corners,  and  stupidly 
chewing  the  cud,  —  and  the  hens  and 
ducks,  that  chatter  and  cackle  and 
cheerfully  crow  in  spite  of  fate  and  the 
northwest  gale.  The  dauntless  and 
graceful  gulls  soar  on  their  strong  pin- 
ions over  the  drift  cast  up  about  the 
coves.  Sometimes  flocks  of  snow-bunt- 
ings wheel  about  the  house  and  pierce 
the  loud  breathing  of  the  wind  with 
sweet,  wild  cries.  And  often  the -spec- 
tral arctic  owl  may  be  seen  on  a  height, 
sitting  upright  like  a  column  of  snow, 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  148.  14 


its  large  round  head  slowly  turning 
from  left  to  right,  ever  on  the  alert, 
watching  for  the  rats  that  plague  the 
settlement  almost  as  grievously  as  they 
did  Hamelin  town,  in  Brunswick,  five 
hundred  years  ago. 

How  the  rats  came  here  first  is  not 
known  ;  probably  some  old  ship  im- 
ported them.  They  live  partly  on  mus- 
sels, the  shells  of  which  lie  in  heaps 
about  their  holes,  as  the  violet-lined 
fresh-water  shells  lie  about  the  nests  of 
the  muskrats  on  the  mainland.  They 
burrow  among  the  rocks  close  to  the 
shore,  in  favorable  spots,  and,  some- 
what like  the  moles,  make  subterrane- 
an galleries,  whence  they  issue  at  low 
tide,  and,  stealing  to  the  crevices  of 
seaweed-curtained  rocks,  they  fall  up- 
on and  dislodge  any  unfortunate  crabs 
they  may  find,  and  kill  and  devour 
them.  Many  a  rat  has  caught  a  Tar- 
tar in  this  perilous  kind  of  hunting,  has 
been  dragged  into  the  sea  and  killed,  — 
drowned  in  the  clutches  of  the. crab  he 
sought  to  devour ;  for  the  strength  of 
these  shell-fish  is  something  astonish- 
ing. 

Several  snowy  owls  haunt  the  islands 
the  whole  winter  long.  I  have  never 
heard  them  cry  like  other  owls  :  when 
disturbed  or  angry,  they  make  a  sound 
like  a  watchman's  rattle,  very  loud  and 
harsh,  or  they  whistle  with  intense 
shrillness,  like  a  human  being.  Their 
habitual  silence  adds  to  their'  ghost- 
liness ;  and  when  at  noonday  they  sit, 
high  up,  snow-white,  above  the  snow- 
drifts, blinking  their  pale  yellow  eyes 
in  the  sun,  they  are  weird  indeed.  One 
night  in  March  I  saw  one  perched  upon 
a  rock  between  me  and  the  "  last  re- 
mains of  sunset  dimly  burning"  in  the 
west,  his  curious  outline  drawn  black 
against  the  redness  of  the  sky,  his 
large  head  bent  forward,  and  the  whole 
aspect  meditative  and  most  human  in 
its  expression.  I  longed  to  go  out  and 
sit  beside  him  and  talk  to  him  in  the 
twilight,  to  ask  of  him  the  story  of  his 
life,  or,  if  he  would  'have  permitted  it, 
to  watch  him  without  a  word.  The  plu- 
mage of  this  creature  is  wonderfully 
beautiful,  —  white,  with  scattered  spots 


210 


Among  tlie  IsL-s  of 


[February, 


like  little  flecks  of  tawny  cloud,  —  and 
his  black  beak  and  talons  arc  powerful 
and  sharp  as  iron  ;  lie  might  literally 
grapple  his  friend,  or  his  enemy,  with 
hooks  of  steel  As  he  is  clothed  in  a 
mass  of  down,  his  outlines  are  so  soft 
that  he  is  like  an  enormous  snow-flake 
while  flying,  and  he  is  a  sight  worth  see- 
ing when  he  stretches  wide  his  broad 
wings,  and  sweeps  down  on  his  prey, 
silent  and  swift,  with  an  unerring  aim, 
and  bears  it  off  to  the  highest  rock  he 
can  find,  to  devour  it.  In  the  summer 
one  finds  frequently  upon  the  heights 
a  little  solid  ball  of  silvery  fur  and  pure 
white  bones,  washed  and  bleached  by 
the  rain  and  sun  ;  it  is  the  rat's  skin 
and  skeleton  in  a  compact  •  bundle, 
which  the  owl  rejects  after  having 
swallowed  it. 

Some  quieter  day,  on  the  edge  of  a 
southerly  wind,  perhaps,  boats  go  out 
over  the  gray,  sad  water  after  sea-fowl, 
—  the  murres  that  swim  in  little  com- 
panies, keeping  just  out  of  reach  of 
shot,  and  are  s®  spiteful  that  they  beat 
the  boat  with  their  beaks,  when  wound- 
ed, in  impotent  rage,  till  they  are  de- 
spatched with  an  oar  or  another  shot ; 
or  kittiwakes,  —  exquisite  creatures  like 
living  forms  of  snow  and  cloud  in  color, 
with  beaks  and  feet  of  dull  gold,  —  that 
come  when  you  wave  a  white  handker- 
chief, and  flutter  almost  within  reach  of 
your  hand ;  or  oldwives,  called  by  the 
natives  scoldenores,  with  clean  white 
caps  ;  or  clumsy  eider-ducks,  or  coots, 
or  mergansers,  or  whatever  they  may 
find.  Black  clucks,  of  course,  are  often 
shot.  Their  jet-black,  shining  plumage 
is  splendidly  handsome,  set  off  with  the 
broad  flame-colored  beak.  Little  auks, 
stormy-petrels,  loons,  grebes,  lords-and- 
ladies,  sea-pigeons,  sea-parrots,  various 
guillemots,  and  all  sorts  of  gulls  abound. 
Sometimes  an  eagle  sweeps  over  ;  gan- 
nets  pay  occasional  visits  ;  the  great 
blue  heron  is  often  seen  in  autumn  and 
spring.  One  of  the  most  striking  birds 
is  the  cormorant,  called  here  "  shag  "  ; 
from  it  the  rock  at  Duck  Island  takes 
its  name.  It  used  to  be  an  object  of 
almost  awful  interest  to  me  when  I  be- 
held it  perched  upon  White  Island 


Head,  a  solemn  figure,  so  high  and  dark 
against  the  clouds  as  I  looked  up  to  it. 
Once,  while  living  on  that  island,  in  the 
thickest  of  a  great  storm  in  autumn, 
when  we  seemed  to  be  set  between  two 
contending  armies,  deafened  by  the 
continuous  cannonading  of  breakers, 
and  lashed  and  beaten  by  winds  and 
waters  till  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
hear  ourselves  speak,  we  became  aware 
of  another  sound,  which  pierced  to  our 
ears,  bringing  a  sudden  terror  lest  it 
should  be  the  voices  of  human  beings. 
Opening  the  window  a  little,  what  a  wild 
combination  of  sounds  came  shrieking 
in  !  A  large  flock  of  wild  geese  had  set- 
tled for  "safety  upon  the  rock,  and  com- 
pletely surrounded  us,  — agitated,  clam- 
orous, weary  ;  we  might  have  secured 
any  number  of  them,  but  it  would  have 
been  a  shameful  thing.  We  were  glad, 
indeed,  that  they  should  share  our  little 
foothold  in  that  chaos,  and  they  flew 
away  unhurt  when  the  tempest  lulled. 
I  was  a  very  young  child  when  this 
happened,  but  I  never  can  forget  that 
autumn  night.  —  it  seemed  so  wonder- 
ful and  pitiful  that  those  storm-beaten 
birds  should  have  come  crying  to  our 
rock  ;  and  the  strange  wild  chorus  that 
swept  in  when  the  window  was  pried 
open  a  little  took  so  strong  a  hold 
upon  my  imagination  that  I  shall  hear 
it  as  long  as  I  live.  The  lighthouse, 
so  beneficent  to  mankind,  is  the  de- 
stroyer of  birds,  —  of  land  birds  particu- 
larly, though  in  thick  weather  sea-birds 
are  occasionally  bewildered  into  break- 
ing their  heads  against  the  glass,  plun- 
ging forward  headlong  towards  the 
light,  just  as  the  frail  moth  of  summer 
evenings  madly  seeks  its  death  in  the 
candle's  blaze.  Sometimes  in  autumn. 
always  in  spring,  when  birds  are  mi- 
grating, they  are  destroyed  in  such 
quantities  by  this  means  that  it  is  pain- 
ful to  reflect  upon.  The  keeper  living 
at  the  island  three  years  ago  told  me 
that  he  picked  up  three  hundred  and 
seventy-five  in  one  morning  at  the  foot 
of  the  lighthouse,  all  dead.  They  fly 
with  such  force  against  the  glass  that 
their  beaks  are  often  splintered.  The 
keeper  said  he  found  the  destruction 


1 87Q.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Skoals. 


211 


greatest  in  hazy  weather,  and  he  thought 
"  they  struck  a  ray  at  a  great  distance, 
and  followed  it  up."  Many  a  May 
morning  have  I  wandered  about  the 
rock  at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  mourning 
over  a  little  apron  brimful  of  sparrows, 
swallows,  thrushes,  robins,  fire-winged 
blackbirds,  many-colored  warblers  and 
fly-catchers,  beautifully  clothed  yellow- 
birds,  nuthatches,  cat-birds,  even  the 
purple  finch  and  scarlet  tanager  and 
golden  oriole,  and  many  more  beside, 
—  enough  to  break  the  heart  of  a  small 
child  to  think  of!  Once  a  great  eagle 
flew  against  the  lantern  and  shivered 
the  glass.  That  was  before  I  lived 
there  ;  but  after  we  came,  two  gulls 
cracked  one  of  the  large  clear  panes 
one  stormy  night. 

The  sea-birds  are  comparatively  t<~'W 
and  shy  at  this  time;  but  I  remember 
when  they  were  plentiful  enough,  when 
on  Duck  Island  in  summer  the  "med- 
rakes,"  or  tern,  made  rude  nests  on 
the  beach,  and  the  little  yellow  gulls, 
just  out  of  the  eggs,  ran  tumbling  about 
among  the  stones,  hiding  their  foolish 
heads  in  every  crack  and  cranny,  and, 
like  the  ostrich,  imagining  themselves 
safe  so  long  as  they  could  not  see  the 
danger.  And  even  now  the  sandpipers 
build  in  numbers  on  the  islands,  and 
the  young  birds,  which  look  like  tiny 
tufts  of  fog,  run  about  among  the  bay- 
berry-bushes,  with  sweet  scared  piping. 
They  are  exquisitely  beautiful  and  deli- 
cate, covered  with  a  down  just  like 
gray  mist,  with  brilliant  black  eyes,  and 
slender  graceful  legs  that  make  one 
think  of  grass-stems.  And  here  the 
loons  congregate  in  spring  and  autumn. 
These  birds  seem  to  me  the  most  hu- 
man and  at  the  same  time  the  most  de- 
moniac of  their  kind.  I  learned  to  imi- 
tate their  different  cries  ;  they  are  won- 
derful !  At  one  time  the  loon  language 
was  so  familiar  that  I  could  almost 
always  summon  a  considerable  flock 
by  going  down  to  the  water  and  assum- 
ing the  neighborly  and  conversational 
tone  which  they  generally  use  :  after 
calling  a  few  minutes,  first  a  far-oiT 
voice  responded,  then  other  voices  an- 
swered him,  and  when  this  was  kept  up 


a  while,  half  a  dozen  birds  would  come 
sailing  in.  It  was  the  most  delightful 
little  party  imaginable  ;  so  comical  were 
they,  so  entertaining,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible not  to  laugh  aloud,  —  and  they 
could  laugh  too.  in  a  way  which  chilled 
the  marrow  of  one's  bones.  They  al- 
ways laugh,  when  shot  at,  if  they  are 
missed;  as  the  Shoalcrs  say,  "They 
laugh  like  a  warrior."  But  their  long, 
wild,  melancholy  cry  before  a  storm  is 
the  most  awful  note  I  ever  heard  from 
a  bird.  It  is  so  sad,  so  hopeless,  —  a 
clear,  high  shriek,  shaken,  as  it  drops 
into  silence,  into  broken  notes  that 
make  you  think  of  the  fluttering  of  a 
pennon  in  the  wind.  —  a  shudder  of 
sound.  They  invariably  utter  this  cry 
before  a  storm. 

Between  the  gales  from  all  points  of 
the  compass,  that 

"  "twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war," 

some  day  there  falls  a  dead  calm, 
the  whole  expanse  of  the  ocean  is  like 
a  mirror,  there  's  not  a  whisper  of  a 
wave,  not  a  sigh  from  any  wind  about 
the  world,  —  an  awful  breathless  pause 
prevails.  Then  if  a  loon  swims  into  the 
motionless  little  bights  about  the  island 
and  raises  his  weird  cry,  the  silent  rocks 
re-echo  the  unearthly  tone,  and  it  seems 
as  if  the  creature  were  in  league  with 
the  mysterious  forces  that  are  so  soon 
to  turn  this  deathly  stillness  into  confu- 
sion and  dismay.  All  through  the  day 
the  ominous  quiet  lasts  ;  in  the  after- 
noon, while  yet  the  sea  is  glassy,  a  cu- 
rious undertone  of  mournful  sound  can 
be  perceived,  —  not  fitful,  —  a  steady 
moan  such  as  the  wind  makes  over 
the  mouth  of  an  empty  jar.  Then 
the  islanders  say,  "  Do  you  hear  Hog 
Island  crying  ?  Now  look  out  for  a 
storm  !  "  No  one  knows  how  that  low 
moaning  is  produced,  or  why  Apple- 
dore,  of  all  the  islands,  should  alone 
lament  before  the  tempest.  Through 
its  gorges  perhaps  some  current  of 
wind  sighs  with  that  hollow  cry.  Yet 
the  sea  could  hardly  keep  its  unruffled 
surface  were  a  wind  abroad  sufficient 
to  draw  out  the  boding  sound.  Such  a 
calm  preceded  the  storm  which  de- 


212 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[February, 


stroyed  the  Minot's  Ledge  Lighthouse 
in  1849.  I  never  knew  such  silence. 
Though  the  sun  blazed  without  a  cloud, 
the  sky  and  sea  were  utterly  wan  and 
colorless,  and  before  sunset  the  myste- 
rious tone  began  to  vibrate  in  the 
breezeless  air.  "Hog  Island's  cry- 
ing !  "  said  the  islanders.  One  could 
but  think  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  as 
the  angry  sun  went  down  in  a  brassy 
glare  and  still  no  ripple  broke  the  calm. 
J3ut  with  the  twilight  gathered  the  wait- 
ing wind,  slowly  and  steadily,  and  be- 
fore morning  the  shock  of  the  breakers 
•was  like  the  continuous  thundering  of 
heavy  guns  ;  the  solid  rock  perceptibly 
trembled,  windows  shook,  and  glass  and 
china  rattled  in  the  house.  It  is  im- 
possible to  describe  the  confusion,  the 
iumult,  the  rush  and  roar  and  thunder 
of  waves  and  wind  overwhelming  those 
rocks,  the  whole  Atlantic  rushing  head- 
long to  cast  itself  upon  them.  It  was 
very  exciting :  the  most  timid  among 
us  lost  all  sense  of  fear.  Before  the 
next  night  the  sea  had  made  a  breach 
through  the  valley,  on  Appledore,  in 
-which  the  houses  stand,  —  a  thing  that 
•never  had  happened  within  the  memory 
•of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  The  waves 
piled  in  from  the  eastward  (where  Old 
Harry  was  tossing  the  breakers  sky- 
high), —  a  maddened  troop  of  giants, 
sweeping  everything  before  them,  — and 
followed  one  another,  white  as  milk, 
•through  the  valley  from  east  to  west, 
strewing  the  space  with  boulders  from 
a  solid  wall  six  feet  high  and  as  many 
thick,  which  ran  across  the  top  of  the 
beach,  and  which  one  tremendous  wave 
toppled  over  like  a  child's  fence  of 
blocks.  Kelp  and  sea-weed  were  piled 
in  banks  high  up  along  the  shore,  and 
strewed  the  doorsteps,  and  thousands 
•of  the  hideous  creatures  known  among 
the  Shoalers  as  sea-mice,  a  kind  of  holo- 
thuria  (a  livid,  shapeless  mass  of  torpid 
life),  were  scattered  in  all  directions. 
While  the  storm  was  at  its  height,  it 
was  impossible  to  do  anything  but 
watch  it  through  windows  beaten  by  the 
blinding  spray  which  burst  in  flying 
clouds  all  over  the  island,  drenching 
.-every  inch  of  the  soil  in  foaming  brine. 


In  the  coves  the  "  yeasty  surges  "  were 
churned  into  yellow  masses  of  foam, 
that  blew  across  in  trembling  flakes,  and 
clung  wherever  they  lit,  leaving  a  hoary 
scum  of  salt  when  dry,  which  remained 
till  sweet  fair  water  dropped  out  of  the 
clouds  to  wash  it  all  away.  It  was 
long  before  the  sea  went  down  ;  and 
days  after  the  sun  began  to  shine  the 
fringe  of  spray  still  leaped  skyward 
from  the  eastern  shore,  and  Shag  and 
Mingo  Rocks  at  Duck  Island  tossed 
their  distant  clouds  of  snow  against 
the  blue. 

After  the  wind  subsided,  it  was  curi- 
ous to  examine  the  effects  of  the  break- 
ers on  the  eastern  shore,  where  huge 
masses  of  rock  were  struck  off  from 
the  cliffs  and  flung  among  the  wild 
heaps  of  scattered  boulders,  to  add  to 
the  already  hopeless  confusion  of  the 
gorges.  The  eastern  aspects  of  the  isl- 
ands change  somewhat  every  year  or 
two  from  this  cause,  and  indeed  over  all 
their  surfaces  continual  change  goes  on 
from  the  action  of  the  weather.  Under 
the  hammer  and  chisel  of  frost  and 
heat,  masses  of  stone  are  detached  and 
fall  from  the  edges  of  cliffs,  whole 
ledges  become  disintegrated,  the  rock 
cracks  in  smooth  thin  sheets,  and,  once 
loosened,  the  whole  mass  can  be  pulled 
out,  sheet  by  sheet.  Twenty  years  ago 
those  subtle,  irresistible  tools  of  the 
weather  had  cracked  off  a  large  mass 
of  rock  from  a  ledge  on  the  slope  of  a 
gentle  declivity.  I  could  just  lay  my 
hand  in  the  space  then  :  now  three  men 
can  walk  abreast  between  the  ledge 
and  the  detached  mass,  —  and  nothing 
has  touched  it  save  heat  and  cold. 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  rocks  is  infi- 
nitely aged.  I  never  can  see  the  beau- 
tiful salutation  of  sunrise  upon  their 
hoary  fronts,  without  thinking  how 
many  millions  of  times  they  have  an- 
swered to  that  delicate  touch.  On 
Boone  Island,  a  low,  dangerous  rock 
fifteen  miles  east  of  the  Shoals,  the  sea 
has  even  greater  opportunities  of  de- 
struction, —  the  island  is  so  low.  Once, 
after  a  stormy  night,  the  lighthouse- 
keeper  told  me,  the  family  found  a  great 
stone,  weighing  half  a  ton,  in  the  back 


Among  tJie  Isles  of  Shoals. 


213 


entry,  which  Father  Neptune  had  de- 
posited there,  —  his  card,  with  his  com- 
pliments ! 

Often  tremendous  breakers  encom- 
pass the  islands  when  the  surface  of 
the  sea  is  perfectly  calm  and  the  weath- 
er serene  and  still,  —  the  results  of  great 
storms  far  out  at  sea.  A  "  long  swell  " 
swings  indolently,  and  the  great  waves 
roll  in  as  if  tired  and  half  asleep,  to 
burst  into  clouds  of  splendor  against 
the  cliffs.  Very  different  is  their  hur- 
ried, eager  breaking  when  the  shoul- 
der of  a  gale  compels  them.  There 
is  no  sound  more  gentle,  more  slum- 
berous, than  the  distant  roll  of  these 
billows,  — 

"  The  rolling  sea  resounding  soft," 

as  Spenser  has  it.  The  rush  of  a  fully 
alive  and  closely  pursued  breaker  is  at 
a  distance  precisely  like  that  which  a 
rocket  makes,  sweeping  headlong  up- 
ward through  the  air  ;  but  the  other  is 
a  long  and  peaceful  sigh,  a  dreamy,  lull- 
ing, beautiful  sound,  which  produces  a 
Lethean  forgetfulness  of  care  and  pain, 
makes  all  earthly  ill  seem  unreal,  and  it 
is  as  if  one  wandered 

"  In  dreamful  wastes,  where  footless  fancies  dwell.'-' 

It  requires  a  strong  effort  to  emerge 
from  this  lotus-eating  state  of  mind. 
O,  lovely  it  is,  on  sunny  afternoons  to 
sit  high  up  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock 
and  look  down  on  the  living  magnifi- 
cence of  breakers  such  as  made  music 
about  us  after  the  Minot's  Ledge  storm, 
—  to  watch  them  gather,  one  after  an- 
other, 


'  Cliffs  of  emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lift  and  lift,  and  then  let  go 
A  great  whitu  avalanche  of  thunder," 


which  makes  the  solid  earth  tremble,, 
and  you,  clinging  to  the  moist  rock, 
feel  like  a  little  cockle-shell !  If  you 
are  out  of  the  reach  of  the  ponderous 
fall  of  spray,  the  line  salt  mist  will  still 
stream  about  you  and  salute  your  cheek 
with  the  healthful  freshness  of  the  brine, 
make  your  hair  damp,  and  encrust  your 
eyebrows  with  salt.  While  you  sit 
watching  the  shifting  splendor,  uprises- 
at  once  a  higher  cloud  than  usual ;  and 
across  it  springs  a  sudden  rainbow, 
like  a  beautiful  thought  beyond  the 
reach  of  human  expression.  High  over 
your  head  the  white  gulls  soar,  gath- 
ering the  sunshine  in  the  snowy  hol- 
lows of  their  wings.  As  you  look  up 
to  them  floating  in  the  fathomless  blue, 
there  is  something  awful  in  the  purity 
of  that  arch  beneath  their  wings,  in 
light  or  shade,  as  the  broad  pinions 
move  with  stately  grace.  There  is  no- 
bird  so  white,  —  nor  swan,  nor  dove, 
nor  mystic  ibis :  about  the  ocean-mar- 
ges there  is  no  dust  to  soil  their  per- 
fect snow,  and  no  stormy  wind  can 
ruffle  their  delicate  plumes,  —  the  beau- 
tiful, happy  creatures  !  One  never  tires 
of  watching  them.  Again  and  again 
appears  the  rainbow  with  lovely  colors 
melting  into  each  other  and  vanishing, 
to  appear  again  at  the  next  upspringing 
of  the  spray.  On  the  horizon  the  white 
sails  shine  ;  and  far  and  wide  spreads 
the  blue  of  the  sea,  with  nothing  be- 
tween you  and  the  eastern  continent 
across  its  vast,  calm  plain. 


The   Way  to  Sing.  [February, 


THE    WAY     TO     SING. 

THE  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 
Will  sing  as  they. 

The  common  air  has  generous  wings: 
Songs  make  their  way. 

No  messenger  to  run  before, 

Devising  plan  ; 
No  mention  of  the  place,  or  hour, 

To  any  man ; 
No  waiting  till  some  sound  betrays 

A  listening  ear ; 
No  different  voice,  no  new  delays, 

If  steps  draw  near. 

"What  bird  is  that?     The  song  is  good." 

And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood 

In  glad  surprise. 
Then,  late  at  night,  when  by  his  fire 

The  traveller  sits, 
Watching  the  flame  grow  brighter,  higher, 

The  sweet  song  flits, 
By  snatches,  through  his  weary  brain, 

To  help  him  rest : 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again, 

An  empty  nest 
On  leafless  bough  will  make  him  sigh: 

"  Ah  me  !  last  spring, 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  passing  by, 

That  rare  bird  sing." 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song, 
The  little  bird,  on  tireless  wing, 

Is  borne  along 
In  other  air ;  and  other  men, 

With  weary  feet, 
On  other  roads,  the  simple  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 

The  birds  must  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they. 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings : 

Songs  make  their  way. 


i8;cx] 


Life  in  tJic  Brick  Moon. 


215 


LIFE     IN     THE    BRICK    MOON. 


!  1  mm    the   Papers  of  Colonel    Frederic    Ingham.j 


THFY  DECLARF  TN-i>FJM-,\i>r\ 

HOW  astonishing  it  is  to  think  that 
we  so  readily  accept  a  position 
when  we  once  understand  it.  You  buy 
a  new  house.  You  are  fool  enough  to 
take  out  a  staircase  that  you  may  put 
in  a  bathing-room.  This  will  be  done 
in  a  fortnight,  everybody  tells  you,  and 
then  everybody  begins.  Plumbers, 
masons,  carpenters,  plasterers,  skim- 
mers, bell-hangers,  speaking-tube  men, 
men  who  make  furnace- pipe,  paper- 
hangers,  men  who  scrape  off  the  old 
paper,  and  other  men  who  take  off  the 
old  paint  with  alkali,  gas  men,  city 
water  men,  and  painters  begin.  To 
them  are  joined  a  considerable  number 
of  furnace-men's  assistants,  stovepipe- 
men's  assistants,  masons'  assistants, 
and  hodmen  who  assist  the  assistants 
of  the  masons,  the  furnace-men,  and 
the  pipe-men.  For  a  day  or  two  these 
all  take  possession  of  the  house  and 
reduce  it  to  chaos.  In  the  language 
of  Scripture,  they  enter  in  and  dwell 
there.  Then  you  revisit  it  at  the  end 
of  the  fortnight,  and  find  it  in  chaos, 
with  the  woman  whom  you  employed 
to  wash  the  attics  the  only  person  on 
the  scene.  You  ask  her  where  the 
paper-hanger  is ;  and  she  says  he  can 
do  nothing  because  the  plaster  is  not 
dry.  You  ask  why  the  plaster  is  not 
<lry,  and  are  told  it  is  because  the  fur- 
nace man  has  not  come.  You  send  for 
him,  and  he  says  he  did  come,  but  the 
stove-pipe  man  w;i .  ;iway.  You  send 
j4br  him,  and  he  sn\  >  lie  lest  a  day  in 
coming,  but  that  the  mason  had  not  cut 
the  right  hole  in  the  chimney.  You  go 
and  find  the  mason,  and  he  says  they 
are  all  fools,  and  that  there  is  nothing 
in  the  house  that  need  take  two  days 
to  finish. 

Then  you  curse,  not  the  day  in 
which  you  were  born,  but  the  day  in 
•which  bath-rooms  were  invented.  You 


say,  truly,  that  your  father  and  mother, 
from  whom  you  inherit  every  moral  and 
physical  faculty  you  prize,  never  had  a 
bath-room  till  they  were  past  sixty,  yet 
they  thrived,  and  their  children.  You 
sneak  through  back  streets,  fearful  lest 
your  friends  shall  ask  you  when  your 
house  will  be  finished.  You  are  sunk 
in  wretchedness,  unable  even  to  read 
your  proofs  accurately,  far  less  able 
to  attend  the  primary  meetings  of  the 
party  with  which  you  vote,  or  to  dis- 
charge any  of  the  duties  of  a  good 
citizen.  Life  is  wholly  embi  ttered  to  you. 

Yet,  six  weeks  after,  you  sit  before  a 
soft-coal  fire,  in  your  new  house,  with 
the  feeling  that  you  have  always  lived 
there.  You  are  not  even  grateful  that 
you  are  there.  You  have  forgotten  the 
plumber's  name  ;  and  if  you  met  in 
the  street  that  nice  carpenter  that 
drove  things  through,  you  would  just 
nod  to  him,  and  would  not  think  of 
kissing  him  or  embracing  him. 

Thus  completely  have  you  accepted 
the  situation. 

Let  me  confess  that  the  same  expe- 
rience is  that  with  which,  at  this  writ- 
ing, I  regard  the  BRICK  MOON.  It  is 
there  in  ether.  I  cannot  keep  it.  I 
cannot  get  it  down.  I  cannot  well  go 
to  it,  —  though  possibly  thfct  might  be 
done,  as  you  will  see.  They  are  all 
very  happy  there, —  much  happier,  as 
far  as  I  can  see,  than  if  they  lived  in 
sixth  floors  in  Paris,  in  lodgings  in 
London,  or  even  in  tenement-houses 
in  Phoenix  Place,  Boston.  There  are 
disadvantages  attached  to  their  posi- 
tion ;  but  there  are  also  advantages. 
And  what  most  of  all  tends  to  our  ac- 
cepting the  situation  is,  that  there  is 
'•  nothing  that  we  can  do  about  it,"  as 
Q.  says,  but  to  keep  up  our  correspond- 
ence with  them,  and  to  express  our 
sympathies. 

For  them,  their  responsibilities  are 
reduced,  in  somewhat  the  same  pro- 


216 


Life  in  the  Brick  Mean. 


[February, 


portion  as  the  gravitation  which  binds 
them  down,  —  I  had,  almost  said  to 
earth, — which  binds  them  down  to 
brick,  I  mean.  This  decrease  of  re- 
sponsibility must  make  them  as  light- 
hearted  as  the  loss  of  gravitation  makes 
them  light-bodied. 

On  which  point  I  ask  for  a  moment's 
attention.  And  as  these  sheets  leave 
my  hand,  an  illustration  turns  up,  which 
well  serves  me.  It  is  the  23d  of  Octo- 
ber. Yesterday  morning  all  wakeful 
women  in  New  England  were  sure 
there  was  some  one  under  the  bed. 
This  is  a  certain  sign  of  an  earthquake. 
And  when  we  read  the  evening  news- 
papers we  were  made  sure  that  there 
had  been  an  earthquake.  What  bless- 
ings the  newspapers  are,  —  and  how 
much  information  they  give  us  !  Well, 
they  said  it  was  not  very  severe  here, 
but  perhaps  it  was  more  severe  else- 
where;  hopes  really  arising  in  the 
editorial  mind,  that  in  some  Caraccas 
or  Lisbon  all  churches  and  the  cathe- 
dral might  have  fallen.  I  did  not  hope 
for  that.  But  I  did  have  just  the 
faintest  feeling,  that  if — if — if — it 
should  prove  that  the  world  had  blown 
up  into  six  or  eight  pieces,  and  they 
had  gone  off  into  separate  orbits,  life 
would  be  vastly  easier  for  all  of  us,  on 
whichever  bit  we  happened  to  be. 

That  thing  has  happened,  they 
say,  once.  Whenever  the  big  planet 
between  Mars  and  Jupiter  blew  up, 
and  divided  himself  into  one  hundred 
and  two  or  more  asteroids,  the  peo- 
ple on  each  one  only  knew  there  had 
been  an  earthquake,  until  they  read 
their  morning  journals.  And  then,  all 
that  they  knew  at  first  was  that  tele- 
graphic communication  had  ceased,  be- 
yond —  say  two  hundred  miles.  Grad- 
ually people  and  despatches  came  in, 
who  said  that  they  had  parted  company 
with  some  of  the  other  islands  and 
continents.  But,  as  I  say,  on  each 
piece  the  people  not  only  weighed 
much  less,  but  were  much  lighter- 
hearted,  had  less  responsibility. 

Now  will  you  imagine  the  enthusi- 
asm here,  at  Miss  Wilby's  school,  when 
it  should  be  announced  that  geography, 


in  future,  would  be  confined  to  the 
study  of  the  region  east  of  the  Missis- 
sippi and  west  of  the  Atlantic,  —  the 
earth  having  parted  at  the  seams  so 
named.  No  more  study  of  Italian, 
German,  French,  or  Sclavonic,  —  the 
people  speaking  those  languages  being 
now  in  different  orbits  or  other  worlds. 
Imagine  also  the  superior  ease  of  the 
office-work  of  the  A.  B.  C.  F.  M.  and 
kindred  societies,  the  duties  of  in- 
struction and  civilizing,  of  evangeliz- 
ing in  general,  being  reduced  within  so 
much  narrower  bounds.  For  you  and 
me  also,  who  cannot  decide  what  Mr. 
Gladstone  ought  to  do  with  the  land 
tenure  in  Ireland,  and  who  distress 
ourselves  so  much  about  it  in  conversa- 
tion, what  a  satisfaction  to  know  that 
Great  Britian  is  flung  off  with  one  rate 
of  movement,  Ireland  with  another, 
and  the  Isle  of  Man  with  another,  into 
space,  with  no  more  chance  of  meet- 
ing again  than  there  is  that  you  shall 
have  the  same  hand  at  whist  to-night 
that  you  had  last  night !  Even  Victo- 
ria would  sleep  easier,  and  I  am  sure 
Mr.  Gladstone  would. 

Thus,  I  say,  were  Orcutt's  and  Bran- 
nan's  responsibilities  so  diminished, 
that  after  the  first  I  began  to  see  that 
their  contracted  position  had  its  de- 
cided compensating  ameliorations. 

In  these  views,  I  need  not  say,  the 
women  of  our  little  circle  never  shared. 
After  we  got  the  new  telegraph  arrange- 
ment in  good  running -order,  I  ob- 
served that  Polly  and  Annie  Halibur- 
ton  had  many  private  conversations, 
and  the  secret  came  out  one  morning, 
when,  rising  early  in  the  cabins,  we 
men  found  they  had  deserted  us  ;  and 
then,  going  in  search  of  them,  found 
them  running  the  signal  boards  in  and 
out  as  rapidly  as  they  could,  to  tell 
Mrs.  Brannan  and  the  bride  Alice  Or- 
cutt  that  flounces  were  worn  an  inch 
and  a  half  deeper,  and  that  people 
trimmed  now  with  harmonizing  colors 
and  not  with  contrasts.  I  did  not  say 
that  I  believed  they  wore  fig-leaves  in 
B.  M.,  but  that  was  my  private  impres- 
sion. 

After  all,  it  was  hard  to  laugh  at  the 


1 870.] 


Life  in  tJie  Brick  Moon. 


217 


girls,  as  these  ladies  will  be  called, 
should  they  live  to  be  as  old  as  Helen 
was  when  she  charmed  the  Trojan  sen- 
ate (that  was  ninety-three,  if  Heyne  be 
right  in  his  calculations).  It  was  hard  td 
laugh  at  them,  because  this  was  simple 
benevolence,  and  the  same  benevo- 
lence led  to  a  much  more  practical  sug- 
gestion, when  Polly  came  to  me  and 
told  me  she  had  been  putting  up  some 
baby  things  for  little  lo  and  Phoebe, 
and  some  playthings  for  the  older  chil- 
dren, and  she  thought  we  might  "send 
up  a  bundle." 

Of  course  we  could.  There  were  the 
Flies  still  moving!  or  we  might  go  our- 
selves ! 

[And  here  the  reader  must  indulge 
3iie  in  a  long  parenthesis.  I  beg  him  to 
benr  me 'witness  that  I  never  made  one 
before.  This  parenthesis  is  on  the 
tunse  that  I  am  obliged  to  use  in  send- 
ing to  the  press  these  minutes.  The 
reader  observes  that  the  last  transac- 
tions mentioned  happen  in  April  and 
May.  1871.  Those  to  be  narrated  are 
the  sequence  o£  those  already  told. 
Speaking  of  them  in  1870  with  the 
coarse  tenses  of  the  English  language 
is  very  difficult.  One  needs,  for  ac- 
curacy, a  pure  future,  a  second  future, 
a  paulo-post  future,  and  a  paulum-ante 
future,  none  of  which  does  this  lan- 
guage have.  Failing  this,  one  would 
be  glad  of  an  a-orist,  —  tense  without 
time,  —  if  the  grammarians  will  not 
swoon  at  hearing  such  language.  But 
the  English  tongue  hath  not  that  either. 
Doth  the  learned  reader  remember  that 
the  Hebrew,  —  language  of  history  and 
prophecy,  — hath  only  a  past  and  a  fu- 
ture tense,  but  hath  no  present  ?  Yet 
that  language  succeeded  tolerably  in 
expressing  the  present  griefs  or  joys  of 
David  and  of  Solomon.  Bear  with  me, 
then,  O  critic  !  if  even  in  1870  I  use 
the  so-called  past  tenses  in  narrating 
what  remaineth  of  this  history  up  to 
the  summer  of  1872.  End  of  the  pa- 
renthesis.] 

On  careful  consideration,  however, 
no  one  volunteers  to  go.  To  go, 
if  you  observe,  would  require  that  a 
man  envelope  himself  thickly  in  as- 


bestos or  some  similar  non-conducting 
substance,  leap  boldly  on  the  rapid 
Flies,  and  so  be  shot  through  the 
earth's  atmosphere  in  two  seconds  and 
a  fraction,  carrying  with  him  all  the 
time  in  a  non-conducting  receiver  the 
condensed  air  he  needed,  and  landing 
quietly  on  B.  M.  by  a  pre-calculated 
orbit.  At  the  bottom  of  our  hearts  I 
think  we  were  all  afraid.  Some  of  us 
confessed  to  fear  ;  others  said,  and  said 
truly,  that  the  population  of  the  Moon 
was  already  dense,  and  that  it  did  not 
seem  reasonable  or  worth  while,  on 
any  account,  to  make  it  denser.  Nor 
has  any  movement  been  renewed  for 
going.  But  the  plan  of  the  bundle  of 
"  things  "  seemed  more  feasible,  as  the 
things  would  not  require  oxygen.  The 
only  precaution  seemed  to  be  that  which 
was  necessary  for  protecting  the  parcel 
against  combustion  as  it  shot  through 
the  earth's  atmosphere.  We  had  not 
asbestos  enough.  It  was  at  first  pro- 
posed to  pack  them  all  in  one  of  Pro- 
fessor Horsford's  safes.  But  when  I 
telegraphed  this  plan  to  Orcutt,  he  de- 
murred. Their  atmosphere  was  but 
shallow,  and  with  a  little  too  much  force 
the  corner  of  the  safe  might  knock  a 
very  bad  hole  in  the  surface  of  his 
world.  He  said  if  we  would  send  up 
first  a  collection  of  things  of  no  great 
weight,  but  of  considerable  bulk,  he 
would  risk  that,  but  he  would  rather 
have  no  compact  metals. 

I  satisfied  myself,  therefore,  with  a 
plan  which  I  still  think  good.  Making 
the  parcel  up  in  heavy  old  woollen  car- 
pets, and  cording  it  with  worsted  cords, 
we  would  case  it  in  a  carpet-bag 
larger  than  itself,  and  fill  in  the  inter- 
stice with  dry  sand,  as  our  best  non- 
conductor; cording  this  tightly  again, 
we  would  renew  the  same  casing,  with 
more  sand ;  and  so  continually  offer 
surfaces  of  sand  and  woollen,  till  we  had 
five  separate  layers  between  the  parcel 
and  the  air.  Our  calculation  was  that 
a  perceptible  time  would  be  necessary 
for  the  burning  and  disintegrating  of 
each  sand-bag.  If  each  one,  on  the 
average,  wo*ld  stand  two  fifths  of  a 
second,  the  inner  parcel  would  get 


218 


Life  in  the  Brick  Moon. 


[February, 


through  the  earth's  atmosphere  un- 
consumed.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  they 
lasted  a  little  longer,  the  bag,  as  it 
fell  on  B.  M.,  would  not  be  unduly 
heavy.  Of  course  we  could  take  their 
night  for  the  experiment,  so  that  we 
might  be  sure  they  should  all  be  in  bed 
and  out  of  the  way. 

We  had  very  funny  and  very  merry 
times  in  selecting  things  important 
enough  and  at  the  same  time  bulky  and 
light  enough  to  be  safe.  Alice  and 
Bertha  at  once  insisted  that  there  must 
be  room  for  the  children's  playthings. 
They  wanted  to  send  the  most  ap- 
proved of  the  old  ones,  and  to  add 
some  new  presents.  There  was  a 
woolly  sheep  in  particular,  and  a  water- 
ing-pot that  Rose  had  given  Fanny, 
about  which  there  was  some  sentiment ; 
boxes  of  dominos,  packs  of  cards, 
magnetic  fishes,  bows  and  arrows, 
checker-boards  and  croquet  sets.  Pol- 
ly and  Annie  were  more  considerate. 
Down  to  Coleman  and  Company  they 
sent  an  order  for  pins,  needles,  hooks 
and  eyes,  buttons,  tapes,  and  I  know- 
not  what  essentials.  India-rubber  shoes 
for  the  children,  Mrs.  Haliburton  in- 
sisted on  sending.  Haliburton  himself 
bought  open-eye-shut-eye  dolls,  though 
I  felt  that  wax  had  been,  since  Icarus's 
days,  the  worst  article  in  such  an  ad- 
venture. For  the  babies  he  had  india- 
rubber  rings  :  he  had  tin  cows  and 
carved  wooden  lions  for  the  bigger 
children,  drawing-tools  for  those  older 
yet,  and  a  box  of  crotchet  tools  for  the 
ladies.  For  my  part  I  piled  in  litera- 
ture, —  a  set  of  my  own  works,  the  Leg- 
islative Reports  of  the  State  of  Maine, 
Jean  Ingelow,  as  I  said  or  intimated, 
and  both  volumes  of  the  Earthly  Para- 
dise. All  these  were  packed  in  sand, 
'.and  corded,  —  bagged,  sanded, 
and  corded  again,  —  yet  again  and 
again, —  five  times.  Then  the  whole 
awaited  Orcutt's  orders  and  our  calcu- 
lations. 

At  last  the  moment  came.  We 
had,  at  Orcutt's  order,  reduced  the  rev- 
olutions of  the  Files  to  7230,  which  was, 
as  nearly  as  he  knew,  the  s^eed  on  the 
fatal  night.  We  had  soaked  the  bag 


for  near  twelve  hours,  and,  at  the  mo- 
ment agreed  upon,  rolled  it  on  the 
Flies,  and  saw  it  shot  into  the  air.  It 
was  so  small  that  it  went  out  of  sight 
too  soon  for  us  to  see  it  take  fire. 

Of  course  we  watched  eagerly  for 
signal  time.  They  were  all  in  bed  on 
B.  M.  when  we  let  fly.  But  the  de- 
spatch was  a  sad  disappointment. 

107.  "  Nothing    has    come    through 
but   two   croquet    balls,   and    a    china 
horse.      But   we   shall   send   the   boys 
hunting  in  the  bushes,  and  we  may  find 
more." 

108.  "Two  Harpers  and   an   Atlan- 
tic, badly  singed.     But  we  can  read  all 
but  the  parts  which  were  most  dry." 

109.  "  We   see   many  small   articles 
revolving  round  us  which  may  perhaps 
fall  in."  ,    . 

They  never  did  fall  in,  however.  The 
truth  was  that  all  the  bags  had  burned 
through.  The  sand,  I  suppose,  went  to 
its  own  place,  wherever  that  was.  And 
all  the  other  things  in  our  bundle 
became  little  asteroids  or  aerolites 
in  orbits  of  their  own,  except  a  well- 
disposed  score  or  two,  which  perse- 
vered far  enough  to  get  within  the  at- 
traction of  Brick  Moon,  and  to  take  to 
revolving  there,  not  having  hit  quite 
square  as  the  croquet  balls  did.  They 
had  five  volumes  of  the  Congressional 
Globe  whirling  round  like  bats  within 
a  hundred  feet  of  their  heads.  Anoth- 
er body,  which  I  am  afraid  was  "  The 
Ingham  Papers,"  flew  a  little  higher, 
not  quite  so  heavy.  Then  there  was 
an  absurd  procession  of  the  woolly 
sheep,  a  china  cow,  a  pair  of  india-rub- 
bers, a  lobster  Haliburton  had  chosen 
to  send,  a  wooden  lion,  the  wax  doll,  a 
Salter's  balance,  the  New  York  Observ- 
er, the  bow  and  arrows,  a  Nuremberg 
nanny-goat,  Rose's  watering-pot,  and 
the  magnetic  fishes,  which  gravely  cir- 
cled round  and  round  them  slowly,  and 
made  the  petty  zodiac  of  their  petty 
world. 

We  have  never  sent  another  parcel 
since,  but  we  probably  shall  at  Christ- 
mas, gauging  the  Flies  perhaps  to  one 
revolution  more.  The  truth  is,  that  al- 


1 8;o.] 


Life  in  the  Brick  Moon. 


219 


though  we  have  never  stated  to  each 
other  in  words  our  difference  of  opin- 
ion or  feeling,  there  is  a  difference  of 
habit  of  thought  in  our  little  circle  as 
to  the  position  which  the  B.  M.  holds. 
Somewhat  similar  is  the  difference  of 
habit  of  thought  in  which  different 
statesmen  of  England  regard  their  col- 
onies. 

Is  B.  M.  a  part  of  our  world,  or  is 
it  not?  Should  its  inhabitants  be  en- 
couraged to  maintain  their  connections 
with  us,  or  is  it  better  for  them  to  "ac- 
cept the  situation  "  and  gradually  wean 
themselves  from  us  and  from  our  af- 
fairs ?  It  would  be  idle  to  determine  this 
question  in  the  abstract :  it  is  perhaps 
idle  to  decide  any  question  of  casuistry 
in  the  abstract.  But,  in  practice,  there 
are  constantly  arising  questions  which 
really  require  some  decision  of  this  ab- 
stract problem  for  their  solution. 

For  instance,  when  that  terrible 
breach  occurred  in  the  Sandemanian 
church,  which  parted  it  into  the  Old 
School  and  New  School  parties,  Hali- 
burton  thought  it  very  important  that 
Brannan  and  Orcutt  and  the  church  in 
B.  M.  under  Brannan's  ministry  should 
give  in  their  adhesion  to  our  side. 
Their  church  would  count  one  more 
in  our  registry,  and  the  weight  of  its 
influence  would  not  be  lost.  He  there- 
fore spent  eight  or  nine  days  in  tele- 
graphing, from  the  early  proofs,  a  copy 
of  the  address  of  the  Chatauque  Synod 
to  Brannan,  and  asked  Brannan  if  he 
were  not  willing  to  have  his  name  signed 
to  it  when  it  was  printed.  And  the 
only  thing  which  Haliburton  takes  sore- 
ly in  the  whole  experience  of  the  Brick 
Moon,  from  the  beginning,  is  that 
neither  Orcutt  nor  Brannan  has  ever 
sent  one  word  of  acknowledgment  of 
the  despatch.  Once,  when  Haliburton 
was  very  low-spirited,  I  heard  him  even 
say  that  he  believed  they  had  never 
read  a  word  of  it,  and  that  he 
thought  he  and  Rob.  Shea  had  had 
their  labor  for  their  pains  in  running 
the  signals  out  and  in. 

Then  he  felt  quite  sure  that  they 
would  have  to  establish  civil  govern- 
ment there.  So  he  made  up  an  excel- 


lent collection  of  books,  —  De  Lolme  on 
the  British  Constitution  ;  Montesquieu 
on  Laws  ;  Story,  Kent,  John  Adams,  and 
all  the  authorities  here  ;  with  ten  copies 
of  his  own  address  delivered  before  the 
Young  Men's  Mutual  Improvement  So- 
ciety of  Podunk,  on  the  "Abnormal 
Truths  of  Social  Order."  He  tele- 
graphed to  know  what  night  he  should 
send  them,  and  Orcutt  replied  :  — 

129.  •' Go  to  thunder  with   your  old 
law-books.     We  have  not  had  a  prima- 
ry meeting  nor  a  justice  court  since  we 
have  been  here,  and,  D.  V.,  we  never 
will  have." 

Haliburton  says  this  is  as  bad  as  the 
state  of  things  in  Kansas,  when,  be- 
cause Frank  Pierce  would  not  give 
them  any  judges  or  laws  to  their  mind, 
they  lived  a  year  or  so  without  any. 
Orcutt  added  in  his  next  despatch  :  — 

130.  "  Have  not  you  any  new  novels  ? 
Send  up  Scribe  and  the  Arabian  Nights 
and    Robinson   Crusoe  and  the  Three 
Guardsmen,  and  Mrs.  Whitney's  books. 
We  have  Thackeray  and  Miss  Austen." 

When  he  read  this,  Haliburton  felt 
as  if  they  were  not  only  light-footed 
but  light-headed.  And  he  consulted 
me  quite  seriously  as  to  telegraphing  to 
them  "  Pycroft's  Course  of  Reading." 
I  coaxed  him  out  of  that,  and  he  satis- 
fied himself  with  a  serious  expostula- 
tion with  George  as  to  the  way  in 
which  their  young  folks  would  grow 
up.  George  replied  by  telegraphing 
Brannan's  last  sermon,  i  Thessaloni- 
ans  iv.  n.  The  sermon  had  four 
heads,  must  have  occupied  an  hour 
and  a  half  in  delivery,  and  took  five 
nights  to  telegraph.  I  had  another  en- 
gagement, so  that  Haliburton  had  to 
sit  it  all  out  with  his  eye  to  Shubael : 
and  he  has  never  entered  on  that  line 
of  discussion  again.  It  was  as  well,  per- 
haps, that  he  got  enough  of  it. 

The  women  have  never*  had  any 
misunderstandings.  When  we  had  re- 
ceived two  or  three  hundred  despatches 
from  B.  M.,  Annie  Haliburton  came  to 
me  and  said,  in  that  pretty  way  of  hers, 
that  she  thought  they  had  a  right  to 
their  turn  again.  She  said  this  lore 
about  the  Albert  Nyanza  and  the 


220 


Life  in  tJie  Brick  Moon. 


[February, 


North  Pole  was  all  very  well,  but,  for 
her  part,  she  wanted  to  know  how  they 
lived,  what  they  did,  and  what  they 
talked  about,  whether  they  took  sum- 
mer journeys,  and  how  and  what  was 
the  form  of  society  where  thirty-seven 
people  lived  in  such  close  quarters. 
This  about  "  the  form  of  society  "  was 
merely  wool  pulled  over  my  eyes.  So 
she  said  she  thought  her  husband  and 
I  had  better  go  off  to  the  Biennial  Con- 
vention at  Assampink,  as  she  knew  we 
wanted  to  do,  and  she  and  Bridget  and 
Polly  and  Cordelia  would  watch  for  the 
signals,  and  would  make  the  replies. 
She  thought  they  would  get  on  better 
if  we  were  out  of  the  way. 

So  we  went  to  the  convention,  as  she 
called  it,  which  was  really  not  properly 
a  convention,  but  the  Forty-fifth  Bien- 
nial General  Synod,  and  we  left  the  girls 
to  their  own  sweet  way. 

Shall  I  confess  that  they  kept  no 
record  of  their  own  signals,  and  did  not 
remember  very  accurately  what  they 
were  ?  "I  was  not  going  to  keep  a 
string  of  'says  IV  and  'says  she's,'" 
said  Polly,  boldly.  "It  shall  not  be 
written  on  my  tomb  that  I  have  left 
more  annals  for  people  to  file  or  study 
or  bind  or  dust  or  catalogue."  But  they 
told  us  that  they  had  begun  by  asking 
the  "  bricks  "  if  they  remembered  what 
Maria  Theresa  said  to  her  ladies-in- 
waiting.*  Quicker  than  any  signal  had 
ever  been  answered,  George  Orcutt's 
party  replied  from  the  moon,  "  We 
hear,  and  we  obey."  Then  the  women- 
kind  had  it  all  to  themselves.  The 
brick-women  explained  at  once  to  our 
girls  that  they  had  sent  their  men 
round  to  the  other  side  to  cut  ice,  and 
that  they  were  manning  the  telescope, 
and  running  the  signals  for  themselves, 
and  that  they  could  have  a  nice  talk 
without  any  bother  about  the  law-books 
or  the  magnetic  pole.  As  I  say,  I  do 
not  know  what  questions  Polly  and 
Annie  put ;  but,  —  to  give  them  their 

*  Maria  Theresa's  husband,  Francis,  Duke  of 
Tuscany,  was  hanging  about  loose  one  day,  and  the 
Km  press,  who  had  got  a  little  tired,  said  to  the 
maids  of  honor,  "  Girls,  whenever  you  marry,  take 
care  and  choose  a  husband  who  has  something  to  do 
outside  of  the  house." 


due,  —  they  had  put  on  paper  a  coherent 
record  of  the  results  arrived  at  in  the 
answers  ;  though,  what  were  the  num- 
bers of  the  despatches,  or  in  what 
order  they  came,  I  do  not  know ;  for 
the  session  of  the  synod  kept  us  at 
Assampink  for  two  or  three  weeks. 

Mrs.  Brannan  was  the  spokesman. 
"We  tried  a  good  many  experiments 
about  day  and  night.  It  was  very 
funny  at  first,  not  to  know  when  it 
would  be  light  and  when  dark,  for 
really  the  names  day  and  night  do  not 
express  a  great  deal  for  us.  Of  course 
the  pendulum  clocks  all  went  wrong 
till  the  men  got  them  overhauled,  and 
I  think  watches  and  clocks  both  will 
soon  go  out  of  fashion.  But  we  have 
settled  down  on  much  the  old  hours, 
getting  up,  without  reference  to  day- 
light, by  our  great  gong,  at  your  eight 
o'clock.  But  when  the  eclipse  season 
comes,  we  vary  from  that  for  signalling. 

"  We  still  make  separate  families,  and 
Alice's  is  the  seventh.  We  tried  hotel 
life,  and  we  liked  it,  for  there  has  never 
been  the  first  quarrel  here.  You  can't 
quarrel  here,  where  you  are  never 
sick,  never  tired,  and  need  not  be  ever 
hungry.  But  we  were  satisfied  that  it 
was  nicer  for  the  children,  and  for  all 
round,  to  live  separately,  and  come  to- 
gether at  parties,  to  church,  at  signal 
time,  and  so  on.  We  had  something 
to  say  then,  something  to  teach,  and 
something  to  learn. 

"  Since  the  carices  developed  so  nice- 
ly into  flax,  we  have  had  one  great 
comfort,  which  we  had  lost  before,  in 
being  able  to  make  and  use  paper. 
We  have  had  great  fun,  and  we  think 
the  children  have  made  great  improve- 
ment in  writing  novels  for  the  Union. 
The  Union  is  the  old  Union  for  Chris- 
tian work  that  we  had  in  dear  old  No. 
9.  We  have  two  serial  novels  going 
on,  one  called  '  Diana  of  Carrotook,' 
and  the  other  called  '  Ups  and  Downs  ' ; 
the  first  by  Levi  Ross,  and  the  other 
by  my  Blanche.  They  are  really  very 
good,  and  I  wish  we  could  send  them 
to  you.  But  they  would  not  be  worth 
despatching. 

"  We  get  up  at  eight  j  dress,  and  fix 


T8;o.] 


Life  in  tlie  Brick  Moon. 


221 


up  at  home  ;  a  sniff  of  air,  as  people 
choose  ;  breakfast ;  and  then  we  meet 
for  prayers  outside.  Where  we  meet 
depends  on  the  temperature  ;  for  we 
can  choose  any  temperature  we  want, 
from  boiling  water  down,  which  is  con- 
venient. After  prayers  an  hour's  talk, 
lounging,  walking,  and  so  on  ;  no 
ilirting,  but  a  favorite  time  with  the 
young  folks. 

"  Then  comes  work.  Three  hours' 
head-work  is  the  maximum  in  that  line. 
Of  women's  work,  as  in  all  worlds, 
there  are  twenty-four  in  one  of  your 
days,  but  for  my  part  I  like  it.  Farm- 
ers and  carpenters  have  their  own 
laws,  as  the  light  serves  and  the  sea- 
sons. Dinner  is  seven  hours  after 
breakfast  began  ;  always  an  hour  long, 
as  breakfast  was.  Then  every  human 
being  sleeps  for  an  hour.  Big  gong 
a^ain,  and  we  ride,  walk,  swim,  tele- 
graph, or  what  not,  as  the  case  may  be. 
We  have  no  horses  yet,  but  the  Shang- 
haes  are  coming  up  into  very  good 
dodos  and  ostriches,  quite  big  enough 
for  a  trot  for  the  children. 

"  Only  two  persons  of  a  family  take 
tea  at  home.  The  rest  always  go  out 
to  tea  without  invitation.  At  8  P.M. 
big  gong  again,  and  we  meet  in  '  Grace,' 
which  is  the  prettiest  hall,  church,  con- 
cert-room, that  you  ever  saw.  We  have 
singing,  lectures,  theatre,  dancing,  talk, 
or  what  the  mistress  of  the  night  deter- 
mines, till  the  curfew  sounds  at  ten, 
and  then  we  all  go  home.  Evening 
prayers  are  in  the  separate  households, 
and  every  one  is  in  bed  by  midnight. 
The  only  law  on  the  statute-book  is 
that  every  one  shall  sleep  nine  hours 
out  of  every  twenty-four. 

"  Only  one  thing  interrupts  this  gen- 
eral order.  Three  taps  on  the  gong 
means  '  telegraph,'  and  then,  I  tell  you, 
we  are  all  on  hand. 

"  You  cannot  think  how  quickly  the 
days  and,  years  go  by  ! " 

Of  course,  however,  as  I  said,  this 
could  not  last.  We  could  not  subdue 
our  world,  and  be  spending  all  our 
time  in  telegraphing  our  dear  B.  M. 
Could  it  be  possible  ?  —  perhaps  it  was 


possible,  —  that  they  there  had  some- 
thing else  to  think  of  and  to  do,  besides 
attending  to  our  affairs.  Certainly  their 
indifference  to  Grant's  fourth  Procla- 
mation, and  to  Mr.  Fish's  celebrated 
protocol  in  the  Tahiti  business,  looked 
that  way.  Could  it  be  that  that  little 
witch  of  a  Belle  Brannan  really  cared 
more  for  their  performance  of  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  or  her  father's 
birthday,  than  she  cared  for  that  pleas- 
ant little  account  I  telegraphed  up  to 
all  the  children,  of  the  way  we  went  to 
muster  when  we  were  boys  together  ? 
Ah  well !  I  ought  not  to  have  sup- 
posed that  all  worlds  were  like  this  old 
world.  Indeed,  I  often  say  this  is  the 
queerest  world  I  ever  knew.  Perhaps 
theirs  is  not  so  queer,  and  it  is  I  who 
am  the  oddity. 

Of  course  it  could  not  last.  We  just 
arranged  correspondence  days,  when 
we  would  send  to  them,  and  they  to 
us.  I  was  meanwhile  turned  out  from 
my  place  at  Tamworth  Observatory. 
Not  but  I  did  my  work  well,  and  Polly 
hers.  The  observer's  room  was  a  mir- 
acle of  neatness.  The  children  were 
kept  in  the  basement.  Visitors  were 
received  with  great  courtesy ;  and  all 
the  fees  were  sent  to  the  treasurer  ;  he 
got  three  dollars  and  eleven  cents  one 
summer,  —  that  was  the  year  General 
Grant  came  there ;  and  that  was  the 
largest  amount  that  they  ever  received 
from  any  source  but  begging.  I  was 
not  unfaithful  to  my  trust.  Nor  was  it 
for  such  infidelity  that  I  was  removed. 
No  !  But  it  was  discovered  that  I  was 
a  Sandemanian  ;  a  Glassite,  as  in  deri- 
sion I  was  called.  The  annual  meet- 
ing of  the  trustees  came  round.  There 
was  a  large  Mechanics'  Fair  in  Tam- 
worth at  the  time,  and  an  Agricultural 
Convention.  There  was  no  horse-race 
at  the  convention,  but  there  were  two 
competitive  examinations  in  which  run- 
ning horses  competed  with  each  other, 
and  trotting  horses  competed  with  each 
other,  and  five  thousand  dollars  was 
given  to  the  best  runner  and  the  best 
trotter.  These  causes  drew  all  the 
trustees  together.  The  Rev.  Cephas 
Philpotts  presided.  His  doctrines  with 


222 


Life  iu  the  Brick  Moon. 


[February, 


regard  to  free  agency  were  considered 
much  more  sound  than  mine.  He  took 
the  chair,  —  in  that  pretty  observatory 
parlor,  which  Polly  had  made  so  bright 
with  smilax  and  ivy.  Of  course  I  took 
no  chair  ;  I  waited,  as  a  janitor  should, 
at  the  door.  Then  a  brief  address. 
Dr.  Philpotts  trusted  that  the  observa- 
tory might  always  be  administered  in 
the  interests  of  science,  of  true  sci- 
ence ;  of  that  science  which  rightly 
distinguishes  between  unlicensed  lib- 
erty and  true  freedom ;  between  the 
unrestrained  volition  and  the  freedom 
of  the  will.  He  became  eloquent,  he 
became  noisy.  He  sat  down.  Then 
three  other  men  spoke,  on  similar  sub- 
jects. Then  the  executive  committee 
which  had  appointed  me  was  dis- 
missed with  thanks.  Then  a  new  ex- 
ecutive committee  was  chosen,  with  Dr. 
Philpotts  at  the  head.  The  next  day 
I  was  discharged.  And  the  next  week 
the  Philpotts  family  moved  into  the 
observatory,  and  their  second  girl  now 
takes  care  of  the  instruments. 

I  returned  to  the  cure  of  souls  and 
to  healing  the  hurt  of  my  people.  On 
observation  days  somebody  runs  down 
to  No.  9,  and  by  means  of  Shubael  com- 
municates with  B.  M.  We  love  them, 
and  they  love  us  all  the  same. 

Nor  do  we  grieve  for  them  as  we 
did.  Coming  home  from  Pigeon  Har- 
bor in  October,  with  those  nice  Wads- 
worth  people,  we  fell  to  talking  as  to 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  summer 
life  we  had  led.  How  was  it  that  it 
was  so  charming  ?  And  why  were  we 
a  little  loath  to  come  back  to  more 
comfortable  surroundings  ?  *'  I  hate 
the  school,"  said  George  Wadsworth. 
*'  I  hate  the  making  calls,"  said  his 
mother.  «'  I  hate  the  office  hour,"  said 


her  poor  husband  ;  "  if  there  were  only 
a  dozen  I  would  not  mind,  but  seven- 
teen hundred  thousand  in  sixty  min- 
utes is  too  many."  So  that  led  to  ask- 
ing how  many  of  us  there  had  been  at 
Pigeon  Cove.  The  children  counted 
up  all  the  six  families,  —  the  Halibur- 
tons,  the  Wadsworths,  the  Pontefracts, 
the  Midges,  the  Hayeses,  and  the  Ing- 
hams,  and  the  two  good-natured  girls, 
—  thirty-seven  in  all,  —  and  the  two  ba- 
bies born  this  summer.  "  Really,"  said 
Mrs.  Wadsworth,  "  I  have  not  spoken  to 
a  human  being  besides  these  since  June  ; 
and  what  is  more,  Mrs.  Ingham,  I  have 
not  wanted  to.  We  have  really  lived 
in  a  little  world  of  our  own." 

"  World  of  our  own  !  "  Polly  fairly 
jumped  from  her  seat,  to  Mrs.  Wads- 
worth's  wonder.  So  we  had —  lived  in 
a  world  of  our  own.  Polly  reads  no 
newspaper  since  the  "  Sandemanian  " 
was  merged.  She  has  a  letter  or  two 
tumble  in  sometimes,  but  not  many; 
and  the  truth  was  that  she  had  been 
more  secluded  from  General  Grant  and 
Mr.  Gladstone  and  the  Khedive,  and 
the  rest  of  the  important  people,  than 
had  Brannan  or  Ross  or  any  of  them  ! 

And  it  had  been  the  happiest  sum- 
mer she  had  ever  known. 

Can  it  be  possible  that  all  human 
sympathies  can  thrive,  and  all  human 
powers  be  exercised,  and  all  human 
joys  increase,  if  we  live  with  all  our 
might  with  the  thirty  or  forty  people 
next  to  us,  telegraphing  kindly  to  all 
other  people,  to  be  sure  ?  Can  it  be 
possible  that  our  passion  for  large 
cities,  and  large  parties,  and  large 
theatres,  and  large  churches,  develops 
no  faith  nor  hope  nor  love  which  would 
not  find  aliment  and  exercise  in  a  little 
"  world  of  our  own  "  ? 


i87o.] 


Wo  Lee,  and  his  Kinsfolk. 


223 


WO    LEE,    AND    HIS    KINSFOLK. 


LOOKING  out  from  my  car  window 
when  we  stopped  at  Promontory 
on  our  way  to  California,  I  saw  this 
sign:  Wo  LEE  —  WASHING  AND  IRON- 
ING. It  was  painted  on  cloth,  and 
nailed  over  the  door  of  the  fourth  house 
from  the  western  end  of  Main  Street; 
though,  truth  to  tell,  Promontory  has 
but  a  single  street,  and  that  is  n't  one 
on  which  a  man  need  be  proud  to  live. 
Every  second  house  is  a  gambling 
and  drinking-saloon,  and  in  most  of  the 
others  gambling  and  drinking  seemed 
to  be  the  chief  business.  I  did  n't  see 
Mr.  Wo  Lee,  but  I  've  no  doubt  he  is 
fitter  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than 
the  majority  of  his  fellow-townsmen. 
His  dwelling  betrayed  no  aristocratic 
tastes  ;  it  was  made  of  undressed  lum- 
ber, and  had  a  canvas  roof;  it  showed 
but  one  window,  and  for  the  door  there 
was  a  hasp-and-staple  fastening.  On 
the  whole,  it  was  as  modest  and  unpre- 
tending a  domicile  as  the  law  ever  in- 
vested with  the  dignity  of  a  castle. 
"  Wo  Lee —  Washing  and  Ironing  "  :  I 
found  my  eyes  and  thoughts  running 
down  to  that  sign  over  and  over  again 
while  we  waited  for  the  railroad  folks  to 
make  up  the  train  for  Sacramento.  The 
name  was  the  first  thing  from  China  that 
we  saw  on  the  journey,  and  I  noted  that 
the  man  was  one  of  the  few  in  town 
who  appeared  to  be  trying  to  make  an 
honest  living.  They  told  me  he  did 
his  work  well :  "  charges  two  dollars  a 
dozen,  and  collars  not  counted."  I 
should  charge  more  than  that  if  I  had 
to  live  at  Promontory  and  take  in  wash- 
ing. Mr.  Lee  is  one  of  the  pioneers  of 
his  people  in  their  movement  to  the 
East,  though  it  isn't  likely  that  he 
thinks  of  himself  in  that  light  ;  and  the 
fact  that  a  single  Chinaman  is  dwelling 
in  Promontory  renders  it  possible  that 
the  place  may  sometime  be  a  decent 
and  respectable  town. 

We   stopped  a  day  at  Truckee,  over 
in  Nevada,  and  got  up  an  appetite  for 


breakfast  by  taking  a  long  stroll  through 
the  Chinese  section  of  that  wild  and 
bustling  village.  We  found  the  Lee 
family  largely  represented :  Hop  Lee 
did  washing  and  ironing,  and  so  did 
Tae  Lee  :  Quong  Lee  had  a  lottery 
shop  on  one  side  of  the  street,  and  Sam 
Lee  had  a  similar  shop  on  the  other 
side  ;  Ah  Lee  kept  a  rice  store  on  one 
block,  and  Yang  Lee  dealt  in  tea  and 
dried  fish  on  the  next  block  ;  while  Guy 
Lee  and  Angle  Lee  were  rivals  in  the 
medical  profession ;  and  How  Lee  sat 
sedate  and  serious  on  a  cobbler's  bench 
at  an  open  door.  The  Lee  women  — 
if,  indeed,  they  were  Lees  —  didn't  ap- 
pear to  be  wholly  desirable  members  of 
the  community,  and  one  of  the  doctors 
had  such  an  air  as  I  fancy  belongs  to 
adepts  in  the  black  art ;  but  otherwise 
the  Lees  and  their  neighbors  looked 
like  worthy  and  industrious  persons, — 
taking  down  their  shutters,  sweeping 
out  their  shops  and  stores,  putting 
things  to  rights  on  the  sidewalks,  and 
generally  going  about  their  business  as 
though  they  meant  business. 

I  asked  one  of  them  where  he  was  at 
work.  "  Where  me  workee  ?  "  he  an- 
swered, repeating  the  question  as  is 
the  Chinaman's  habit  when  he  speaks 
but  little  English.  "Yes,  where  do 
you  work?  what  do  you  do?"  "Me 
cuttee  —  choppee  —  cuttee,"  said  he, 
pointing  toward  the  forest  across  the 
river.  "  What  wages  do  you  get,  — 
how  much  money  do  they  pay  you  a 
month  ? "  He  repeated  the  question, 
and,  when  I  bowed  assent,  replied, 
"Tirty-five  dollar."  Then  I  inquired 
if  that  was  enough,  if  he  was  satisfied  ; 
and  he  said  he  was.  In  my  six  weeks 
on  the  Pacific  coast,  I  did  n't  meet  any 
white  man  who  owned  that  he  was  en- 
tirely satisfied  with  the  rate  at  which  he 
was  getting  rich. 

I  thus  record  the  fact  that  the  first 
Chinamen  whom  we  saw  were  at  work. 
They  were  neither  street  vagabonds  nor 


224 


Wo  Leey  and  Jtis  Kinsfolk. 


[February, 


idle  Micawbers  ;  each  one  of  them  had 
a  "  mission,"  and  in  every  case  it  was  a 
mission  to  labor  after  some  fashion. 
Loaferism  is  one  of  the  curses  of  a  new 
community,  but  there  are  no  Chinese 
loafers  in  these  new  towns  along  the 
western  end  of  the  great  railway.  What 
we  found  to  be  true  there  we  also  found 
to  be  true  in  Sacramento  and  Stockton 
and  San  Jose  and  San  Francisco  ;  how- 
ever else  I  speak  of  Wo  Lee  and  his 
kinsmen,  I  must  credit  them  with  pa- 
tient and  untiring  industry. 

One  morning,  at  my  hotel  in  San 
Francisco,  I  wanted  to  send  out  a  bun- 
dle of  clothing  to  be  washed.  Stand- 
ing in  the  door  of  my  room,  I  called  to 
a  Chinaman  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
hall,  "John  !  John  !  O  John !  "  He  kept 
on  his  way,  and  I  followed.  In  the 
next  hall  I  called  again,  "  John  !  O 
John!  washing!"  He  did  n't  turn  his 
head,  and  I  thought  he  might  be 
deaf,  though  I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
heard  of  a  deaf  Chinaman.  I  ran 
along,  and  overtook  him  on  the  stair- 
way. "  I  want  you  to  do  some  washing 
for  me,  John/'  I  said,  as  I  put  my  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "  Me  not  John  !  "  he 
answered  with  some  dignity,  handing 
me  his  card,  on  which  I  read,  "  Hop 
Long."  We  had  some  talk  as  we 
walked  back  to  my  room :  "  He  not 
'John,'  he  Hop  Long;  that  he  name; 
Melican  man  have  name,  you  call  he 
he  name  ;  China  man  all  same  ;  he  like 
he  name  ;  he  come  quick  you  call  he 
he  name  ;  I  no  come  you  call  'John'  ; 
China  man  have  name  all  same  as 
Melican  man."  That's  how  this  wash- 
erman from  Canton  taught  me  good 
manners.  I  didn't  nickname  "John" 
another  Chinaman  while  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. 

And  I  've  come  to  think  we  are  not 
fit  to  deal  with  our  Chinese  puzzle  or 
problem  till  we  comprehend  that  Wo 
Lee  is  not  "John,"  but  Wo  Lee;  till 
we  recognize  that  Chinamen  are  indi- 
viduals, with  vices  and  virtues,  and 
hopes  and  longings,  and  passions  and 
aspirations  and  infirmities,  like  our 
own ;  till  we  get  over  looking  at  this 
Oriental  body  on  the  Pacific  coast  in 


the  mass,  and  take  some  consideration 
of  its  separate  personalities.  The  rich 
merchant,  Sing  Man,  who  visited  our 
Eastern  cities  last  summer,  is  not 
''John  "  ;  no  more  is  the  humble  wash- 
erman of  Promontory  or  the  cobbler  of 
Truckee.  "Melican  man  have  name, 
China  man  all  same."  It 's  worth  re- 
membering. 

To  me  no  event  of  this  century  of 
strange  events  is  more  strange  than 
the  Chinese  emigration  to  America.  I 
can  understand  how  Wo  Lee  got  up  to 
Promontory  from  San  Francisco ;  he 
entered  in  at  the  Golden  Gate  just  as 
the  railroad  company  sent  down  an  or- 
der to  hire  five  hundred  or  a  thousand 
more  laborers ;  his  name  was  put  on 
the  list  by  some  one  who  filled  this  or- 
der ;  he  began  work  in  the  mountains, 
and  day  by  day  shovelled  his  way  east- 
ward ;  in  time  he  reached  Promontory 
and  was  discharged  on  the  completion 
of  the  road ;  his  companions  turned 
backward,  but  he  stopped  and  put  out 
his  sign  as  a  washerman.  I  can  see 
why  he  is  there  and  how  he  got  there ; 
but  I  cannot  see  the  how  and  why  with 
respect  to  the  first  of  his  kinsmen  who 
came  to  San  Francisco.  For  Wo  Lee 
and  Hop  Long  and  all  their  fellows  are 
passive,  not  aggressive  ;  not  radical, 
but  conservative ;  fond  of  repose,  not 
of  excitement ;  given  to  standing  by 
the  ancient  ways ;  lovers  of  society ; 
content  with  small  gains  ;  able  to  live 
comfortably  on  a  little  ;  believers  that 
whatever  is  is  right ;  holders  of  the  faith 
that  forms  and  ceremonies  are  saving 
ordinances.  Family  ties  are  stronger  in 
China  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world  ; 
the  traditions  of  the  fathers  are  vener- 
ated as  law  and  gospel ;  the  dress  of 
to-day  is  like  that  of  a  thousand  years 
ago  ;  innovations  are  not  to  be  toler- 
ated. What  quickening  of  the  Chinese 
mind  led  to  the  change  that  resulted  in 
this  wonderful  movement  to  the  New 
World  ? 

Of  late,  immigration  returns  are  well 
kept ;  but  it  was  not  so  in  the  old  days 
of  Mr.  Fillmore  and  his  predecessors. 
The  movement  began  in  1850;  in  1852 
it  landed  about  17,500  Chinamen  on 


1870.] 


Wo  Lee,  and  Jus  Kinsfolk. 


225 


our  shores.  It  is  not  possible  to  say 
just  how  many  have  come  over,  but  I 
have  obtained  from  Air.  Francis  A. 
Walker,  the  head  of  the  Bureau  of  Sta- 
tistics in  the  Treasury  Department,  the 
following  statement  of  the  number  who 
arrived  at  San  Francisco  during  the 
period  from  January  i,  1854,  to  Septem- 
ber 30,  1869,  inclusive  :  — 


Year. 

Males. 

Females. 

Total 

1854 

12,427 

673 

13,100 

3,523 

2 

3,525 

1856 

4,7«2 

16 

4,728 

1857 

449 

5,942 

.858 
1859 

2',989 

320 
467 

5,120 

3,456 

1860 

5,424 

26 

5,450 

1861 

6,983 

510 

7,493 

1862 

2,973 

647 

3,620 

1863 

7,181 

7,181 

1864 

2,756 

156 

2,912 

1865 

2,899 

2 

2,901 

1866 

2,153 

I 

2,154 

1867 

3.791 

27 

3,8i8    . 

1868 
1869* 

9,699 
",370 

A 

9,863 
12,428 

Total, 

891173 

4,518 

93,69I 

*  From  'January  to  October. 

Here  is  an  aggregate  of  93,691  per- 
sons, to  which  must  be  added  the  arri- 
vals at  Astoria,  Oregon,  and  those  at 
San  Francisco  prior  to  1854,  —  not  less, 
I  think,  than  46,000.  We  have  thus 
a  grand  total  of  about  140,000  as  the 
extent  of  the  Chinese  immigration.  Of 
this  great  host  how  many  are  now  resi- 
dent in  the  country  ?  I  made  much 
inquiry,  talking  with  intelligent  Ameri- 
cans, and  officers  of  the  Six  Companies. 
A  reasonable  conclusion  from  their  sta- 
tistical table  and  the  answers  to  my 
inquiries  is,  that  we  have  not  far  from 
95,000  Chinese  now  living  on  the  Paci- 
fic coast,  in  Oregon,  Nevada,  and  Cali- 
fornia. 

If  you  fall  in  with  a  good  stanch 
Democrat  soon  after  you  reach  San 
Francisco  from  the  East,  you  are  toler- 
ably certain  to  have  some  talk  with  him 
about  the  Chinese  question.  A  Cali- 
fornia Democrat  of  to-day  is  in  one  re- 
spect much  like  a  pro-slavery  man  of 
the  clays  before  the  war.  You  couldn't 
travel  quietly  through  the  South.  Mr. 
•Pro-slavery  insisted  on  giving  you  his 
-view  of  the  negro  and  in  trying  to 

VOL.   XXV.  —  NO.    148.  15 


find  out  your  view.  Mr.  Democrat  is 
equally  sensitive;  he  assumes  that 
you  must  need  enlightenment  on  the 
Chinese ;  there  is  a  great  hue-and-cry 
about  them ;  he  has  lived  many  years 
in  California,  and  will  be  most  happy  to 
tell  you  exactly  what  sort  of  people 
this  is,  to  which  you  are  such  a  stran- 
ger. I  found  that  he  had  just  two 
ideas.  The  Chinese  are  a  vastly  infe- 
rior race,  good  enough  for  servants  and 
common  laborers,  but  wholly  incompe- 
tent to  exercise  the  rights  of  citizenship 
"  in  this  great  Republic,  which  is  bound 
to  be  the  foremost  nation  on  the  face 
of  the  whole  earth,  sir."  Then  when  I 
inquiringly  and  apologetically  remarked 
that  they  seemed  to  me  quiet  and  pa- 
tient and  honest  and  frugal  and  faith- 
ful and  teachable  and  painstaking 
and  economical  and  industrious, — in  a 
word,  had  qualities  and  characteristics 
that  I  had  been  accustomed  to  regard 
as  fitting  a  man  for  all  the  rights  of 
citizenship,  —  he  smiled  benignly  and 
pityingly  upon  my  ignorance,  and  told 
me  of  the  Chinese  companies,  said 
most  of  the  pigtails  whom  I  saw  on 
the  street  were  serfs  or  slaves,  that  the 
companies  brought  them  over,  sold 
their  services  for  what  price  could  be 
got,  took  their  wages  without  any  show 
or  right,  ruled  them  with  great  severity, 
and  treated  them  worse  than  the  South- 
erners ever  treated  their  negroes,  sir. 
So  I  determined  that  I  would  look  af- 
ter these  Six  Companies  and  expose 
their  iniquities. 

I  did  look  after  them,  with  the  sharp- 
est of  Yankee  eyes.  I  hunted  down 
the  chief  officer  of  one  company  and 
the  second  officer  of  another  ;  I  talked 
with  a  Chinese  merchant,  and  a  Chinese 
contractor,  and  a  Chinese  apothecary, 
and  a  Chinese  butcher,  and  a  Chinese 
cobbler,  and  a  Chinese  washerman  ;  I 
examined  one  of  the  Company  houses 
from  top  to  bottom  in  the  leisure  of  a 
whole  afternoon  ;  I  worried  half  the 
acquaintances  that  I  made  with  inqui- 
ries about  the  outrages  and  tyrannies 
of  the  Six  Companies.  Finally,  I  got 
at  what  seems  to  me  the  pith  of  the 
matter. 


226 


1 1  'o  Lcc,  and  his  Kinsfolk. 


[February,. 


A  Chinese  company  is  every  bit  as 
bad  an  institution  as  a  Dorcas  sewing- 
circle  or  a  co-operative  housekeeping 
association,  just  as  cruel  and  hard- 
hearted, just  as  much  given  to  grinding 
the  faces  of  the  poor. 

Two  of  the  six  companies  were  or- 
ganized in  1851,  two  in  1852,  one  in 
1854,  and  one  in  1862.  They  are  emi- 
nently conservative  institutions,  —  con- 
serving home  interests,  neighborhood 
fellowships,  the  brotherhood  of  China- 
men. Each  has  the  family  tie  for  its 
basis.  They  give  shelter  to  the  house- 
less, food  to  the  hungry,  rest  to  the 
weary,  care  to  the  sick,  counsel  to  the 
distressed,  protection  to  the  persecuted. 
Of  course,  such  oppressive  and  mis- 
chief-breeding organizations  ought  to 
be  discountenanced. 

Let  me  show  just  how  the  Ning  Yung 
Company  has  treated  Win  Kang,  who 
came  over  here  from  an  interior  town 
somewhere  back  of  Canton,  being  the 
first  member  of  the  Kang  family  who 
emigrated.  It  was  signalled  from  Tele- 
graph Hill  one  morning,  half  a  dozen 
years  ago,  that  a  steamship  had  just 
entered  the  Golden  Gate  ;  in  a  few 
minutes  another  signal  told  that  it  was 
a  vessel  from  China.  Then  there  was 
a  lively  time  in  the  Chinese  quarter  of 
San  Francisco  :  long  before  the  great 
ship  swung  up  to  her  wharf,  a  thousand 
Chinamen  were  gathered  in  that  neigh- 
borhood. Among  those  who  first  went 
aboard  was  the  Ning  Yung's  secretary, 
who  came  down  to  see  if  there  were  any 
passengers  from  his  section  of  China. 
Win  Kang  was  sick,  and  had  no  friends 
on  the  vessel  or  in  the  city  ;  the  secre- 
tary found  him,  and  provided  a  way 
for  taking  him  to  the  company's  house 
©n  Broadway.  There  he  was  fed  and 
nursed  for  two  weeks ;  when  he  got 
well  he  went  into  the  temple  on  the 
upper  floor  of  the  building  and  made 
thank-offerings  to  the  gods  ;  then  the 
secretary  helped  him  to  work  near  Sac- 
ramento. The  employer  abused  him, 
and  he  asked  for  his  wages,  that  he 
might  go  elsewhere.  This  was  refused, 
and  he  wrote  to  the  secretary  about  the 
matter ;  that  person  communicated  with 


a  white  man  in  Sacramento  who  was 
his  friend,  or  I  am  not  sure  but  he  went 
there  in  person.  At  all  events,  Win 
Kang  soon  got  his  money  and  returned 
to  San  Francisco.  He  paid  the  com- 
pany five  or  six  dollars  for  care  when 
he  was  sick,  and  the  very  next  day  was 
assaulted  and  robbed  in  an  alley  down 
on  the  Barbary  Coast.  The  Ning  Yung 
made  the  case  its  own,  hunted  out  the 
robber,  had  him  arrested,  and  proved 
him  guilty  by  the  evidence  of  white 
persons.  Win  Kang  subsequently  found 
work  at  San  Jose,  and  it  was  while  liv- 
ing there  that  he  was  accused  of  theft 
in  the  matter  of  certain  gold-dust.  The 
case  against  him  had  a  bad  look,  and 
was  the  town-talk  for  some  days.  A 
Chinese  merchant  of  San  Francisco 
went  to  San  Jose  as  the  agent  of  the 
Ning  Yung,  and  it  was  clearly  shown 
at  the  trial  that  the  guilty  individual 
was  the  employer's  own  son;  he  was 
not  punished,  but  Win  was  released. 
Last  summer  he  had  a  quarrel  with  a 
fellow-workman  on  the  ranch.  I  know 
nothing  of  its  merits  ;  both  men  visited 
San  Francisco,  and  each  told  his  story 
to  a  council  of  three  merchants  from 
the  advisory  committee  of  the  com- 
pany, by  whom,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  the  whole  difficulty  was  amicably 
settled.  The  company  does  a  good 
deal  of  this  sort  of  business,  and  it 
is  n't  often  that  an  American  hears  of 
quarrels  or  misunderstandings  between 
the  members. 

Each  company  has  three  or  four  paid 
officers  and  several  permanent  com- 
mittees. Ning  Yung's  salary  bill  is  two 
hundred  dollars  per  month,  for  three 
persons ;  another  company  pays  two 
hundred  and  twenty  dollars,  and  has 
the  service  of  four  men.  Each  com- 
pany has  a  house,  —  rented  rooms  or  a 
building  of  its  own.  Ning  Yung's  is  a 
three-story  brick,  put  up  several  years 
ago,  with  a  kitchen  in  the  rear,  and  a 
temple  in  the  front  part  of  the  upper 
story.  One  time  when  I  visited  it,  a 
score  of  men  were  there,  resting  from 
the  illness  or  fatigue  of  their  sea-voy- 
age ;  two  weeks  later,  when  I  looked 
in,  all  but  one  had  recovered  and  gone 


8;o.] 


Wo  Lee,  and  liis  Kinsfolk. 


227 


off  to  work.  While  there,  such  of  them 
as  were  able  to  do  so  prepared  their 
own  food,  and  the  others  were  waited 
on  by  friends  or  the  porter.  In  the 
building  are  conveniences  for  writing, 
a  few  Chinese  books,  and  many  scrolls 
of  poetry  and  admonition  hung  on  the 
walls.  Only  one  room  was  locked, — 
that  in  which  the  officers  and  com- 
mittees meet  for  business  purposes. 
Meetings  are  held  whenever  necessary, 
and  any  member  of  the  company  can 
be  heard  on  every  question  in  which 
he  is  interested.  The  officers  seem  to 
be  in  their  positions  by  general  con- 
sent rather  than  by  formal  election,  and 
the  affairs  of  each  company  are  prac- 
tically managed  by  a  few  of  the  leading 
men  connected  therewith.  No  one  is 
obliged  to  join,  but  most  of  the  Chinese 
on  the  coast  belong  to  one  or  another 
of  the  companies.  Ning  Yung  is  the 
largest  of  them,  and  has  on  its  records 
something  over  twenty  thousand  names. 
The  tie  of  family  and  neighborhood  gen- 
erally determines  membership :  thus  the 
Sam  Yap,  the  oldest  of  the  companies, 
is  composed  of  persons  from  Canton 
and  its  immediate  vicinity ;  while  the 
Ning  Yung  represents  a  large  district, 
mostly  in  the  interior,  west  and  south 
from  Canton.  The  initiation  fee  is  from 
five  to  ten  dollars ;  there  are  small  fees 
for  hiring  lawyers,  removing  the  dead, 
and  one  or  two  other  purposes,  and 
occasional  assessments  of  fifty  cents 
or  a  dollar  for  rents  and  taxes  and 
repairs.  The  entire  expense  of  mem- 
bership for  ten  years  is  "  maybe  fifty 
dollars,  and  maybe  a  hundred,"  as  the 
treasurer  of  one  company  told  me.  Any 
member  may  dissolve  his  connection 
with  the  institution  at  pleasure  ;  but, 
so  far  as  I  could  learn,  withdrawals  are 
of  very  rare  occurrence. 

The  whole  body  of  officials  in  the 
Six  Companies  has  an  organization  of 
its  own.  This  brings  together  once  or 
twice  a  month  all  the  principal  China- 
men in  the  city  for  consultation  on  mat- 
ters of  interest  to  the  Chinese  as  a 
class.  That  upper  chamber  in  which 
these  gentlemen  meet  may  not  inaptly 
be  spoken  of  as  a  whispering-gallery  ; 


within  its  walls  is  the  echo  of  whatever 
is  done  in  California  having  special  sig- 
nificance for  these  almond-eyed  stran- 
gers. 

A  Chinese  company  is  scarcely  more 
than  a  large  Mutual  Aid  Society.  If  it 
is  given  to  acts  of  oppression,  they  are 
not  apparent ;  if  it  means  mischief  to 
anything,  its  purpose  is  deeply  hidden. 
It  does  not  import  any  one,  but  fre- 
quently extends  pecuniary  aid  to  those 
wishing  to  come  over.  It  does  not 
hold  any  one  in  slavery,  but  uses  its 
weight  and  influence  to  make  the  mem- 
bers faithful  to  their  contracts  and 
obedient  to  our  laws.  It  does  not 
claim  the  wages  or  service  of  any  one, 
but  requires  of  each  member  his  dues 
and  assessments,  as  well  as  a  repay- 
ment of  moneys  to  him  advanced.  I 
heard  vague  charges  that  one  or  two 
of  the  companies  spent  overmuch  in 
salaries,  etc. ;  but  on  this  point  I  could 
get  no  precise  information.  The  Chi- 
nese are  sticklers  for  respect  to  law 
and  custom  :  the  companies  often  help 
the  civil  authorities  in  bringing  offend- 
ers to  punishment,  and  I  gathered  from 
some  talk  with  Americans  that  they 
occasionally  deal  with  their  ©wn  mem- 
bers for  offences  overlooked  or  neg- 
lected by  the  police.  One  Chinaman 
gave  me  to  understand  that  his  com- 
pany would  not  let  him  go  back  to 
China ;  and  when  I  asked  for  an  ex- 
planation, another  told  me  that  he  was 
trying  to  run  away  without  paying  his 
debts  or  making  provision  for  their 
payment. 

I  have  written  of  these  six  organiza- 
tions thus  in  detail,  because  they  are 
a  very  important  element  in  the  Chi- 
nese problem.  What  they  are  now, 
when  the  Chinaman  has  almost  no 
legal  rights,  they  may  not  be  by  and  by, 
when  he  comes  into  political  rights. 
To  the  average  immigrant  they  now 
represent  both  home  and  authority.  In 
the  Company  house  he  finds  care  and 
succor  and  sympathy ;  there,  too,  he 
meets  power  and  control  and  restraint. 
A  score  of  bad  men  at  the  head  of  one 
of  these  companies  could  easily,  and 
without  much  risk  to  themselves,  make 


228 


Wo  Lee,  and  his  Kinsfolk. 


[February, 


a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  Sacramento  or 
San  Francisco.  The  word  spoken  by  a 
company's  president  is  heard  in  Chinese 
cabins  all  over  the  State ;  it  is  tenfold 
more  potent  within  its  range  than  the 
word  of  any  civilian  of  our  nationality. 
Seeing  how  the  company  represents 
authority,  one  may  suggest  that  it  is  a 
dangerous  organization  for  a  republic. 
I  answer  that  at  present  it  more  di- 
rectly represents  a  holy  and  tender 
sentiment,  in  that  it  seeks  to  keep 
alive  memories  of  the  family  and  the 
neighborhood,  and  in  that  it  concerns 
itself  chiefly  to  minister  to  the  immi- 
grant's safety  and  comfort  and  general 
well-being.  Deal  fairly  with  these  im- 
migrants, and  you  have  the  companies 
acting  as  conservators  of  thrift  and 
education  and  good  order. 

Ah  Chin's  ways  are  vastly  unlike 
our  ways.  He  is  a  small  man,  with 
long  black  hair,  a  sedate,  reserved  man- 
ner, and  a  grave,  impenetrable  face, 
without  beard  till  he  is  forty-five  or 
fifty  years  of  age.  He  wears,  a  smock- 
like  garment  in  place  of  a  coat,  wraps 
his  feet  and  ankles  in  strips  of  white 
cotton,  has  silk  or  cloth  shoes  with 
curiously  stitched  felt  bottoms  an  inch 
thick,  gives  himself  clothing  almost 
uniformly  black  or  dark  blue  in  color. 
He  braids  his  queue  every  Sunday, 
lengthening  it  out  with  an  interbraid- 
ing  of  silk  similar  in  shade,  and  goes 
about  the  street  with  it  rolled  round  his 
head  or  hanging  below  his  knees.  He 
dotes  on  pipe  and  tobacco,  never  jostles 
you  in  the  sidewalk,  makes  a  holiday 
of  the  Sabbath,  is  reticent  with  all 
white  men,  decidedly  believes  that  wo- 
man is  an  inferior  being,  lives  frugally 
on  strange  dishes  of  food,  is  the  most 
courteous  man  in  the  world,  tells  you 
with  pride  that  every  Chinaman  can 
read  and  write,  takes  readily  to  any 
kind  of  handiwork,  shows  much  less 
curiosity  about  you  than  you  do  about 
him,  is  always  respectful  to  his  elders 
and  his  superiors,  regards  parental 
authority  as  the  keystone  of  the  civil 
arch,  is  not  envious  of  anybody,  does 
not  concern  his  mind  with  our  politics, 
has  never  an  idea  that  he  can  shirk  the 


work  he  has  agreed  to  perform,  pays 
his  city  and  national  taxes  with  exact- 
ness and  promptitude,  dwells  at  peace 
with  all  his  neighbors,  sets  great  store 
by  his  feast-days,  makes  frequent  of- 
ferings to  the  gods,  thinks  he  will  go 
home  in  three  or  four  years,  and  re- 
ligiously hopes  that  his  body  may  finally 
have  burial  in  China. 

Wo  Lee  and  his  kinsfolk  live  by 
themselves  and  in  themselves ;  their 
relations  with  the  whites  are  of  a  busi- 
ness character,  and  in  the  smallest  pos- 
sible degree  either  social  or  political. 
They  rarely  accept  invitations  to  visit 
Americans,  and  what  visits  they  do 
make  are  ceremonious.  If  a  Chinese 
gentleman  invites  you  to  dine  with 
him,  it  is  to  dinner  at  a  restaurant ;  he 
will  show  you  his  store  or  his  office  or 
his  private  room,  if  you  are  curious  to 
see  either ;  but  he  accepts  none  of 
your  overtures  for  intimacy,  and  allows 
you  little  opportunity  to  see  him  in  his 
social  relaxations.  I  think  he  could 
not  if  he  would,  and  would  not  if  he 
could,  repel  with  rudeness ;  but  he 
does  n't  give  you  the  least  encourage- 
ment to  advance.  He  seems  content 
to  stand  in  isolation,  is  cordial  enough 
in  his  shop  or  store  and  on  the  street, 
but  does  n't  permit  himself  to  be  inter- 
ested in  your  social  or  political  or  per- 
sonal affairs.  He  counts  as  one  in 
number  and  in  business,  but  otherwise 
is  a  silent  quantity  in  the  life  of  the 
city  and  the  State.  His  ten  or  fifteen 
years  in  San  Francisco  have  but  slightly 
Americanized  him ;  in  most  respects, 
so  far  as  you  can  see,  he  is  much  such 
a  man  as  you  imagine  he  was  when  he 
left  China.  Of  course  he  has  learned 
many  things,  and  his  view  of  life  is 
enlarged ;  but  his  conservatism  re- 
mains, and  he  clings  to  his  old  ways 
with  a  pertinacity  that  amuses,  per- 
plexes, and  astonishes  me. 

He  asks  for  such  rights  under  the 
law  as  will  protect  him  in  his  life  and 
his  business.  So  far  as  I  heard  or 
observed,  he  stands  with  serene  dignity, 
and  neither  expostulates  nor  vituper- 
ates. See  what  he  said  through  Fung 
Tang,  a  high-minded  scholar  and  one 


8;o.j 


Wo  Lee,  and  his  Kinsfolk. 


229 


of  his   foremost  men,  socially  and  in 
business  :  — 

"  \Ve  are  satisfied  with  the  treaty 
you  have  made  with  our  government, 
and  we  want  the  just  protection  it 
promises  us.  We  have  rich  bankers 
I  and  merchants  in  China,  but  we  can- 
1  not  advise  them  to  risk  their  capital 
'  here  so  long  as  their  agents  cannot 
testify  in  your  courts ;  for,  like  your 
own  capitalists,  they  wish  to  know  that 
their  property  will  be  secure  before  in- 
vesting it  abroad.  Much  gold  and  sil- 
ver is  hoarded  in  China,  which  might 
be  profitably  used  here  if  our  people  felt 
sure  we  had  full  and  proper  protection. 
We  merchants  have  tried  to  be  fair  and 
honest  in  our  dealings  with  your  mer- 
chants here,  and  have  paid  our  debts 
as  scrupulously  to  Americans  as  to  our 
own  people.  The  managers  of  some 
of  your  largest  San  Francisco  firms 
engaged  in  the  Chinese  trade  have 
trusted  us  with  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  dollars  at  a  time  without  security, 
and  we  have  not  failed  to  pay  every 
dollar  to  them  again.  We  ask  nothing 
but  that  you  treat  us  justly.  We  are 
willing  to  pay  taxes  cheerfully  when 
taxed  equally  with  others.  We  think 
the  tax  of  five  dollars  collected  from 
each  Chinaman  coming  into  this  State 
is  not  right  if  this  is  a  free  country. 
We  also  think  the  special  tax  of  four 
dollars  per  month  collected  only  from 
Chinese  miners  is  not  according  to  your 
treaty  with  our  government.  Most  of 
all  we  want  protection  to  our  lives  and 
property.  Your  courts  of  justice  refuse 
our  testimony,  and  thus  leave  us  de- 
fenceless. Our  country  can  furnish 
yours  with  good,  faithful,  industrious 
men;  if  you  wish  to  employ  them,  and 
will  enact  laws  to  make  them  feel  safe, 
and  insure  them  equal  justice  with  peo- 
ple of  other  nations,  according  to  the 
terms  of  their  treaty  with  your  govern- 
ment. We  live  here  many  years  in 
quiet ;  all  we  ask  for  is  right  and  jus- 
tice." 

These  explicit  and  dignified  words 
indicate  the  Chinaman's  attitude.  He 
does  not  seek  admission  to  our  soci- 
ety ;  he  is  not  concerned  about  political 


rights ;  but  is  content  to  live  apart,  and 
asks  for  nothing  but  justice.  His  dress 
is  peculiar  and  inconvenient  in  our 
eyes ;  he  lives  comfortably  on  a  sum 
per  diem  that  would  only  help  me  the 
swifter  to  starvation;  he  seems  indif- 
ferent to  what  gives  me  my  highest 
delight  and  purest  gratification ;  he  is 
no  way  troubled  by  my  devotion  to  the 
ballot  as  the  symbol  of  human  prosper- 
ity; but  "original  equality  before  the 
law  "  is  in  every  article  of  his  jurispru- 
dence, and  has  been  there  for  thou- 
sands of  years. 

The  Chinese  quarter  of  San  Fran- 
cisco is  a  place  of  wonderful  fascination 
to  all  visitors  from  the  Atlantic  States. 
Very  many  of  the  Chinese  are  young 
men,  —  men  under  thirty  years  of  age, 
and  for  the  greater  part  unmarried. 
Only  a  small  proportion  of  those  who 
are  married  have  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren in  this  country.  The  quarter  pre- 
sents, therefore,  a  community  of  men. 
It  covers  ten  or  twelve  blocks  of  the 
flat ;  and  here  reside  most  of  the  China- 
men in  the  city.  They  live  largely  in 
boarding-houses :  in  many  buildings 
there  are  not  less  than  one  hundred; 
in  several  there  are  three  or  four  hun- 
dred, while  in  one  or  two  must  be 
over  one  thousand.  Two  thirds  of  the 
immigrants  are  of  the  peasant  class, 
poor  men,  though  not  necessarily  of  the 
lowest  caste.  They  know  nothing  of 
luxuries,  in  our  sense  of  the  word  ; 
they  eat  the  cheapest  of  food,  have  n't 
much  use  for  beds  and  mirrors  and 
wardrobes,  and  at  night  need  only  a 
blanket  and  two  feet  by  five  on  the 
floor  or  in  the  back  yard. 

I  had  a  notion  that  they  were  a  filthy 
people  ;  —  that  was  a  great  mistake. 
There  are  odors  about  them,  caught 
from  work  and  the  cook-stove,  that  my 
nostrils  do  not  at  all  approve  ;  but  per- 
sonal cleanliness  is  a  rule,  with  but  rare 
exceptions.  Of  the  floors  and  walls  and 
ceilings  of  their  houses  I  can't  speak 
so  favorably  ;  I  found  them  smirched 
and  begrimed  with  the  hard  and  care- 
less usage  of  many  years ;  not  un- 
swept,  but  unwashed  and  unpainted ; 
not  dirty  to  the  foot  or  the  hand,  but 


230 


Wo  Lee,  and  his  Kinsfolk. 


[February, 


very  disagreeable  to  one's  senses  of  see- 
ing and  smelling ;  needing  the  white 
landlord's  painter  and  paper-hanger 
quite  as  much  as  the  yellow  tenant's 
scrubbing-brush.  These  houses  are 
cheaply  and  poorly  furnished,  and  rare- 
ly contain  anything  in  the  way  of  orna- 
ment, if  I  except  growing  vines  and 
plants.  The  halls  and  stairways  seemed 
dirtier  than  the  chambers  and  dining- 
rooms,  while  the  areas  and  back  yards 
were  generally  unclean  and  nauseating. 
The  common  effect  of  dilapidation  I 
found  enhanced  by  the  numberless  flut- 
tering strips  of  soiled  paper  hanging 
everywhere,  inscribed  with  mottoes  and 
admonitions  and  moral  maxims  :  "  Vir- 
tue loves  its  children,"  "  Deal  rightly 
with  your  neighbors,"  "The  way  of  vir- 
tue is  happiness,"  "  The  gods  approve 
justice,"  "  The  uncharitable  prosper 
not,"  etc. 

Out  in  the  country  and  in  the  towns 
and  smaller  cities  this  class  of  people 
live  even  more  miserably  in  some  re- 
spects than  in  San  Francisco.  Travel- 
ling about,  and  looking  much  into  hous- 
es and  rooms  occupied  by  the  Chinese, 
gives  one  new  ideas  as  to  the  value  of 
woman  in  domestic  affairs.  The  hard 
and  meagre  and  prosaic  life  of  these  men 
is  not  necessarily  to  be  charged  to  their 
national  character ;  for  the  life  of  Amer- 
icans in  mining-camps,  where  there  are 
no  women,  is  scarcely  less  barren  of 
comfort  and  refinement  than  that  of 
these  poor  Chinamen. 

The  country  laborers  have  little  more 
than  a  mere  animal  existence,  unless 
they  happen  to  be  employed  as  house- 
servants.  They  are  at  work  all  clay, 
for,  as  I  have  already  said,  a  Chinaman 
never  thinks  of  shirking;  they  live 
with  the  greatest  frugality ;  in  the 
evening  they  smoke  and  sit  together 
for  talk  ;  probably  they  gamble  for  ten 
and  twenty-five  cent  pieces  ;  at  night 
they  sleep  — anywhere.  The  lowest 
of  them  can  read  and  write,  for  educa- 
tion is  all  but  universal  in  the  old  Em- 
pire at  home,  but  there  are  neither 
books  nor  papers  for  them  to  be  had 
in  the  country  here.  The  loneliness 
of  that  life  does  not  make  them  seek 


the  companionship  of  other  races  ;  in 
the  valleys  and  on  the  mountains  I 
found  them  choosing  isolation  as  in  the 
city  with  its  thousands.  Everywhere 
is  this  reserve  and  reticence, — going 
their  way  with  quiet  manner,  sealed 
lips,  and  inscrutable  faces,  as  if  walk- 
ing in  a  world  of  their  own,  beyond  the 
voice  and  the  footstep  of  the  "  Meli- 
can  "  man.  They  are  uniformly  civil, 
and  sedately  satisfy  the  stranger's  cu- 
riosity, but  they  neither  seek  nor  proffer 
confidence. 

One  may  truly  say  that  these  Chi- 
nese seem  to  be  a  clannish  people.  But 
is  n't  that  about  what  the  French  and 
the  Swiss  and  the  Italians  say  of  us  ?  — 
founding  the  conclusion  on  the  fact  that 
when  we  go  to  Paris  or  Berne  or  Rome 
we  mostly  gather  in  one  or  two  hotels 
and  make  up  our  own  society.  The 
Chinaman  may  be  over-fond  of  himself 
and  his  kinsfolk,  but  we  are  not  yet  in 
a  position  to  sit  in  his  judgment.  Just 
now  he  must  be  clannish  for  his  own 
protection  :  it  is  n't  possible,  as  I  am 
bound  to  say  in  his  behalf,  to  tell  how 
he  will  act  when  we  recognize  his  hu- 
manity and  give  him  equality  with  our- 
selves in  civil  rights. 

Two  of  us  travellers  went  one  after- 
noon, in  San  Francisco,  with  a  note  of 
introduction,  to  the  store  of  a  certain 
"  wholesale  and  retail  dealer  in  tea, 
sugar,  rice,  nut-oil,  opium,  shoes,  and 
clothing,  and  China  provisions  gener- 
ally." The  Chinese  merchant  was  not 
in  when  we  arrived,  and  we  spent  half 
an  hour  in  looking  at  his  goods  and 
talking  with  the  chief  clerk,  who  was 
also  the  book-keeper.  He  was  a  young 
fellow  of  about  eighteen  or  twenty, 
able  to  read  and  write  and  speak 
English  with  considerable  facility,  hav- 
ing learned  the  language,  he  told  us, 
in  six  months  at  an  evening  school. 
He  received  us  very  politely,  readily 
answered  all  our  inquiries  about  the 
goods,  showed  us  his  books  and  ex- 
plained how  he  kept  and  reckoned  ac- 
counts ;  doing  it  all  with  the  most 
charming  lack  of  pretence  and  assump- 
tion. But  he  would  go  no  farther :  it 
was  impossible  to  dra\r  him  into  talk 


Wo  Ltr,  and  Jds  Ki)isfolk. 


231 


about  himself  or  his  people  ;  he  met 
all  our  inquiries  with  perfectly  good- 
natured  reserve.  lie  asked  my  resi- 
dence and  business,  not  as  if  he  had 
any  concern  in  the  matter,  but  as  if 
xl-breeding  required  him  to  do  so. 
At  last  I  became  a  good  deal  interested 
in  the  lad ;  —  it  was  curious  to  see  how 
,  he  kept  his  own  counsel  and  his  amia- 
bility. His  uncle  not  coming  in,  he 
finally  asked  us  to  sit  in  the  back  room 
and  wait.  I  am  not  quite  certain 
whether  he  did  it  from  courtesy  or  from 
a  desire  to  be  rid  of  our  inquisitiveness. 
Of  course  we  did  not  decline  his  invita- 
tion, —  the  first  opportunity  I  had  to 
see  the  private  room  of  a  Chinese  gen- 
tleman of  wealth  and  position. 

It  was  a  room  ten  or  twelve  feet 
square,  neat  and  tidy  and  orderly  as  a 
lady's  bedchamber.  On  one  side  was 
a  large  platform  about  two  feet  high, 
covered  with  an  elegant  crimson  mat, 
hung  all  round  with  a  rich  damask 
curtain.  In  the  centre  of  this  was  a 
smoking-tray,  with  pipes  and  cigars 
and  tobacco  and  a  lighted  lamp.  On 
another  side  was  a  case  of  shelves 
whereon  were  piled  books  and  papers 
and  manuscripts.  Opposite  were  other 
shelves,  with  bottles  of  wine,  dried 
fruits,  a  teapot,  teacups,  wineglasses, 
cake-plates,  etc.  The  floor  was  hand- 
somely carpeted,  and  about  the  walls 
were  hung  half  a  dozen  Chinese  pic- 
tures, an  American  landscape  print, 
and  a  good  engraving  of  Lincoln.  In 
the  corner  behind  the  door  was  the 
bed,  —  not  with  pillows  like  ours,  but  a 
long  bolster  for  the  neck ;  not  with 
spread  turned  down  from  the  top  like 
ours,  but  snow-white  sheet  and  blankets 
rolled  up  from  the  whole  front  side. 
We  were  still  standing  when  the  mer- 
chant came  in  with  a  couple  of  friends. 
The  young  man  introduced  us  with 
easy  grace,  speaking  our  names  dis- 
tinctly, and  mentioning  our  place  of 
residence ;  and  the  merchant,  in  broken 
English,  expressed  pleasure  at  seeing 
persons  from  a  place  so  far  away,  and 
at  welcoming  in  his  rooms  any  friends 
of  the  person  from  whom  I  had  a  letter, 
and  then  a.sked  us  all  to  be  seated  and 


drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  him.  His 
nephew  did  the  honors  of  the  occasion, 
and  as  we  touched  our  delicate  little 
glasses,  holding  scarcely  more  than  a 
large  thimbleful,  the  merchant  hoped 
we  two  would  have  a  pleasant  visit  in 
San  Francisco,  and  get  safely  back  to 
our  homes.  We  sat  with  him  for  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes,  talked  a  little  about 
various  matters,  accepted  cigars,  and 
shook  hands  with  him  at  the  door  on 
parting. 

I  dropped  in  there  twice  afterwards, 
and  was  recognized  by  name  at  each 
call.  On  these  occasions  I  declined 
wine,  but  took  a  cup  of  tea  with  the 
merchant  and  his  nephew  from  the 
tiniest  cups  imaginable,  not  holding 
more  than  a  tablespoonful.  At  one 
visit  I  was  invited  into  the  private 
room,  and  sat  on  the  platform  with  the 
young  man  ;  at  the  other  we  sat  in  the 
rear  end  of  the  store,  while  half  a  dozen 
persons  stood  near  the  street-door  till 
my  call  was  concluded.  I  visited  sev- 
eral other  merchants,  was  received  in 
much  the  same  ceremonious  fashion, 
and  found  their  private  rooms  not 
widely  different  from  the  one  I  have 
described.  Wine  or  tea,  with  cigars, 
was  always  offered,  and  the  manner  of 
my  entertainers  was  invariably  marked 
by  great  self-respect  and  high  breed- 
ing. 

Once  upon  a  time,  Julesburg,  out  in 
the  northeast  corner  of  Colorado,  —  or 
did  they  finally  decide  that  it  was  in 
Nebraska  ?  —  was  a  town  of  two  thou- 
sand inhabitants.  Now  it  is  a  misera- 
ble way-station  on  the  Union  Pacific 
Railway,  three  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  miles  from  Omaha,  with  a  popula- 
tion of  one  hundred,  —  of  so  little  con- 
sequence that  the  traveller  scarcely 
notices  its  existence ;  but  in  its  day, 
only  two  years  ago,  it  had  a  telegraph- 
office  and  kept  the  reading-public  well 
informed  as  to  its  peculiar  life  of  brawls 
and  robberies  andstabbings  and  street- 
fights  and  sudden  murders.  It  included 
three  hundred  women  among  its  inhab- 
itants,—  not  women  of  doubtful  or  easy 
virtue,  but  women  who  had  no  virtue 
at  all  except  that  of  being  able  to  hold 


Wo  Lee,  and  his  Kinsfolk. 


[February, 


their  own  in  a  gambling-hell  row  and  a 
bar-room  pistol-fight.  If  a  Chinaman 
had  been  put  down  there  to  study  the 
American  woman,  what  report  must  he 
have  made  to  his  countrymen  at  home  ? 
Nay,  if  he  were  put  down  to-day  at 
Promontory  to  make  the  same  study, 
what  would  be  his  conclusion  ?  He  is 
brought  up  to  charity  of  thought  and 
speech  ;  but  with  the  largest  toleration 
he  could  n't  speak  well  of  her  if  he  had 
judged  her  then  at  Julesburg  or  last 
fall  at  Promontory.  Shall  we  judge 
the  Chinese  woman  by  what  we  see  in 
California  ?  We  demand  that  he  shall 
put  himself  in  our  place*?  may  he  not 
also  demand  that  we  put  ourselves  in 
his  place? 

The  Chinese  women  in  San  Francis- 
co are  mostly  a  disgrace  to  their  coun- 
try ;  and  if  medical  men  and  police- 
officers  with  whom  I  talked  are  to  be 
credited,  this  fact  is  due  in  no  small 
degree  to  white  men  now  or  heretofore 
living  in  that  city.  When  John  Smith, 
a  wild  young  man  from  New  York,  got 
to  the  Pacific  coast  he  met  Tai  Loo, 
just  from  the  Chinese  steamer :  the 
silver  and  the  passions  of  these  two 
and  their  fellows  have  made  the  Chi- 
nese woman  of  California  what  she  is  ; 
and,  if  the  balance  must  be  struck,  the 
doctors  and  the  police  say  that  Smith 
is  in  no  position  to  throw  stones  at  Tai 
Loo's  glass  house.  For  my  part,  I  can- 
not see  that  the  Chinaman's  sin  in 
bringing  over  these  women  is  any 
greater  than  the  sin  of  Smith  and  his 
kind  in  consorting  with  them  after  they 
are  domiciled  in  California.  And  this 
is  the  view  taken  by  that  intelligent 
Chinese  person  who  might  have  been 
deputed  to  report  on  the  American 
woman  from  the  latitude  and  longitude 
of  Julesburg. 

Look  back  at  the  words  I  have 
quoted  from  Fung  Tang,  and  then  say 
if  we  have  given  the  Chinaman  any  en- 
couragement to  bring  his  family  to  our 
shores.  We  have  taxed  him  on  landing 
and  taxed  him  if  he  worked  at  mining ; 
•we  have  beaten  him  and  stabbed  him 
at  will  when  no  white  witness  was  in 
sight ;  we  have  shut  the  doors  of  our 


court-rooms  in  his  bleeding  face  ;  we 
have  put  his  property  at  the  tender 
mercy  of  shysters  and  sharpers ;  we 
have  made  law  an  enigma,  and  justice  a 
mockery,  in  his  eyes ;  the  ruling  party 
in  California  is  even  now  considering 
if  it  can  kick  him  out  of  the  State  with 
a  legislative  boot.  And  yet  it  is  im- 
puted to  him  as  a  crime  and  as  an  evi- 
dence of  national  degradation  that  his 
virtuous  women  on  the  coast  are  but 
one  in  a  hundred. 

A  few  of  the  married  men  have  their 
wives  and  children  with  them :  more 
families  came  over  last  year  than  in  all 
the  other  years  since  Chinese  immigra- 
tion began.  It  is  undoubtedly  true  that 
in  China  the  woman  is  regarded  as  an 
inferior,  and  travellers  tell  us  that  cus- 
tom keeps  her  secluded,  and  prevents 
her  from  having  any  part  in  affairs  out- 
side her  home.  Let  us  hope  that  one 
result  of  the  intercourse  between  that 
country  and  ours  may  be  to  give  the 
Chinese  a  higher  opinion  of  woman's 
character  and  capabilities.  In  going 
about  among  what  I  may  designate  as 
the  middle  class  of  California  Chinese, 
I  saw  the  inside  of  four  homes,  and 
four  married  women  with  their  children. 
In  general  the  Chinese  women  are  not 
larger  than  our  girls  of  fourteen  or  fif- 
teen ;  those  of  the  town  have  a  some- 
what brazen  look,  but  are  more  modest 
when  on  the  streets  than  white  women 
of  the  same  class;  the  married  ones 
were  retiring,  diffident,  bright-eyed,  and 
pleasant-faced. 

One  afternoon  I  dropped  into  a  Chi- 
nese wood-carver's  shop  and  had  some 
talk  with  him  about  his  business.  He 
was  a  chatty  and  smiling  young  man, 
speaking  my  language  with  great  diffi- 
culty, and  seemed  quite  pleased  to  have 
me  examine  and  praise  his  really  fine 
work.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  married, 
and  when  he  told  me  he  had  "wifee 
and  one  he,"  I  ventured  to  say  that  I 
should  like  to  see  his  boy.  He  looked 
at  me  sharply  for  an  instant,  and  then 
disappeared  into  the  room  back  of 
his  shop.  Presently  he  returned,  and 
beckoned  me  to  the  door,  bowed  low 
as  I  came  up,  stood  aside  for  me 


1 8 /o. 


Wo  Lee,  and  Jiis  Kinsfolk. 


233 


to  pass,  and  then  followed  me  in.  I 
found  "he"  to  be  a  youngster  of 
three  or  four  years,  toddling  about  the 
floor,  chattering  to  himself  and  his 
mother,  and  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
the  stranger.  He  was  a  quaint  little 
!  chap,  and  his  father  was  evidently  very 
i  proud  of  him.  The  mother  stood  with 
|  her  eyes  on  the  floor  when  I  entered, 
and  looked  up  but  once  while  I  re- 
mained. That  was  when  I  said  to  the 
father,  "Nice  boy,  —  nice  boy,"  which 
words,  I  suppose,  he  repeated  in  Chi- 
nese, and  then  his  wife  glanced  quickly 
at  me  with  a  pleased  expression  in  her 
face.  The  room  was  not  over  eight  or 
nine  feet  square ;  there  were  three  or 
four  stools,  a  plain  table,  the  child's 
bed  of  folded  blankets,  two  or  three 
shelves  behind  a  curtain,  and  the  usual 
scrolls  of  red  paper  on  the  walls. 

One  evening  we  looked  into  a  jewel- 
lers store.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
spoke  English  readily,  had  his  show- 
cases well  filled  with  American  and  for- 
eign watches,  and  silver,  and  notions, 
and  on  his  work-bench  was  as  complete 
a  set  of  first-class  tools  as  I  ever  saw 
in  any  jeweller's  shop.  He  had  learned 
his  trade  in  China,  seemed  perfectly  at 
home  in  it,  and  said  he  had  all  the 
work  he  could  do,  —  quite  one  half  of  it 
coming  from  others  than  his  own  coun- 
trymen. He  sold  an  alarm-clock  of 
Connecticut  make  while  we  talked,  and 
remarked  that  his  people  had  to  get  up 
early  in  the  morning  and  liked  this 
kind  "right  much."  As  we  stood  by 
the  counter,  a  child  pattered  out  from 
the  back  room,  and  the  man's  wife  with 
a  babe  in  her  arms  immediately  fol- 
lowed. She  dropped  her  eyes  on  see- 
ing us,  but  passed  behind  the  case  and 
spoke  with  her  husband,  and  then  sat 
down  on  a  stool  near  him.  She  had  a 
small  and  intelligent  face,  and  was  less 
di.nuent  than  the  wood-carver's  wife. 
She  couldn't  use  our  tongue,  but  the 
man  seemed  from  time  to  time  to  give 
her  an  idea  of  the  desultory  talk,  and 
she  appeared  to  find  pleasure  in  what 
he  said  immediately  after  we  spoke  of 
the  children.  The  oldest  had  a  wonder- 
fully wise  look  in  his  large  brown  eyes, 


and  did  n't  seem  quite  sure  that  it 
would  be  the  proper  thing  to  allow  the 
strangers  any  familiarities  of  talk  or 
touch. 

I  wanted  to  see  one  of  the  real  Chi- 
nese ladies,  a  married  woman  of  the 
upper  class.  This  was  not  possible. 
Home  is  the  woman's  province,  in  the 
opinion  of  Wo  Lee  and  his  kinsmen  ; 
her  business  is  to  stay  there,  and  these 
ladies  of  the  higher  rank  never  appear 
on  the  street.  Mr.  Lee  is  courtesy  it- 
self in  his  store  and  at  his  business, 
but  he  invites  no  white  man  to  meet  his 
wife  and  family.  A  little  inquiry  con- 
vinced me  that  there  was  no  way  in 
which  I  could  satisfy  my  curiosity,  — 
no  way,  unless  I  used  the  eyes  of  a 
female  friend.  And  I  did  that.  This 
was  the  way,  and  this  the  report. 

There  were  three  of  the  ladies,  all 
friends  of  mine,  and  they  were  per- 
mitted to  call  on  the  wife  of  a  Chinese 
gentleman.  It  took  two  or  three  days 
and  a  great  deal  of  diplomacy  to  ar- 
range for  the  visit.  He  did  n't  mean 
they  should  go,  but  they  conquered  him 
at  last,  as  they  have  conquered  and 
will  continue  to  conquer  white  men. 
Eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  sharp 
eleven,  was  the  hour  fixed,  and  the 
husband  was  to  be  at  his  store  to  con- 
duct them  to  his  residence.  They  were 
on  hand  to  the  moment,  and  waited 
half  an  hour  in  the  store,  chatting  with 
each  other  and  the  merchant.  Then 
he  led  the  way  and  they  followed.  At 
the  house  it  was  up  stairs,  and  through 
the  hall,  and  up  another  stairway,  and 
into  a  third-story  back  room.  The 
man  has  been  in  California  seven  or 
eight  years ;  when  he  returned  from 
his  visit  to  China  two  years  ago  he 
brought  his  bride,  —  of  high  estate,  rich 
in  dower,  with  the  smallest  of  small  feet. 
She  has  n't  been  out  of  his  house  since 
the  day  he  took  her  there.  From  the 
back  room  the  three  curious  women, 
one  of  whom  was  using  her  eyes  for 
me,  were  taken  into  the  front  room. 
Both  were  plainly  furnished;  there 
were  chairs  and  shelves  and  mats  and 
a  table,  and  scrolls  on  the  walls,  and 
plants  in  the  window,  but  nothing  else 


Edwin  M.  Stanton. 


[February, 


for  beauty  or  ornament.  They  waited 
half  an  hour  more  for  this  lady  of  high 
birth  and  breeding.  Then  she  appeared, 
coming  in  from  a  side  door,  with  her 
head  down  and  a  fan  before  her  face, 
scarcely  able  to  walk  because  of  her 
tiny  feet,  half  supported  by  the  peasant 
maid  carrying  the  baby.  She  was 
dressed  as  for  a  grand  occasion.  Her 
hair  was  braided  and  plaited  and  rolled 
and  put  up  with  combs  and  pins  and 
arrows  of  gold  and  silver.  The  body 
of  her  dress  was  of  plain  colored  silk, 
loose,  high  in  the  neck,  elegant  of  tex- 
ture, with  long  and  large  sleeves  turned 
back  from  the  hands  and  richly  em- 
broidered on  the  cuffs.  The  under 
skirt  was  also  of  silk,  just  touching  the 
floor,  narrowly  embroidered  in  bright 
colors  at  the  bottom  and  plain  above  ; 
the  upper  skirt  was  of  satin,  reaching 
just  below  the  knees,  covered  with  fine 
and  elaborate  embroidery  ;  around  her 
waist  was  a  silk  sash  or  girdle,  with  the 
ends  trailing  on  the  floor.  She  stood 
through  the  brief  call,  hardly  raising 
her  eyes  for  an  instant,  not  speaking  a 
single  word,  and  holding  her  open  fan  in 


such  a  way  that  my  friends  caught  but 
a  glance  or  two  of  her  fair  and  painted 
face,  —  enough  to  see  that  her  eyes  were 
winning  and  her  features  regular  and 
delicate^  The  baby  was  twelve  or  four- 
teen months  old,  a  bright  and  handsome 
boy,  in  whom  the  father  showed  deli- 
cious pride.  It  was  richly  and  some- 
what fantastically  dressed,  with  many 
costly  and  burdensome  ornaments  of 
gold  and  silver  given  by  friends  in  San 
Francisco  and  sent  by  friends  in  China, 
—  rings  on  its  chubby  hands,  tinkling 
silver  bells  on  its  ankles  and  pen- 
dent from  ribbons  of  its  quaint  cap. 
The  father  chatted  with  the  ladies,  and 
was  pleased  when  they  petted  his  boy, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  when  they  sug- 
gested that  he  take  wife  and  baby  out 
riding,  and  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes 
ceremoniously  conducted  them  down 
the  stairways  and  out  into  the  street ; 
they  wondering  how  the  young  wife 
found  life  endurable  in  the  confinement, 
year  on  year,  of  her  three  or  four  barren 
rooms,  —  wondering,  —  and  then,  when 
they  thought  of  baby  and  motherhood, 
not  wondering. 


EDWIN  M.  STANTON. 


IT  is  too  soon  to  write  the  history 
of  the  great  Rebellion.  We  have 
been  too  deeply  involved  in  the  details 
and  issues  of  the  strife.  We  are  yet 
too  near,  and  the  angle  of  vision  is  yet 
too  large,  to  enable  us  to  see  perfectly 
its  vast  proportions,  or  correctly  esti- 
mate its  individual  acts  and  actors  in 
their  true  relations  to  each  other  and 
to  the  grand  result.  Time  must  elapse 
before  that  view  can  be  taken. 

Equally  necessary  is  time  for  a  true 
estimate  of  its  costs  and  sacrifices. 
Mr.  Commissioner  Wells  estimates  its 
expense  at  nine  billions  of  dollars.  Ad- 
mitting that  figure  to  be  pecuniarily 
correct,  immense  as  it  is,  it  falls  lam- 
entably short  of  all  the  nation  has  been 


called  to  pay  for  the  Rebellion  and 
its  results.  That  immense  aggregate 
is  growing  all  too  rapidly,  as  day  after 
day  adds  its  contribution.  Indeed,  ev- 
ery hour  brings  its  quota,  as  widows 
and  orphans  struggle  with  the  poverty 
which  the  strong  arms  of  those  who  fell 
in  the  conflict  would  have  warded  off. 
Soldiers,  crippled  and  diseased  in  the 
service,  looking  helplessly  on  the  work 
they  would  gladly  perform,  wearily  suc- 
cumb in  the  unequal  struggle.  Funeral 
processions  are  everywhere  telling  of 
the  fearful  price  the  nation  is  paying 
for  the  Slaveholders'  Rebellion. 

But  the  war  brought  with  it,  and  has 
left  behind  it,  large  and  priceless  com- 
pensations. Great  and  grievous  as  have 


1 8;o.] 


J/.  Stanton. 


235 


been  its  cost  and  sacrifices,  the  nation 
would  hardly  consent,  if  it  were  possi- 
ble, to  be  placed  again  where  it  stood 
when  the  fires  of  civil  strife  were 
kindled.  For  advantages  unparalleled 
in  history  have  been  secured  through 
:ncy.  Slavery  has  been  utterly 
extinguished,  and  for  the  first  time 
the  nation  is  consistent  with  its  creed. 
Out  of  the  nettle  danger  it  may  be 
hoped  it  has  plucked  the  flower  safety ; 
and  it  stands  forth  before  the  world 
in  1870,  widely  differing  from  the  na- 
tion of  1860. 

The  war  was  a  furnace  that  tested 
alike  the  character  of  the  nation  and 
of  individuals.  While  many,  entering 
it  with  fair  repute,  failed  in  the  hour 
of  supreme  trial,  others  found  in  it  that 
opportunity,  never  vouchsafed  before, 
fur  personal  development  and  achieve- 
ment, and  performed  signal  and  last- 
ing service  for  their  country,  making 
for  themselves  names  the  people  will 
not  let  die. 

Prominent  among  these  was  Edwin 
M.  Stanton.  The  Rebellion  found  him 
a  private  citizen  and  a  successful  law- 
yer, but  without  experience  in  public 
affairs,  and  without  a  national  reputa- 
tion. Called  to  the  Cabinet,  he  in- 
stantly developed  administrative  abil- 
ities of  the  highest  order.  There,  for 
more  than  six  years,  he  gave  time  and 
toil  without  stint,  turning  night  into  day 
and  day  into  night,  in  labors  unremit- 
:hausting,  and  almost  incredible. 
Indeed,  so  complete  was  his  self-abne- 
gation that,  when  released,  he  went  to 
his  home  with  impaired  fortunes,  and 
a  body  shattered  by  disease,  as  really 
contracted  in  the  service  as  was  ever 
that  of  the  soldier  in  the  camp,  in  the 
battle-field,  or  in  the  Rebel  prison. 
And  when,  on  the  27th  of  December, 
he  was  borne  through  the  streets  of 
the  capital  to  his  last  resting-place  in 
Oak  Hill  Cemetery,  the  people  felt  that 
they  were  following  a  martyr  to  his 
tomb  no  less  tttan  when  Sedgwick, 
Wadsworth,  and  Lincoln  were  carried 
through  the  same  streets  to  their  bur- 
ial. 

When  time  shall  have  elapsed,  and 


the  passions  and  prejudices  engendered 
by  the  strife  shall  have  subsided,  when 
the  records  of  events  and  acts  shall 
come  to  light,  and  the  philosophic  his- 
torian shall,  with  those  records,  lay 
bare  the  motives  and  purposes  of  the 
actors  in  that  conflict,  Edwin  M.  Stan- 
ton  will  stand  forth  conspicuous  among 
the  illustrious  characters  of  the  era. 
It  will  then  be  seen  that  he  wielded 
vast  power,  and  largely  influenced  re- 
sults. I  now  propose  simply  to  speak 
of  Mr.  Stanton  as  I  knew  him,  of  his 
services  as  I  saw  them,  and  of  his  char- 
acteristics as  they  revealed  themselves 
to  vine  in  the  varying  phases  of  the 
struggle.  While  he  was  in  the  cab- 
inets of  Lincoln  and  Johnson,  it  was 
my  privilege  to  occupy  the  position  of 
chairman  of  the  Military  Committee  of 
the  Senate,  and  our  official  relations 
were  necessarily  intimate  and  confi- 
dential. The  legislation  requisite  for 
raising,  equipping,  and  governing  the 
armies,  and  the  twenty-five  thousand 
nominations  of  officers,  from  the  sec- 
ond lieutenants  up  to  the  General-in- 
Chief,  which  passed  through  my  com- 
mittee while  he  was  in  the  War  De- 
partment, were  often  the  subject  of 
conference  and  consideration  between 
us.  His  office  was  open  to  me  at  all 
times  by  day  and  night.  I  saw  him  in 
every  circumstance  and  condition  of 
the  war,  in  the  glow  of  victory  and  in 
the  gloom  of  defeat.  Of  course  his 
modes  of  thought,  his  methods  of  busi- 
ness, and  his  moods  of  feeling  were 
open  to  my  close  observation  and  care- 
ful scrutiny.  I  came  to  understand, 
I  think,  his  motives  and  purposes,  to 
comprehend  his  plans,  and  to  realize 
something  of  the  value  of  his  public 
services. 

I  first  knew  Mr.  Stanton  during  the 
closing  hours  of  Mr.  Buchanan's  weak 
and  wicked  administration.  On  the 
election  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  South  Caro- 
lina, trained  for  thirty  years  in  the 
school  of  treason,  leaped  headlong  into 
rebellion.  Other  States  followed  her 
example.  Southern  senators  and  rep- 
resentatives came  to  Congress,  and, 
with  official  oaths  on  their  perjured 


236 


Edwin  M.   Stanton. 


[February, 


lips,  plotted  against  the  peace  and 
unity  of  their  country.  Conspiracies 
were  rife  in  the  Cabinet,  in  Congress, 
in  the  departments,  in  the  army,  in 
the  navy,  and  among  the  citizens  of  the 
capital,  for  the  overthrow  of  the  gov- 
ernment and  the  dismemberment  of 
the  Union. 

Day  by  day,  during  that  terrible  win- 
ter, loyal  men  in  Congress  saw  with 
profound  sorrow  their  riven  and  shat- 
tered country  sinking  into  the  fathom- 
less abyss  of  disunion.  The  President 
and  his  Attorney-General  surrendered 
the  government's  right  of  self-preser- 
vation by  assuring  the  conspirators  that 
"  no  power  had  been  delegated  to  Con- 
gress to  coerce  into  submission  a  State 
which  is  attempting  to  withdraw,  or 
which  has  entirely  withdrawn,  from  the 
confederacy."  The  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury  was  deranging  the  finances 
and  sinking  the  national  credit.  The 
Secretary  of  War  was  scattering  the 
little  army,  and  sending  muskets,  can- 
non, and  munitions  of  war  where  they 
could  be  clutched  by  the  conspirators. 
The  Secretary  of  the  Interior  was  per- 
mitting the  robbery  of  trust  funds,  and 
revealing  to  traitors  the  action  of  his 
government.  A  New  England  Secre- 
tary of  the  Navy  was  rendering  that 
arm  of  the  service  powerless  for  the 
national  defence.  Northern  politicians 
were  ostentatiously  giving  pledges 
"never  to  vote  a  man  or  a  dollar  for 
coercion,"  and  assuring  the  conspira- 
tors, who  were  seizing  forts,  arsenals, 
and  arms,  and  raising  batteries  for  as- 
sault or  defence,  that  troops,  raised  for 
the  subjugation  of  the  South,  "must 
pass  over  their  dead  bodies."  Officers 
of  the  Senate  and  of  the  executive  de- 
partments were  members  of  secret  or- 
ganizations that  nightly  plotted  treason 
in  the  national  capital. 

It  was  a  time  of  peril,  anxiety,  and 
gloom.  Patriotic  men  can  hardly  recall 
those  clays  of  apostasy  without  a -shud- 
der. President  Buchanan  was  weak 
and  wavering.  Mr.  Stanton,  whom  he 
had  consulted  before  the  meeting  of 
Congress,  had  advised  him  to  incor- 
porate into  his  message  the  doctrine 


that  the  Federal  government  had  the 
power,  and  that  it  was  its  duty,  to  coerce 
seceding  States.  But  timid  and  trea- 
sonable counsels  prevailed,  and  the 
patriotic  and  vigorous  advice  of  Mr. 
Stanton  was  rejected.  The  plottings 
and  intrigues  of  the  secessionists  and 
the  fatal  weakness  of  the  President 
alarmed  the  veteran  Secretary  of  State. 
With  large  intelligence  and  experience, 
General  Cass  had  little  strength  of  will 
or  tenacity  of  purpose.  But  whatever 
may  have  been  his  faults  and  short- 
comings, he  was  a  true  patriot,  aad 
ardently  loved  his  native  land.  The 
threatening  aspect  of  public  affairs 
greatly  excited  the  aged  statesman. 
The  secession  leaders  sought  to  im- 
press upon  the  mind  of  the  President 
the  idea  that  his  Secretary  of  State  was 
losing  his  mind  ;  but  a  loyal  Democrat, 
to  whom  the  President  communicated 
his  apprehensions,  aptly  replied  that 
General  Cass  was  the  only  sane  man 
in  his  Cabinet.  Feeling  that  he  could 
no  longer  serve  his  country  by  continu- 
ing in  the  Cabinet,  the  Secretary  re- 
tired, leaving  to  Joseph  Holt,  then 
Postmaster-General,  the  pressing  in- 
junction to  rernain,  and,  if  possible, 
save  the  endangered  nation. 

On  his  retirement,  Attorney-General 
Black,  who  had  pronounced  against  the 
power  of  the  government  to  coerce  a 
seceding  State,  and  who  maintained 
that  the  attempt  to  do  so  "  would  be 
the  expulsion  of  such  State  from  the 
Union,"  and  would  absolve  all  the 
States  "from  their  Federal  obliga- 
tions," and  the  people  from  contrib- 
uting "  their  money  or  their  blood  to 
carry  on  a  contest  like  that,"  was  made 
Secretary  of  State.  In  the  terrible  con- 
flict through  which  the  nation  has 
passed,  there  has  been  a  general  rec- 
ognition, by  men  not  given  to  supersti- 
tion, of  the  hand  of  God  in  its  progress. 
And  in  that  eventful  history  nowhere 
did  the  Divine  interposition  appear 
more  evident  than  iti  the  appointment 
of  Mr.  Stanton  as  Attorney-General. 
That  the  vacillating  President,  at  such 
a  crisis,  with  his  disloyal  Cabinet  and 
traitorous  associates,  should  have  of- 


8;o.] 


Edwin  M.  Stanton. 


237 


fered  the  vacant  Cabinet  office  to  that 
strong,  rugged,  downright,  patriotic. 
man,  was  strikingly  providential. 

On  the  evening  of  the  clay  when  he 
took  the  oath  of  office,  he  said  to  a 
friend  that  he  had  taken  the  oath  to 
support  the  Constitution  of  his  country, 
and  that  he  would  keep  that  oath  in 
letter  and  in  spirit.  Faithfully  did  he 
keep  his  pledge  amid  the  apostasies 
that  followed.  He  was  a  marvel  of 
resolution  and  rigor,  of  industry  and 
vigilance.  His  words  and  acts  were 
instinct  with  the  loyalty  which  glowed 
in  his  bosom.  His  soul  seemed  on  fire. 
He  saw  treason  in  every  part  of  the 
government,  and  sought '  to  unmask 
those  who  were  plotting  its  overthrow. 
He  set  his  face  sternly  against  the 
conspirators,  and  showered  upon  their 
heads  his  withering  rebukes.  Rising 
in  that  crisis  above  the  claims  of  parti- 
sanship, he  consecrated  himself  to  the 
lofty  duties  of  an  exalted  patriotism. 
In  the  Cabinet  he  urged  bold  and  de- 
cisive action.  He  counselled  often  with 
the  aged  veteran,  General  Scott,  and 
with  leading  statesmen,  and  he  gave 
patriotic  advice  to  the  members  of  the 
Peace  Congress. 

He  went  even  farther.  He  put  him- 
self in  communication  with  the  Repub- 
licans in  Congress,  and  kept  them  well 
informed  of  what  was  going  on  in 
the  councils  of  the  administration  di- 
rectly relating  to  the  dangers  of  the 
country.  The  House  of  Representa- 
tives had  raised  a  committee  to  in- 
vestigate treasonable  machinations  and 
conspiracies.  Howard  of  Michigan  and 
Dawes  of  Massachusetts,  zealous  Re- 
publicans, were  upon  it  So  was  Reyn- 
olds, an  earnest  and  patriotic  mem- 
ber from  New  York ;  Cochrane  from 
the  same  State,  then  much  of  a  Demo- 
cratic partisan  ;  and  Branch,  who  was 
killed  fighting  in  the  ranks  of  the  Reb- 
els. Mr.  Stanton  was  so  anxious  to 
bailie  the  conspirators,  that  he  made  an 
arrangement  by  which  Messrs.  How- 
ard and  Dawes  were  informed  of  what- 
ever occurred  tending  to  endanger  the 
country,  and  which  he  desired  should 
be  thwarted  by  the  friends  of  the  in- 


coming administration.  He  believed 
that  Mr.  Toucey,  Secretary  of  the  Na- 
vy, was  false  to  his  country,  and  that 
he  ought  to  be  arrested.  The  resolu- 
tion concerning  him,  introduced  into 
the  House  by  Mr.  Dawes,  was  inspired 
by  Mr.  Stanton. 

A  committee  of  vigilance  was  organ- 
ized by  the  more  active  Republican 
members  of  Congress.  I  was  a  mem- 
ber of  that  committee,  as  was  also 
Mr.  Colfax.  It  was  in  that  time  of 
intense  anxiety  and  trial  that  I  became 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Stanton,  and  con- 
sulted with  him,  and  received  from 
him  warnings  and  suggestions.  He 
was  in  almost  daily  consultation,  too, 
with  members  of  both  Houses.  In 
one  of  the  most  critical  periods,  Mr. 
Sumner,  who  made  his  acquaintance 
soon  after  entering  Congress,  visited 
Mr.  Stanton  at  the  Attorney  -  Gener- 
al's office.  Being  surrounded  by  false 
and  treacherous  men,  who  watched 
his  every  word  and  act,  he  led  Mr. 
Sumner  from  his  office,  told  him  that 
he  did  not  dare  to  hold  conversation 
with  him  there,  and  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  call  upon  him  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  At  that  hour,  he  made 
the  promised  call,  and  explained  to 
him  the  perilous  condition  of  the  coun- 
try, and  suggested  plans  of  action  for 
the  loyal  men  in  Congress. 

Of  course  such  intense  patriotism, 
sleepless  vigilance,  and  tireless  activity 
brought  him  in  conflict  with  disloyal 
men  both  in  the  Cabinet  and  in  Con- 
gress. Scenes  of  thrilling  interest  were 
sometimes  enacted  in  the  Cabinet. 
Floyd,  who  had  administered  the  War 
Department  so  as  to  disarm  the  nation 
and  weapon  the  rising  Rebellion,  had 
expected  that  Colonel  Anderson,  a 
Southern  man,  would  carry  out  the 
Secretary's  purposes  in  the  interest  of 
treason.  When  that  officer  abandoned 
Fort  Moultrie,  which  he  could  not  hold, 
and  threw  his  little  force  into  Fort 
Sumter,  which  he  hoped  to  hold,  Floyd, 
whose  corruptions  were  coming  to  light, 
appeared  in  the  Cabinet,  raging  and 
storming  like  the  baffled  conspirator  he 
was.  He  arraigned  the  President  and 


238 


Edwin  M.  Stauton, 


[February, 


Cabinet,  and  charged  them  with  violat- 
ing their  pledges  to  the  secessionists. 
The  President,  —  poor,  weak  old  man, 
—  trembled  and  grew  pale.  Then  it 
was  that  Stanton  met  the  baffled  trai- 
tor and  his  fellow-conspirators  with  a 
storm  of  fierce  and  fiery  denunciation. 
His  words,  voice,  and  bearing  are  said 
to  have  been  in  the  highest  degree  im- 
pressive, and  those  who  knew  the  men 
can  well  imagine  the  thrilling  moment 
when  treason  and  loyalty  grappled  in 
the  persons  of  such  representatives. 
Floyd  at  once  resigned  his  commission, 
slunk  away  from  the  office  he  had  so 
prostituted  into  the  Rebellion,  where 
he  achieved  neither  credit  nor  success, 
and  soon  sank  into  an  obscure  and  dis- 
honored grave.  Some  time  afterwards 
Mr.  Stanton  drew  up  a  full  and  detailed 
account  of  that  Cabinet  scene.  It  was 
read  to  Mr.  Holt,  and  pronounced  by 
that  gentleman  to  be  truthful  and  accu- 
rate. It  was  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to 
a  leading  Democratic  politician  of  the 
city  of  New  York,  but  it  was  never 
sent.  It  is  hoped,  however,  that  for 
the  sake  of  history,  it  may  soon  be 
placed  before  the  public  eye. 

To  this  noble  fidelity  of  Edwin  M. 
Stanton,  sustained  as  it  was  by  the 
patriotism  and  courage  of  Joseph  Holt 
and  John  A.  Dix,  the  country  is  largely 
indebted  for  its  preservation  from  the 
perils  which  then  environed  it,  and  for 
the  transmission  of  the  government 
into  the  hands  of  the  incoming  admin- 
istration. 

After  weary  months  the  Fourth  of 
March  gladdened  the  longing  hearts  of 
patriotic  men  who  had  clung  to  their 
country  when  darkness  was  settling 
upon  it.  The  riven  and  shattered  gov- 
ernment passed  from  the  nerveless 
hand  of  that  weakness  which  betrayed 
like  treason,  into  the  strong  and  faith- 
full  grasp  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  His 
stainless  record,  and  the  records  of 
those  who  gathered  about  him,  gave 
assurance  to  all  the  world  that,  in  ac- 
cepting the  guardianship  of  their  im- 
perilled country,  they  would  cherish 
and  defend  it  with  all  their  hearts. 
The  administration  was  quickly  forced 


by  the  Rebels,  who  held  in  their  hands, 
as  they  were  solemnly  assured  by  Mr. 
Lincoln  in  his  Inaugural,  "  the  momen- 
tous issues  of  civil  war,"  to  summon 
troops  into  the  field  for  national  de- 
fence. Large  armies  were  created  and 
vast  quantities  of  arms  and  munitions 
were  provided. 

But  vigorous  as  was  this  action  of 
the  government,  and  prompt  as  were 
the  responses  of  the  people,  the  mili- 
tary movements  did  not  fully  answer 
the  public  expectation.  Mr.  Stanton, 
then  pursuing  his  profession  in  Was,h- 
ington,  deeply  sympathized  in  this  gen- 
eral feeling.  His  knowledge  of  the 
public  dangers  and  his  earnest  and 
impulsive  nature  made  him  impatient 
of  delays.  To  ardent  friends  who,  like 
him,  chafed  at  what  seemed  to  them 
inaction,  he  expressed  his  profound 
anxieties,  and  he  joined  them  in  de- 
manding a  more  vigorous  and  aggres- 
sive policy.  More  fully  than  most 
public  men,  he  comprehended  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  struggle  on  which  the 
nation  had  entered,  and  fathomed,  per- 
haps, more  deeply  its  causes.  His  po- 
sition in  Mr.  Buchanan's  Cabinet  had 
revealed  to  him  the  purposes  of  the 
Rebel  leaders  and  the  spirit  of  the  Re- 
bellion, and  he  knew  that  slavery  was 
its  inspiration. 

Mr.  Cameron,  Secretary  of  War,  was 
in  advance  of  the  President  on  the  sla- 
very question,  not  perhaps  in  senti- 
ment and  feeling,  but  in  the  matter  of 
policy.  In  his  first  annual  report  he 
recommended  freeing  and  arming  the 
slaves.  Deeming  this,  however,  a  del- 
icate matter,  he  submitted  the  impor- 
tant passage  to  several  of  his  friends, 
all  of  whom,  except  Mr.  Stanton,  dis- 
approved of  the  policy  proposed.  He 
cordially  indorsed  it,  and,  taking  his 
pen,  modified  one  or  two  sentences, 
remarking  that  he  would  "fix  it  so  that 
the  lawyers  will  not  carp  at  it."  This 
portion  of  the  Secretary's  report,  it  will 
be  remembered,  did  not  meet  the  views 
of  Mr.  Lincoln,  and  he  required  its  sup- 
pression. 

The  impatience  of  the  public  mind 
at  the  delays  found  expression  in  harsh 


1 870.] 


31.  Stanton. 


239 


and  generally  undeserved  criticisms  up- 
on the  War  Department.  Mr.  Cameron 
felt  the  pressure  of  the  multiplied  la- 
bors that  crowded  upon  him,  and  he 
was  not  insensible  to  adverse  criti- 
cisms. Pie  proposed  to  resign,  provid- 
ed some  one  should  be  appointed  not 
unfriendly  to  his  policy.  He  suggested 
the  appointment  of  Mr.  Stanton.  The 
President  acted  upon  his  suggestion, 
accepted  his  resignation,  and  tendered 
him  the  mission  to  Russia.  Mr.  Stan- 
ton  was  then  named  Secretary  of  War, 
with  the  hearty  concurrence  of  every 
member  of  the  Cabinet,  excepting 
Montgomery  Blair,  who  bitterly  op- 
posed the  appointment. 

When  Mr.  Stanton  entered  the  Cabi- 
net he  was  in  the  maturity  of  his  physi- 
cal and  intellectual  powers.  With- 
out fancy  or  imagination,  or  any  of  the 
lighter  graces,  he  had  been  distin- 
guished, as  a  lawyer,  for  his  immense 
industry,  for  the  thoroughness  of  his 
preparation,  and  the  mastery,  both  of 
law  and  facts,  he  exhibited  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  causes  entrusted  to  his 
care.  He  carried  into  the  War  De- 
partment great  capacity  for  labor, 
almost  incredible  powers  of  endurance, 
rapidity  of  decision,  promptitude  of 
action,  and  inflexibility  of  purpose,  all 
inspired  and  impelled  by  a  vehement 
and  absorbing  patriotism. 

He  entered  at  once  upon  an  exhaust- 
ive examination  of  the  numbers  and 
condition  of  the  military  forces,  and  of 
the  amount  of  war  materials  necessary 
for  arming,  equipping,  feeding,  clothing, 
and  transporting  them.  He  then  vig- 
orously engaged  in  the  work  of  render- 
ing these  means  available  for  the  spring 
campaign.  He  met,  by  appointment, 
the  Military  Committee  of  the  Senate, 
in  their  room  at  the  Capitol,  and,  in  the 
strictest  confidence,  made  to  them  a 
full  exhibit  of  the  number  of  the  troops 
and  the  condition  of  the  armies,  of 
the  amount  of  arms  and  munitions  of 
war  on  hand  and  required.  He  then 
explained  his  purposes  and  plans.  He 
had  found  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  regiments  scattered  over  the  coun- 
try, only  partially  filled  and  but  slowly 


filling  up.  For  the  sake  of  economy,  and 
for  the  purpose  of  bringing  these  bodies 
early  into  the  field,  he  proposed  their 
consolidation.  He  was  convinced,  how- 
ever, that  this  task  would  be  a  difficult 
one.  Many  persons  who  were  engaged 
in  recruiting,  and  who  hoped  to  be  offi- 
cers, would  be  disappointed.  They  and 
the  State  authorities  would  strenuously 
oppose  consolidation.  To  husband  re- 
sources of  money  and  men,  and  to  make 
the  troops  already  enlisted  available  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment,  he  pro- 
posed to  suspend  enlistments,  though 
only  for  a  few  weeks.  Thinking  it 
might  lead  to  some  misunderstanding 
in  Congress,  he  desired  to  explain  his 
reasons  for  the  measure,  and  to  solicit 
the  support  of  the  committee  in  carry- 
ing it  into  effect  The  promised  sup- 
port was  promptly  given.  The  order 
was  issued,  and,  though  it  was  misun- 
derstood and  sharply  criticised,  it  un- 
questionably added  much  to  the  effi- 
ciency of  the  army.  In  this,  as  in  all 
other  matters  during  the  war,  the  Sec- 
retary and  the  committee  were  in  ac- 
cord, and  their  relations  were  perfectly 
amicable.  Though  composed  of  men  of 
differing  political  sentiments,  the  com- 
mittee never  divided  politically,  either 
on  nominations  or  measures.  When 
the  strife  had  ended,  it  was  a  source 
of  great  gratification  to  its  members 
that  they  had  always  complied  with  the 
Secretary's  wishes,  and  promptly  sec- 
onded his  efforts.  To  me  it  has  been, 
and  will  ever  be,  among  the  cherished 
recollections  of  my  life  that  I  gave  to 
the  great  War  Secretary  an  unstinted 
support,  and  that  there  was  never  mis- 
understanding or  unkindness  between 
us. 

Having  mastered  the  details  of  his 
department,  Mr.  Stanton  pressed  with 
great  vigor  the  preparations  for  the 
active  campaign  of  1862.  '  He  strove 
to  enforce  an  active  prosecution  of 
hostilities,  and  urged  forward  the  work 
of  suppressing  the  Rebellion  by  every 
practicable  means  in  his  power.  Early 
and  late,  often  through  the  entire  night, 
he  was  at  his  post,  receiving  reports,  in- 
formation, requests,  and  suggestions  by 


240 


Edivin  M.  Stanton. 


[February, 


telegraph  and  mail,  holding  personal 
consultations  with  the  military  and  civil 
officers  of  the  government,  and  others 
having  business  with  his  department, 
and  in  issuing  orders  and  directions. 
As  he  did  not  spare  himself,  he  was 
exacting  in  his  demands  upon  others. 
He  tolerated  no  laggards  or  shirks 
about  him.  He  infused  into  the  chiefs 
of  the  bureaus  and  their  clerks  some- 
thing of  his  own  industry  and  devo- 
tion ;  and  his  became  a  department  of 
intense  activity  and  unceasing  toil,  con- 
tinuing thus  throughout  the  war. 

But  all  did  not  possess  Mr.  Stanton's 
iron  will,  capacity  for  labor,  and  pow- 
ers of  endurance,  and  many  sank 
beneath  these  exactions  and  accumu- 
lated labors.  He  brought  into  his 
office,  as  Assistant  Secretary  of  War, 
Mr.  Watson,  a  devoted  personal  friend, 
a  lawyer  of  eminence,  and  a  man  of 
strong  constitution  and  large  capacity 
for  work.  Mr.  Watson  zealously  sec- 
onded Mr.  Stanton's  efforts,  but  was 
soon  forced  to  leave  office,  worn  out 
by  the  demands  made  upon  him.  Mr. 
Walcott,  who  had  been  Attorney-Gen- 
eral of  Ohio,  took  Mr.  Watson's  place. 
But  he,  too,  after  a  few  months,  left 
the  office,  and  went  home  to  die.  The 
vacant  place  was  then  taken  by  Mr. 
Dana,  a  gentleman  accustomed  to  the 
exacting  toil  of  a  leading  daily  journal, 
and  possessing  great  executive  force, 
who  rendered  his  chief  most  valuable 
service.  His  labors  were  lightened 
by  the  establishment  of  the  office  of 
Solicitor  of  the  War  Department,  to 
which  the  innumerable  legal  questions 
constantly  arising  were  referred.  The 
duties  of  that  office  were  ably  per- 
formed by  Mr.  Whiting  of  Massachu- 
setts, who  sacrificed  the  income  of  a 
lucrative  profession  without  other  re- 
ward than  the  consciousness  of  serving 
his  country  in  her  time  of  peril. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  recount  the 
acts  of  Mr.  Stanton's  administration  of 
the  War  Department  during  the  Rebel- 
lion. That  must  be  the  task  of  the 
historian.  When  this  is  faithfully  and 
fully  accomplished,  it  \vill  be  seen  that 
he  performed  an  amount  of  organizing 


and  administrative  labor  as  far  exceed- 
ing the  achievements  of  Carnot  and 
other  war  ministers,  as  the  gigantic 
proportions  of  the  Rebellion  exceeded 
those  of  the  military  events  with  which 
their  names  are  associated.  Mr.  Stan- 
ton  was  moreover  compelled  to  organ- 
ize the  forces  of  a  people  unaccustomed 
to  war  and  unskilled  in  military  affairs. 
Vast  armies  were  to  be  raised  from 
peaceful  communities,  large  amounts 
of  war  material  were  to  be  provided, 
great  distances  were  to  be  traversed, 
and  an  impassioned  and  brave  people 
were  to  be  subdued.  The  work  which 
the  soldiers  and  statesmen  of  Europe 
pronounced  impossible  was  done,  and 
well  done.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe that  work.  I  only  propose  to 
delineate  some  of  Mr.  Stanton's  lead- 
ing characteristics  as  the}''  appeared 
to  me,  and  as  they  were  illustrated  by 
some  of  the  acts  of  his  administration. 

His  official  position,  his  vigilance,  his 
industry,  his  mastery  of  details,  and  his 
almost  intuitive  perceptions  gave  him, 
perhaps,  a  clearer  insight  into  the 
characters  and  services  of  men  in  the 
army,  in  the  national  councils,  and  in 
State  governments,  than  that  possessed 
by  any  other  public  man.  With  -the 
impulsiveness  of  his  nature,  he  distrust- 
ed and  condemned  perhaps  too  hastily, 
and  sometimes  unjustly,  but  never,  I 
am  sure,  from  interest  or  prejudice. 
Swift  in  his  judgments,  often  doubting 
when  others  confided,  he  sometimes 
made  mistakes,  though  events  com- 
monly vindicated  the  correctness  of  his 
estimates.  He  had  no  favorites,  and 
he  measured  men  according  to  his  idea 
of  their  value  to  the  public  service. 

Singularly  unselfish  in  his  purposes, 
careless  of  his  own  reputation,  and  in- 
tensely devoted  to  the  success  of  his 
country,  he  was  ever  ready  to  assume, 
especially  in  critical  moments,  the  grav- 
est responsibilities.  Neither  the  inter- 
ests of  political  friends,  nor  the  wishes 
of  army  officials,  could  swerve  him  from 
his  purpose.  He  said  no  to  the  Pres- 
ident quite  as  often  and  quite  as  em- 
phatically as  he  did  to  the  people,  to 
members  of  Congress,  or  to  officers  of 


1 870.] 


Edwin  M.  Stanton. 


241 


the  army  seeking  undeserved  prefer- 
ment or  safe  places  at  the  rear.  He 
knew  Mr.  Lincoln's  yielding  nature  and 
kindness  of  heart ;  and  even  the  Presi- 
dent's requests,  though  amounting  al- 
most to  positive  orders,  and  borne  by 
governors  of  States,  members  of  Con- 
gress, and  even  by  associates  in  the 
Cabinet,  were  frequently  laid  aside,  and 
sometimes  promptly  and  peremptorily 
refused. 

There  were  many  signal  illustrations 
of  this  characteristic.  Shortly  after  the 
disastrous  battle  of  Chickamauga,  a  de- 
spatch stating  the  perilous  condition  of 
the  army,  and  the  pressing  need  of  im- 
mediate reinforcements,  was  received 
at  the  War  Office  from  General  Gar- 
field.  After  the  hour  of  midnight,  the 
President,  Mr.  Chase,  and  Mr.  Seward 
were  summoned  by  Mr.  Stanton.  It 
was  a  most  critical  and  trying  moment. 
In  answer  to  questions,  General  Hal- 
leek  revealed  the  fact  that  few  troops 
operating  in  the  West  could  be  sent 
in  season  to  the  relief  of  Rosecrans. 
The  facts  disclosed  perplexed,  if  they 
did  not  dishearten,  all  but  Mr.  Stan- 
ton,  who  was  never  downcast,  who 
never  doubted  the  triumph  of  the  loyal 
cause,  who  seemed  to  take  heart  as 
dangers  thickened,  and  who  now  sur- 
prised his  listeners  by  proposing  to 
take  thirty  thousand  men  from  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac  and  place  them  in  Ten- 
nessee within  five  days.  The  President 
and  General  Halleck  doubted,  hesitated, 
and  opposed.  But  Mr.  Stanton,  sus- 
tained by  Mr.  Chase  and  Mr.  Seward, 
carried  his  point  Telegrams  were  at 
once  sent  to  General  Meade  and  to 
railroad-managers,  and,  in  a  few  days, 
General  Hooker,  with  more  than  fifteen 
thousand  men,  was  thrown  into  Tennes- 
see. When  he  arrived  within  support- 
ing-distance of  Rosecrans,  Bragg  was 
making  movements  which  he  believed 
would  result  in  the  utter  destruction  or 
defeat  of  that  general's  army.  Chief 
Justice  Chase,  who  has  recorded  in  his 
diary  the  doings  of  that  midnight  coun- 
cil, and  who  has,  since  the  war,  spoken 
of  it  with  officers  of  the  Rebel  army, 
expresses  the  opinion  that  Mr.  Stan- 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  148.  16 


ton's  bold  counsels  and  decisive  action 
saved  the  army  of  Rosecrans,  and  that 
he  then  rendered  greater  service  to  the 
country  than  was  rendered  by  any  civil- 
ian during  the  war. 

On  the  eve  of  his  second  inaugura- 
tion, Mr.  Lincoln  expressed  to  mem- 
bers of  his  Cabinet  his  purpose,  in 
case  General  Grant  should  be  victori- 
ous at  Richmond,  to  allow  him  to  ne- 
gotiate terms  of  peace  with  the  Rebel 
leaders.  From  this  Mr.  Stanton  strong- 
ly dissented,  and  in  explicit  and  unequiv- 
ocal terms  declared  that  no  peace  ought 
to  be  negotiated  by  generals  in  the 
field,  or  by  any  one  other  than  the 
President  himself;  and  he  pretty  dis- 
tinctly intimated  that,  if  the  President 
permitted  any  one  to  enter  into  such 
negotiations,  it  was  hardly  necessary 
for  him  to  be  inaugurated.  Mr.  Lincoln 
at  once  assented  to  the  views  of  his 
faithful  and  far-seeing  Secretary,  and 
orders  were  immediately  transmitted  to 
General  Grant  to  hold  no  conferences 
with  General  Lee  on  any  questions  not 
of  a  purely  military  character.  The  sa- 
gacity of  Mr.  Stanton  was  soon  again 
put  to  the  test.  After  the  surrender 
of  Richmond,  President  Lincoln  visited 
that  city,  and,  while  there,  assented  to 
the  assembling  of  the  Rebel  Legislature 
of  Virginia  by  General  Weitzel.  Mr. 
Stanton,  who  had  no  confidence  in  the 
good  faith  of  the  Rebels,  held  that  they 
should  not  have  any  voice  in  fixing  the 
terms  of  peace  and  reconciliation,  and 
should  not  be  permitted  to  meet  at  all. 
His  earnest  protests  were  heeded,  his 
counsels  prevailed,  and  the  impolitic 
and  dangerous  scheme  was  abandoned. 

Mr.  Stanton's  course  touching  the 
arrangements  between  General  Sher- 
man and  the  Rebel  General  Johnston 
afforded  another  signal  illustration  of 
his  readiness  to  assume  responsibil- 
ity when  the  safety  and  honor  of  the 
nation  were  at  stake.  He  gave  that 
arrangement  a  prompt,  peremptory, 
and  emphatic  disapproval.  While  he 
held  General  Sherman  in  high  esteem 
for  his  brilliant  services  in  the  field,  he 
felt  constrained  to  advise  President 
Johnson  to  set  aside  that  officer's  un- 


Edwin  M,  Stanton. 


[February, 


fortunate  diplomacy,  and  to  declare  to 
the  country  the  reasons  'for  so  doing. 
Although  General  Grant  was  sent  to 
North  Carolina  to  announce  the  action 
of  the  government.  General  Sherman 
and  several  of  his  generals  took  um- 
brage, and  on  the  arrival  of -their  army 
at  Washington  indulged  in  severe  de- 
nunciations of  the  Secretary  of  War. 
But  the  indomitable  Secretary,  con- 
scious of  the  integrity  of  his  purpose, 
bore  in  silence  these  criticisms  and  the 
denunciations  directed  against  him  by 
a  portion  of  the  press.  In  the  light 
of  subsequent  events,  few  loyal  men  will 
question  the  wisdom  of  his  action,  or 
distrust  the  motives  that  prompted  it. 
Innumerable  instances  of  a  similar 
kind  might  be  adduced.  A  single  ad- 
ditional example  will  be  mentioned. 
When  in  the  winter  of  1863  the  faith- 
less Legislature  of  Indiana  was  dis- 
solved, no  appropriations  had  been 
made  to  carry  on  the  State  government 
or  aid  in  putting  soldiers  in  the  field  ; 
and  Governor  Morton  was  obliged, 
without  the  authority  of  law,  to  raise 
more  than  a  million  and  a  quarter  of 
dollars.  In  his  need  he  looked  to 
Washington  for  assistance.  President 
Lincoln  wished  to  aid  him,  but  saw  no 
way  to  do  it,  as  no  money  could  be 
taken  from  the  treasury  without  ap- 
propriation. He  was  referred  to  Mr. 
Stanton.  The  Secretary  saw  at  a 
glance  the  critical  condition  in  which 
the  patriotic  governor,  who  had  shown 
such  vigor  in  raising  and  organizing 
troops,  had  been  placed.  A  quarter 
of  a  million  of  dollars  were  needed,  and 
Mr.  Stanton  took  upon  himself  the  re- 
sponsibility, and  drew  his  warrant  upon 
the  treasury  for  that  amount,  to  be 
paid  from  an  unexpended  appropriation 
made,  nearly  two  years  before,  for  rais- 
ing troops  in  States  in  insurrection. 
As  he  placed  this  warrant  in  Governor 
Morton's  hands,  the  latter  remarked: 
"  If  the  cause  fails,  you  and  I  will  be 
covered  with  prosecutions,  and  proba- 
bly imprisoned  or  driven  from  the 
country."  Mr.  Stanton  replied:  "If 
the  cause  fails,  I  do  not  wish  to  live." 
The  money  thus  advanced  to  the  gov- 


ernor of  Indiana  was  accounted  for  by 
that  State  in  its  final  settlement  with 
the  government. 

The  remark  just  cited  illustrates  an- 
other prominent  trait  of  Mr.  Stanton's 
character,  —  his  intense  and  abounding 
patriotism.  It  was  this  which  embold- 
ened him  in  his  early  struggle  with 
treason  in  Mr.  Buchanan's  cabinet,  up- 
held him  in  his  superhuman  labors 
through  the  weary  years  of  war,  and 
kept  him  in  Mr.  Johnson's  cabinet 
when  not  only  was  the  President  seek- 
ing his  removal,  but  the  tortures  of  dis- 
ease were  admonishing  him  that  every 
day's  continuance  was  imperilling  his 
life.  It  was  this  patriotism  which  in- 
vested the  Rebellion,  in  his  view,  with 
its  transcendent  enormity,  and  made 
him  regard  its  guilty  leaders  and  their 
sympathizers  and  apologists  at  the 
North  with  such  intense  abhorrence. 
It  also  made  him  fear  the  success  of  a 
party  of  which  he  was  once  a  member, 
and  which  now  embraces  so  many  who 
participated  in  the  Rebellion  or  were  in 
sympathy  with  it ;  and  he  was  loath 
to  remove  the  disabilities  of  unrepent- 
ant Rebels,  or  to  allow  them  a  voice 
in  shaping  the  policy  of  States  lately 
in  insurrection.  This  feeling  he  re- 
tained till  the  close  of  his  life.  On 
the  Saturday  before  his  death,  he  ex- 
pressed to  me  the  opinion  that  it  was 
more  important  that  the  freedmen  and 
the  Union  men  of  the  South  should 
be  protected  in  their  rights,  than  that 
those  who  were  still  disloyal  should  be 
relieved  of  their  disabilities  and  clothed 
with  power. 

This  patriotism,  conjoined  with  his 
energy,  industry,  and  high  sense  of 
public  duty,  made  him  exacting,  se- 
vere, and  often  rough  in  his  treatment 
of  those,  in  the  military  or  civil  service, 
who  seemed  to  be  more  intent  on  per- 
sonal ease,  promotion,  and  emolument 
than  upon  the  faithful  discharge  of 
public  duty.  It  led  him,  also,  warmly 
to  appreciate  and  applaud  fidelity  and 
devotion,  wherever  and  however  mani- 
fested. Honest  himself,  he,  of  course, 
abhorred  everything  like  dishonesty  in 
others  ;  but  his  patriotism  intensified 


:8/a] 


f.  Stanton, 


243 


that  feeling  of  detestation  in  cases  of 
peculation  or  fraud  upon  the  govern- 
ment. He  laid  a  strong  hand  upon 
offenders,  and  no  doubt  saved  millions 
of  dollars  to  the  nation,  by  thus  restrain- 
ing, through  fear,  those  who  would 
otherwise  have  enriched  themselves  at 
their  country's  expense.  This  spirit 
of  patriotic  devotion  indeed  often  in- 
spired measures  which  brought  upon 
him  great  and  undeserved  censure. 
The  people  were  anxious  for  war  news. 
The  press  were  anxious  to  provide  it. 
Mr.  Stanton  knew  that  the  enemy 
largely  profited  by  the  premature  pub- 
lication of  such  intelligence,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  prevent  this.  Conse- 
quently he  made  regulations  which 
were  often  embarrassing  to  newspa- 
per correspondents,  and  sometimes  he 
roughly  and  rudely  repelled  those  seek- 
ing information  or  favors. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  war  his 
intense  application  began  to  tell  on 
even  his  robust  constitution,  developing 
a  tendency  to  asthma,  which  was  ex- 
ceedingly distressing  to  him  and  alarm- 
ing to  his  friends.  Consequently  he 
looked  forward  to  the  cessation  of  hos- 
tilities, anxious  not  only  that  his  coun- 
try might  be  saved  from  the  further 
horrors  and  dangers  of  civil  war,  but 
that  he  might  be  released  from  the 
burdensome  cares  of  office.  After  the 
election  of  Mr.  Lincoln  and  a  Repub- 
lican Congress,  in  1864,  which  he  just- 
ly regarded  as  fatal  to  the  Rebellion, 
he  often  avowed  his  purpose  to  re- 
sign at  the  moment  hostilities  should 
cease.  When,  therefore,  the  news  of 
Lee's  surrender  reached  Washington, 
he  at  once  placed  his  resignation  in  the 
President's  hands,  on  the  ground  that 
the  work  which  had  induced  him  to 
take  office  was  done.  But  his  great 
chief,  whom  he  had  so  faithfully  and 
efficiently  served,  and  who,  in  the  trials 
they  had  experienced  together,  had 
learned  to  appreciate,  honor,  and  love 
him,  threw  his  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  tenderly  and  tearfully  said  :  "  Stan- 
ton,  you  have  been  a  good  friend  and  a 
faithful  public  servant ;  and  it  is  not  for 
you  to  say  when  you  will  no  longer  be 


needed  here."  Bowing  to  the  will  of  the 
President  so  affectionately  expressed,  he 
remained  at  his  post.  Little  did  he  then 
imagine  that,  within  a  few  hours,  his 
chief  would  fall  by  the  assassin's  hand, 
and  the  Secretary  of  State  lie  maimed 
and  helpless,  and  that  the  country,  in 
that  perilous  hour,  would  instinctively 
turn  to  him  as  its  main  reliance  and 
hope.  Andrew  Johnson,  too,  who  then 
intended  to  make  treason  odious  and 
punish  traitors,  leaned  on  the  strong 
man  for  support. 

Mr.  Stanton  now  resolved  to  remain 
in  the  War  Office  till  the  army  should 
be  disbanded  ;  and  that  great  work  was 
accomplished  with  an  ease  and  celerity 
which  surprised  and  gratified  the  coun- 
try and  astonished  the  world.  It  was 
indeed  one  of  the  most  marvellous 
achievements  of  the  war.  That  was 
hardly  accomplished,  when  the  work  of 
reconstruction  began  to  loom  up  in  all 
its  vast  proportions.  Indications,  too, 
of  the  President's  apostasy  began  to 
appear.  Mr.  Johnson  had  been  smit- 
ten with  the  idea  of  a  re-election  by 
means  of  the  reorganization  of  parties, 
in  which,  to  use  his  own  words,  "the 
extremes  should  be  sloughed  off,"  and 
a  new  conservative  party  be  formed 
which  should  accept  him  as  its  leader. 

Mr.  Stanton  was  a  just  and  humane 
as  well  as  a  patriotic  man.  He  had  ear- 
nestly pressed  upon  Mr.  Lincoln  the 
policy  of  emancipation,  had  applauded 
his  Proclamation,  approved  the  enlist- 
ment of  colored  troops,  and  was  a  warm 
supporter  of  the  Thirteenth  Amend- 
ment, forever  prohibiting  slavery.  Al- 
though he  had  never,  before  the  war, 
acted  with  antislavery  men,  yet  he  had 
early  imbibed  antislavery  sentiments. 
He  was  of  Quaker  descent.  His  grand- 
parents were  from  New  England,  and 
his  grandfather  provided  in  his  will  for 
the  emancipation  of  his  slaves  when- 
ever the  laws  of  his  adopted  State 
would  permit  it.  Benjamin  Lundy,  the 
early  Abolitionist,  was  a  frequent  vis- 
itor at  his  father's  house  ;  and  Mr. 
Stanton  once  told  me  that  he  had  often 
sat  upon  that  devoted  philanthropist's 
knee  when  a  child,  and  listened  to  his 


244 


Edwin  M.  Stanton. 


[February, 


words.  Nearly  thirty  years  ago,  in 
the  streets  of  Columbus,  Ohio,  he  fa- 
miliarly accosted  Mr.  Chase  and  said 
to  him,  referring  to  antislavery  senti- 
ments the  latter  had  just  put  forth,  that 
he  was  in  entire  agreement  with  him, 
and  hoped  he  should  soon  be  able  to 
take  his  place  by  his  side.  Though  he 
never  did  so,  but  continued  to  act  with 
the  Democratic  party,  yet  he  always 
maintained  his  intimacy  with  Mr. 
Chase,  and  after  he  came  to  Washing- 
ton was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house 
of  Dr.  Bailey,  editor  of  the  "  National 
Era,"  where  he  met  antislavery  men 
and  members  of  the  Republican  party. 

The  Rebellion  of  course  absolved  him 
from  all  allegiance  to  the  Democratic 
party,  and  then  his  early  impressions 
were  revived.  The  events  of  the  war 
intensified  them,  and  he  became  a  con- 
sistent and  persistent  supporter  of  the 
rights  of  the  colored  race.  He  saw  that 
Mr.  Johnson's  reactionary  policy  was 
imperilling  the  interests  of  the  freedmen 
as  well  as  the  safety  of  the  nation,  and 
he  resolved  to  remain  in  the  Cabinet 
and  save,  as  he  once  said  to  me,  what 
he  could  of  "the  fruits  of  the  war."  It 
was,  indeed,  a  critical  period,  and  he 
wisely  counselled  moderation.  Prema- 
ture action  would  have  been  disastrous. 
To  break  with  the  President  before  he 
had  fully  revealed  his  purposes  would, 
he  thought,  place  the  Republicans  in  a 
false  position  before  the  people,  and 
inure  solely  to  the  advantage  of  Mr. 
Johnson.  At  the  same  time  he  did  all 
he  could  to  secure,  in  the  elections,  the 
success  of  those  who  had  loyally  stood 
together  during  the  war.  This  policy, 
of  combining  and  keeping  intact  the 
Republican  party,  and  of  giving  the 
President  an  opportunity  to  convince 
the  people,  as  he  did  in  his  speech  of 
the  22d  of  February,  of  his  premedi- 
tated treachery,  subjected  Mr.  Stanton 
and  those  who  concurred  with  him  in 
that  policy  to  the  sharp  criticism  of 
more  hasty  and  less  discerning  men. 
It  was,  however,  a  complete  success, 
and  subsequent  events  vindicated  its 
wisdom. 

By  such  firmness,  fidelity,  and  saga- 


city, Mr.  Stanton  incurred  the  dislike 
of  the  President,  who  determined,  if 
possible,  to  eject  him  from  the  Cabi- 
net. The  more  clearly  this  purpose 
appeared,  the  more  determined  was  the 
Secretary  to  retain  his  position ;  not 
from  a  love  of  office,  —  for  he  longed 
to  escape  from  its  thraldom, — but  from 
a  sense  of  duty.  If  need  be,  he  was 
ready  to  bear,  not  only  the  burdens 
which  his  failing  strength  made  more 
trying,  but  personal  insults  and  indig- 
nities, and,  hardest  of  all,  to  occupy 
an  equivocal  position  which  subjected 
him  to  the  distrust  and  criticism  of 
some  of  his  associates. 

In  the  summer  of  1867  his  friends 
began  to  fear  that  his  health  was  hope- 
lessly failing,  and  that  unless  he  took 
the  needed  relaxation  his  life  was  in 
imminent  and  immediate  peril.  He  was 
repeatedly  urged  to  leave  the  heated 
atmosphere  of  Washington,  and  seek  at 
least  temporary  relief  at  the  seashore 
or  in  the  mountains.  As  I  was  press- 
ing this  upon  him  one  day,  he  replied 
that  duty  required  him  to  remain  at  his 
post,  that  he  believed  the  President  to 
be  a  bad  and  dangerous  person,  who 
was  heeding  the  counsels  of  designing 
and  unscrupulous  men,  and  no  one 
could  foresee  what  he  would  do.  "  Life," 
he  said,  "  is  at  best  a  struggle,  and  of 
no  great  value.  We  are  but  the  instru- 
ments of  Providence  in  working  out  its 
purposes.  It  matters  not  when,  where, 
or  how  we  die,  if  we  are  only  perform- 
ing faithfully  our  duty.  I  will  remain 
here,  if  I  die  in  this  room." 

A  few  days  before  his  suspension 
by  the  President,  while  I  was  at  his  of- 
fice, General  Grant  came  in.  Mr.  Stan- 
ton  was  suffering  much,  and  seemed 
anxious  and  perplexed.  At  that  time 
he  was  not  a  little  annoyed  by  the  ad- 
verse criticisms  of  two  or  three  Repub- 
lican journals  upon  his  remaining  in 
the  Cabinet.  "  They  will  some  time 
see,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  right,  and 
appreciate  my  motives  and  vindicate 
my  action."  An  act  of  the  Presi- 
dent, showing  his  hostility  to  the  Sec- 
retary of  War,  and  his  want  of  confi- 
dence in  the  General  of  the  Army,  had 


iS7o.] 


Edwin  M.  Stanton. 


245 


just  come  to  light.  Mr.  Stanton  re- 
marked that,  during  the  war,  he  had 
never  felt  so  anxious  about  public  af- 
fairs and  the  condition  of  the  country 
as  he  did  then  ;  that,  in  the  war,  he 
knew  what  to  depend  upon  and  what 
to  do :  but  no  one  could  depend  upon 
the  action  of  the  President.  General 
Grant  expressed  his  entire  concur- 
rence in  that  sentiment.  A  few  days 
later,  Mr.  Stanton  was  suspended, 
and  General  Grant  made  Secretary 
of  War  ad  interim.  The  former  had 
long  held  the  office  from  patriotic 
motives ;  and  the  latter,  in  accepting 
it,  was  actuated  by  the  same  high 
considerations.  By  the  action  of  the 
Senate,  Mr.  Stanton  was  brought  back 
into  the  War  Department.  When  the 
President  attempted  to  thrust  him  for- 
cibly from  it,  he,  though  the  hand  of 
disease  was  weighing  heavily  upon 
him,  exhibited  another  characteristic 
evidence  of  his  inflexible  adherence  to 
principle,  and  pertinacity  of  purpose, 
by  encamping  in  the  War  Office  during 
more  than  forty  days.  When,  however, 
the  Senate  failed  to  convict  the  Presi- 
dent, he  bowed  before  the  decision 
therein  implied,  retired  from  the  posi- 
tion he  could  no  longer  maintain,  and 
left  the  responsibility  where  it  rightfully 
belonged. 

Mr.  Stanton  has  been  the  subject  of 
the  sharpest  criticism  and  of  unmeas- 
ured censure.  The  disloyal,  the  luke- 
warm, the  incapable,  the  selfish,  and 
the  corrupt  have  heaped  upon  his  head 
their  coarsest  invectives  and  their 
fiercest  denunciations.  Nor,  indeed, 
had  they  much  occasion  to  love  him  ; 
for  towards  such  the  evidences  of  his 
disapprobation  were  unequivocal  and 
strong.  His  natural  energy  and  im- 
pulsiveness of  character,  the  contin- 
uous pressure  and  exhausting  nature 
of  his  duties,  made  him  often  brusque  in 
manner  and  curt  in  speech,  even  to 
those  in  whose  loyalty,  fidelity,  and 
purity  he  had  all  confidence.  But 
he  seemed  ever  ready  to  correct  mis- 
takes, and  make  amends  to  those 
whom  he  had  wounded  or  aggrieved 
by  hasty  words  or  acts.  His  heart 


was  full  of  tenderness  for  every  form 
of  suffering  and  sorrow,  and  he  always 
had  words  of  sympathy  for  the  smitten 
and  afflicted.  Many  a  sick,  and  wound- 
ed soldier,  and  many  a  family,  bereaved 
by  the  war,  will  gratefully  cherish  the 
remembrance  of  his  considerate  re- 
gard. The  same  characteristics  were 
exhibited  in  the  hearty  support  he  gave 
to  the  Sanitary  and  Christian  Commis- 
sions, which  did  so  much  to  relieve 
suffering  and  sorrow,  and  in  his  ready 
co-operation  with  the  officers  of  the 
Freedmen's  Bureau  in  their  efforts  for 
the  newly  emancipated  race. 

After  his  retirement  from  office,  Mr. 
Stanton  struggled  with  mortal  diseases 
fastened  upon  him  by  the  immense 
responsibilities  and  labors  of  the  war. 
His  closing  hours,  however,  were 
brightened  by  the  high  appreciation  of 
the  government  and  the  flattering  man- 
ifestations of  popular  regard.  The  Re- 
publican members  of  the  Senate  and 
House,  with  singular  unanimity,  joined 
in  recommending  his  appointment  as 
Associate  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court. 
The  recommendation  was  sincere  and 
hearty.  The  Chief  Magistrate,  accom- 
panied by  the  Vice-President,  called 
upon  him,  tendered  him  the  office,  and 
cordially  urged  its  acceptance.  His  as- 
sent having  been  given,  the  President 
at  once  sent  his  nomination  to  the  Sen- 
ate, and  it  was  confirmed  without  the  for- 
mality of  a  reference.  This  unsolicit- 
ed action  of  the  members  of  Congress, 
and  the  cordial  and  courteous  conduct 
of  the  President,  were  approved  by  a 
loyal  press  and  applauded  by  a  loyal 
people.  Congratulations  flowed  in  upon 
Mr.  Stanton,  and  he  realized,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time,  the  hold  he  had  upon 
the  nation,  and  the  gratitude  and  confi- 
dence of  his  countrymen.  But  in  that 
moment  of  triumph  he  was  stricken 
down.  As  Lincoln  fell  when  the  re- 
joicings of  the  nation  over  the  capture 
of  the  Rebel  army  were  ringing  in  his 
ear,  so  fell  his  trusted  counsellor,  com- 
panion, and  friend,  amid  these  demon- 
strations of  public  favor.  So  passed 
from  earth  Edwin  Macy  Stanton,  to 
take  his  place  in  the  hearts  and  memo- 


246 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[February, 


ries  of  the  people,  among  the  most  il- 
lustrious, honored,  and  loved  of  his 
countrymen. 

But  large  as  is  my  estimate  of  Mr. 
Stanton,  and  high  as  is  the  value  I 
place  upon  his  unsurpassed  public  la- 
bors, I  do  not  believe  that  he  was  ab- 
solutely essential  to  the  salvation  of 
the  nation.  The  government  that  sur- 
vived the  death  of  Lincoln  and  the  life 
of  Johnson  did  not,  during  the  Rebel- 
lion, depend  for  existence  on  any  one 


man,  or  any  score  of 'men.  Its  preser- 
vation must  ever  redound  to  the  glory 
of  the  people,  whose  great  uprising, 
inspired  self-sacrifice,  and  sublime  en- 
durance astonished  the  world.  The 
principles  involved  in  that  conflict  were 
too  vast  and  grand,  too  vital  to  hu- 
manity and  a  Christian  civilization,  to 
be  suffered  to  fail  through  the  dis- 
memberment and  death  of  this  nation. 
God  and  the  people  saved  the  Republic 
of  the  United  States. 


REVIEWS    AND    LITERARY    NOTICES. 


Shakespeare's  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream. 
The  Designs  by  P.  KONEWKA.  Engraved 
by  W.  H.  MORSE;  Vignette  by  H.  W. 
SMITH.  Boston  :  Roberts  Brothers. 


KONEWKA'S  illustrations  in  silhouette  to 
"  Faust  "  were  a  wonder  of  vivid  action  and 
refined  expression  ;  but  whoever  looked  at 
them  must  have  felt  a  fear  that  what  could 
give  such  an  exquisite  surprise  must  fail 
in  repetition  or  in  wider  application.  The 
power  that  lay  in  mere  tenderness  and 
beauty  of  outline  —  all  the  rest  that  goes  to 
make  up  the  charm  of  a  picture  being  hid- 
den from  the  eye  in  the  massive  black-upon- 
white  of  the  work  —  was  so  much  of  a  reve- 
lation that  ene  suspected  it  a  trick,  —  mar- 
vellous, delightful,  yet  a  trick.  Could  it  be 
done  twice,  and  not  weary  ?  This  was  the 
question,  and  here  is  the  answer.  Yes,  it 
can  be  done  twice,  and  be  just  as  fascinat- 
ing as  at  first.  We  do  not  know  but  the 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  is  better 
than  the  "  Faust."  It  certainly  has  greater 
variety,  and  affords  more  scope  for  the  ex- 
ercise of  Konewka's  curious  art,  which  is 
here  playful  and  pathetic  and  comical, 
while  it  was  there  tragical  and  grotesque. 
Our  reader  imagines  the  scenes  and  figures 
which  have  been  chosen  from  that  beautiful 
visiou  of  fairy-life  and  lover-life  in  the 
woods,  and  from  the  passages  in  which 
Bully  Bottom  and  his  friends  appear  ;  but 
without  looking  at  the  illustrations  he  can 
have  no  idea  of  the  delicacy  and  strength, 
the  cttnntHgma  and  humor,  with  which  all 
this  airiest  sport  of  Shakespeare's  genius 
is  interpreted.  Yet  there  is  nothing  but 


densest  black  upon  white,  save  here  and 
there'  a  semi-transparent  wing,  or  floating 
mantle,  a  dangling  knot  of  ribbon,  a  little 
light  let  through  the  ringlets  of  the  women, 
or  the  men's  beards,  or  between  expanded 
fingers  or  under  slightly  lifted  arms.  The 
outline  of  the  nude  fairies  is  clear  and  soft 
like  that  of  sculpture,  while  in  the  draperies 
is  much  of  the  vivacity  of  painting.  We 
did  not  mean  to  name  any  particular  il- 
lustration, but  we  cannot  help  speaking 
of  that  in  which  Puck  and  a  Fairy  meet 
from  opposite  sides  of  a  thistle-stalk  as 
surpassingly  pretty,  unless  that  where  Iler- 
mia  is  shown  "  a  Vixen  when  she  went  to 
school  " —  fighting  the  larger  and  timider 
Helena  —  is  even  more  taking  in  its  sauci- 
ness.  The  best  of  the  comical  folk  is  "  The 
Moon  "  appearing  with  the  thornbush,  lan- 
tern, and  dog,  in  which  there  is  even  finer 
delineation  of  character  than  in  the  others, 
though  character  is  delicately  and  clearly 
suggested  in  all,  and  no  less  in  the  pathetic 
than  in  the  droll  people.  With  a  little  part- 
ing of  the  lips,  the  whole  bewilderment 
and  heart-break  of  the  lovelorn  maids  is 
portrayed ;  and  with  the  gesture  of  hands 
or  arms,  the  half  of  whose  action  is  lost  in 
the  black  of  the  figure,  the  pleading  and  the 
repulsion  of  the  enchanted  lovers  is  shown. 
We  forebode  ever  so  much  imitation  of 
Konewka's  work  by  inferior  hands,  and  pos- 
sibly enough  to  make  us  weary  of  the  origi- 
nal ;  but  in  the  mean  time  no  one  need  deny 
himself  the  enjoyment  of  it.  Perhaps  this 
enjoyment  is  all  the  keener  because  it  can- 
not be  called  satisfaction,  there  being  in 
these  performances  a  mystery  and  sugges- 


1 870.] 


a/'ul  Literary  Notices. 


•   that  continually   provoke  the  im- 
agiiK'.' 

We  must  not  leave  -peeking  of  the  book 
without  mentioning  the  head  which  adorns 
the  title-page,  and  which  is  alike  admirable 
as  a  steel  engraving  and  as  a  face  of  life- 
like beauty  and  sweetness. 


'antes.     [Five  Volumes.]    By  W.  M. 

Tn. \CKKRAY.    Household  Edition.    Bos- 
ton :  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
Catherine  ;  A  Story.     By  IKF,Y  SOLOMONS, 
Esq.,  Junior.    [W.  M.  Thackeray.]    Bos- 
ton :  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

YYiiKTur.u  Thackeray's  novels  or  his 
'.shorter  stones  and  sketches  are  better  is  a 
a  each  reader  will  settle  in  favor  of 
whichever  he  happens  to  be  reading.  We, 
for  example,  do  not  think  he  wrote  anything 
more  perfect  than  "  The  Luck  of  Barry  Lyn- 
don " ;  but  then  we  have  just  been  reading 
that  over  again,  and  it  is  some  time  since 
we  looked  at  "  Henry  Esmond."  We  will 
only  be  certain  that  nearly  all  he  did  was 
masterly,  and  is  inestimably  precious  now 
that  he  can  do  no  more.  They  may  say 
that  his  later  gifts  were  somewhat  poor  and 
stale  in  quality  ;  but  we  would  rather  have 
the  rinsings —  if'  Philip  "  is  to  be  so  called 

—  of  that  magical  flask  out  which  he  poured 
such   wonderful  and  various  liquors,  than 
the   fulness  and  prime   spirit    of   many   a 
famous  tap  we  could  name.     We  will  own 
even  that  he  had  not  a  geod  knack  at  in- 
vention :  what  need  had  he  of  it  who  could 
give  us  real  men  and  women,  and  could 
portray  life  so  trulv  that  we  scarcely  thought 
of  asking  about  a  plot  ?     We  almost  think 
that  if  he  who  rarely  struck  the  wrong  note 
in  character  had  often  been  out  of  time  and 
tune  there,  theiv  would  have  been  enough 
delight  in  his  style  to  have  atoned  for  all, 

—  so   much  it  s-je-.is  compact  of  what  is 
vigorous  in  men's  daily  speech  and  what 
is  simple  and  elegant  in  literary  art. 

This  style  was  never  better  than  in  the 
different  talcs  and  studies  which  are  known 
as  Thackeray's  Miscellanies,  and  which  are 
here  produced  anew  with  various  papers 
not  previously  collected.  Here  is  its  ear- 
lier brilliancy  and  its  later  mellowness  ;  and 
in  these  stories  and  essays  is  also  to  be 
noted  that  gradual  change  of  Thackeray's 
humor,  from  what  he  called  the  "  bump- 
tiousness "  of  the  period  in  which  he 
laughed  poor  Buhver  to  scorn,  and  fiercely 
•attacked  social  shams  in  the  "Book  of 


"  and  other  places,  to  the  relenting 
of  the  time  in  which  he 
wrote  the  "  Roundabout  Papers "  and 
"Philip."  But  what  a  marvellous  savor 
in  all  !  The  first  line  is  an  appeti/cr  that 
carries  you  hungry  through  the  feast,  what- 
ever it  is,  and  makes  you  wish  for  the  time 
being  there  were  no  other  dish  but  that  in 
the  world.  <  her  "  Barry  Lyndon,"  or  "  Ma- 
jor Gahagan,"  or  "  Dennis  1 1 
lament  that  he  ever  wrote  anything  but 
stories  of  Irish  character  (what  lamentable 
comedy,  what  tragical  mirth,  are  in  the  first 
and  the  last !) ;  and,  delaying  yourself  as 
much  as  you  can  in  "  The  Four  Georges," 
you  feel  that  a  man  who  could  revive  the 
past  in  that  way  ought  to  have  written  only 
social  history.  In  the  riot  of  his  burlesques, 
and  the  caricatured  Fitz-Boodle  papers,  he 
is  not  seen  at  his  best,  but  his  second-rate 
is  much  better  than  the  first-rate  of  any 
one  else  in  the  same  way.  He  has  set  up 
many  smaller  wits  in  that  sort  of  humor 
which  he  may  be  said  to  have  invented ; 
and  we  cannot  in  our  weariness  of  them  do 
him  complete  justice  ;  but  this  is  not  his 
fate  in  the  quieter  essays  and  sketches 
where  no  one  could  follow  him.  "From 
Cornhill  to  Cairo,"  "Coxe's  Diary,"  the 
"Little  Travels,"  "The  Irish  Sketches," 
"  The  Paris  Sketch-Book,"  "  Sketches  and 
Travels  in  London,"  are  still  sole  of  their 
kind;  and  as  for  "The  Great  Hoggarty 
Diamond,"  some  people  think  that  not 
only  stands  alone,  but  is  unsurpassed 
among  its  author's  works.  These  may  be 
people  who  have  just  been  reading  it,  or 
who  like  the  company  of  rather  a  greater 
number  of  kind-hearted  and  sensible  women 
than  Thackeray  commonly  allows  us  to 
know ;  but  certainly  he  has  not  portrayed 
a  finer  and  truer  fellow  than  Samuel  Tit- 
marsh,  and  we  do  not  dispute  any  one's 
good  opinion  of  the  book,  while  we  do  not 
relinquish  our  own  concerning  different 
ones. 

Not  that  we  are  inclined  to  a  great  affec- 
tion for  the  story  of  "  Catherine,"  though 
this  is  very  different  from  the  talc  last 
named.  There  is  not  a  lovable  person, 
high  or  low,  in  it,  —  not  a  soul  to  respect 
or  even  pity  ;  and  such  purpose  as  Thack- 
eray had  in  rebuking  the  romantic  use  of 
rascality  in  fiction,  by  depicting  rogues  and 
their  female  friends  in  their  true  characters, 
would  seem  to  have  been  sufficiently  served 
by  it.  We  are  far  enough  now  from  the 
days  of  "Eugene  Aram"  and  the  novels, 
with  murderers  for  heroes,  but  we  have  by 


248 


Revieivs  and  Literary  Notices. 


[February, 


no  means  got  rid  of  immoral  heroines,  and 
the  unvarnished  adventures  of  "  Catherine  " 
may  still  be  read  with  profit.  She  is  in 
brief  a  bad  young  person,  pretty,  vain,  and 
heartless,  who  becomes  the  mistress  of  a 
nobleman,  and  who,  when  deserted  by  him, 
marries  an  old  rustic  lover,  and  survives  to 
meet  her  paramour  many  years  after.  In 
hopes  of  becoming  his  wife,  she  murders 
her  husband  with  the  help  of  her  natural 
son,  in  whose  company  she  is  hanged.  It 
is  a  horrible  story  from  first  to  last ;  so  hor- 
rible that  there  seems  no  sufficient  reason 
for  suppressing  (as  has  been  done  by  Thack- 
eray's English  publishers,  whom  Messrs. 
Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co.  have  naturally 
followed)  the  account  of  the  murder  and 
execution,  which  Thackeray  copied  from 
newspapers  describing  actual  occurrences, 
and  the  effect  of  which  the  reader  misses. 
In  this  dreadful  history,  the  author  tears 
from  the  essential  ugliness  of  sin  and  crime 
the  veil  of  romance,  and  shows  them  for 
what  they  are  ;  but  while  there  is  not  the 
least  glamour  of  sentiment  in  the  book, 
it  is  full  of  the  fascination  of  his  wonderful 
art.  The  scene  is  laid  in  that  eighteenth 
century  which  he  loved  to  paint,  and  he  has 
hardly  ever  caused  certain  phases  of  its  life 
to  be  better  acted  or  costumed.  The  Count 
Galgenstein,  Catherine's  lover,  the  hand- 
some, stupid  profligate,  with  all  the  vices 
of  the  English  and  German  blood  that  min- 
gled in  his  veins,  who  lapses  at  last  into  a 
garrulous,  sickly,  tedious,  elegant  old  re- 
probate ;  Catherine,  with  no  more  morality 
or  conscience  than  an  animal,  —  pretty, 
ambitious,  scheming,  thrifty,  and  fond  of 
her  brutal  son,  who  grows  to  manhood  with 
whatever  is  bad  from  either  parent  become 
worse  in  him  ;  Brock,  Galgenstein's  corpo- 
ral and  her  Majesty's  recruiting-sergeant, 
subsequently  convict,  and  highwayman,  and 
finally  accomplice  in  the  murder  of  Cath- 
erine's husband  ;  this  husband  himself,  with 
his  avarice  and  cunning  and  cowardice,  — 
are  persons  whose  character  and  accessories 
are  powerfully  painted,  and  about  whom 
are  grouped  many  others  more  sketchily 
drawn,  but  still  completely  suggested.  The 
book  is  one  that  will  not  let  the  reader  go, 
horrible  as  it  is,  and  little  as  it  is  to  be 
liked  for  anything  but  its  morality.  This 
is  admirable,  to  our  thinking  ;  it  is  very 
simple  and  obvious,  as  the  morality  is  in 
all  Thackeray's  books  ;  whence  those  who 
think  that  there  is  some  mighty  subtle  dif- 
•  ference  between  right  and  wrong  have  be- 
gun to  say  he  is  a  shallow  moralist. 


Among  the  books  satirized  in  "  Cath- 
erine "  is  "  Oliver  Twist,"  and  Nancy  is 
laughed  at  as  an  impossibility.  The  read- 
er will  remember  how  a  sort  of  reparation 
is  afterwards  made  in  "The  Newcomes," 
where  this  novel  is  praised.  We  believe 
Thackeray  felt  no  compunctions  concerning 
Bulwer's  romances,  which  here  come  in  for 
a  far  larger  share  of  his  scorn. 

Memoirs  and  Letters  and  Journals  of  Major  - 
General  Riedesel,  during  his  Residence  in 
America.  Translated,  from  the  original 
German  of  MAX  VON  ELLKING,  by 
WILLIAM  L.  STONE.  Albany  :  Munsell. 

IN  a  former  number  of  the  Atlantic,  we 
noticed  Mr.  Stone's  translation  of  the  ad- 
mirable Memoirs  of  Madame  Riedesel,  of 
which  the  present  work  may  be  said  to  be 
the  complement.  In  all  that  relates  to 
military  affairs,  it  is,  however,  of  far  greater 
value.  General  Riedesel  commanded  the 
German  auxiliaries  who  formed  so  large  a 
part  of  Burgoyne's  luckless  army  of  inva- 
sion. Here,  therefore,  we  have  the  story  of 
that  momentous  campaign  from  a  point  of 
view  new  to  most  American  and  English 
readers,  and  at  the  same  time  absolutely 
essential  to  a  correct  knowledge  of  one  of 
the  most  critical  periods  of  the  War  of  In- 
dependence. Mr.  Stone  has  by  no  means 
limited  himself  to  the  mere  translation  of 
his  original.  He  has  added  illustrative  pa- 
pers found  by  him  in  Germany,  and  has 
carefully  explored  the  site  of  the  principal 
events,  traced  the  stages  of  Burgoyne's 
march,  examined  the  several  battle-grounds 
on  the  Hudson,  corrected  the  errors  of  pre- 
ceding writers,  and  established  the  land- 
marks in  a  manner  so  precise  and  satis- 
factory as  to  deserve  the  gratitude  of  every 
writer  who  may  hereafter  treat  the  subject. 
The  failure  of  that  grand  effort  to  put  down 
the  revolt  of  the  Colonies  was  plainly  due  in 
great  measure  to  the  incompetency,  the  in- 
decision, and,  as  Riedesel  more  than  inti- 
mates, to  the  drunkenness  of  Burgoyne. 

Interesting  and  valuable  as  the  book  is 
from  the  military  stand-point,  it  is  no  less 
so  in  the  curious  view  it  gives  of  society 
and  manners  in  the  various  Colonies  during, 
the  troubled  period  of  the  war  ;  for  the 
captive  German  officers  in  this  involuntary 
march  from  Saratoga  to  Boston,  and  from 
Boston  to  Virginia,  had  numberless  oppor- 
tunities of  curious  observation,  which  Ried- 
esel, at  least,  seems  to  have  used  in  a  suffi- 
ciently candid  spirit.  Now  and  then,  the 


8;o.] 


Revieivs  and  Literary  Notices. 


249 


generals  in  the  American  service  moved 
him  to  astonishment,  and  he  records  the 
alacrity  with  which  one  of  them,  who  had  a 
pair  of  new  boots,  jumped  from  his  horse, 
pulled  them  oil,  and  swapped  them,  for  a 
sufficient  consideration,  with  a  German  of- 
ficer, whose  own  were  in  the  last  extremity. 
The  reader  will  be  entertained  with  his 
account  of  New  England  life  at  the  time 
of  his  enforced  sojourn  at  Cambridge.  It 
seems  that  the  curious  notion  prevailed  then 
as  now,  that  shopkeeping  is  more  respecta- 
ble than  farming,  and  that,  in  consequence, 
the  cultivation  of  the  soil  was  in  a  very 
languishing  state.  But  we  have  no  room 
to  say  more,  and  the  book  will  best  tell  its 
own  story.  Here  and  there  we  find  in  it 
some  anomalies  of  style,  and  the  printer 
sometimes  makes  queer  work  of  extracts  in 
foreign  languages  ;  yet,  take  it  for  all  in  all, 
it  is  the  most  valuable  contribution  that  has 
been  made  to  Revolutionary  history  for  a 
long  time. 


The  IMy  Grail,  and  other  Poems.  By  AL- 
FRKD  TKNNYSON,  I).  C.  L.,  Poet  Lau- 
reate. Boston  :  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

HAS  the  poet  lost  somewhat  the  power 
to  please,  or  his  readers  the  grace  of  being 
pleased  ?  1  lave  they,  if  they  no  longer  care 
for  certain  arts,  grown  wiser,  or  colder 
merely  ?  Can  the  imitations  of  a  school 
make  the  master's  work  appear  poor  and 
stale  at  last  ?  Do  these  new  poems  of  Ten- 
nyson please  the  dreaming  and  hoping  age 
as  other  poems  ot  his  pleased  it  when  they 
were  new  and  certain  people  were  younger  ? 
But  is  there  no  absolute  standard,  then  ?  — 
is  inexperience  best  fitted  to  pronounce  a 
poem  good  or  bad,  and  is  the  perception  of 
delicate  and  beautiful  feeling  the  privilege 
of  youth  alone  ?  Forbid  it,  most  respect- 
able after-life !  Yet  something  of  these 
doubts  may  well  attend  the  critic,  who  is 
proverbially  a  disappointed  and  prema- 
turely aging  man  :  he  will  be  all  the  pleas- 
anter,  and  may  be  a  little  the  wiser,  in  his 
judgments  for  a  touch  of  self-distrust.  He 
will  do  well  to  ask  himself,  "Should  I  have 
liked  any  of  these  idyls  of  Tennyson's  as 
much  as  I  liked  '  Morte  d' Arthur '  if  I 
had  read  them,  as  I  did  that,  long  ago, 
before  editors  rejected  my  articles  and  my 
book  failed  ? "  We  cannot  answer  confi- 
dently for  such  an  ideal  critic  ;  but  we 
think  that  at  least  one  of  these  stories  is 
put  at  no  disadvantage  by  comparison  with 


the  beautiful  poem  mentioned  (which  is 
here  repeated,  with  a  new  beginning  and 
ending,  in  its  proper  place  among  the 
legends  of  King  Arthur),  and  that  the  poet 
is  seen  in  one  of  his  best  moods  in  "  Pel- 
leas  and  Ettarre."  In  this  the  reader  has 
not  the  sense  of  being  in 

"  A  land  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come  since  the  making  of  the  world," 

which  takes  from  his  delight  in  the  other 
idyls,  and  most  afflicts  him  in  "The  Holy 
Grail."  The  people  have  been,  —  and  still 
are,  for  that  matter  ;  and  time  and  place 
seem  not  so  irrecoverable.  Upon  the  sol- 
ider  foundation,  the  fabric  rises  fairer,  and! 
there  are  throughout  the  poem  such  pic- 
tures of  nature  and  men  as  almost  win  one 
back  to  earlier  faith  in  Mr.  Tennyson  as  the 
poet  to  be  chiefly  read  and  supremely  en- 
joyed. No  one  else  could  paint  a  scene  at 
umce  so  richly  and  simply  as  one  we  must 
give  here  :  we  doubt  if  he  himself  ever 
wrought  more  skilfully  to  the  end  aimed 
at.  Sir  Pelleas  of  the  Isles,  going  to  be 
knighted  by  Arthur,  — 

"  Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before, 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  king,  had  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm,  and  reeFd 
Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ;  but  saw 
Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping  side, 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches  grew, 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under  them. 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open  space, 
And  fern  and  heath  :  and  slowly  Pelleas  drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his  good  horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down  ;  and  as  he  lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  brown  earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the  grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking  at  it. 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a  cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 
Flying,  and  then  a  fawn  ;  and  his  eyes  closed." 

And  here  he  lies  dreaming  and  longing  for 
some  lady  to  love,  and  fight  for,  in  the  com- 
ing tourney ;  when,  — 

"  Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro"  the  hoary  boles,  he  saw, 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might  have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire, 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 

.  On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken  stood  : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one  that, 
Because  the  way  was  lost." 

Is  not  this  exquisitely  touched  ?  What 
tender  light,  what  lovely  color,  what  sweet 
and  sun  of  all  summers  past,  what  charm 


250 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[February, 


of  the  wihlness  and  elegance  which  we 
dream  to  have  once  coexisted,  are  in  the 
picture  !  After  which  we  have  this,  also 
exceedingly  beautiful,  and  quite  as  dedicate, 
with  its  deeper  feeling  :  — 

"  For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her  bloom, 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  womanhood, 
And  slender  was  her  hand,  and  small  her  shape  ; 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts  of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with, 
And  pass  and  care  no  more.     But  while  he  gazed, 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the  boy, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul.: 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  to  hers, 
Believing  her  ;  and  when  she  spake  to  him, 
Stammer' d,  and  could  not  make  her  a  reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he  come, 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had  known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 
Rough  wives,   that  laugh'd  and  scream'd  against 

the  gulls, 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea." 

Other  pieces  of  descriptive  art  in  the 
poem  have  pleased  us  hardly  less  than 
these,  though  all  the  rest  are  slighter.  It 
is  a  tragical  theme,  Ettarre  not  being  what 
she  should  be  ;  but  the  story  is  best  left  to 
the  poet's  consummate  art  of  telling  little 
and  withholding  nothing.  All  the  charac- 
ters in  the  poem  are  clearly  and  firmly 
drawn,  especially  that  of  Pelleas,  the  most 
difficult  of  all,  and  the  portrayal  of  the  pure 
soul's  shame  and  anguish  in  others'  guilt 
is  as  strong  and  good  as  the  descriptive 
parts. 

The  other  legends  of  Arthur's  knights 
here  given  are  "  The  Coming  of  Arthur," 
"  The  Holy  Grail,"  and  "  The  Passing  of 
Arthur."  The  last  is  the  old  "  Morte  d' Ar- 
thur," newly  set  as  we  have  mentioned, 
and  neither  of  the  other  two  is  so  good  as 
"  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,"  both  being  clouded 
in  a  remoteness  even  from  the  sympathies 
of  men,  which  go  out  willingly  enough  to 
unrealities  of  place  and  time,  if  only  there  be 
human  beings  there  ;  though  barren  shapes 
of  uncertain  parable  repel  them,  however 
fair  to  see.  We  get  little  use  or  pleasure 
from  "  Lucretius,"  one  of  the  poems  in  this 
book,  for  much  the  same  reason  that  makes 
the  seekers  for  "  The  Holy  Grail "  a  trou* 
ble  to  us  ;  and  for  the  reason  that  we  like 
"  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,"  we  feel  the  beauty 
and  excellence  of  "The  Golden  Supper." 
The  story  is  that  old  one  of  Boccaccio's  — 
when  will  he  cease  to  enrich  the  world  ?  — 
about  the  lover  who  found  his  lady  not 
dead  as  her  husband  thought,  and  pos- 


sessed himself  of  her  only  to  restore  her  to 
her  lord,  with  a  great  magnificence,  at  the 
banquet  he  gave  before  leaving  his  land 
forever.  The  tale  is  richly  and  splendidly 
told,  with  that  grace  and  tenderness  which 
we  should  expect  of  such  a  theme  in  the 
hands  of  such  a  poet,  yet  with  fewer  lines 
or  passages  than  usual  to  gather  up,  out  of 
its  excellence,  for  special  admiration.  We 
are  tempted  to  give  the  close,  not  so  much 
because  we  are  certain  it  is  the  best  part, 
as  because  we  know  it  to  be  good.  The 
reader  is  to  understand  that  Lionel  is  the 
husband,  who  has  declared  that  if  a  sup- 
posed analogous  case  had  happened  no  one 
could  have  any  claim  but  the  lover,  when 
suddenly  his  wife  appears  with  her  child 
(born  since  what  seemed  her  death),  and 
Julian  says :  — 

" '  Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for  your  wife  ; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you  lost, 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her  back : 
I  leave  this  land  forever.'     Here  he  ceased. 

"  Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one  hand, 
And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble  babe, 
He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and  dead  wife 
Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that  rather  seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  renew'd  ; 
At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 
At  once  they  tuni'd,  and  caught  and  brought  him  in 
To  their  charnvd  circle,  and,  half  killing  him 
With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and  claspt  again, 
i'.ut  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a  face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life, 
And  love,  and  boundless  thanks —  the  sight  of  this 
So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turning  to  me, 
And  saying,  '  It  is  over  :  let  us  go  '  — 
There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the  doors  — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mounting  these, 
He  past  forever  from  his  native  land." 


Discourses  on  Various  Occasions.  By  the 
REVEREND  FATHER  HYACINTHE,  late 
Superior  of  the  Barefooted  Carmelites  of 
Paris,  and  Preacher  of  the  Conferences 
of  Notre  Dame.  Translated  by  LEONARD 
WOOLSEY  BACON.  With  a  Biographical 
Sketch.  New  York  :  G.  P.  Putnam  and 
Son. 

JUDGING  Father  Hyacinthe  by  these 
efforts,  one  finds  him  a  man  by  no  means 
so  great  as  he  appears  in  the  act  which  has 
lately  caught  the  attention  of  mankind. 
We  do  not  think  the  reader  will  be  struck 
by  the  clearness,  the  force,  or  the  eloquence 
of  his  style ;  these  traits,  which  he  has  in 


1870.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Xotices, 


251 


degree,  seem  to  have  .been  exaggerated  in 
the  enthusiasm  and  affection  of  his  hearers ; 
us  happens  with  the  merits  of  most  preach- 
ers. As  to  Father  Hyacinthe's  liberality, 
it  is  the  charity,  the  toleration,  which  has 
been  felt  by  many  good  men  of  his  church 
for  those  they  consider  in  error ;  but  it 
means  nothing  like  Protestantism,  and  does 
not  allow  for  anything  but  an  ecclesiastical 
Christianity.  The  morality  he  preaches  is 
very  pure  and  sweet,  and  you  feel  the  thor- 
ough excellence  of  a  warm-hearted,  poetical- 
minded  man  in  all  he  says.  But  the  value 
of  his  life  is  not  in  what  he  has  said,  but 
in  what  he  has  done ;  and  his  future 
course  alone  can  fix  this  value.  At  present 
he  has  for  conscience'  sake  disobeyed  the 
orders  of  the  Carmelite  general,  and  is 
excommunicated.  The  logical  conclusion 
of  this  is  entire  separation  from  the  Roman 
Church,  and  union  with  the  Christians  who 
that  conscience  is  the  church  in 
every  soul.  But  Father  Ilyacinthe  has  not 
as  yet  followed  his  act  to  a  logical  conclu- 
sion ;  he  has  simply  performed  an  act  of 
magnanimous  defiance.  We  must  all  wait ; 
but  in  the  mean  time  we  can  all  honor  him, 
perhaps  not  as  a  very  profound  or  acute 
mind,  but  as  a  pure  and  courageous  spirit, 
which  has  so  far  been  true  to  itself. 

The  sermons  here  arc  almost  entirely 
upon  secular  topics,  and  are  rather  more 
remarkable  for  political  than  religious  lib- 
erality, for  they  distinctly  pronounce  against 
the  personal  government  and  military  spirit 
of  Caesarism.  The  biographical  sketch  is 
slight,  but  interesting. 


The  Kh-mcnts  of  Tachygraphy.  Ill  ustrating 
the  First  Principles  of  the  Art,  with  their 
Adaptation  to  the  Wants  of  Literary,  Pro- 
fessional, and  Business  Men.  Designed 
as  a  Text-Book  for  Classes  and  Private 
Instruction.  By  DAVID  PHILIP  LINDS- 

_LEY.     Boston  :  Otis  Clapp. 

Wr.  have  a  real  pleasure  in  speaking  of 
this  system  of  shorthand,  to  which  the  in- 
ventor has  given  the  longest  and  ugliest 
name  he  could  contrive.  Its  principles  are 
so  clear  and  simple  that  they  can  be  under- 
stood with  an  hour's  study  ;  and  a  week's 
practice  will  put  the  student  in  possession 
of  an  art  which  will  relieve  him  of  half  the 
pain  and  labor  of  writing.  Until  a  writing- 
machine  is  invented  (without  which  our 
century  is  still  as  benighted,  in  one  respect, 
as  any  since  the  invention  of  the  alphabet), 


Mr.  Lindsley's  system  must  seem  the  great- 
est possible  benefaction.  Phonography  is  a 
science  to  which  months  of  study  must  be 
given,  and  in  the  acquirement  of  which  the 
memory  is  burdened  with  a  multitude  of  ar- 
bitrary and  variable  signs ;  while  in  Tachy- 
graphy  the  letters  are  almost  invariable,  and 
as  easily  memorized  as  the  ordinary  Roman 
characters ;  a  single  impulse  of  the  hand 
forms  each  letter  ;  there  are  as  few  detached 
marks  as  in  ordinary  chirography  ;  and  the 
writing  is  fluent  and  easy.  As  with  other 
easy  writing,  the  hardness  is  in  the  reading ; 
not  because  each  letter  is  not  perfectly  dis- 
tinct and  intelligible,  but  because  words  in 
the  common  printing  and  writing  are  less 
assemblages  of  letters  speaking  to  the  mind 
than  pictures  appealing  to  the  eye.  This, 
however,  will  trouble  the  beginner  only; 
and  the  art  is  at  once  available  in  the  care- 
fuller  kinds  of  literary  work,  where  the  writ- 
er copies  and  copies  again.  Of  course,  in 
Tachygraphy  the  lunatical  vagaries  of  Eng- 
lish orthography  are  unknown  ;  the  spelling 
is  phonetic,  —  and  this  is  another  drawback, 
so  used  are  we  to  the  caprices  of  an  orthog- 
raphy of  which  no  burlesque  can  be  half  so 
absurd  as  itself.  But  this  difficulty  also  is 
easily  overcome,  and,  after  a  little  practice, 
the  learner  finds  himself  spelling  sanely 
with  a  sensation  of  absolute  pleasure. 

The  chirography  which  Mr.  Lindsley  has 
invented  is  very  graceful  ;  and  we  should 
think  that  it  could  never  be  so  ill  written 
as  the  ordinary  kind.  What  degree  of 
speed  may  be  attainable  in  it,  or  whether 
it  could  advantageously  supplant  phonog- 
raphy in  reporting,  we  do  not  know ;  but 
we  feel  certain  that  to  editors,  clergymen, 
and  the  whole  vast  and  increasing  body 
of  literary  men,  it  must  prove  a  great  ad- 
vantage ;  and  we  commend  it  to  the  atten- 
tion of  teachers  as  a  system  which  might 
very  well  be  taught  in  schools. 


Memoir  and  Writings  of  Margaret  Fuller 
Ossoli.  New  and  Complete  Edition. 
New  York :  The  Tribune  AsJbciation. 
6  vols.  I2mo. 

IT  is  very  fitting  that  a  new  and  perma- 
nent edition  of  the  writings  of  Margaret 
Fuller  Ossoli  should  proceed  from  the 
Xew  York  Tribune  Association.  It  was 
the  Tribune  which  first  gave  her  a  wider 
public  than  her  Boston  coterie ;  and  per- 
haps no  other  newspaper  would  then  have 
ventured  to  enlist  such  genius  and  such  cul- 


252 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[February, 


ture  as  hers  for  the  production  of  "  human 
nature's  daily  food  "  in  the  way  of  book- 
notices.  It  was  putting  Pegasus  in  harness ; 
and  some  of  us  can  still  remember  how  Pe- 
gasus reared  and  plunged,  and  snorted  de- 
fiance to  other  winged  steeds,  which  snorted 
yet  more  violently  back.  But  after  all  it 
was  a  great  epoch  when  she  lingered  in 
that  harness ;  and  the  authorling  of  to-day, 
turning  over  these  brilliant  and  pungent 
pages,  must  wish  that  some  successor  of 
Margaret  Fuller  yet  lived,  to  pronounce  his 
doom  with  as  superb  a  scorn.  We  have 
more  deliberate  and  more  judicious  critics 
still  among  us,  and  some  quite  as  impulsive ; 
but  who  pronounces  doom  so  brilliantly  ? 
Who  wields  a  scymitar  so  keen  as  hers,  by 
which,  as  in  the  Arabian  tale,  the  victim 
was  decapitated  without  knowing  it  until 
he  shook  his  head  ? 

Utterly  free  from  unfair  personalities  her- 
self, she  had  yet  an  occasional  supercilious- 
ness of  manner,  even  when  she  aimed  at 
humility  ;  and  this  brought  down  very  bitter 
personalities  on  her  head.  Before  these 
were  at  their  height,  she  had  left  America, 
and  had  exchanged  literature  for  life,  as 
she  erelong  exchanged  time  for  eternity. 
But  the  literary  antagonisms  she  called  forth 
may  have  only  added  zeal  to  the  friendships 
she  won,  —  and  no  American  woman  per- 
haps has  had  so  many  or  so  honorable 
friendships.  The  memoirs  which  precede 
this  'edition  are  a  sort  of  votive  offering  of 
personal  regard  ;  and  coming  as  they  do 
from  some  of  the  most  gifted  among  the 
men  of  her  time,  they  constitute  just  the 
tribute  her  nature  would  have  craved.  The 
other  volumes  contain  all  of  her  writings 
that  are  likely  to  be  preserved  for  posterity, 
and  these  were  selected  with  the  greatest 
care  by  her  brother  Arthur,  who  has  since 
died  a  death  almost  as  dramatic  as  her 
own. 

The  essay  on  "  Woman  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,"  with  some  companion  papers, 
fills  one  volume  ;  the  three  others  being 
respectively  devoted  to  her  travels,  under 
the  name  of  "  At  Home  and  Abroad  "  ;  to 
her  papers  on  "  Art,  Literature,  and  the 
Drama " ;  and  to  other  papers  not  very 
distinct  in  character  from  these,  under  the 
vaguer  title  of  "  Life  Without  and  Life 
Within."  These  all  show  the  same  quali- 
•  ties,  —  a  varied  but  rather  irregular  and  un- 
equal scholarship  ;  wonderful  "lyric  glimp- 
ses "  of  thought,  as  Emerson  called  them  ; 
a  steady  elevation  of  aim ;  an  impatience, 
not  always  courteous,  of  shallowness  or 


charlatanism  in  others  ;  a  high  appreciation 
of  artistic  excellence,  without  the  construc- 
tive power  necessary  for  its  attainment. 
For  want  of  this,  an  impression  of  inade- 
quacy and  incompleteness  attaches  to  her 
completest  works  ;  yet  the  latest  are  usually 
the  best,  and  indicate  the  steady  literary 
progress  that  would  probably  have  been 
hers  had  not  a  higher  step  in  progress  oc- 
curred instead.  As  it  is,  there  is  probably 
no  American  author,  save  Emerson,  who 
has  planted  so  many  germs  of  high  thought 
in  other  minds. 

It  is  certain  that  in  many  high  literary 
qualities  she  has  left  no  equal  among  Amer- 
ican women,  and  very  few  among  American 
men.  With  the  generation  that  knew  her 
will  depart  much  of  the  prestige  of  her  per- 
sonal influence,  and  all  the  remembrance  of 
whatever  unattractive  qualities  may  have 
alloyed  it.  This  will  leave  her  purely  in- 
tellectual influence  to  exert  its  full  weight, 
for  a  time  at  least,  on  those  who  are  to 
come.  She  will  still  be,  for  a  generation 
certainly,  one  of  the  formative  influences  of 
the  American  mind.  How  her  reputation, 
or  anybody's,  will  endure  the  terrible  win- 
nowing of  a  hundred  years  is  something 
which  no  contemporary  can  foretell. 


Art- Thoughts.  The  Experiences  and  Ob- 
servations of  an  American  Amateur  in 
Europe.  By  JAMES  JACKSON  JARVES. 
New  York  :  Hurd  and  Houghton. 

THERE  are  two  ways  of  educating  the 
public  in  a  knowledge  and  appreciation  of 
the  Fine  Arts  :  one,  by  making  it  actually 
familiar  with  the  best  works  of  art  ;  the 
other,  by  right  statement  and  criticism  of 
what  has  been  done,  and  speculation  on 
what  should  be  done,  by  artists  in  their 
several  departments  of  work.  The  first  is 
indispensable,  if  any  high  standard  of  excel- 
lence in  art  is  to  be  attained.  The  second 
is  of  less  importance,  but  still  highly  useful. 
The  beautiful  in  art,  no  less  than  in  na- 
ture, "  is  its  own  excuse  for  being,"  and  will 
sooner  or  later  find  a  response  in  the  popu- 
lar mind.  Still,  so  long  as  some  people  will 
say  of  a  work  of  art,  "This  is  so,"  and 
others,  "  It  is  not  so,"  we  owe  a  debt  al- 
ways to  those  who,  combining  a  love  and 
knowledge  of  art  with  the  capacity  of 
writing  well  about  it,  publish  the  results 
of  their  thoughts,  and  help  us  to  some 
means  of  judging  it. 

We  confess   to   never  having  got  much 


1870.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


253 


satisfaction  from  mere  theorizing  and  phi- 
losophizing about  art.  Mr.  Ruskin  did 
excellent  service  in  deposing  some  of  the 
idols  of  the  past,  and  placing  Claude,  Sal- 
vator  Rosa,  Caspar  Poussin,  and  others, 
just  where  they  belong;  but  we  could  not 
accompany  this  iconoclast  when  he  lifted 
up  Turner  as  a  greater  idol,  and  offered 
incense  to  him  alone,  as  the  completest 
genius  of  the  age.  And  as  to  those  didac- 
tic essays  in  the  second  volume  of  his  Mod- 
ern Landscape  Painters,  such  efforts  are 
little  better,  it  seems  to  us,  than  most  treat- 
ises of  doctrinal  theology.  The  true  artist 
will  find  his  art-creed  expressed  in  a  very 
few  words,  just  as  the  Christian  believer 
may  sum  up  his  faith  in  the  simple  formula 
of  the  New  Testament,  "  Love  to  God  and 
man." 

We  hear  it  frequently  asserted  by  artists, 
provoked  by  the  stings  and  arrows  of  out- 
rageous criticism  in  the  papers,  that  no  per- 
son but  an  artist  should  undertake  to  be  an 
art  critic.  There  may  be  some  truth  in 
this  assertion.  So  far  as  criticism  is  con- 
cerned with  the  form,  the  style,  and  execu- 
tion of  the  work,  artists  should  be  the  best 
critics,  for  the  very  good  reason,  name- 
ly, that  their  knowledge  is  experimental, 
lint  art  is  idea  as  well  as  expression.  And 
it  may  be  said  that,  of  the  idea  embodied  in 
a  work  of  art,  those  who  are  "  outsiders  " 
may  be  as  competent  to  judge  as  the  artist. 
It  is  even  argued  that  they  may  be  better 
qualified,  for  the  very  reason  that  they  are 
not  tempted,  as  the  artist  is,  to  sink  the 
idea  in  the  sensuous  expression.  However 
this  may  be,  it  is  clear  enough  that  those 
who  write  of  art  should  at  least  have  a 
natural  love  of  it ;  they  must  have  the 
artistic  temperament  and  eye,  and  a  long 
familiarity,  through  observation  and  study, 
with  what  they  propose  to  talk  about.  Cer- 
tainly, if  the  artist  be  intelligent  and  culti- 
vated, in  a  larger  than  a  mere  professional 
way,  his  thoughts  about  art  should  have  spe- 
cial weight.  The  artists  at  any  rate  should 
take  the  initiative  in  the  field  of  criticism. 
]f  we  could  collect  all  that  is  said  candidly 
and  without  prejudice  by  all  of  them,  say  at 
some  public  exhibition,  and  have  it  clearly 
expressed,  we  should  come  nearer  getting 
the  cream  of  criticism  than  in  any  other  way. 

This,  however,  does  not  seem  to  be  the 
popular  notion.  Anybody,  it  is  thought, 
who  can  write  well,  and  uses  his  eyes,  can 
write  about  art.  None  but  scientific  stu- 
dents should  criticise  a  work  on  science  ; 
none  but  financiers  are  held  qualified  to 


speak  of  finance  ;  none  but  musical  people 
may  speak  authoritatively  of  music ;  none 
but  literary  people,  with  a  love  for  poe- 
try, and  capacity  for  appreciating  it,  should 
review  a  poem.  But  any  scribbler  in  the 
daily  papers  can  rush  into  the  artist's  stu- 
dio, or  the  Academy  of  Design,  and  dash 
off  a  popular  bit  of  art  criticism.  It  only 
needs  good  eyes,  and  a  little  familiarity 
with  sculpture  and  painting,  it  seems,  to 
judge  of  art.  Why  should  it  require  more 
than  is  needed  to  judge  of  the  aspects  of 
nature  ? 

In  America,  unfortunately,  very  few  per- 
sons of  literary  power  trouble  themselves 
witli  writing  about  art.  It  is  not  yet  made 
a  specialty  as  in  Europe.  Here  the  stand- 
ard of  art  is  not  fixed.  It  has  entirely 
changed  during  the  last  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury, and  is  still  changing.  Names  and 
reputations  which  then  loomed  up  as  the 
brightest  have  been  eclipsed  by  those 
of  younger  men.  In  the  landscape  de- 
partment especially,  our  painters  have  gone 
far  ahead  of  what  passed  for  excellent 
when  Cole,  Durand,  and  Doughty  were  the 
fashion.  In  every  department  of  art  there 
is  a  demand  for  higher  themes  and  better 
works.  The  conventional,  the  academic, 
pale  before  subjects  drawn  fresh  from  na- 
ture, and  embodying  some  original  idea  or 
sentiment,  in  exactness  and  finish  of  execu- 
tion. Besides,  American  art  has  to  compete 
with  European  art.  Our  best  private  col- 
lections of  pictures  are  drawn  chiefly  from 
France,  Belgium,  and  Germany. 

Art  criticism  with  us  is  very  much  in- 
ferior to  the  average  criticism  on  books, 
far  behind  that  on  music  and  musical 
perfsrmers.  Such  is  the  prevalent  uncer- 
tainty in  the  public  mind  as  to  what  is  really 
good  in  art,  that  editors  and  their  readers 
are  apt  to  welcome  any  clever  writer  who 
undertakes  to  do  the  "  art  notices  "  for  them. 
Mr.  Jarves's  books  are  about  the  only  ear- 
nest and  authoritative  works  of  this  kind 
we  know  of  in  America.  In  the  papers  and 
magazines  we  have  had  a  great  deal  of  so- 
called  criticism,  from  the  soft  "  mush-of- 
concession "  style  to  the  intensely  patron- 
izing, the  satirical,  the  carping,  the  savage  ; 
of  genuine,  wise,  large,  appreciative  art  crit- 
icism, almost  nothing.  We  are  disposed, 
therefore,  to  make  the  most  of  a  writer  who 
enters  this  difficult  field  with  sound  and  . 
various  knowledge,  and  a  zeal  nearly  al- 
ways balanced  by  a  sense  of  justice. 

The  author  of  "  Art-Thoughts  "  has  long 
been  known,  here  and  abroad,  as  a  learned 


254 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[February,, 


connoisseur  and  collector,  chiefly  of  pic- 
tures by  the  old  masters,  and  as  a  writer 
whose  opinions  are  enlightened,  earnest, 
and  independent.  Though  not,  like  Mr. 
Raskin,  an  artist,  he  shows  that  he  is  fa- 
miliarly acquainted  with  art,  old  and  new  ; 
and  his  evident  knowledge  and  appreciation 
of  his  subject,  his  usually  excellent  criti- 
cisms, his  clear  and  vigorous  style,  entitle 
him  to  a  high  rank  as  a  writer  in  this 
department.  In  this,  his  latest  book,  he 
goes  over  a  very  wide  space  historically, 
treating  of  the  Pagan  and  Christian  idea  in 
art,  the  art  and  religion  of  Etruria,  com- 
paring classical  and  Christian  art,  and  dis- 
cussing architecture,  modern  Italian  art, 
life  and  religion,  the  art  of  Holland,  Bel- 
gium, Spain,  Germany,  England,  Japan, 
China,  France.  He  has  something,  but  not 
much,  to  say  of  American  art ;  and  his  clos- 
ing chapters  treat  of  Minor  Arts,  Amateur- 
ship,  and  the  Art  of  the  Future.  On  all 
these  topics  he  has  excellent  things  to 
say.  His  tone  is  thoughtful  and  discrimi- 
nating. He  is  not  unduly  biassed  by  any 
clique  or  school.  He  shows  a  healthy  ten- 
dency to  appreciate  the  idea  in  art,  and 
yet  a  delicate  and  acute  sense  of  what  is 
best  in  style  and  execution.  We  find  our- 
selves agreeing  with  him  generally  in  his 
thoughts  about  the  old  masters,  and  in  his 
characterization  of  most  of  the  modern 
French  and  English  painters.  There  is 
truth,  too,  in  what  he  says  of  American  art. 
Yet  there  is  here  a  tone  of  depreciation 
which  shows  less  thorough  acquaintance 
with  our  best  works.  Such  observations  as 
the  following  we  regard  as  out  of  keeping 
with  Mr.  Jarves's  usual  sound  judgment :  — 

"  Indeed,  it  is  not  uncommon  to  find  suc- 
cessful artists,  as  regards  making  money, 
who  have  begun  life  as  traders,  mechanics, 
or  writers.  There  is  so  little  real  artistic 
fibre  as  yet,  that  most  of  those  engaged  in 
the  one  career  would  have  met  with  equal 
success  in  the  other,  had  circumstances 
drawn  them  to  it.  Of  art,  as  genius,  we  have 
none ;  as  the  expression  of  an  aesthetic 
constitution  and  ambition,  very  little ;  of 
conscientious  study  and  profound  knowl- 
edge, even  less  ;  but,  as  the  fruit  of  the 
demand-and-supply  principle  of  business, 
much.  An  increasing  number  of  persons 
engage  in  art  for  no  sincere  purpose  ex- 
cept speedily  to  become  rich  ;  their  credit, 
like  that  of  merchants,  being  based  on  the 
amount  of  business  they  do." 

There  is  no  doubt  a  certain  amount  of 
truth  in  these  statements,  but  it  is  exagger- 


ated. Besides,  it  applies  no  less  to  Euro- 
pean than  to  American  artists.  The  mer- 
cantile spirit  among  artists  is  peculiar  to  no 
one  country.  And  we  regret  to  see  Mr. 
Jarves  make  the  mistake  of  asserting  that 
it  exists  any  more  among  Americans  than 
among  any  other  people.  He  has  been 
misled  by  having  his  attention  drawn  too 
exclusively  to  the  pecuniary  successes  of  a 
few  of  our  painters  and  sculptors,  whose 
works  happen  to  be  very  popular.  Then, 
as  to  money-making,  how  can  Mr.  Jarves 
suppose  that  art  as  a  business,  bringing  sure 
and  solid  pecuniary  profit,  can  be,  except 
in  very  rare  cases,  in  the  remotest  degree 
comparable  with  the  thousand  other  aven- 
ues to  wealth,  open  to  enterprise  and  in- 
dustry in  America  ? 

Another  error  we  think,  he  falls  into, 
namely,  that  artists  in  general  are  not  the 
best  judges  of  art.  We  have  already  in- 
dicated our  views  on  this  point.  Mr.  Jar- 
ves says  :  — 

"  The  best  judges  of  objects  of  art  in 
general  are  found,  not  among  artists,  but 
those  who  stake  -their  money  and  reputa- 
tion on  them  as  dealers,  restorers,  or  con- 
noisseurs. Most  artists  limit  their  instruc- 
tion to  a  speciality  of  their  epoch.  Seldom 
do  they  interest  themselves  in  what  does 
not  immediately  concern  their  own  studies 
or  aims.  As  a  class,  they  are  more  indiffer- 
ent to  old  art  of  any  kind,  and  less  versed 
in  its  history,  character,  motives,  and  meth- 
ods, than  amateurs." 

But  in  his  subsequent  observations  he 
indirectly  admits  that  amateurs  and  collec- 
tors are  apt  to  fall  into  mistakes  about 
the  real  value  of  objects  of  art.  Artists,  it 
is  true,  may  be  easily  deceived  as  to  the 
authenticity  of  this  or  that  "  old  master  "  ; 
for  to  become  a  sharp  detective  in  this 
line  requires  a  training  rather  outside  an 
artist's  legitimate  education.  This  is  the 
connoisseur's  work.  But  as  to  the  genuine 
ivorth  of  objects  of  art,  old  and  new,  irre- 
spective of  names  and  reputations,  it  seems 
to  us  educated  artists  are  far  less  liable 
to  err,  because  with  them  a  perception 
of  form,  drawing,  color,  tone,  style,  com- 
position, light  and  shade,  and  in  fine  all 
that  goes  to  make  up  a  picture  (and  the 
'same  applies  to  sculpture),  is  the  result 
of  mental  constitution  and  long  and  habit- 
ual training  in  the  direction  of  nature  and 
art,  and  not,  as  with  the  collector,  founded 
on  mere  study  and  comparison  of  works  of 
this  or  that  school,  or  age,  or  country. 

Among  the  small  mistakes  of  the  author 


1 870.] 


and  Literary  Notices. 


255 


of  classing  William  Page  with  the 
idealists  in  painting.  To  our  mind  Mr. 
Page  stands  as  one  of  our  foremost  real- 
ists. He  does  nothing  well  ui.1 
original  is  always  before  his  eye. 
Mr.  Jarves  makes  Messrs.  Moore  and  Far- 
rer  exact  literalists  as  to  "truth  in  design 
and  //«<•."  Xo\v,  whatever  excellence  may 
be  claimed  for  them  as  draughtsmen,  few 
have  discovered  that  they  succeed  in  getting 
anywhere  near  the  color  of  natural  forms. 
This  literal  color  of  the  landscape  is  just 
where  they  fail.  Nor  are  we  any  better 
satisfied  with  what  seems  to  us  an  under- 
estimate of  Mr.  Story,  and  an  over-estimate 
of  Miss  Hosmer,  as  sculptors. 

Not  the  least  of  Mr.  Jarves's  merits  as  a 
critic  is  the  constant  prominence  he  gives 
to  the  idea  in  art,  as  well  as  to  the  har- 
mony which  should  subsist  between  it  and 
the  expression. 

"\Y<_  feel  that  though  the  formula  of  soul 
and  b-)d\,  substance  and  form,  idea  and  ex- 
pression, applicable  to  all  art,  is  trite  enough, 
it  has  nearly  always  been  practically  ig- 
nored, and  especially  in  this  age,  which  is  so 
fertile  in  easy  material  for  thought  to  work 
in.  In  art  the  idea  or  sentiment  must  be 
•d  in  .a  definite  and  prescribed 
form,  which  form  is  imposed  with  unyield- 
ing strictness.  Yet  by  these  limitations  art 
is  not  fettered,  but  rather  assisted.  The 
is  not  restrained  by  the  size,  shape, 
and  flatness  of  his  canvas.  The  sculptor  is 
not  balked  by  his  sticky  clay  or  his  hard 
marble.  The  musician  uses  his  rules  of 
counterpoint  as  so  many  necessary  stepping- 
stones,  piers,  or  abutments  for  the  golden 
bridge  of  his  divine  symphony.  The  poet 
blesses  the  fourtcen-line  prison  of  the  son- 
net. The  form  must  be  impregnated  with 
the  idea,  but  must  always  remain  perfect  as 
form.  So,  in  proportion  as  thought  scorns 
its  limits  and  overflows  its  dikes  and  breaks 
down  its  barriers,  it  degenerates  from  true 
art,  no  less  than  when  it  fails  to  fill  out  the 
form,  and  dribbles  away  in  puny  rills  or 
stagnates  in  dull  pools. 

The  artist's  work  differs  from  that  of 
the  prophet,  the  preacher,  the  political  edi- 
tor, the  reformer,  the  philosopher,  and  all 
who  seek  te  impress  by  the  simple  enun- 
ciation of  an  idea,  or  by  a  process  of 
ratiocination.  Theirs  is  the  blast  of  the 
bugle  or  the  play  of  a  melody,  —  the  mean- 
ing uttered  almost  anyhow,  so  that  it  be 
understood.  But  the  artist  is  concerned 
about  harmonious  utterance.  lie  presides 
not  over  the  speaking-trumpet  or  the  Al- 


pine horn,  —  though  a  thousand  echoes 
answer,  —  but  over  some  grand  organ,  or 
whatever  instrument  may  best  represent  the 
complete  orchestral  beauty  and  harmony 
of  inspired  thought.  From  a  necessity  of 
:hetic  constitution,  he  must  hold  his 
thought  in  suspense  till  it  is  fitly  embodied 
in  a  beautiful  form  ;  and,  this  done,  the  form 
must  not  prove  so  fascinating  as  to  ener- 
vate and  subjugate  the  fresh  vigor  and 
truth  of  his  thought. 

When  we  come  to  apply  this  test  to  the 
works  of  art  of  the  century,  it  will  be  found 
that  those  which  fulfil  the  large  require- 
ments hoped  for  in  respect  to  truth  and 
beauty  of  expression  are  but  a  slender  pro- 
portion of  the  whole. 

Somehow  the  age  seems  to  groove  out 
channels  for  art  in  a  material,  rather  than 
an  intellectual  and  aesthetic,  direction.  The 
idea  and  sentiment  are  lost  in  the  embodi- 
ment, till  the  body  is  gradually  vitiated  by- 
hopeless  mannerism. 

Powers  makes  us  a  statue  or  bust  which 
is  a  faultless  form,  no  more.  The  French 
painters  carry  cleverness  of  manipulation  to 
intolerable  excess.  The  triumph  of  the 
English  school  in  water-colors  makes  man- 
nerists of  them,  and  infects  their  oil-painting 
with  feebleness  and  falsity.  The  German 
landscapes  seem  nearly  all  ground  out  of  the 
same  mill.  Music  runs  into  strained  effects, 
and  excessive  nourish  and  ornament ;  and 
those  are  accounted  the  best  performers 
who  astonish  most  by  musical  gymnastics 
and  pyrotechnics.  Poetry  loses  its  simplicity 
of  thought  and  feeling,  and  degenerates  into 
exquisiteness  of  rhythm,  or  stilted  and  arti- 
ficial diction.  The  artist's  hand  gets  the 
better  of  his  thought,  and  runs  away  with 
him,  the  thought  being  too  puny  to  inspire 
and  guide  it.  And  so,  as  Emerson  says, 
"  Man  is  subdued  by  his  instruments." 

Go  into  our  galleries,  and  you  will  see  line 
after  line  of  pictures  where  there  is  absolutely 
the  washiest  dilution  of  thought,  the  feeblest 
gleam  of  feeling,  while  in  many  cases  the 
painting  may  be  perfect  as  painting.  You 
will  see  the  same  sort  of  thing  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  with  little  variation, 
till  you  wonder  if  there  be  any  originality 
or  freshness,  any  force  of  invention,  left 
among  the  painters.  Exceptions,  of  course, 
there  are.  We  only  speak  now  of  the  gen- 
eral tendency  to  tame,  monotonous  levels  of 
thought.  We  would  rather  see  the  artists 
content  themselves  with  sketches,  rough 
and  vigorous,  or  soft  and  tender,  where 
there  is  nevertheless  a  sentiment  expressed, 


256 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[February. 


or,  on  the  other  hand,  adopt  the  extreme 
hard  realistic  style  of  treating  nature,  than 
have  this  perpetual  surfeit  of  mannerism, 
—  these  annually  recurring  rechaiijfis  of 
something  already  done,  —  these  crowds  of 
•eye-pleasing  canvases,  signifying  nothing, 
exciting  no  thrill  of  delight,  and  having  no 
magnetic  attraction  for  us  after  we  have 
once  passed  them. 

For  the  test  of  a  true  work  of  art  is  the 
power  it  has  to  draw  us  again  and  again 
into  its  presence.  This  holds  in  painting 
and  sculpture,  as  in  music  and  poetry. 
Something  must  be  there  which,  over  and 
.above  the  material  form,  fascinates  the  soul. 
Without  this,  the  beautiful  body  of  art  can 
never  fulfil  to  the  mind  its  promise  to  the 
eye. 

The  artists  seem  generally  more  occupied 
with  their  vocabulary  than  their  idea.  The 
old  complaint  against  them  comes  up  con- 
tinually, that  they  tend  to  be  too  academic. 
They  need  the  influence  of  a  more  realistic 
school.  While  they  grapple  with  the  diffi- 
culties of  art,  they  must,  Antaeus-like,  touch 
earth  again  and  again,  forever  drawing  new 
strength  and  refreshment  from  Nature. 

The  reaction  toward  realism  has  shown  it- 
self to  some  extent  in  America  ;  but  its  de- 
cided exhibition  has  been  confined  to  cer- 
tain peculiar  little  pictures,  by  a  few  young 
landscapists,  who  have  apparently  spurned 
all  the  rules  and  teachings  of  the  masters, 
and  have  struck  out  what  they  call  a  "new 
path "  for  themselves.  If  we  take  any 
pleasure  in  their  works,  it  is  solely  that  we 
see  an  earnest  attempt  to  get  at  the  literal 
truth  of  nature,  in  a  way  entirely  outside  all 


accepted  canons.  After  our  surfeit  of  vapid 
and  conventional  pictures,  there  is  refresh-* 
ment  even  in  some  of  these  raw  produc- 
tions. But  there  are  signs  of  a  healthier 
and  more  enlightened  realism  among  us,  — 
a  realism  which  accepts  those  rules  in  art 
founded  on  law  (the  laws  of  color  and  tone, 
for  instance,  which  are  quite  as  impera- 
tive as  the  laws  of  harmony  in  music),  and 
rejects  only  rules  derived  from  a  pedantic 
academicism. 

On  the  other  hand,  we  are  not  insensible 
of  the  value  of  the  old  masters  to  the 
artist.  For  we  do  not  think  any  artist  has 
completed  his  education  till  he  has  attained 
some  familiarity  with  the  best  of  them. 
But  even  their  value  is  to  be  tested  by  the 
same  law  by  which  we  test  all  art.  Here, 
we  think,  Mr.  Jarves  shows  a  tendency  to 
confound  the  connoisseur  with  the  critic  in 
art.  The  connoisseur  may  live  so  long 
among  the  old  masters,  genuine  or  copies, 
as  to  come  to  imagine  the  learning  of  the 
expert  and  the  knowledge  and  perception 
of  the  artist  to  be  one  and  the  same  thing. 
However,  the  broad  and  healthy  tone  of  Mr. 
Jarves's  book  shows  that  he  is  generally 
free  from  undue  bias  in  the  direction  of  the 
old  masters  solely  on  the  ground  of  their 
reputation. 

We  cannot  conclude  this  notice  without 
testifying  to  the  fresh  and  elevated  tone  of 
thought  running  through  this  book.  Mr. 
Jarves's  theological  views  are  enlightened 
and  humane  ;  his  idea  of  man's  nature  and 
destiny  large  and  cheering ;  and  the  fu- 
ture he  foresees  for  America  is  one  of  the 
highest  culture  and  development. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A   Magazine  of  Literature*  Science,   Art, 
and  Politics. 


VOL.    XXV.  — MARCH,    1870.  — NO.    CXLIX. 


IN     BEHALF    OF    THE    BIRDS. 


IT  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  soldiers  in 
the  front  ranks  to  draw  the  enemy's 
fire;  and  they  who  venture,  in  ad- 
vance of  popular  opinion,  to  present 
new  views,  must  prepare  for  adverse 
criticism  and  sharp  expressions  of  dis- 
sent, especially  if,  at  the  same  time, 
these  views  are  extreme  and  radical, 
and  run  counter  to  prevalent  prejudice 
and  long -cherished  notions  of  inter- 
est. When  in  the  "  Atlantic  "  we  ven- 
tured last  year  to  throw  down  the  gaunt- 
let in  behalf  of  the  best-abused  of  our 
feathered  tribes,  we  anticipated  and  de- 
sired the  discussion  that  followed.  It 
was  foreseen  that  the  temerity  which 
should  speak  a  good  word  in  behalf  of 
that  well-known  culprit,  that  "old  of- 
fender," the  Crow,  would  be  provoca- 
tive of  indignation  and  wrath  among 
the  very  large  and  very  stolid  class  that 
meet  facts  and  their  legitimate  deduc-' 
tions  with  the  very  comprehensive  re- 
joinder, "We  know  better."  It  had 
been  so  long  maintained,  without  dis- 
sent, that  this  sable  offender  was  hope- 
lessly and  irredeemably  depraved,  that 
the  promulgation  of  opinions  so  dia- 
metrically opposite  was  intolerable. 


So  far  from  having  been  disappoint- 
ed, we  have  found  occasion  to  "  thank 
God  and  take  courage."  Valueless  ex- 
pressions of  unsupported  dissent,  mere 
opinions  based  only  upon  exceptional 
or  isolated  facts,  so  far  from  weakening, 
have  only  strengthened  the  ground  tak- 
en in  our  article.  They  were  a  virtual 
giving  up  of  the  whole  case.  At  the 
same  time  it  has  been  demonstrated 
in  the  most  gratifying  manner  that  this 
wilful  refusal  to  see,  by  the  light  of  ex- 
perience itself,  is  very  far  from  being 
universal  or  even  general.  We  have 
been  gratified  to  observe  how  generally 
our  best  and  ablest  agricultural  jour- 
nals have  promptly  arrayed  themselves 
on  the  side  of  the  farmers'  much- 
maligned  benefactors.  The  preponder- 
ance of  the  good  or  evil  deeds  of  the 
Crow  has  been  shown  to  be  at  least  an 
open  question.  Careful  investigations 
and  their  results,  not  empty  prejudices 
and  bald  assumptions,  must,  in  the  end, 
determine  each  and  every  question  that 
may  arise  as  to  the  relative  value  of 
birds,  individually  as  a  species  or  col- 
lectively as  a  race.  The  attention  of 
the  scientific  and  the  practical,  in  vari- 


'Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   XXV.  —  NO.    149.  17 


258 


///  Behalf  of  the  Birds. 


[March, 


ous  parts  of  the  world,  has  been  drawn 
to  this  subject.  Each  year  brings  new 
light,  makes  new  developments,  demon- 
strates new  facts,  and  establishes  the 
existence  of  laws  before  unknown. 
One  by  one  the  very  species  which 
the  ignorant  and  the  reckless  have 
put  under  the  ban  have  been  or  will 
be  triumphantly  vindicated. 

To  us  of  America,  to  whom  this  field 
of  research  is  comparatively  new,  it 
is  both  interesting  and  important  to 
observe  what  is  transpiring  in  other 
countries  in  the  way  of  determining 
the  exact  value  to  agriculturists,  and 
the  utility,  for  the  protection  of  all  veg- 
etation, the  ornamental  as  well  as  the 
useful,  of  each  and  every  native  bird. 
France  has  for  many  years  been  care- 
fully investigating  the  respective  mer- 
its of  each  species  of  its  feathered 
tribes.  In  other  parts  of  Europe,  al- 
though the  study  of  the  utility  of  birds 
has  been  nowhere  so  thorough  as  in 
France,  the  subject  has  awakened  at- 
tention and  prompted  movements  which 
deserve  more  than  our  passing  consid- 
eration. 

Among  these  are  the  recent  discus- 
sions and  legal  enactments  of  the  sev- 
eral cantons  of  Switzerland.  Recalling 
the  many  crude  and  ill-founded  opin- 
ions in  regard  to  our  own  Crow,  so 
freely  and  so  rashly  ventured  by  those 
whose  presumption  very  far  outran  their 
knowledge  on  the  subject,  we  can  but 
smile,  as  we  read  these  various  records, 
to  see  that  its  counterpart,  the  common 
Carrion  Crow  of  Europe,  while  known 
in  certain  localities,  and  placed  by  the 
prevailing  estimate  in  the  list  of  bene- 
factors, is  still  in  the  two  cantons  of 
Niderwalden  and  Freyburg  ignorantly 
kept  under  the  ban.  And  even  after  it 
has  been  shown,  by  the  most  incontest- 
able evidence,  that  the  common  Star- 
ling is  the  most  efficient  of  all  the  de- 
stroyers of  that  great  pest  of  European 
agriculture,  the  May-chaffer,  and  there- 
fore an  invaluable  friend  to  the  farmer, 
this  very  bird  in  the  canton  of  Ober- 
walden  is  one  of  the  few  birds  whose 
destruction  is  specially  permitted.  In 
this  same  canton  it  is  also  worthy  of 


remark  that  the  Ring  Ousel,  —  a  bird 
closely  corresponding  in  character  and 
habit  to  our  Robin,  —  is  also  named  for 
destruction,  although  everywhere  else 
deservedly  protected  as  one  of  the 
"useful  birds." 

In  March  last  a  very  interesting 
movement  was  initiated  in  the  Na- 
tional Council  of  Switzerland,  proposiig 
the  enactment  of  a  general  and  uni- 
form law  throughout  all  the  cantons  for 
the  protection  of  the  "  useful  birds."  It 
originated  with  the  Grand  Council  of 
Tessin,  in  which  body  a  law  had  been 
proposed  forbidding  the  shooting  of 
all  birds  in  that  canton  for  the  space 
of  three  years.  Owing  to  the  un- 
checked destruction  of  birds  in  Tessin, 
there  had  been  a  noticeable  decrease 
in  the  number  of  useful  birds  and  an 
alarming  increase  in  the  number  of 
noxious  insects,  in  consequence  of 
which  agriculture  was  severely  suffer- 
ing. It  was,  however,  obvious  that  the 
object  contemplated  could  be  but  im- 
perfectly accomplished  by  local  regula- 
tions ;  and,  as  the  subject  was  one 
worthy  of  serious  consideration,  the 
government  of  this  canton,  in  May, 
1868,  addressed  a  communication  to 
the  National  Council,  asking  for  the 
establishment  of  an  international  union 
for  the  protection  of  useful  birds,  the 
co-operation  of  the  home  and  of  neigh- 
boring governments  being  essential  to 
a  successful  movement  in  their  fa- 
vor. Thus  far  the  council  has  con- 
fined its  action  to  addressing  a  general 
inquiry  to  the  several  cantonal  gov- 
ernments, asking  their  views  upon  the 
subject  of  uniform  international  regula- 
tions. 

The  replies  of  the  cantonal  authori- 
ties have  been  carefully  preserved,  and, 
with  the  laws  on  the  subject  in  opera- 
tion in  the  several  cantons,  have  re- 
cently been  published.  They  are  curi- 
ous and  interesting.  Only  a  few  favor  an 
international  uniformity  of  law.  The  ma- 
jority regard  their  own  local  enactments 
as  sufficient.  All  but  three  of  the  can- 
tons—  Ticino,  Schaffhausen,  and  Ap- 
penzell  —  have  their  own  local  code  for 
the  protection  of  birds.  In  one  canton, 


1870.] 


In  Behalf  of  the  Birds. 


259 


Zurich,  there  is  a  general  hunting-law 
which  protects  all  "  useful  birds  "  ;  but 
as  the  "  useful "  and  the  "  injurious  "  are 
not  specified,  and  there  is  no  universal 
agreement  upon  these  points,  the  law 
would  be  inoperative  but  for  the  gen- 
eral disposition  of  the  people  to  protect 
all  birds.  In  Berne,  Crows,  Ravens, 
Magpies,  and  Sparrows  are  outlawed. 
The  killing  or  entrapping  of  other  birds, 
or  the  destruction  of  their  eggs  or  young, 
is  punished  by  fines.  In  fourteen  can- 
tons the  fine  for  killing  any  bird  on  the 
protected  list  is  fifty  francs.  In  five 
others  it  is  also  punished  by  imprison- 
ment. Some  cantons  punish  any  one 
who  destroys  a  bird  even  on  his  own 
grounds  ;  others  permit  a  proprietor  to 
do  this  on  his  own  territory,  but  forbid 
it  elsewhere.  In  some,  the  protection 
to  birds  extends  throughout  the  year. 
In  others,  their  destruction  is  permitted 
during  a  brief  period.  In  several  of 
these  cantonal  codes  the  general  crude- 
ness  and  inconsistency  of  their  legisla- 
tion is  shown  in  the  non-protection  of 
several  of  the  most  harmless  and  use- 
ful of  the  singing  birds,  such  as  the 
Bullfinches,  the  Linnets,  the  Thrushes, 
and  others.  In  one  canton,  Aargau, 
the  school  regulations  punish  with  flog- 
ging and  other  penalties  any  pupil 
found  guilty  of  destroying  birds'  nests, 
eggs,  or  young.  In  the  cantons  of  St. 
Gall  and  Vaud  the  cantonal  laws  not 
only  forbid  the  destruction  of  both  birds 
and  eggs,  but  render  the  parent  respon- 
sible for  the  delinquencies  of  their 
children  in  these  respects.  In  the  four 
cantons  of  Zug,  Freyburg,  Aargau,  and 
Geneva  provisions  are  made  for  edu- 
cating the  children  in  the  public  schools 
in  regard  to  the  value  of  birds  and  the 
importance  of  protecting  and  preserv- 
ing them. 

This  movement  in  the  Swiss  Con- 
fcdcrative  Council,  though  it  has  as 
yet-  resulted  in  no  national  uniformity 
of  legislation,  has  brought  to  light  evi- 
dences of  a  nearly  universal  admission 
of  the  value  of  birds,  and  of  a  disposi- 
tion to  protect  them.  The  conflict  of 
opinion  manifested  by  the  protecting 
in  one  canton  and  the  outlawing  in 


another  of  the  same  species  is  only  ad- 
ditional evidence  of  the  incompleteness 
of  the  general  knowledge  on  this  sub- 
ject and  the  crudeness  of  present  legis- 
lation. Certainly  we  of  Massachusetts 
have  no  occasion  to  take  any  very  great 
pride  in  our  own  record.  So  far  from 
having  any  well-founded  claims  to  su- 
periority in  this  matter,  our  own  "half- 
legislation"  is  pitiably  defective,  halt- 
ing, and  inconsistent.  The  most  recent 
enactment  of  Massachusetts  places  un- 
der ban  and  permits,  if  it  does  not 
invite,  the  destruction  of  several  of  the 
most  valuable  birds  to  agriculture  found 
within  our  State  limits.  It  proclaims 
immunity  to  all  who  join  in  the  merci- 
less slaughter  and  destruction  of  the  few 
Gulls  and  Terns  which  still  breed  upon 
our  coast.  Those  graceful  and  beauti- 
ful birds,  so  entirely  innocent  of  harm, 
so  valueless  as  food,  yet  so  valuable  to 
the  fisherman  for  the  reliable  and  im- 
portant indications  they  give  of  the 
presence  of  certain  kinds  of  fish,  as 
also  to  the  sailor  whom  they  warn  in 
thick  weather  of  the  dangerous  reef 
or  the  treacherous  shoal,  and  to  the 
tiller  of  the  farms  near  the  sea  whose 
grubs  and  grasshoppers  they  devour, 
have  been  nearly  exterminated,  and 
their  final  extinction  is  expressly  per- 
mitted, if  not  invited,  by  our  latest  en- 
actment. The  Parliament  of  Great 
Britain,  in  striking  contrast,  has  re- 
cently made  it  a  penal  offence  to  rob 
the  nests  or  to  destroy  any  of  the  Gulls 
on  her  coasts  from  May  to  September. 
This  recent  enactment  of  our  own 
State  betrays  so  complete  an  igno- 
rance of  the  whole  subject,  is  so  inex- 
cusably inconsistent  and  contradictory, 
that  nothing  at  all  comparable  to  it 
for  crude  and  bungling  legislation  can 
be  found  in  any  of  the  enactments  of 
the  several  local  governments  of  the 
Helvetic  Confederation,  and  *  we  trust 
nowhere  else. 

*  This  criticism  would  be  harsh,  and  might  even 
seem  to  be  unfair,  were  the  recent  enactment  of  our 
State  Legislature  merely  an  ignorant  but  well-mean- 
ing attempt  to  legislate  in  the  right  direction.  Igno- 
rance alone,  however  sadly  out  of  place  in  our  halls 
of  legislation,  is  comparatively  venial.  But  stolid 
self-conceit,  which  refuses  to  receive  light,  which  will 


260 


In  Behalf  of  the  Birds. 


[March, 


The  movements  in  Switzerland  have 
been  ably  seconded  by  the  journals  of 
that  country.  They  have  been  even 
more  ably  assisted  by  the  publication, 
both  in  Switzerland  and  in  Germany,  of 
works  bearing  directly  upon  this  sub- 
ject. Within  the  present  year  several 
essays  of  remarkable  ability  and  re- 
search, demonstrating  the  economic  use 
of  all  birds,  have  appeared,  agreeing 
in  regard  to  the  alarming  increase  of 
destructive  insects  in  various  parts  of 
Europe.  We  will  cite  one  or  two  of 
the  more  noteworthy  instances.  Dr. 
Giebel,  in  his  "  Book  for  the  Protection 
of  Birds,"  recently  published  in  Berlin, 
states  that  in  the  single  canton  of  Berne 
there  were  collected  and  delivered  to 
the  authorities,  in  two  seasons,  83,729 
viertels  of  the  imago  and  67,917  viertels 
of  the  larvae  of  the  May-chaffer,  for 
which  259,000  francs  were  paid.  —  The 
number  of  insects  thus  destroyed  is 
estimated  to  have  been  more  than  two 
thousand  million.  As  it  has  been  esti- 
mated that  one  of  these,  insects  while 
in  the  larva  state  destroys  upwards  of 
two  pounds  of  vegetable  roots,  their 
capacity  for  destruction  when  appearing 
in  such  enormous  quantities  is  perfectly 
appalling.  It  is  also  a  noteworthy  fact, 
that  the  authorities  of  Berne,  who  annu- 
ally pay  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  francs 
for  the  destruction  of  these  insects,  still 
keep  under  ban  several  varieties  of 
birds  whose  services  in  their  destruction 
would  be  second  to  but  one  other  Eu- 
ropean species! 

In  three  districts  among  the   Hartz 

not  listen  to  intelligent  suggestions,  can  put  in  no 
plea  for  mild  criticism  when  it  thus  stubbornly  sins 
against  truth  and  the  right,  and  blindly  persists  in  its 
own  stultification.  Legislators  who  report  and  obsti- 
nately insist  upon  passing  a  bill  that  in  one  clause 
permits  the  unrestricted  shooting  at  all  times  ofsnije, 
and  in  another  clause  protects  all  kinds  of  water- 
fowl during  a  certain  season,  that  goes  out  of  its  way 
to  permit  the  destruction  of  the  eggs  of  a  bird  never 
known  to  breed  within  the  limits  of  Massachusetts, 
and  that  invites  us  to  continue  the  persecution  of 
other  birds,  known  and  proved  to  be  useful,  can 
only  be  set  down  as  among  the  hopelessly  incorrig- 
ible. For  such  there  is  but  one  remedy,  —  to  replace 
them  by  wiser  lawgivers,  —  as  we  trust  has  been 
done  in  the  present  case.  At  least  the  reputed  au- 
thor of  this  extraordinary  measure  has  been  permitted 
by  goneral  consent  to  remain  at  home  for  the  pres- 
ent 


Mountains,  in  1866,  the  losses  caused  to 
the  farmers  by  the  ravages  of  the  May- 
chaffer  amounted  to  a  million  and  a  half 
of  dollars.  Many  other  equally  strik- 
ing instances  of  recent  enormous  losses 
to  agriculture  caused  by  the  ravages 
of  this  and  other  insects  are  cited  in 
these  works,  which  our  space  will  not 
permit  us  even  to  epitomize.  They  are 
chiefly  of  interest  to  us  as  showing  that, 
with  the  great  improvements  and  devel- 
opments of  modern  agriculture,  there 
has  also  come  an  enormous  increase  of 
the  most  destructive  insects,  seriously 
threatening  the  worst  consequences, 
and  still  more  as  showing  how  utterly 
powerless  is  man  alone  to  arrest  or  to 
hold  in  any  check  this  terrible  scourge. 
One  more  proof  of  human  helplessness 
in  this  warfare  with  the  powers  of  in- 
sect destruction  we  must  here  refer  to, 
as  briefly  as  possible.  In  1852  the  pine 
forests  of  Lithuania  and  Eastern  Prus- 
sia were  attacked  by  the  caterpillars  of 
the  Nonne,  or  night-butterfly.  Aware 
of  their  dangers,  the  landed  proprie- 
tors, at  an  enormous  expense,  resorted 
to  the  most  extraordinary  exertions  to 
have  these  insects  collected  and  de- 
stroyed. In  one  district  alone  one 
hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  the  eggs 
and  fifteen  hundred  millions  of  the 
female  moths  were  thus  taken.  It  was 
all  in  vain.  So  imperfectly  was  the 
work  done,  with  all  their  endeavors, 
that  the  next  season  the  moths  were 
more  numerous  than  ever  before.  The 
finest  timber  of  Germany  on  thou- 
sands of  acres  was  utterly  destroyed, 
rendered  valueless  even  for  firewood. 
Millions  upon  millions  of  property  were 
thus  lost,  and  yet  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion that,  had  not  the  European  Jays 
been  nearly  exterminated  in  those  for- 
ests, their  presence  would  have  averted 
this  calamity.  In  the  Rothebude  dis- 
trict alone  a  few  hundred  Jays  would 
have  averted  a  loss  of  eighty  millions  of 
thalers. 

The  great  value  of  birds  —  such  as 
the  Starlings,  the  Sparrows,  the  Crows, 
the  Jays,  etc.  —  that  feed  upon  the  most 
destructive  kind  of  insects,  has  been, 
until  very  recently,  unappreciated.  Most 


In  Behalf  of  the  Birds. 


261 


of  them  have  been  treated  as  out- 
laws, and  in  repayment  for  their  sig- 
nal services  have  been  neglected  or 
persecuted,  until  the  unchecked  and 
enormous  increase  of  the  most  nox- 
ious insects  throughout  the  continent 
of  Europe  has  become  a  subject  of 
well  -  founded  alarm,  calling  for  the 
intervention  of  government,  both  for 
their  immediate  destruction  and  for  the 
protection  of  those  birds  that  feed  upon 
them.  From  these  facts,  two  promi- 
nent conclusions  have  been  pretty  sure- 
ly reached :  first,  that  birds  are  indis- 
pensable to  European  agriculture  ;  and, 
second,  that  those  birds  most  generally 
protected  and  known  as  the  "  useful 
birds"  are,  as  a  general  thing,  of  very 
little  service  in  arresting  the  increase 
of  those  insects  the  ravages  of  which 
are  the  most  to  be  dreaded.  These 
lessons  are  as  significant  to  us  of  Amer- 
ica as  to  the  agriculturists  of  Europe. 
When  will  our  own  intelligent  farmers 
awaken  both  to  their  dangers  and  the 
only  remedy  ? 

An  agricultural  journal,  the  Bund, 
published  in  Berne,  with  much  ability 
and  force  demonstrates  that  the  enor- 
mous losses  befalling  European  agri- 
culture can  only  be  arrested  when  man 
himself  shall  not  only  cease  to  disturb 
the  great  equipoise  of  nature,  and  no 
longer  in  mere  wantonness,  prejudice, 
superstition,  or  on  other  equally  worth- 
less grounds,  persecute  and  destroy  the 
natural  exterminators  of  insects,  but  in- 
stead shall  extend  to  them  the  greatest 
possible  protection,  even  to  the  nour- 
ishing and  caring  for  them  in  the  win- 
try season. 

While  this  same  journal  finds  much 
to  rejoice  at  in  cantonal  laws  for  the 
protection  of  useful  birds,  and  yet  more 
in  the  general  spirit  in  which  they  are 
observed,  it  urges  greater  attention  to 
instruction  upon  these  subjects  in 
schools,  and  dwells  with  much  perti- 
nence upon  the  radical  incompleteness 
of  the  laws.  The  following  is  as  well 
adapted  to  our  own  meridian  as  to  that 
of  Switzerland:  "For  example,  when 
we  see  the  Sparrow,  —  which  has  been 
acclimated  at  such  great  expense  in 


America,  —  the  Crow,  the  Raven,  and 
others  of  our  most  useful  birds  still  out- 
lawed in  individual  cantons;  when  we 
see  the  hunting  of  our  singing  birds 
still  allowed  at  certain  seasons-  in  oth- 
ers, and,  in  yet  others,  that  protection 
is  only  given  to  the  smaller  birds,  omit- 
ting the  far  more  useful  Owls,  Buz- 
zards, and  Jackdaws,  we  can  but  admit 
the  incompleteness  of  our  enactments, 
and  are  forced  to  an  earnest  wish  that 
in  all  those  cantons  where  this  half- 
legislation  exists,  a  change  may  soon  be 
made  that  shall  place  them  more  in 
conformity  with  the  present  stand-point 
of  science." 

These  exhortations  are  pregnant  with 
meaning  and  with  warning  to  us,  for 
we  stand  even  more  than  the  writer's 
countrymen  in  need  of  intelligent  legis- 
lation, and  far  more  in  need  of  careful 
investigations,  the  diffusion  of  light, 
and  the  dissemination  of  truth.  These 
words  of  the  Bund  would  surely  demon- 
strate that  the  farmer's  best  friends  are 
the  very  birds  he  now  most  frequently 
persecutes.  They  stand  between  his 
crops  and  their  destroyers.  They  are 
his  standing  army,  his  police  force. 
Their  admirable  powers  of  flight,  their 
yet  more  wonderful  gifts  of  vision,  and 
their  instinctive  enmity  to  his  foes, 
most  marvellously  adapt  them  to  do 
duty  in  a  field  where  man  himself  is 
powerless. 

A  well-known  agricultural  writer  and 
accurate  ornithologist,  John  Boot  of 
Hamburg,  has  ascertained  by  careful 
observation  that  one  hundred  pairs  of 
Starlings,  with  their  young,  will  in  a 
single  summer  destroy  fifty-seven  mil- 
lion larvae  of  the  destructive  May-chaf- 
fer. Yet  so  imperfectly  is  this  bird  ap- 
preciated, that,  as  we  have  seen,  in  a 
certain  canton  of  Switzerland,  it  is 
still  an  outlaw  !  And  this  because  this 
most  valuable  bird,  in  default  of  insects, 
and  in  want  of  necessary  food,  will  oc- 
casionally help  himself  to  a  little  grain  ! 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  man  will  erelong 
learn  to  be  at  least  just  to  such  ill- 
requited  benefactors.  The  same  laws 
of  equity  and  justice  that  prompt  us  to 
equip,  feed,  and  pay  our  soldiers  and 


262 


Joseph  and  Jtis  Friend. 


[March, 


our  police,  who  protect  our  State  or 
guard  our  property,  demand  that  we 
both  protect  and  foster  our  feathered 
police,  whose  services,  by  night  and  by 
day,  and  at  times  when  we  are  least 
conscious  of  them,  are  to  agriculture 
quite  as  indispensable. 

We  have  dwelt  at  so  much  length 
upon  these  recent  interesting  develop- 
ments in  Europe,  that  we  have  left  our- 
selves no  space  in  which  to  present  the 
case  of  one  of  our  own  much-wronged 
and  slandered  birds,  whose  vindication 
at  some  length  was  our  original  induce- 
ment to  a  second  reference  to  this 


topic.  In  a  previous  paper  we  very 
briefly  referred  to  the  signal  services 
rendered  to  the  farmers  by  our  com- 
mon Blue-Jay.  Inasmuch  as  this  is 
another  very  remarkable  instance  in 
which  one  of  our  most  generally  abused 
and  condemned  species  can  be  proved 
by  incontestable  evidence  to  render 
services  of  the  very  highest  value,  for 
the  sake  of  American  agriculture,  not 
less  than  for  that  of  the  much-wronged 
bird  himself,  his  claims  to  our  grate- 
ful protection  deserve  full  vindication. 
This  we  shall  endeavor  to  give  on  some 
future  occasion. 


JOSEPH    AND    HIS    FRIEND. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

T  OSEPH'S  secret  was  not  suspected 
J  by  any  of  the  company..  Elvvood's 
manner  towards  him  next  morning  was 
warmer  and  kinder  than  ever ;  the 
chill  of  the  past  night  had  been  forgot- 
ten, and  the  betrothal,  which  then  al- 
most seemed  like  a  fetter  upon  his  fu- 
ture, now  gave  him  a  sense  of  freedom 
and  strength.  He  would  have  gone  to 
Warriner's  at  once,  but  for  the  fear  lest 
he  should  betray  himself.  Miss  Bless- 
ing was  to  return  to  the  city  in  three 
days  more,  and  a  single  farewell  call 
might  be  made  with  propriety  ;  so  he 
controlled  his  impatience  and  allowed 
another  day  to  intervene. 

When,  at  last,  the  hour  of  meeting 
came,  Anna  Warriner  proved  herself 
an  efficient  ally.  Circumstances  were 
against  her,  yet  she  secured  the  lovers 
a  few  minutes  in  which  they  could 
hold  each  other's  hands,  and  repeat 
their  mutual  delight,  with  an  exquisite 
sense  of  liberty  in  doing  so.  Miss 
Blessing  suggested  that  nothing  should 
be  said  until  she  had  acquainted  her 
parents  with  the  engagement ;  there 
mi-lit  be  some  natural  difficulties  to 
overcome  ;  it  was  so  unexpected,  and 
the  idea  of  losing  her  would  possibly 


be  unwelcome,  at  first.  She  would 
write  in  a  few  days,  and  then  Joseph 
must  come  and  make  the  acquaintance 
of  her  family. 

"  T/MI,"  she  added,  "  I  shall  have 
no  fear.  When  they  have  once  seen 
you,  all  difficulties  will  vanish.  There 
will  be  no  trouble  with  ma  and  sister 
Clementina ;  but  pa  is  sometimes  a 
little  peculiar,  on  account  of  his  con- 
nections. There  !  don't  look  so  seri- 
ous, all  at  'once  ;  it  is  my  duty,  you 
know,  to  secure  you  a  loving  reception. 
You  must  try  to  feel  already  that  you 
have  two  homes,  as  I  do." 

Joseph  waited  very  anxiously  for  the 
promised  letter,  and  in  ten  days  it  came  ; 
it  was  brief,  but  satisfactory.  "  Would 
you  believe  it,  dear  Joseph,"  she  com- 
menced, "  pa  makes  no  difficulty  !  he 
only  requires  some  assurances  which 
you  can  very  easily  furnish.  Ma,  on 
the  other  hand,  don't  like  the  idea  of 
giving  me  up.  I  can  hardly  say  it  with- 
out seeming  to  praise  myself;  but 
Clementina  never  took  very  kindly  to 
housekeeping  and  managing,  and  even 
if  I  were  only  indifferent  in  those 
branches,  I  should  be  missed.  It  real- 
ly went  to  my  heart  when  ma  met  me  at 
the  door,  and  cried  out,  'Now  I  shall 
have  a  little  rest !  '  You  may  imagine 


i  S/o.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


263 


how  hard  it  was  to  tell  her.  But  she  is 
a  dear,  good  mother,  and  I  know  she 
Avill  be  so  happy  to  find  a  son  in  you, 
-  as  she  certainly  will.  Come,  soon, 
—  soon  !  They  are  all  anxious  to  know 
you." 

The  city  was  not  so  distant  as  to 
make  a  trip  thither  an  unusual  event 
lor  the  young  farmers  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. Joseph  had  frequently  gone 
there  for  a  day  in  the  interest  of  his 
sales  of  stock  and  grain,  and  he  found 
iu>  difficulty  in  inventing  a  plausible  rea- 
son for  the  journey.  The  train  at  the 
nearest  railway  station  transported  him 
in  two  or  three  hours  to  the  commence- 
ment of  the  miles  of  hot,  dusty,  rattling 
pavements,  and  left  him  free  to  seek 
for  the  brick  nest  within  which  his  love 
was  sheltered. 

Vet  now,  so  near  the  point  whence 
his  new  life  was  to  commence,  a  singu- 
lar unrest  took  possession  of  him.  He 
distinctly  felt  the  presence  of  two  forces, 
against  each  other  with  nearly 
equal  power,  but  without  neutralizing 
their  disturbing  influence.  He  was  de- 
veloping faster  than  he  guessed,  yet,  to 
a  nature  like  his,  the  last  knowledge 
that  comes  is  the  knowledge  of  self. 
Some  occult  instinct  already  whis- 
pered that  his  life  thenceforth  would 
be  stronger,  more  independent,  but 
also  more  disturbed ;  and  this  was 
what  he  had  believed  was  wanting.  If 
the  consciousness  of  loving  and  being 
loved  were  not  quite  the  same  in  expe- 
rience as  it  had  seemed  to  his  ignorant 
fancy,  it  was  yet  a  positive  happiness, 
and  wedlock  would  therefore  be  its  un- 
broken continuance.  Julia  had  pre- 
pared for  his  introduction  into  her 
family ;  he  must  learn  to  accept  her 
parents  and  sister  as  his  own ;  and 
now  the  hour  and  the  opportunity  were 
at  hand. 

What  was  it,  then,  that  struck  upon 
his  breast  almost  like  a  physical  press- 
ure, and  mysteriously  resisted  his  er- 
rand ?  When  he  reached  the  cross- 
street,  in  which,  many  squares  to  the 
northward,  the  house  was  to  be  found, 
he  halted  for  some  minutes,  and  then, 
instead  of  turning,  kept  directly  onward 


toward  the  river.  The  sight  of  the  wa- 
ter, the  gliding  sails,  the  lusty  life  and 
labor  along  the  piers,  suddenly  re- 
freshed him.  Men  were  tramping  up 
and  down  the  gangways  of  the  clipper- 
ships  ;  derricks  were  slowly  swinging 
over  the  sides  the  bales  and  boxes 
which  had  been  brought  up  from  the 
holds  ;  drays  were  clattering  to  and  fro  : 
wherever  he  turned  he  saw  a  picture 
of  strength,  courage,  reality,  solid  work. 
The  men  that  went  and  came  took  life 
simply  as  a  succession  of  facts,  and  if 
these  did  not  fit  smoothly  into  each 
other,  they  either  gave  themselves  no 
trouble  about  the  rough  edges,  or  drove 
them  out  of  sight  with  a  few  sturdy 
blows.  What  Lucy  Henderson  had 
said  about  going  to  school  was  recalled 
to  Joseph's  mind.  Here  was  a  class 
where  he  would  be  apt  to  stand  at  the 
foot  for  many  days.  Would  any  of 
those  strapping  forms  comprehend  the 
disturbance  of  his  mind  ?  —  they  would 
probably  advise  him  to  go  to  the  near- 
est apothecary-shop  and  purchase  a 
few  blue-pills.  The  longer  he  watched 
them,  the  more  he  felt  the  contagion  of 
their  unimaginative,  face-to-face  grap- 
ple with  life ;  the  manly  element  in 
him,  checked  so  long,  began  to  push  a 
vigorous  shoot  towards  the  light. 

"  It  is  only  the  old  cowardice,  after 
all,"  he  thought.  "  I  am  still  shrinking 
from  the  encounter  with  new  faces  ! 
A  lover,  soon  to  be  a  husband,  and 
still  so  much  of  a  green  youth  !  It 
will  never  do.  I  must  learn  to  handle 
my  duty  as  that  stevedore  handles  a 
barrel, — take  hold  with  both  hands, 
push  and  trundle  and  guide,  till  the 
weight  becomes  a  mere  plaything. 
There  !  —  he  starts  a  fresh  one,  —  now 
for  mine  ! " 

Therewith  he  turned  about,  'walked 
sternly  back  to  the  cross-street,  and 
entered  it  without  pausing  at  the  cor- 
ner. It  was  still  a  long  walk  ;  and  the 
street,  with  its  uniform  brick  houses, 
with  white  shutters,  green  interior 
blinds,  and  white  marble  steps,  grew 
more  silent  and  monotonous.  There 
was  a  mixed  odor  of  salt-fish,  molasses, 
and  decaying  oranges  at  every  corner ; 


264 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[March, 


dark  wenches  lowered  the  nozzles  of 
their  jetting  hose  as  he  passed,  and 
girls  in  draggled  calico  frocks  turned 
to  look  at  him  from  the  entrances  of 
gloomy  tunnels  leading  into  the  back 
yards.  A  man  with  something  in  a 
cart  uttered  from  time  to  time  a  pier- 
cing unintelligible  cry ;  barefooted 
youngsters  swore  over  their  marbles 
on  the  sidewalk  ;  and,  at  rare  inter- 
vals, a  marvellous  moving  fabric  of 
silks  and  colors  and  glosses  floated 
past  him.  But  he  paused  for  none  of 
these.  His  heart  beat  faster,  and  the 
strange  resistance  seemed  to  increase 
with  the  increasing  numbers  of  houses, 
now  rapidly  approaching  The  One — 
then  it  came  ! 

There  was  an  entire  block  of  narrow, 
three-storied  dwellings,  with  crowded 
windows  and  flat  roofs.  If  Joseph  had 
been  familiar  with  the  city,  he  would 
have  recognized  the  air  of  cheap  gen- 
tility which  exhaled  from  them,  and 
which  said,  as  plainly  as  if  the  words 
had  been  painted  on  their  fronts, 
"Here  we  keep  up  appearances  on  a 
very  small  capital."  He  noticed  noth- 
ing, however,  except  the  marble  steps 
and  the  front  doors,  all  of  which  were 
alike  to  him  until  he  came  upon  a  brass 
plate  inscribed  "  B.  Blessing."  As  he 
looked  up  a  mass  of  dark  curls  van- 
ished with  a  start  from  the  window. 
The  door  suddenly  opened  before  he 
could  touch  the  bell-pull,  and  two  hands 
upon  his  own  drew  him  into  the  dimin- 
utive hall. 

The  door  instantly  closed  again,  but 
softly  :  then  two  arms  were  flung  around 
his  neck,  and  his  willing  lips  received 
a  subdued  kiss.  "  Hush  !  "  she  said  ; 
"it  is  delightful  that  you  have  arrived, 
though  we  did  n't  expect  you  so  imme- 
diately. Come  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  let  us  have  a  minute  together  be- 
fore I  call  ma." 

She  tripped  lightly  before  him,  and 
they  were  presently  seated  side  by  side, 
on  the  sofa. 

"  What  could  have  brought  me  to 
the  window  just  at  that  moment  ?  "  she 
whispered ;  "  it  must  have  been  pre- 
sentiment." 


Joseph's  face  brightened  with  pleas- 
ure. "And  I  was  long  on  the  way,"' 
he  answered.  "What  will  you  think 
of  me,  Julia  ?  I  was  a  little  afraid." 

"  I  know  you  were,  Joseph,"  she 
said.  "It  is  only  the  cold,  insensible- 
hearts  that  are  never  agitated." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  he  remarked, 
for  the  first  time,  their  peculiar  pale- 
brown,  almost  tawny  clearness.  The 
next  instant  her  long  lashes  slowly  fell 
and  half  concealed  them ;  she  drew 
away  slightly  from  him,  and  said :  "  I 
should  like  to  be  beautiful,  for  your 
sake  ;  I  never  cared  about  it  before." 

Without  giving  him  time  to  reply, 
she  rose  and  moved  towards  the  door, 
then  looked  back,  smiled,  and  disap- 
peared. 

Joseph,  left  alone,  also  rose  and 
walked  softly  up  and  down  the  room. 
To  his  eyes  it  seemed  an  elegant,  if 
rather  chilly  apartment.  It  was  long 
and  narrow,  with  a  small,  delusive  fire- 
place of  white  marble  (intended  only 
for  hot  air)  in  the  middle,  a  carpet  of 
many  glaring  colors  on  the  floor,  and  a 
paper  brilliant  with  lilac-bunches,  on 
the  walls.  There  was  a  centre-table, 
with  some  lukewarm  literature  cooling 
itself  on  the  marble  top  ;  an  etagcre, 
with  a  few  nondescript  cups  and  flag- 
ons, and  a  cottage  piano,  on  which  lay 
several  sheets  of  music  by  Verdi  and 
Balfe.  The  furniture,  not  very  abun- 
dant, was  swathed  in  a  nankeen  sum- 
mer dress.  There  were  two  pictures 
on  the  walls,  portraits  of  a  gentleman 
and  lady,  and  when  once  Joseph  had 
caught  the  fixed  stare  of  their  lustreless 
eyes,  he  found  it  difficult  to  turn  away. 
The  imperfect  light  which  came  through 
the  bowed  window-shutters  revealed  a 
florid,  puffy-faced  young  man,  whose 
head  was  held  up  by  a  high  black  satin 
stock.  He  was  leaning  against  a  fluted 
pillar,  apparently  constructed  of  putty, 
behind  which  fell  a  superb  crimson  cur- 
tain, lifted  up  at  one  corner  to  disclose 
a  patch  of  stormy  sky.  The  long  locks, 
tucked  in  at  the  temples,  the  carefully- 
delineated  whiskers,  and  the  huge  sig- 
net-ring on  the  second  finger  of  the  one 
exposed  hand,  indicated  that  a  certain 


1870.] 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


265 


"position"  in  society  was  either  pos- 
sessed or  claimed  of  right  by  the  paint- 
ed person.  Joseph  could  hardly  doubt 
that  this  was  a  representation  of  "  B. 
Blessing,"  as  he  appeared  twenty  or 
thirty  years  before. 

He  turned  to  the  other  picture.  The 
lady  was  slender,  and  meant  to  be 
graceful,  her  head  being  inclined  so 
that  the  curls  on  the  left  side  rolled  in 
studied  disorder  upon  her  shoulder. 
Her  face  was  thin  and  long,  with  well- 
marked  and  not  unpleasant  features. 
There  was  rather  too  positive  a  bloom 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  the  fixed  smile 
on  the  narrow  mouth  scarcely  harmo- 
nized with  the  hard,  serious  stare  of  the 
eyes.  She  was  royally  attired  in  purple, 
and  her  bare  white  arm  —  much  more 
plumply  rounded  than  her  face  would 
have  given  reason  to  suspect — hung 
with  a  listless  grace  over  the  end  of  a 
sofa. 

Joseph  looked  from  one  face  to  the 
other  with  a  curious  interest,  which  the 
painted  eyes  seemed  also  to  reflect,  as 
they  followed  him.  They  were  stran- 
gers, out  of  a  different  sphere  of  life, 
yet  they  must  become,  nay,  were  al- 
ready, a  part  of  his  own !  The  lady 
scrutinized  him  closely,  in  spite  of  her 
smile ;  but  the  indifference  of  the  gen- 
tleman, blandly  satisfied  with  himself, 
seemed  less  assuring  to  his  prospects. 

Footsteps  in  the  hall  interrupted  his 
revery,  and  he  had  barely  time  to  slip 
into  his  seat  when  the  door  opened 
and  Julia  entered,  followed  by  the  origi- 
nal of  one  of  the  portraits.  He  recog- 
nized her,  although  the  curls  had  dis- 
appeared, the  dark  hair  was  sprinkled 
with  gray,  and  deep  lines  about  the 
mouth  and  eyes  gave  them  an  expres- 
sion of  care  and  discontent.  In  one 
respect  she  differed  from  her  daughter : 
her  eyes  were  gray. 

She  bent  her  head  with  a  stately  air, 
as  Joseph  rose,  walked  past  Julia,  and 
extended  her  hand,  with  the  words,  — 

"  Mr.  Asten,  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
Pray  be  seated." 

When  all  had  taken  seats,  she  re- 
sumed :  "  Excuse  me  if  I  begin  by  ask- 
ing a  question.  You  must  consider  that 


I  have  only  known  you  through  Julia, 
and  her  description  could  not,  under 
the  circumstances,  be  very  clear.  What 
is  your  age  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  twenty-three,  next  birth- 
day," Joseph  replied. 

"  Indeed  !  I  am  happy  to  hear  it. 
You  do  not  look  more  than  nineteen, 
I  have  reason  to  dread  very  youthful 
attachments,  and  am  therefore  reas- 
sured to  know  that  you  are  fully  a  man 
and  competent  to  test  your  feelings.  I 
trust  that  you  have  so  tested  them. 
Again  I  say,  excuse  me  if  the  question 
seems  to  imply  a  want  of  confidence. 
A  mother's  anxiety,  you  know  — 

Julia  clasped  her  hands  and  bent 
down  her  head. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  myself,"  Joseph 
said,  "  and  would  try  to  make  you  as 
sure,  if  I  knew  how  to  do  it." 

"  If  you  were  one  of  us,  —  of  the  city, 
I  mean,  —  I  should  be  able  to  judge 
more  promptly.  It  is  many  years  since 
I  have  been  outside  of  our  own  select 
circle,  and  I  am  therefore  not  so  com- 
petent as  once  to  judge  of  men  in  gen- 
eral. While  I  will  never,  without  the 
most  sufficient  reason,  influence  my 
daughters  in  their  choice,  it  is  my  duty 
to  tell  you  that  Julia  is  exceedingly 
susceptible  on  the  side  of  her  affec- 
tions. A  wound  there  would  be  in- 
curable to  her.  We  are  alike  in  that; 
I  know  her  nature  through  my  own." 

Julia  hid  her  face  upon  her  moth- 
er's shoulder  :  Joseph  was  moved,  and 
vainly  racked  his  brain  for  some  form 
of  assurance  which  might  remove  the 
maternal  anxiety. 

"There,"  said  Mrs.  Blessing;  "we 
will  say  no  more  about  it  now.  Go  and 
bring  your  sister  !  " 

"  There  are  some  other  points,  Mr. 
Asten,"  she  continued,  "  which  have 
no  doubt  already  occurred  to  your 
mind.  Mr.  Blessing  will  consult  with 
you  in  relation  to  them.  I  make  it  a 
rule  never  to  trespass  upon  his  field  of 
duty.  As  you  were  not  positively  ex- 
pected to-day,  he  went  to  the  Custom- 
House  as  usual  ;  but  it  will  soon  be 
time  for  him  to  return.  Official  labors, 
you  understand,  cannot  be  postponed. 


266 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[March, 


If  you  have  ever  served  in  a  govern- 
ment capacity,  you  will  appreciate  his 
position.  I  have  sometimes  wished 
that  we  had  not  become  identified  with 
political  life  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  compensations." 

Joseph,  impressed  more  by  Mrs. 
Blessing's  important  manner  than  the 
words  she  uttered,  could  only  say,  "  I 
beg  that  my  visit  may  not  interfere  in 
any  way  with  Mr.  Blessing's  duties." 

"  Unfortunately,"  she  replied,  "  they 
cannot  be  postponed.  His  advice  is 
more  required  by  the  Collector  than 
his  special  official  services.  But,  as  I 
said,  he  will  confer  with  you  in  regard 
to  the  future  of  our  little  girl.  I  call 
her  so,  Mr.  Asten,  because  she  is  the 
youngest,  and  I  can  hardly  yet  realize 
that  she  is  old  enough  to  leave  me. 
Yes  :  the  youngest,  and  the  first  to  go. 
Had  it  been  Clementina,  I  should  have 
been  better  prepared  for  the  change. 
But  a  mother  should  always  be  ready 
to  sacrifice  herself,  where  the  happi- 
ness of  a  child  is  at  stake." 

Mrs.  Blessing  gently  pressed  a  small 
handkerchief  to  the  corner  of  each  eye, 
then  heaved  a  sigh,  and  resumed  her 
usual  calm  dignity  of  manner.  The 
door  opened,  and  Julia  re-entered,  fol- 
lowed by  her  sister. 

"This  is  Miss  Blessing,"  said  the 
mother. 

The  young  lady  bowed  very  formally, 
and  therewith  would  have  finished  her 
greeting,  but  Joseph  had  already  risen 
and  extended  his  hand.  She  there- 
upon gave  him  the  tips  of  four  limp 
fingers,  which  he  attempted  to  grasp 
and  then  let  go. 

Clementina  was  nearly  a  head  taller 
than  her  sister,  and  amply  proportioned. 
She  had  a  small,  petulant  mouth,  small 
gray  eyes,  a  low,  narrow  forehead,  and 
light  brown  hair.  Her  eyelids  and 
cheeks  had  the  same  puffy  character 
as  her  father's,  in  his  portrait  on  the 
wall ;  yet  there  was  a  bloom  and  bril- 
liancy about  her  complexion  which  sug- 
gested beauty.  A  faint  expression  of 
curiosity  passed  over  her  face,  on  meet- 
ing Joseph,  but  she  uttered  no  word 
of  welcome.  He  looked  at  Julia,  whose 


manner  was  suddenly  subdued,  and  was 
quick  enough  to  perceive  a  rivalry 
between  the  sisters.  The  stolidity 
of  Clementina's  countenance  indicated 
that  indifference  which  is  more  offen- 
sive than  enmity.  He  disliked  her  from 
the  first  moment. 

Julia  kept  modestly  silent,  and  the 
conversation,  in  spite  of  her  mother's 
capacity  to  carry  it  on,  did  not  flourish. 
Clementina  spoke  only  in  monosylla- 
bles, which  she  let  fall  from  time  to 
time  with  a  silver  sweetness  which 
startled  Joseph,  it  seemed  so  at  vari- 
ance with  her  face  and  manner.  He 
felt  very  much  relieved  when,  after 
more  than  one  significant  glance  had 
been  exchanged  with  her  mother,  the 
two  arose  and  left  the  room.  At  the 
door  Mrs.  Blessing  said :  "  Of  course 
you  will  stay  and  take  a  family  tea  with 
us,  Mr.  Asten.  I  will  order  it  to  be 
earlier  served,  as  you  are  probably  not 
accustomed  to  our  city  hours." 

Julia  looked  up  brightly  after  the 
door  had  closed,  and  exclaimed :  "  Now ! 
when  ma  says  that,  you  may  be  satis- 
fied. Her  housekeeping  is  like  the 
laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  She 
probably  seemed  rather  formal  to  you, 
and  it  is  true  that  a  certain  amount  of 
form  has  become  natural  to  her;  but 
it  always  gives  way  when  she  is  strong- 
ly moved.  Pa  is  to  come  yet,  but  I 
am  sure  you  will  get  on  very  well  with 
him ;  men  always  grow  acquainted  in 
a  little  while.  I  'fn  afraid  that  Clemen- 
tina did  not  impress  you  very  —  very 
genially;  she  is,  I  may  confess  it  to 
you,  a  little  peculiar." 

"She  is  very  quiet,"  said  Joseph, 
"  and  very  unlike  you." 

"  Every  one  notices  that.  And  we 
seem  to  be  unlike  in  character,  as 
much  so  as  if  there  were  no  relation- 
ship between  us.  But  I  must  say  for 
Clementina,  that  she  is  above  personal 
likings  and  dislikings ;  she  looks  at 
people  abstractly.  You  are  only  a  fu- 
ture brother-in-law  to  her,  and  I  don't 
believe  she  can  tell  whether  your  hair 
is  black  or  the  beautiful  golden  brown 
that  it  is." 

Joseph  laughed,  not  ill-pleased  with 


1870.] 


Joscpli  and  Ids  Friend. 


267 


Julia's  delicate  flattery.  "  I  am  all  the 
more  delighted,"  he  said,  "that  you  are 
different.  I  should  not  like  you,  Julia, 
to  consider  me  an  abstraction." 

"  You  are  very  real,  Joseph,  and  very 
individual,"  she  answered,  with  one  of 
her  loveliest  smiles. 

Not  ten  minutes  afterwards,  Julia, 
whose  eyes  and  ears  were  keenly  on 
the  alert,  notwithstanding  her  gay,  un- 
restrained talk,  heard  the  click  of  a 
latch-key.  She  sprang  up,  laid  her 
forefinger  on  her  lips,  gave  Joseph 
a  swift,  significant  glance,  and  darted 
into  the  hall.  A  sound  of  whispering 
followed,  and  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  deep,  hoarse  murmur  of  one  of  the 
voices. 

Mr.  Blessing,  without  the  fluted  pillar 
and  the  crimson  curtain,  was  less  for- 
midable than  Joseph  had  anticipated. 
The  years  had  added  to  his  body  and 
taken  away  from  his  hair  ;  yet  his  face, 
since  high  stocks  were  no  longer  in 
fashion,  had  lost  its  rigid  lift,  and  ex- 
pressed the  chronic  cordiality  of  a  pop- 
ular politician.  There  was  a  redness 
about  the  rims  of  his  eyes,  and  a  ful- 
ness of  the  under  lid,  which  also  de- 
noted political  habits.  However,  de- 
spite wrinkles,  redness,  and  a  general 
roughening  and  coarsening  of  the  fea- 
tures, the  resemblance  to  the  portrait 
was  still  strong ;  and  Joseph,  feeling 
as  if  the  presentation  had  already  been 
made,  offered  his  hand  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Blessing  entered  the  room. 

"Very  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Asten," 
said  the  latter.  "  An  unexpected  pleas- 
ure, sir." 

He  removed  the  glove  from  his  left 
hand,  pulled  down  his  coat  and  vest, 
felt  the  tie  of  his  cravat,  twitched  at  his 
pantaloons,  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
straggling  gray  locks,  and  then  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  exclaiming  :  "  After 
business,  pleasure,  sir !  My  duties  are 
over  for  the  day.  Mrs.  Blessing  prob- 
ably informed  you  of  my  official  ca- 
pacity;  but  you  can  have  no  concep- 
tion of  the  vigilance  required  to  prevent 
evasion  of  the  revenue  laws.  We  are 
the  country's  watch-dogs,  sir." 

"  I    can    understand,"  Joseph   said, 


"that  an  official  position  carries  with 
it  much  responsibility." 

"  Ouite  right,  sir,  and  without  ad- 
equate remuneration.  Figuratively 
speaking,  we  handle  millions,  and  we 
are  paid  by  dimes.  Were  it  not  for 
the  consciousness  of  serving  and  sav- 
ing for  the  nation  —  but  I  will  not  pur- 
sue the  subject.  When  we  have  become 
better  acquainted,  you  can  judge  for 
yourself  whether  preferment  always  fol- 
lows capacity.  Our  present  business 
is  to  establish  a  mutual  understanding, 
—  as  we  say  in  politics,  to  prepare  a 
platform,  —  and  I  think  you  will  agree 
with  me  that  the  circumstances  of  the 
case  require  frank  dealing,  as  between 
man  and  man." 

"Certainly!"  Joseph  answered;  "I 
only  ask  that,  although  I  am  a  stran- 
ger to  you,  you  will  accept  my  word 
until  you  have  the  means  of  verifying 
it." 

"  I  may  safely  do  that  with  you,  sir. 
My  associations — duties,  I  may  say  — 
compel  me  to  know  many  persons  with 
whom  it  would  not  be  safe.  We  will 
forget  the  disparity  of  age  and  experi- 
ence between  us.  I  can  hardly  ask  you 
to  imagine  yourself  placed  in  my  situa- 
tion, but  perhaps  we  can  make  the  case 
quite  as  clear  if  I  state  to  you,  without 
reserve,  what  /  should  be  ready  to  do, 
if  our  present  positions  were  reversed  : 
Julia,  will  you  look  after  the  tea  ?  " 

"  Yes,  pa,"  said  she,  and  slipped  out 
of  the  drawing-room. 

"  If  I  were  a  young  man  from  the 
country,  and  had  won  the  affections  of 
a  young  lady  of — well,  I  may  say  it  to 
you  —  of  an  old  family,  whose  parents 
were  ignorant  of  my  descent,  means, 
and  future  prospects  in  life,  I  should 
consider  it  my  first  duty  to  enlighten 
those  parents  upon  all  these  points.  I 
should  reflect  that  the  lady  must  be 
removed  from  their  sphere  to  mine ; 
that,  while  the  attachment  was,  in  itself, 
vitally  important  to  her  and  to  me, 
those  parents  would  naturally  desire  to 
compare  the  two  spheres,  and  assure 
themselves  that  their  daughter  would 
lose  no  material  advantages  by  the 
transfer.  You  catch  my  meaning  ?  " 


268 


Joseph  and  Ids  Frieizd. 


[March, 


"  I  came  here,"  said  Joseph,  "  with 
the  single  intention  of  satisfying  you  — 
at  least,  I  came  hoping  that  I  shall  be 
able  to  do  so  —  in  regard  to  myself.  It 
will  be  easy  for  you  to  test  my  state- 
ments." 

"  Very  well.  We  will  begin,  then, 
with  the  subject  of  Family.  Under- 
stand me,  I  mention  this  solely  be- 
cause, in  our  old  communities,  Family 
is  the  stamp  of  Character.  An  estab- 
lished name  represents  personal  quali- 
ties, virtues.  It  is  indifferent  to  me 
whether  my  original  ancestor  was  a 
De  Belsain  (though  beauty  and  health 
have  always  been  family  characteris- 
tics) ;  but  it  is  important  that  he  trans- 
mitted certain  traits  which  —  which 
others,  perhaps,  can  better  describe. 
The  name  of  Asten  is  not  usual ;  it 
has,  in  fact,  rather  a  distinguished 
sound  ;  but  I  am  not  acquainted  with 
its  derivation." 

Joseph  restrained  a  temptation  to 
smile,  and  replied  :  "  My  great-grand- 
father came  from  England  more  than  a 
hundred  years  ago :  that  is  all  I  posi- 
tively know.  I  have  heard  it  said  that 
the  family  was  originally  Danish." 

"  You  must  look  into  the  matter,  sir : 
a  good  pedigree  is  a  bond  for  good  be- 
havior. The  Danes,  I  have  been  told, 
were  of  the  same  blood  as  the  Nor- 
mans. But  we  will  let  that  pass.  Julia 
informs  me  you  are  the  owner  of  a 
handsome  farm,  yet  I  am  so  ignorant 
of  values  in  the  country,  —  and  my  offi- 
cial duties  oblige  me  to  measure  prop- 
erty by  such  a  different  standard,  —  that, 
really,  unless  you  could  make  the  farm 
evident  to  me  in  figures,  I —  " 

He  paused,  but  Joseph  was  quite 
ready  with  the  desired  intelligence.  "  I 
have  two  hundred  acres,"  he  said,  "and 
a  moderate  valuation  of  the  place  would 
be  a  hundred  and  thirty  dollars  an  acre. 
There  is  a  mortgage  of  five  thousand 
dollars  on  the  place,  the  term  of  which 
has  not  yet  expired  ;  but  I  have  nearly 
an  equal  amount  invested,  so  that  the 
farm  fairly  represents  what  I  own." 

"  H'm,"  mused  Mr.  Blessing,  thrust- 
ing his  thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of 
his  waistcoat,  "that  is  not  a  great 


deal  here  in  the  city,  but  I  dare  say  it 
is  a  handsome  competence  in  the  coun- 
try. It  doubtless  represents  a  certain 
annual  income  ?  " 

"It  is  a  very  comfortable  home,  in 
the  first  place,"  said  Joseph;  "  the  farm 
ought  to  yield,  after  supplying  nearly 
all  the  wants  of  a  family,  an  annual  re- 
turn of  a  thousand  to  fifteen  hundred 
dollars,  according  to  the  season." 

"  Twenty  -  six  thousand  dollars  !  — 
and  five  per  cent !  "  Mr.  Blessing  ex- 
claimed. "  If  you  had  the  farm  in 
money,  and  knew  how  to  operate  with 
it,  you  might  pocket  ten  —  fifteen  — 
twenty  per  cent.  Many  a  man,  with 
less  than  that  to  set  him  afloat,  has  be- 
come a  millionnaire  in  five  years'  time. 
But  it  takes  pluck  and  experience, 
sir  ! " 

"  More  of  both  than  I  can  lay  claim 
to,"  Joseph  remarked  ;  "  but  what  there 
is  of  my  income  is  certain.  If  Julia 
were  not  so  fond  of  the  country,  and 
already  so  familiar  with  our  ways,  I 
might  hesitate  to  offer  her  such  a  plain, 
quiet  home,  but  —  " 

"  O,  I  know  !  "  Mr.  Blessing  inter- 
rupted. "  We  have  heard  of  nothing 
but  cows  and  spring-houses  and  wil- 
low-trees since  she  came  back.  I 
hope,  for  your  sake,  it  may  last ;  for  I 
see  that  you  are  determined  to  suit 
each  other.  I  have  no  inclination  to 
act  the  obdurate  parent.  You  have 
met  me  like  a  man,  sir :  here 's  my 
hand  ;  I  feel  sure  that,  as  my  son-in- 
law,  you  will  keep  up  the  reputation  of 
the  family  ! " 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  ramily  tea  was  served  in  a  small 
dining-room  in  the  rear.  Mr.  Blessing, 
who  had  become  more  and  more  cordial 
with  Joseph  after  formally  accepting 
him,  led  the  way  thither,  and  managed 
to  convey  a  rapid  signal  to  his  wife  be- 
fore the  family  took  their  seats  at  the 
table.  Joseph  was  the  only  one  who  did 
not  perceive  the  silent  communication 
of  intelligence  ;  but  its  consequences 
were  such  as  to  make  him  speedily 
feel  at  ease  in  the  Blessing  mansion. 


1 8;o.] 


JosepJt  and  his  Friend. 


269 


Kven  Clementina  relented  sufficiently 
to  say,  in  her  most  silvery  tones, 
"  May  I  offer  you  the  butter,  Mr.  As- 
ten?" 

The  table,  it  is  true,  was  very  unlike 
the  substantial  suppers  of  the  country 
There  was  a  variety  of  diminutive 
dishes,  containing  slices  so  delicate 
that  they  mocked  rather  than  excited 
the  appetite  ;  yet  Julia  (of  course  it  was 
she  ! )  had  managed  to  give  the  repast 
an  air  of  elegance  which  was  at  least 
agreeable  to  a  kindred  sense.  Joseph 
took  the  little  cup,  the  thin  tea,  the  five 
drops  of  milk,  and  the  fragment  of 
sugar,  without  asking  himself  whether 
the  beverage  were  palatable  :  he  divid- 
ed a  leaf-like  piece  of  flesh  and  con- 
sumed several  wafers  of  bread,  bliss- 
fully unconscious  whether  his  stomach 
were  satisfied.  He  felt  that  he  had 
been  received,  into  The  Family.  Mr. 
Blessing  was  magnificently  bland,  Mrs. 
Blessing  was  maternally  interested, 
Clementina  recognized  his  existence, 
and  Julia,  —  he  needed  but  one  look  at 
her  sparkling  eyes,  her  softly  flushed 
cheeks,  her  bewitching  excitement  of 
manner,  to  guess  the  relief  of  her  heart. 
He  forgot  the  vague  distress  which 
had  preceded  his  coming,  and  the  em- 
barrassment of  his  first  reception,  in 
the  knowledge  that  Julia  was  so  happy, 
and  through  the  acquiescence  of  her 
parents,  in  his  love. 

It  was  settled  that  he  should  pass 
the  night  there.  Mrs.  Blessing  would 
take  no  denial ;  he  must  now  consider 
their  house  as  his  home.  She  would 
also  call  him  "Joseph,"  but  not  now,  — 
not  until  she  was  entitled  to  name  him 
"son."  It  had  come  suddenly  upon 
her,  but  it  was  her  duty  to  be  glad,  and 
in  a  little  while  she  would  become  ac- 
customed to  the  change. 

All  this  was  so  simply  and  cordially 
said,  that  Joseph  quite  warmed  to  the 
stately  woman,  and  unconsciously  de- 
cided to  accept  his  fortune,  whatever 
features  it  might  \vear.  Until  the  one 
important  event,  at  least ;  after  that  it 
would  be  in  his  own  hands  —  and 
Julia's. 

After  tea,  two  or  three  hours  passed 


away  rather  slowly.  Mr.  Blessing  sat 
in  the  pit  of  a  back  yard  and  smoked 
until  dusk;  then. the  family  collected 
in  the  "drawing-room,"  and  there  was 
a  little  music,  and  a  variety  of  gossip, 
with  occasional  pauses  of  silence,  until 
Mrs  Blessing  said  :  "  Perhaps  you  had 
better  show  Mr.  Asten  to  his  room, 
Mr.  Blessing.  We  may  have  already 
passed  over  his  accustomed  hour  for 
retiring.  If  so,  I  know  he  will  excuse 
us  ;  we  shall  soon  become  familiar 
with  each  other's  habits." 

When  Mr.  Blessing  returned,  he  first 
opened  the  rear  window,  drew  an  arm- 
chair near  it,  took  off  his  coat,  seated 
himself,  and  lit  another  cigar.  His 
wife  closed  the  front  shutters,  slipped 
the  night-bolts  of  the  door,  and  then 
seated  herself  beside  him.  Julia  whirled 
around  on  her  music-stool  to  face  the 
coming  consultation,  and  Clementina 
gracefully  posed  herself  in  the  nearest 
corner  of  the  sofa. 

"  How  do  you  like  him,  Eliza  ?  "  Mr. 
Blessing  asked,  after  several  silent,  lux- 
urious whiffs. 

"  He  is  handsome,  and  seems  amia- 
ble, but  younger  than  I  expected.  Are 
you  sure  of  his  —  his  feelings,  Julia  ?  " 

"  O  ma  !  "  Julia  exclaimed  ;  "what  a 
question  !  I  can  only  judge  them  by 
my  own." 

Clementina  curled  her  lip  in  a  sin- 
gular fashion,  but  said  nothing. 

"  It  seems  like  losing  Julia  entirely," 
Mrs.  Blessing  resumed.  "  I  don't  know 
how  she  will  be  able  to  retain  her  place 
in  our  circle,  unless  they  spend  a  part 
of  the  winter  in  the  city,  and  whether 
he  has  means  enough  —  " 

She  paused,  and  looked  inquisitively 
at  her  husband. 

"  You  always  look  at  the  establish- 
ment," said  he,  "and  never  consider 
the  chances.  Marriage  is  a  deal,  a 
throw,  a  sort  of  kite-flying,  in  fact 
(except  in  our  case,  my  dear),  and, 
after  all  1  've  learned  of  our  future  son- 
in-law,  I  must  say  that  Julia  has  n't  a 
bad  hand." 

"  I  knew  you  'd  like  him,  pa  !  "  cried 
the  delighted  Julia. 

Mr.  Blessing  looked  at  her  steadily 


270 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[March, 


a  moment,  and  then  winked ;  but  she 
took  no  notice  of  it. 

"  There  is  another  thing,"  said  his 
wife.  "  If  the  wedding  comes  off  this 
fall,  we  have  but  two  months  to  pre- 
pare ;  and  how  will  you  manage  about 
the  —  the  money  ?  We  can  save  after- 
wards, to  be  sure,  but  there  will  be  an 
immediate  and  fearful  expense.  I  've 
thought,  perhaps,  that  a  simple  and 
private  ceremony,  —  married  in  travel- 
ling-dress, you  know,  just  before  the 
train  leaves,  and  no  cards,  —  it  is  some- 
times done  in  the  highest  circles." 

"  It  won't  do  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bless- 
ing, waving  his  right  hand.  "  Julia's 
husband  must  have  an  opportunity  of 
learning  our  standing  in  society.  I  will 
invite  the  Collector,  and  the  Surveyor, 
and  the  Appraiser.  The  money  must 
be  raised.  I  should  be  willing  to 
pawn  —  " 

He  looked  around  the  room,  inspect- 
ing the  well-worn  carpet,  the  nankeen- 
covered  chairs,  the  old  piano,  and 
finally  the  two  pictures. 

"  —  Your  portrait,  my  dear  ;  but,  un- 
less it  were  a  Stuart,  I  could  n't  get  ten 
dollars  on  it.  We  must  take  your  set 
of  diamonds,  and  Julia's  rubies,  and 
Clementina's  pearls." 

He  leaned  back,  and  laughed  with 
great  glee.  The  ladies  became  rigid 
and  grave. 

"  It  is  wicked,  Benjamin,"  Mrs.  Bless- 
ing severely  remarked,  "  to  jest  over 
our  troubles  at  such  a  time  as  this.  I 
see  nothing  else  to  do,  but  to  inform 
Mr.  Asten,  frankly,  of  our  condition. 
He  is  yet  too  young,  I  think,  to  be 
repelled  by  poverty." 

"  Jgla,  it  would  break  my  heart,"  said 
Julia.  "I  could  not  bear  to  be  hu- 
miliated in  his  eyes." 

"  Decidedly  the  best  thing  to  do," 
warbled  Clementina,  speaking  for  the 
first  time. 

"  That 's  the  way  with  women,  —  fly- 
ing from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  If 
you  can't  have  white,  you  turn  around 
and  say  there  's  no  other  color  than 
black.  When  all  devices  are  exhausted, 
a  man  of  pluck  and  character  goes  to 
work  and  constructs  a  new  one.  Upon 


my  soul,  I  don't  know  where  the  mon- 
ey is  to  come  from ;  but  give  me  ten 
days,  and  Julia  shall  have  her  white 
satin.  Now,  girls,  you  had  better  go 
to  bed." 

Mr.  Blessing  smoked  silently  until 
the  sound  of  his  daughters'  footsteps 
had  ceased  on  the  stairs  ;  then,  bring- 
ing down  his  hand  emphatically  upon 
his  thigh,  he  exclaimed,  "  By  Jove, 
Eliza,  if  I  were  as  sharp  as  that  girl, 
I  'd  have  had  the  Collectorship  before 
this  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  She  seems 
to  be  strongly  attached  to  him." 

"  O,  no  doubt !  But  she  has  a  won- 
derful talent  for  reading  character.  The 
young  fellow  is  pretty  green  wood  still ; 
what  he  '11  season  into  depends  on  her. 
Honest  as  the  day,  —  there's  nothing 
like  a  country  life  for  that.  But  it 's  a 
pity  that  such  a  fund  for  operations 
should  lie  idle  ;  he  has  a  nest-egg  that 
might  hatch  out  millions  !  " 

"  I  hope,  Benjamin,  that  after  all 
your  unfortunate  experience  —  " 

"Pray  don't  lament  in  advance,  and 
especially  now,  when  a  bit  of  luck 
comes  to  us.  Julia  has  done  well,  and 
I  '11  trust  her  to  improve  her  oppor- 
tunities. Besides,  this  will  help  Clem- 
entina's chances  ;  where  there  is  one 
marriage  in  a  family,  there  is  generally 
another.  Poor  girl  !  she  has  waited  a 
long  while.  At  thirty-three,  the  market 
gets  v-e-r-y  flat." 

"  And  yet  Julia  is  thirty,"  said  Mrs. 
Blessing  ;  "  and  Clementina's  complex- 
ion and  manners  have  been  considered 
superior." 

"  There  's  just  her  mistake.  A  better 
copy  of  Mrs.  Halibut's  airs  and  atti- 
tudes was  never  produced,  and  it  was 
all  very  well  so  long  as  Mrs.  Halibut 
gave  the  tone  to  society ;  but  since  she 
went  to  Europe,  and  Mrs.  Bass  has 
somehow  crept  into  her  place,  Clemen- 
tina is  quite  —  I  may  say  —  obsolete. 
I  don't  object  to  her  complexion,  be- 
cause that  is  a  standing  fashion,  but 
she  is  expected  to  be  chatty,  and  witty, 
and  instead  of  that  she  stands  about 
like  a  Venus  of  Milo.  She  looks  like 
me,  and  she  can't  lack  intelligence  and 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


271 


tact.  Why  could  n't  she  unbend  a  little 
more  to  Asten,  whether  she  likes  him 
or  not  ? " 

"  You  know  I  never  seemed  to  man- 
age Clementina,"  his  wife  replied  ;  "if 
she  were  to  dispute  my  opinion  some- 
times, I  might,  perhaps,  gain  a  little 
influence  over  her :  but  she  won't  en- 
ter into  a  discussion." 

"  Mrs.  Halibut's  way.  It  was  new, 
then,  and,  with  her  husband's  money 
to  back  it,  her  '  grace '  and  *  composure ' 
and  '  serenity '  carried  all  before  her. 
Give  me  fifty  thousand  a  year,  and  I  '11 
put  Clementina  in  the  same  place  ! 
But,  come, — to  the  main  question.  I 
suppose  we  shall  need  five  hundred 
dollars  ? " 

"Three  hundred,  I  think,  will  be 
ample,"  said  Mrs.  Blessing. 

"  Three  or  five,  it 's  as  hard  to  raise 
one  sum  as  the  other.  I  '11  try  for  five, 
and  if  I  have  luck  with  the  two  hun- 
dred over  —  small,  careful  operations, 
you  know,  which  always  succeed  —  I 
may  have  the  whole  amount  on  hand, 
long  before  it 's  due." 

Mrs.  Blessing  smiled  in  a  melan- 
choly, hopeless  way,  and  the  consul- 
tation came  to  an  end. 

When  Joseph  was  left  alone  in  his 
chamber,  he  felt  no  inclination  to  sleep. 
He  sat  at  the  open  window,  and  looked 
down  into  the  dim,  melancholy  street, 
the  solitude  of  which  was  broken  about 
once  every  quarter  of  an  hour  by  a 
forlorn  pedestrian,  who  approached 
through  gloom  and  lamplight,  was 
foreshortened  to  his  hat,,  and  then 
lengthened  away  on  the  other  side. 
The  new  acquaintances  he  had  just 
made  remained  all  the  more  vividly  in 
his  thoughts  from  their  nearness  ;  he 
was  still  within  their  atmosphere.  They 
were  unlike  any  persons  he  knew,  and 
therefore  he  felt  that  he  might  do  them 
injustice  by  a  hasty  estimate  of  their 
character.  Clementina,  however,  was 
excluded  from  this  charitable  resolu- 
tion. Concentrating  his  dislike  on  her, 
he  found  that  her  parents  had  received 
him  with  as  much  consideration  as  a 
total  stranger  could  expect.  Moreover, 
whatever  they  might  be,  Julia  was  the 


same  here,  in  her  own  home,  as  when 
she  was  a  guest  in  the  country.  As 
playful,  as  winning,  and  as  natural ; 
and  he  began  to  suspect  that  her  pres- 
ent life  was  not  congenial  to  such  a 
nature.  If  so,  her  happiness  was  all 
the  more  assured  by  their  union. 

This  thought  led  him  into  a  pictured 
labyrinth  of  anticipation,  in  which  his 
mind  wandered  with  delight.  He  was 
so  absorbed  in  planning  the  new  house- 
hold, that  he  did  not  hear  the  sisters 
entering  the  rear  room  on  the  same 
floor,  which  was  only  separated  by  a 
thin  partition  from  his  own. 

"White  satin!"  he  suddenly  heard 
Clementina  say:  "of  course  I  shall 
have  the  same.  It  will  become  me  bet- 
ter than  you." 

"  I  should  think  you  might  be  satis- 
fied with  a  light  silk,"  Julia  said ;  "  the 
expenses  will  be  very  heavy." 

"  We  '11  see,"  Clementina  answered 
shortly,  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 

After  a  long  pause,  he  heard  Julia's 
voice  again.  "  Never  mind,"  she  said, 
"  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  your  way." 

"  I  wonder  how  much  he  knows 
about  you  !  "  Clementina  exclaimed. 
"Your  arts  were  new  there,  and  you 
played  an  easy  game."  Here  she  low- 
ered her  voice,  and  Joseph  only  distin- 
guished a  detached  word  now  and  then. 
He  rose,  indignant  at  this  unsisterly 
assault,  and  wishing  to  hear  no  more ; 
but  it  seemed  that  the  movement  was 
not  noticed,  for  Julia  replied,  in  smoth- 
ered, excited  tones,  with  some  remark 
about  "complexion." 

"Well,  there  is  one  thing,"  Clemen- 
tina continued,  —  "  one  thing  you  will 
keep  very  secret,  and  that  is  your  birth- 
day. Are  you  going  to  tell  him  that 
you  are  — 

Joseph  had  seized  the  back  of  a 
chair,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse,  tilted 
it  and  let  it  fall  on  the  floor.  Then  he 
walked  to  the  window,  closed  it,  and 
prepared  to  go  to  rest,  —  all  with  more 
noise  than  was  habitual  with  him. 
There  were  whispers  and  hushed  move- 
ments in  the  next  room,  but  not  anoth- 
er audible  word  was  spoken.  Before 
sleeping  he  came  to  the  conclusion 


272 


From  Pennsylvania  Hills 


[March, 


that  lie  was  more  than  Julia's  lover: 
he  was  her  deliverer.  The  idea  was 
not  unwelcome :  it  gave  a  new  value 
and  significance  to  his  life. 

However  curious  Julia  might  have 
been  to  discover  how  much  he  had 
overheard,  she  made  no  effort  to  ascer- 
tain the  fact.  She  met  him  next  morn- 
ing with  a  sweet  unconsciousness  of 


what  she  had  endured,  which  convinced 
him  that  such  painful  scenes  must  have 
been  frequent,  or  she  could  not  have 
forgotten  so  easily.  His  greeting  to 
Clementina  was  brief  and  cold,  but  she 
did  not  seem  to  notice  it  in  the  least. 

It  was  decided,  before  he  left,  that 
the  wedding  should  take  place  in  Oc- 
tober. 


FROM    PENNSYLVANIA   HILLS   TO    MINNESOTA   PRAIRIES. 


DURING  the  midsummer  heats  of 
last  July  I  received  the  following 
breezy  communication  from  certain  of 
my  recent  carpet  -  bagging    acquaint- 
ances in  Pennsylvania :  — 

"  We  are  about  making  an  excursion 
through  the  region  tributary  to  the 
Lake  Superior  and  Mississippi  Rail- 
road, now  constructing  between  St. 
Paul  and  Duluth.  Our  party  will  con- 
sist of  some  thirty-five  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, and  we  shall  run  through  from 
Philadelphia  to  St.  Paul  in  special  cars. 
We  shall  spend  several  days  in  visiting 
the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony,  and  of  Min- 
nehaha,  and  other  interesting  places  in 
that  vicinity  ;  make  two  or  three  ex- 
tensive trips  out  into  the  valleys  of 
Minnesota ;  make  an  overland  jour- 
ney of  one  hundred  miles  in  wagons 
through  the  woods  to  Lake  Superior ; 
spend  a  few  days  at  and  about  Duluth, 
that  future  Chicago  of  the  Northwest" 
(which  I  had  never  heard  of  before) ; 
"then,  taking  a  Lake  steamer,  return 
home  by  way  of  the  copper  and  iron 
districts  of  the  south  shore."  Then 
came  the  interesting  point  of  the  letter, 
—  would  I  accompany  the  party  ? 

Such  an  invitation,  at  such  a  season, 
was  not  to  be  slighted  ;  and  according- 
ly I  found  myself  once  more  in  Penn- 
sylvania with  my  carpet-bag,  on  the 
morning  of  Monday,  August  2d,  walk- 
ing to  and  fro  on  the  platform  of  the 
West  Philadelphia  Depot,  waiting  for 
the  said  "  special  cars  "  to  start. 

The  party  of  "  thirty-five  ladies  and 


gentlemen  "  were  fast  arriving  in  car- 
riages, together  with  many  who  were  to 
accompany  us  only  a  part  of  the  way. 
The  weather  was  cloudy  and  cool ; 
and  I  noticed  a  certain  freshness  and 
animation  in  every  face.  We  seemed 
to  be  setting  out  on  a  grand  picnic 
excursion.  Along  with  the  baggage 
imposing  boxes  of  refreshments  were 
going  into  one  of  the  cars. 

"  Who  is  Medoc  ? "  some  one  in- 
quires :  "  he  seems  to  have  more  bag- 
gage than  anybody  else  !  "  "It  will 
grow  less  and  less  if  he  travels  with 
us  !  "  is  the  reply.  Other  equally  sug- 
gestive remarks  ensue  concerning  the 
said  Mcdoc,  —  that  he  is  a  gentleman 
who  often  sets  out  on  a  journey,  but 
seldom  returns  ;  that  we  shall  meet  him 
at  dinner,  though  he  never  dines ;  that  he 
never  drinks,  either,  yet  is  often  drunk. 

Two  colored  attendants  are  indus- 
triously loading  up  the  boxes  belong- 
ing to  this  paradoxical  personage.  One 
of  them,  called  John,  —  a  short  and 
jaunty  "  boy,"  with  a  shining  face,  and 
a  mouth  that  seems  made  for  holding 
cigars  by  the  smaller  end,  —  deserves 
particular  mention.  His  tastes  are  ex- 
pensive and  aristocratic.  He  discharged 
his  last  employer  for  the  good  and  suffi- 
cient reason  that  he  (John)  was  n't 
"  brought  up  to  living  in  a  family  that 
used  plated  silver."  He  had  given  his 
previous  employer,  a  hotel-keeper,  no- 
tice to  quit,  because  it  wasn't  his 
(John's)  "  station  "  to  wait  at  a  public 
table.  So  much  he  said  of  the  last 


1870.] 


to  Minnesota  Prairies. 


273 


places  where  lie  had  lived,  when  he 
came  to  engage  himself  to  our  party. 

"What  is  your  station  ?  "  L asked. 

"  I  am  a  gentlemen's  private  waiter, 
sir,"  said  John,  with  modest  self-satis- 
faction ;  "  and  I  know  all  about  these 
yer  excursions." 

"Then  you  are  the  man  we  want. 
Now,  John,  with  your  experienced  eye, 
look  over  our  stores,  and  see  what  else 
is  needed  for  the  journey." 

The  experienced  eye  dived  into  the 
store-room,  and  presently  came  out 
again,  shining.  "  I  don't  see  no  tin 
cups,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  tin  cups, 
John?" 

John  made  a  solemn  motion  as  of 
pouring  an  invisible  liquor  into  one 
half-closed  hand  from  the  other  raised 
high  above  it,  and  said  sententiously, 
"  Mixing  drinks,  sir." 

The  tin  cups  (without  which  he 
seemed  to  think  no  excursion  was  pos- 
sible) having  been  carefully  selected 
and  purchased  by  himself,  John  made 
another  quite  astounding  discovery. 
There  were  no  straws  provided  !  His 
notion  with  regard  to  the  indispen- 
sableness  of  straws  having  been  in- 
dulged, he  settled  down  into  a  con- 
tented state,  like  one  who,  his  whole 
duty  done,  awaits  with  calm  trust  the 
dispensations  of  fortune.  In  this  frame 
of  mind  he  continued,  congratulating 
himself,  no  doubt,  on  his  forethought, 
and  firmly  believing  that,  with  tin  cups 
and  straws,  all  the  necessaries  of  life 
for  a  four  weeks'  journey  were  laid  in  ; 
•when,  almost  at  the  last  moment,  he 

came  rushing  to  L with  a  look  of 

consternation.  Still  one  thing  had 
been  neglected,  —  a  lemon-squeezer! 

Not  our  cars  only,  but  our  train,  too, 
that  day  was  to  be  special ;  such  is  the 
splendid  courtesy  of  railroad  kings  to 
each  other.  We  were  to  travel  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Lake  Superior  and 
Mississippi  Railroad  Company,  com- 
posed chiefly  of  Eastern  capitalists  ; 
men  whom,  as  I  afterwards  found,  all 
the  railroad  officials  on  our  route,  from 
Philadelphia  to  St.  Paul,  delighted  to 
honor.  The  train  was  composed  of  our 

VOL.  XXV.  —  NO.  149.  18 


own  two  cars  (loaned  for  the  excur- 
sion by  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad), 
and  a  third,  appropriated  to  the  use  of 
Professor  Morton's  party,  sent  out  by 
the  government  to  make  observations 
and  take  photographs  of  the  sun,  in 
the  path  of  the  forthcoming  total 
eclipse. 

Ten  minutes  in  advance  of  the  regu- 
lar train  we  were  all  on  board,  and 
running  out  swiftly  among  the  pictu- 
resque hills  and  valleys  that  border  the 
Pennsylvania  Road.  We  spent  the 
morning  in  making  acquaintances  (many 
of  our  party  meeting  then  for  the  first 
time),  and  in  enjoying  our  novel  and  lux- 
urious mode  of  travelling.  Our  cars 
were  furnished  with  sofas  and  easy- 
chairs  and  centre-tables,  and  a  broad 
rear  platform,  safely  railed  in,  forming 
a  sort  of  piazza  to  our  flying  abode,  and 
affording  charming  views  of  the  coun- 
try. Almost  before  we  were  aware  we 
had  run  through  the  rich  agricultural 
counties  of  Chester  and  Lancaster,  and 
struck  the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna 
at  Columbia ;  we  then  ran  up  to  Bald- 
win, a  suburb  of  Harrisburg,  where 
our  first  halt  was  made,  and  where, 
as  we  were  then  an  hour  ahead  of  the 
regular  train,  it  was  proposed  to  spend 
the  time  we  had  gained  in  visiting  the 
Pennsylvania  Steel  Works. 

Our  entire  party  thronged  the  build- 
ing, some  passing  directly  to  the  floor 
of  the  casting- house,  while  others 
mounted  the  high  platform  of  the 
cupola  furnaces,  to  see  the  beginning 
of  the  famous  "  Bessemer  process," 
used  in  the  manufacture  of  steel  at 
this  establishment.  For  me,  who  knew 
nothing  of  steel-making  except  by  the 
old-fashioned,  roundabout  methods, 
this  new  "  short-cut,"  as  it  is  fitly 
termed,  possessed  a  surprising  inter- 
est. Laborers  were  casting  into  one 
of  the  furnaces  barrow-loads  of  coal 
and  pig,  each  fragment  of  which  had 
been  carefully  examined,  —  for  not  every 
quality  of  iron  and  anthracite  can  be 
used  in  this  process.  The  molten  metal 
was  run  off  into  a  huge  bucket,  weighed 
(for  precision  as  to  proportions  is  also 
necessary),  and  finally  poured  like  some 


274 


From  Pennsylvania  PI  it  Is 


[March, 


terrible,  fiery  beverage,  a  soup  of  liq- 
uid iron,  into  the  stomach  of  a  monster 
with  an  egg-shaped  body,  and  a  short, 
curved,  open  neck,  resembling  some 
gigantic  plucked  and  decapitated  bird. 
In  place  of  wings  a  pair  of  stout  iron 
trunnions  projected  from  its  sides.  Up- 
on these  it  was  so  hung  that  it  could  be 
set  upright  or  turned  down  on  its  belly. 
It  was  down,  receiving  its  pottage,  when 
we  first  saw  it.  Presently  it  was  full- 
fed, —  five  tons  of  molten  iron  having 
been  complacently  swallowed.  Then, 
moved  by  an  invisible  power,  the  crea- 
ture, slowly  turning  on  its  wings,  sat,  or 
rather  hung,  upright.  "  Now  they  are 
going  to  blow,"  said  our  guide. 

In  the  casting-room  below,  immedi- 
ately beneath  the  monster,  was  a  semi- 
circular pit.  round  the  side  of  which 
was  ranged  a  row  of  smaller  iron  ves- 
sels, reminding  me  of  Ali  Baba's  oil- 
jars,  each  capable  of  containing  a  ban- 
dit. Or,  if  we  regard  the  large  bird 
as  a  goose,  these  may  be  called  gos- 
lings. They  were  all  sitting  on  the 
bottom  of  the  pit,  with  expectant  mouths 
in  the  air,  waiting  to  be  fed.  But  the 
mother's  food  was  to  undergo  a  remark- 
able change  before  it  could  become  fit 
nutriment  for  them.  Iron  ore,  besides 
containing  silicium,  sulphur,  and  other 
earthy  impurities,  is  combined  with  a 
large  proportion  of  oxygen.  The  smelt- 
ing-furnace  burns  out  the  oxygen,  and 
removes  a  portion  of  the  impurities, 
but  only  to  replace  them  with  another 
interloper,  —  carbon,  absorbed  from  the 
coal.  Cast-iron  contains  from  four  to 
five  per  centum  of  carbon ;  steel,  only 
about  one  quarter  as  much,  or  even 
less,  according  to  its  quality.  To  re- 
fine the  crude  cast-iron,  eliminating 
the  excess  of  carbon,  and  yet  retaining 
enough  to  make  steel,  —  or  to  reduce 
it  first  to  wrought-iron  (or  iron  contain- 
ing no  carbon),  and  then  to  add  the 
proportion  required  for  the  tougher  and 
harder  metal, —seems  simple  enough; 
yet  the  various  processes  by  which 
civilized  men,  from  the  time  of  Tubal 
Cain,  have  aimed  to  produce  this  re- 
sult, have  hitherto  been  slow,  labori- 
ous, and  expensive.  Bessemer's  meth- 


od of  doing  this  very  thing  on  a  simple 
and  grand  scale  was  what  we  were  now 
to  witness. 

The  moment  the  monster  was  turned 
upright  he  began  to  roar  terribly,  and  to 
spout  flame  in  a  dazzling  volcanic  jet, 
which  even  by  daylight  cast  its  glare 
upon  the  upturned  faces  of  the  specta- 
tors grouped  about  the  floor  of  the 
casting-house.  As  we  had  seen  only 
molten  metal  enter  the  "  converter,"  — 
so  the  huge  iron  bird  is  called,  —  the  ap- 
pearance of  such  furious  combustion 
was  not  a  little  astonishing. 

"In  the  bottom  of  the  converter," 
said  our  guide,  shouting  to  make  him- 
self heard  above  the  roar,  "there  are 
tuyeres  which  admit  a  cold  blast  of  suf- 
ficient force  to  blow  the  molten  iron  all 
into  spray.  This  brings  the  oxygen  of 
the  air  into  contact  with  every  minute 
drop  of  the  metal,  and  what  took  place 
in  the  smelting-furnace  is  reversed ; 
there  the  carbon  helped  to  burn  out 
the  oxygen  of  the  ore,  now  the  oxygen 
comes  to  burn  out  the  carbon." 

"But  what,"  we  shouted  back,  "pre- 
vents the  oxygen  from  playing  the  same 
trick  the  carbon  played  before  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  it  will  do  if  the 
blast  is  continued  too  long,  —  the  iron 
will  oxidize  again.  But  the  oxygen 
has  a  stronger  affinity  for  the  carbon 
and  other  impurities  than  it  has  for  the 
iron,  and  does  n't  begin  on  that  till 
those  are  burned  out." 

"  I  see :  you  shut  off  the  blast  at  a 
moment  when  just  enough  carbon  re- 
mains to  make  steel." 

"Not  exactly;  though  that  is  what 
Bessemer  spent  a  great  deal  of  time 
and  money  trying  to  do.  But  he  found 
it  impossible  always  to  determine  the 
time  when  the  blast  should  be  stopped, 
and  often  too  much  or  too  little  carbon 
left  in  would  spoil  the  product.  So  he 
changed  his  tactics.  You  will  notice 
that  we  first  burn  out  all  the  carbon ; 
that  is  done  in  about  fifteen  minutes. 
You  see  that  man  in  green  glasses,  on 
the  little  platform  over  in  the  corner, 
watching  the  flame  from  the  converter  ? 
The  instant  he  sees  it  lose  its  dazzling 
colors  and  become  pale,  and  decrease, 


1 870.] 


to  Minnesota  Prairies. 


275 


he  knows  the  last  of  the  carbon  is  burn- 
ing, and  the  blast  is  shut  off." 

Meanwhile  it  seemed  very  wonderful 
that  molten  metal  should  contain  fuel 
enough  to  make  so  furious  a  fire ;  nor 
was  our  astonishment  diminished  when 
we  were  told  that  the  cold-air  blast 
actually  raised  the  temperature  of  the 
mass  from  3,000°  to  5,000°  Fahrenheit 
during  the  brief  process. 

The  blast  shut  off,  the  converter  was 
turned  down  on  its  belly  again,  in  order 
to  prevent  the  metal  from  running  into 
the  tuyeres,  now  that  the  pressure  was 
removed.  "  The  iron,"  said  our  guide, 
"is  left  by  the  blast  decarbonized,  and 
in  a  slight  degree  reoxidized.  It  also 
contains  a  little  sulphur,  after  all  its 
doctoring.  Now  we  add  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  pig-iron  of  a  peculiar  quality, — 
either  Franklinite  or  Spiegeleiscn  will 
do,  —  containing  a  known  percentum 
of  carbon  and  manganese."  The  dose 
was  poured  into  the  monster's  throat, 
and  a  violent  commotion  in  his  stom- 
ach ensued,  accompanied  by  a  copious 
outpouring  of  smoke  and  flame.  After 
a  minute  or  two  all  was  quiet.  The 
new  ingredients  had  burned  out  the 
oxygen  and  sulphur  from  the  mass,  — 
lough  of  the  freshly  introduced 
carbon  remaining  unconsumed  to  take 
up  its  permanent  lodging  in  the  metal 
and  make  steel. 

The  contents  of  the  converter  were 
now  poured  into  a  huge  ladle  swung  up 
under  it  by  the  long  arm  of  a  crane 
worked  by  invisible  power,  and  after- 
wards discharged  into  the  open  mouths 
of  the  smaller  monsters  in  the  pit. 
These  were,  of  course,  merely  moulds  ; 
and  into  each  was  cast  an  ingot  of  steel 
weighing  some  six  hundred  pounds. 
The  metal  was  discharged  from  the 
bottom  of  the  ladle,  and  thus  kept  sep- 
arate from  the  slag,  which  floated  on 
its  surface  and  was  retained  until  the 
last.  In  twenty-five  minutes  from  the 
time  we  entered  the  building  we  had 
seen  five  tons  of  pig-iron  "  converted," 
and  cast  into  six-hundred-pound  ingots 
of  steel. 

Having  given  one  glance  at  Besse- 
ttier's  method  of  lining  his  ladles  and 


converters,  to  enable  them  to  resist  the 
intense  heat  of  the  charge,  and  another 
at  the  hydraulic  machinery  by  means 
of  which  a  lad  on  the  little  platform  in 
the  corner  could  rotate  the  converter, 
and  lift  ladles  and  ingots,  doing  the 
work  of  fifty  men,  we  passed  on  to  the 
rolling-mill,  where  each  ingot  is  heated 
and  hammered  (the  enormous  steam- 
hammer  coming  down  upon  it  with  a 
resounding  thump),  then  reheated,  and 
rolled  out  into  a  rail,  to  be  sawed  off 
red-hot  at  the  right  length  (twenty-five 
feet)  by  a  pair  of  shrill  circular  saws 
that  do  their  work  neatly  and  swiftly, 
as  if  the  steel  were  soft  pine,  and  the 
pyrotechnic  spark-showers  thrown  out 
mere  sawdust.  Lastly  we  saw  the 
strength  of  a  rail  tested  under  repeated 
blows  from  a  V-shaped  ton-weight  of 
iron  dropped  upon  it  from  a  height 
of  eighteen  feet ;  and  came  away  in- 
spired with  high  respect  for  Bessemer, 
both  as  an  inventor  and  a  public  bene- 
factor.* 

At  a  signal  from  the  locomotive 
whistle  we  returned  to  the  train,  and 
found  that  a  feat  of  magic  had  been 
performed  in  our  absence.  Tables  had 
been  set  in  the  cars,  and  a  banquet 
spread.  By  the  time  we  were  seated 
the  train  was  once  more  in  motion  ;  and 
never  did  panorama  of  lovelier  scenery 
move  before  the  delighted  eyes  of  ban- 
queters. While  we  sat  leisurely  enjoy- 
ing our  chicken  and  champagne  and 
ice-cream,  the  green  islands  and  solemn- 
fronted  bluffs  of  the  shallow  -  flowing 

*  In  this  age  of  railroads,  when  accidents  occa- 
sioned by  the  breaking  of  iron  rails  and  axles  are 
constantly  occurring,  one  is  glad  to  know  that  some 
of  our  most  popular  lines  are  fast  substituting  Besse- 
mer steel  for  the  more  fragile  metal.  A  steel  rail 
costs  only  about  one  third  more  than  an  iron  one, 
while  it  is  many  times  more  durable.  The  presi- 
dent of  the  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore  Railroad,  who 
was  of  our  party,  told  me  that,  by  way  of  experiment, 
he  had  steel  rails  laid  at  the  entrance  to  the  compa- 
ny's depot  in  Philadelphia,  with  a  single  iron  rail  in 
the  midst.  That  iron  rail  has  been  worn  out,  togeth- 
er with  fifteen  more  which  have  successively  replaced 
it,  while  all  the  steel  rails  remain,  and  promise  to 
outwear  as  many  more  of  their  weaker  brothers.  The 
steel  rail  enjoys  an  immense  advantage  over  even 
the  steel-faced  iron  rail,  by  being  wrought  from  a 
homogeneous  mass.  There  are  now  some  half-dozen 
or  more  establishments  engaged  in  the  manufacture 
of  Bessemer  steel,  in  this  country,  yet  they  do  not 
supply  the  demand  for  it,  and  much  is  imported. 


276 


From  Pennsylvania  Hills 


[March, 


Susquelianna  gave  place  to  the  valley 
of  the  Juniata,  checkered  with  farms, 
and  these  again  disappeared  before  the 
precipitous  crags  which  confine  the  riv- 
er within  that  scene  of  fearful  spring 
freshets,  the  Narrows. 

We  were  entering  the  pillared  ves- 
tibule of  the  blue-green  Alleghanies. 
All  this  portion  of  Pennsylvania  ap- 
pears a  vast  amphitheatre  of  grand 
and  beautiful  hills.  Higher  and  higher 
still  they  rise,  blue  chain  beyond  blue 
chain,  with  charming  valleys  between. 
We  ascended  continually,  winding  along 
their  bases,  keeping  the  natural  grade 
of  the  streams,  and  shifting  often  from 
bank  to  bank,  as  the  broken  crags, 
crowding  the  railroad-track  from  one 
side,  receded  as  if  to  make  room  for  it 
on  the  other. 

From  Altoona,  our  destined  stop- 
ping-place for  the  night,  we  ran  up  as 
far  as  Cresson,  to  view  the  mountain 
scenery  at  the  hour  of  sunset.  Here, 
for  something  more  than  eleven  miles, 
the  railroad  makes  an  ascent  of  one 
hundred  feet  to  the  mile,  sweeping  in 
tremendous  curves  about  deep  ravines, 
and  winding  up  wild  mountain-sides. 
It  was.  easy  to  imagine  that  we  were  no 
longer  travelling  by  the  prosaic  steam 
and  rail  of  modern  days,  but  that  some 
fabulous  winged  creature  was  flying 
away  with  us,  up  and  in  among  the 
purple  peaks  and  crests.  Vista  after 
vista  of  valleys,  and  farther  and  still 
farther  horizons,  opened  around  us, 
the  soft  sunset  hues  on  golden  sum- 
mits contrasting  wonderfully  with  the 
cool,  translucent  shadows  brooding  on 
solitary  slopes  and  deepening  down 
enormous,  thick-wooded  gorges.  Oc- 
casionally a  yellow  farm  appeared,  em- 
bosomed in  the  shaggy  immensity  of 
surrounding  wildernesses  ;  and  here 
and  there,  amid  the  rugged  sublimity 
of  forest-bearing  crags,  a  sentiment  of 
indescribable  tenderness  was  suggested 
by  some  lonesome  little  brook  trickling 
down  through  their  cool,  rocky  depths. 

At  Cresson,  on  the  culminating  ridge 
of  the  Alleghanies,  —  beyond  which  the 
streams,  no  longer  flowing  eastward, 
turn  towards  the  Mississippi  and  the 


Gulf,  —  we  lingered  so  long  in  the  twi- 
light and  green  solitude  of  that  charm- 
ing summer  resort,  that  when  we  re- 
turned down  the  mountains  the  stars 
had  come  out  in  the  sky,  and  flicker- 
ing coke-fires  on  the  dark  hillsides, 
while  banks  of  daisies  in  the  shelter 
of  railroad  cord -wood  flitted  past  us 
like  snow-drifts. 

Altoona,  August  ^d.  —  Lodged  last 
night  in  the  midst  of  a  menagerie  of 
locomotives,  that  kept  up  an  incessant 
hissing  and  howling  under  the  hotel  win- 
dows. I  am  told  that  frequently  fifteen 
hundred  freight  cars  pass  here  in  a  sin- 
gle night,  besides  passenger  trains.  The 
place,  built  up  by  the  machine-shops  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  has  a  right, 
one  would  say,  to  be  noisy  ;  but  it  is 
quiet  now  compared  with  what  it  was 
when  engineers  used  to  run  out  their 
locomotives  here,  and  blow  terrific  whis- 
tles for  sleepy  firemen  all  the  morn- 
ing. Stringent  rules  having  abolished 
that  diabolical  practice,  real  estate  in 
the  neighborhood  rose  at  once  twenty 
per  cent  in  value. 

Our  cars  are  this  morning  attached 
to  the  regular  train,  a  long  one,  which 
labors  slowly  up  the  steep  grade  of  the 
mountain.  As  we  creep  about  the  im- 
mense "horseshoe  curve,"  we  at  the 
rear  end  of  the  train  look  over  the 
chasm  and  see  with  astonishment  the 
forward  end  coming  back  towards  us, 
like  the  head  of  a  snake.  It  is  so  near 
that  we  readily  appreciate  the  humor 
of  the  story  related  of  an  engineer  who, 
passing  this  bend  once  with  a  long 
train,  reached  across  and  demanded  a 
"  light  "  of  the  rear  brakeman. 

The  mountain  scenery  is  no  less 
beautiful  in  the  effulgence  of  early 
morning  than  it  appeared  by  last  even- 
ing's sunset  light:  and  yet  how  won- 
derfully changed!  —  reminding  one  of 
the  often  unwelcome  truth,  that  never 
anything  in  this  world,  not  even  the 
character  of  our  nearest  friend,  ap- 
pears to  us  exactly  as  it  is,  but  that  a 
large  part  of  what  we  call  reality  is 
made  up  of  just  such  lights  and  shades 
and  mists  of  illusion. 

This   is  the   high,  rocky  rim  of  the 


1 870.] 


to  Minnesota  Prairies. 


277 


great  Atlantic  slope,  passing  which 
we  r.re  soon  aware  that  we  have  com- 
menced the  descent  into  the  vast  Mis- 
sissippi Valley.  Between  Cresson  and 
Pittsburg  the  scenery  continues  moun- 
tainous and  grand.  On  a  day  of  bro- 
ken clouds  like  this  the  mountains 
appear  spotted  like  leopards,  with  sun 
and  shadow  chasing  each  other  along 
their  sides.  At  length,  far  off  over 
the  tumbled  hills,  Pittsburg  is  dimly 
discerned,  first  a  city  of  cloud  with  pil- 
lars and  bastions,  then  a  city  of  solid 
roofs  and  chimneys,  of  whose  ever- 
ascending  smoke  the  baseless  fabric  is 
built. 

Rapid  railroad  travelling  has  its  dis- 
advantages for  one  who  would  gain 
something  more  than  a  superficial 
knowledge  of  the  scenes  through  which 
he  is  passing.  Yet  it  affords  compen- 
sation in  the  sort  of  bird's-eye  view  it 
gives  of  large  tracts  of  country  within 
a  brief  space  of  time.  Now  we  were 
running  down  the  river  from  Pittsburg, 
through  a  land  steeped  in  haze.  Then 
we  were  crossing  monotonous  North- 
ern Ohio,  then  the  still  more  dreary 
flat  prairies  of  Indiana,  with  their 
little  groves  rising  here  and  there 
like  green  islets  from  a  green  sea,  —  all 
in  striking  contrast  with  hilly  and  pic- 
turesque Pennsylvania.  Now  we  are 
approaching  Chicago,  at  evening,  watch- 
ing the  trains  coming  in  from  every  di- 
rection, their  fiery  eyes  glowing  through 
the  darkness  of  the  wide,  level  plain. 
Then  come  the  rolling  prairies  of  North- 
ern Illinois,  and,  farther  on,  those  of 
Wisconsin,  with  their  beautiful  lakes 
and  groves,  where,  at  many  a  way  sta- 
tion, our  party  are  off,  gathering  wild- 
flowers,  till  the  engine  whistle  calls. 
Then  the  bluffs  of  the  Mississippi,  with 
their  thin  soil,  and  poor  grass  growing 
on  slopes  formed  of  the  accumulation 
of  debris  from  century-crumbled  cliffs. 
Then  the  limitless,  undulating,  golden 
grain-fields  of  Iowa  and  Minnesota, 
over  which  great  reaping-machines  are 
seen  slowly  moving,  with  large,  revolv- 
ing arms,  perhaps  miles  away.  All 
which,  passing  before  one's  eyes  with 
panoramic  effect,  cannot  but  suggest 


new  and  enlarged  ideas  of  the  States, 
and  of  their  wonderful  diversity  of  sur- 
face. 

Our  two  Pennsylvania  cars  go  through 
with  us,  crossing  the  unbridged  Missis- 
sippi on  a  flat-boat  at  Prairie  du  Chien  ; 
and  it  is  always  with  a  grateful  home- 
feeling  that  we  get  back  into  them,  after 
passing  a  night  in  tl-ie  strange  rooms 
of  a  crowded  hotel.  We  are  sure  to 
find  our  things  as  we  left  them,  and  to 
be  welcomed  by  the  shining  faces  of 
John,  mixer  of  drinks,  and  his  com- 
panion, who  have  kept  faithful  guard. 
Peering  platform  loungers  marvel  at 
us  ;  and  more  than  once,  with  our  ex- 
traordinary cars,  and  strange  -  looking 
traps  inside,  we  are  taken  for  some 
travelling  showman's  troupe,  and  asked 
where  we  are  going  to  perform. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fifth  day  (twelve 
hundred  and  sixty  miles  from  Phila- 
delphia), we  strike  the  Mississippi  once 
more,  and  run  down,  in  the  twilight, 
under  white  sandstone  bluffs,  to  the 
depot  opposite  St.  Paul.  Here  we 
are  received  by  a  procession  of  car- 
riages, and  taken  over  the  lofty  bridge, 
—  the  farthest  span  of  which,  on  the 
side  of  the  city,  is  ninety  feet  above 
the  river,  —  and  up  the  long  streets  that 
rise  higher  and  higher  on  the  swell- 
ing summit  of  the  bluff,  to  be  landed 
at  last  at  our  hotel,  overlooking  the 
town. 

St.  Paul,  7th.  —  To-day  the  business 
men  of  our  party  make  an  excursion 
up  the  Lake  Superior  and  Mississippi 
Railroad,  to  examine  the  track  as  far 
as  it  has  been  completed.  The  ladies, 
and  we  who  are  not  railroad  men,  re- 
main behind  to  make  acquaintance  with 
St.  Paul. 

For  me  it  is  a  renewal  of  acquaint- 
ance. Sixteen  years  ago,  on  much 
such  a  sunny,  beautiful  morning  as 
this,  I  landed  from  a  steamboat  at  the 
"  levee  "  under  the  bluff,  climbed  the 
steep  road  winding  to  the  summit,  and 
saw  the  rough  cub  of  a  town,  then  in 
its  uncouth  infancy.  It  had  at  that 
time  a  growth  of  five  or  six  years,  and 
numbered,  I  think,  some  three  thou- 
sand inhabitants.  It  has  now  twenty 


278 


From  Pennsylvania  PI  ills 


[March, 


thousand.  I  well  remember  its  roman- 
tic situation,  on  the  irregular  terraces 
of  the  bluff,  rising  high  above  the  river, 
with  their  background  of  still  higher 
hills  beyond;  but  the  lighted  streets 
through  which  we  rode  last  evening 
were  quite  new  to  me,  and  I  have  to 
rub  my  eyes  a  little  this  morning  to 
reconcile  what  I  recall  of  the  past  with 
what  I  behold  of  the  present. 

Superbly  perched  as  it  is  upon  these 
commanding  heights,  the  town  is  not 
by  any  means  well  laid  out.  Indeed,  it 
seems  never  to  have  been  laid  out  at 
all,  with  any  view  to  the  formation  of  a 
city  befitting  its  important  situation, 
but  rather  to  have  laid  itself  out  as 
chance  or  the  necessity  of  its  growth 
directed.  A  great  mistake  has  been 
made  in  not  reserving  the  sightly  front 
of  the  bluff  for  a  public  promenade, 
like  that  which  renders  the  view  of 
Natchez  so  imposing  and  delightful. 
Many  of  the  little  old  wooden  tene- 
ments of  the  first  settlers  remain 
squatted  among  the  fine  blocks  and 
residences  of  the  prosperous  new  city, 
giving  it  an  ugly  look  of  incongruity. 
But  this  is  a  blemish  which  time  will 
rapidly  efface. 

The  day  is  fine,  and  the  weather 
exhilarating,  as  I  believe  this  Minne- 
sota air  always  is  to  strangers.  One 
feels  like  leaping  and  shouting,  as  he 
fills  with  delicious  draughts  his  tingling 
lungs  on  these  breezy  hills.  The  peo- 
ple brag  constantly  of  their  climate, 
and  not  without  reason.  Almost  every 
fifth  man  one  meets  has  the  same  old 
story  to  tell,  —  how  he  or  his  wife  or 
his  daughter  was  dying  of  consumption 
in  the  East,  having  been  given  up  by 
the  doctors,  when,  as  a  last  resort,  a 
journey  to  Minnesota  was  undertaken, 
and  "  You  see  the  result,  sir  !  "  striking 
his  breast,  or  showing  his  daughter's 
ruddy  cheeks.  The  man  with  only  one 
lung,  or  even  with  half  a  lung, — but 
that  healed,  and  as  good  as  a  pair  in 
Massachusetts,  —  is  a  very  common 
phenomenon. 

The  winters  here  are  a  theme  of 
especial  eulogy.  Although  they  freeze 
your  feeble  mercury,  and  only  spirit- 


thermometers  can  be  safely  used,  their 
intense  cold  seems  to  differ  not  only 
in  degree,  but  also  in  kind,  from  the 
cold  weather  with  which  we  poor  shiv- 
ering mortals  in  the  East  are  so  well 
acquainted.  "  I  seldom  think  of  wear- 
ing an  overcoat  here,  even  with  the 
thermometer  twenty  or  thirty  degrees 
below  zero,"  says  Mr.  D ,  a  respect- 
able hardware  merchant ;  "  but  when 
I  am  in  Pittsburg,  where  I  go  every 
winter  to  buy  goods,  I  can't  put  on 
clothing  enough,  but  am  always  trying 
to  get  near  a  fire."  Is  it  then  the  mois- 
ture of  the  atmosphere  penetrating  to 
the  skin,  and  conducting  the  caloric 
away  from  it,  that  gives  us  the  sense  of 
cold  to  which  those  in  a  dry  air  of  a 
much  lower  temperature  are  so  bliss- 
fully insensible  ? 

The  deadly  cold  of  the  winter  nights, 
however,  is  felt  within  doors,  when  the 
wood  -  fires  burn  out,  and  everything 
freezes  above  the  cellars. 

Even  more  bountifully  than  most  new 
and  thriving  Western  towns,  St.  Paul 
blossoms  with  children,  —  nearly  every 
house  showing  its  full  bouquet  of  rosy 
faces.  It  is  the  young  and  enterprising 
who  emigrate ;  and  the  climate  that 
gives  health  to  the  parents  goes  far  to 
insure  the  life  of  the  offspring. 

One  remarks  a  large  foreign  element 
in  the  population,  three  fifths  of  which, 
I  am  told,  are  German,  Scandinavian, 
Irish,  and  French.  The  town  is  also 
a  favorite  summer  resort  of  wealthy 
Southerners,  who  find  it  convenient  to 
bring  their  families,  household-  goods, 
and  equipages  up  the  river  to  their 
country  residences  here,  on  these  airy 
bluffs. 

Well-built  blocks  of  stone,  on  the 
principal  streets,  attest  the  solid  busi- 
ness prosperity  of  the  place.  Twenty 
years  ago  its  entire  annual  trade 
scarcely  exceeded  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars ;  ten  years  ago  it  amounted 
to  some  four  millions ;  last  year  a  sin- 
gle dry-goods  house  did  a  business  of 
two  millions.  Within  the  coming  year 
the  new  Lake  Superior  and  Mississippi 
Railroad  will  be  completed  between  St. 
Paul  and  Duluth,  bringing  the  head  of 


i  S/oJ 


to  Minnesota  Prairies. 


279 


steamboat  navigation  on  the  river  some 
three   hundred    miles   nearer   to 

by  railroad  and  water  communi- 
cation, than  it  is  at  present  by  the  way 
of  Chicago  and  the  Lakes,  —  a  result 
which  cannot  but  give  an  extraordinary 
impulse  to  trade  at  this  place. 

There  are  not  many  points  of  local 
interest  about  St.  Paul,  but  the  people 
take  a  just  pride  in  showing  Summit 
Avenue,  with  its  charming  residences 
on  an  oak-wooded  bluff;  Lake  Como,  a 
very  pretty  sheet  of  water,  yet  hardly 
beautiful  enough  for  the  comparison 
which  it  challenges  by  its  imported 
name  ;  Dayton's  Bluff,  below  the  town, 
with  its  Indian  mounds,  and  enchant- 
ing views  of  the  far -gleaming  river; 
and  Carver's  Cave,  which  is,  however, 
no  longer  the  wonderfully  romantic 
object  which  adventurous  old  John 
Carver  described,  —  being  closed  by 
the  ruins  of  its  own  fallen  roof  and 
walls. 

Much  of  the  land  about  St.  Paul  is 
held  by  "non-residents,"  whose  negli- 
gent ownership  bars  improvement,  and 
gives  to  the  outskirts  a  singularly  bar- 
ren and  lonely  aspect,  especially  at  the 
close  of  the  day,  when  the  night  shuts 
down  on  a  wide  expanse  of  unfenced 
cow-pastures  and  bush-prairies,  sparse- 
ly tufted  with  scrub-oaks  and  hazels. 

In  riding  over  these  tracts  I  was 
interested  to  note  how  speedily  and 
effectually  the  grasses  and  weeds  of 
civilization  exterminate,  in  the  path  of 
man,  without  any  conscious  aid  from 
him,  the  wild  grasses  of  the  prairies 
and  their  whole  tribe  of  sister  plants. 
Wherever  his  cow-bells  tinkle  and  colts 
whinny,  there  the  coarse  native  sod 
spontaneously  gives  place  to  the  fine, 
close  turf  of  red-top  and  white  clover. 
Civilization  is  finer  and  stronger  than 
savagery;  and  as  the  white  man  dis- 
places, not  simply  by  the  power  of  his 
own  selfish  will,  but  by  an  inexorable 
law  of  nature,  the  weaker,  undeveloped 
red  man,  so  his  vast  family  of  mute 
and  animate  things  accompanies  him, 
sweeping  the  prairies  of  whatever  is 
unable  to  compete  with  them  in  the 
"  struggle  for  existence."  The  Indian, 


with  a  touch  of  poetry  and  pathos  in  the 
word,  calls  the  broad, leaf  of  the  plantain 
•;  white  man's  foot " ;  and  wherever  it 
appears  there  the  print  of  his  moccasin 
is  fated  soon  to  vanish. 

The  eclipse  comes  upon  us  duly  to- 
day, according  to  appointment,  and 
revives  the  good  old  fashion,  which 
Mother  Earth  herself  has  the  good 
sense  to  follow,  holding  before  her 
face  the  smoked  glass  of  a  hazy  sky 
all  the  quiet,  expectant,  ghostly  after- 
noon. 

Sunday,  S///. —  Church-bells  are  ring- 
ing all  over  the  city,  and  throngs  of 
well-dressed,  serious  citizens  are  pour- 
ing into  open  porches,  and  organs  are 
booming  within,  and  choirs  singing,  all 
in  notable  contrast  with  the  scenes  of 
sixteen  years  ago,  when,  as  I  remem- 
ber, dog-fighting  and  kindred  amuse- 
ments were  favorite  Sunday  pastimes 
with  the  ruder  class  of  settlers,  and  St. 
Paul  seemed  somewhat  less  to  merit 
its  apostolic  name. 

Monday  Morning.  —  An  invitation 
from  the  officers  of  the  St.  Paul  and 
Pacific  Railroad  to  make  an  excursion 
over  their  road ;  and  from  the  city  au- 
thorities of  Minneapolis  to  pay  their  town 
a  visit  on  the  way.  At  the  depot,  near 
the  steamboat-landing  under  the  bluff, 
we  meet  a  number  of  prominent  citi- 
zens of  St.  Paul,  who  are  to  accompany 
us ;  and  we  are  soon  speeding  away  over 
"  the  oldest  railroad  track  in  the  State," 
as  our  friends  inform  us.  We  are  cu- 
rious to  know  how  old  that  may  be. 
"  Seven  years ;  in  sixty-two,  the  first 
iron  rail  was  laid  in  Minnesota ;  and 
we  have  now  over  eight  hundred  miles 
of  railroads." 

The  railroad  runs  ten  miles  westward, 
to  St.  Anthony,  where  it  sends  off  a 
branch  up  the  east  bank  of  the  river, 
while  the  main  line  crosses  over  to 
Minneapolis,  sweeping  thence,  in  a 
broad  curve  trending  towards  the  north- 
west, over  the  magnificent  tract  of  for- 
est-bordered prairie  country  lying  be- 
tween the  Mississippi  and  the  Red 
River  of  the  North.  We  keep  the 
main  line,  glide  over  the  railroad-bridge 
above  the  Falls,  and  find  on  the  other 


280 


From  Pennsylvania  Hills 


[March, 


side  a  delegation  of  Minneapolitans, 
with  a  string  of  carriages  waiting  to 
receive  us.  We  are  shown  the  town 
and  the  wonders  of  the  Falls.  Ah,  how 
everything  has  changed  since  my  last 
visit !  Then  St.  Anthony  was  a  village 
consisting  of  a  few  shops  and  houses 
and  saw-mills,  and  several  acres  of  logs 
in  the  river ;  and  Minneapolis  was  not. 
Now  St.  Anthony  has  five  thousand  in- 
habitants, and  Minneapolis,  grown  up 
entirely  since  then,  eleven  thousand. 
A  suspension-bridge  connects  the  two  ; 
and  church-spires,  and  high-roofed  ho- 
tels, and  lofty  grain-elevators,  and  one 
more  notable  building  than  all,  that  of 
the  State  University,  on  the  heights  of 
St.  Anthony,  overlook  the  Falls. 

These  have  changed  no  less  than  the 
aspect  of  the  shores  above.  Then  the 
Mississippi  poured  its  waters  over  a 
rocky  rim  some  sixteen  or  eighteen 
feet  high  ;  while  the  stream  below  was 
islanded,  as  I  well  remember,  by  im- 
mense fragments,  enormous  careened 
blocks,  of  the  broken  limestone  stra- 
tum which  forms  the  upper  bed  of  the 
river.  This  stratum,  fourteen  feet  in 
thickness,  rests  upon  a  treacherous 
foundation  of  the  same  soft  white  sand- 
stone whose  pallid  walls  uplift  the  bluffs 
lower  down.  The  action  of  the  recoil- 
ing current  is  continually  cutting  out 
the  foundation,  and  the  superincum- 
bent limestone,  thus  undermined,  is  left 
projecting  until,  breaking  away  by  its 
own  weight,  it  launches  huge  masses 
down  the  Falls.  An  immense  horse- 
shoe has  been  formed,  which  is  now 
filled  with  fragments  of  the  broken  lime- 
stone, and  with  derricks  and  timbers  ; 
for  the  Minneapolitans,  seeing  how  fast 
the  source  of  their  prosperity  is  moving 
away  from  them  up  the  stream,  have 
set  to  work  in  earnest,  constructing  a 
costly  protective  apron  across  the  face 
of  the  Falls.  To  facilitate  this  work,  a 
powerful  temporary  side  dam  has  been 
built,  which  carries  away  the  water  in 
rushing,  foaming  rapids,  with  tempestu- 
ous roar  and  vapor,  down  its  tremen- 
dous sluice,  leaving  dry  the  verge  of 
the  natural  fall,  with  only  a  little  stream 
here  and  there  trickling:  over  the  rocks. 


From  the  farther  end  of  a  slight 
bridge  that  spans  this  menacing  tor- 
rent some  of  us  cross  dry-shod  to  the 
island  which  divides  the  main  stream 
from  the  little  fall  on  the  St.  Anthony 
side ;  and  go  up  thence  to  view  the 
great  dam  built  for  the  husbanding  of 
the  waters,  the  endless  procession  of 
logs  that  come  floating  down,  and  the 
gang  of  men,  armed  with  pike-poles, 
assorting  them  as  they  arrive  at  the 
separating-booms,  and  sending  them, 
each  according  to  its  mark  of  owner- 
ship, down  their  appropriate  channels, 
to  the  mills  below. 

The  river  falls  seventy  feet  in  the 
course  of  a  mile,  affording  water-power 
sufficient  (well-informed  persons  assure 
us)  "to  turn  all  the  spindles  of  Eng- 
land." By  a  device  said  to  be  new  in 
hydraulic  engineering,  the  softness  of 
the  white  sandstone,  hitherto  so  fatal  to 
the  permanence  of  the  perpendicular  fall, 
has  been  curiously  taken  advantage  of, 
and  made  tributary  to  the  power  it  en- 
dangered. Wherever  a  supply  of  water 
can  be  had  from  the  canals  fed  by  the 
dams,  there — no  matter  how  far  in- 
land—  a  good  mill-site  is  practicable. 
It  is  only  necessary  to  sink  a  well  or 
shaft  through  the  overlying  earth  and 
limestone,  communicating  at  the  bottom 
with  a  tunnel  opened  up  to  it,  in  the 
sandstone,  from  the  river-bank  below 
the  falls.  The  shaft  serves  as  the  wa- 
ter-wheel pit,  from  which  the  water  is 
discharged  through  the  tunnel.  The 
various  shafts  already  sunk  for  this  pur- 
pose average  about  thirty-five  feet  in 
depth  ;  some  of  the  tunnels  are  hun- 
dreds of  feet  in  length.  As  the  sand- 
stone yields  almost  as  readily  as  mere 
packed  sand  to  the  pick  and  spade  of 
the  workmen,  and  to  the  assaults  of  the 
recoiling  river  currents,  I  am  concerned 
to  know  what  may  be  the  effect  of  thus 
pouring  the  river  through  it  beneath 
the  very  foundations  of  the  town.  "O, 
there  is  no  danger;  the  tunnels  don't 
enlarge  perceptibly,  and  there  's  no 
chance  of  the  river  getting  the  advan- 
tage of  us."  I  should  hope  not !  * 

*  After  the  above  notes  were  taken,  the  river  did 
get  the  advantage  of  our  friends  (as  I  learn  by  the 


to  Minnesota  Prairies. 


281 


We  pay  a  visit  to  the  saw-mills,  and 
see  the  constant  succession  of  logs, 
drawn  in  from  above,  passing  through 
the  singing  and  clashing  teeth  of  saws, 
and  coming  out  lumber,  which  is  shot 
down  long  chutes  into  the  river  below, 
where  it  is  made  up  into  rafts; — see 
blocks  and  slabs  worked  up  by  machin- 
ery into  laths  and  staves  and  shingles, 
with  a  suddenness  that  must  astonish 
them.  Then  we  ride  through  the  pleas- 
ant streets  of  the  town,  beautifully  laid 
out  on  a  broad  plateau  extending  back 
from  the  river;  and  return  to  the  depot 
in  time  for  the  train  which  arrives  from 
St.  I'aul  with  more  of  our  party,  and, 
as  soon  as  we  are  aboard,  speeds  away 
with  us  west  from  the  Mississippi. 

A  ride  of  fourteen  miles  over  bushy 
oak  barrens,  then  through  a  belt  of  tim- 
ber fifty  miles  in  breadth,  —  passing 
here  and  there  a  small  farm-clearing, 
or  "  claim  shanty,"  or  gleaming  blue 
lake,  —  and  the  prairie  country  opens 
before  us,  spotted  with  flowers,  covered 
with  waving  wild  grass  and  nodding 
tufts  of  plants,  and  stretching  away, 
without  visible  farm  or  fence,  to  where 
its  outlines  meet  the  sky. 

It  is  almost  the  first  utterly  untamed 
prairie  we  have  seen ;  for  here  are  no 
black  squares  of  ploughed  land  check- 
ering the  distant  hills,  —  no  revolving 
reapers  moving  over  golden-blue  grain- 
fields  on  the  horizon's  verge  ;  but  the 
only  marks  of  civilization  are  the  newly- 
laid  railroad-track,  the  laborers'  shan- 
ties, and  here  and  there  a  half-finished 
depot.  The  sight  inspires  an  inde- 
scribable feeling  of  freshness  and  free- 
newspapers),  in  a  most  unexpected  and  astonishing 
manner.  A  tunnel,  which  was  excavating  beneath 
the  upper  bed  of  the  river,  from  below  the  Falls, 
opening  a  water-power  for  Nicollet  Island,  struck 
wh.it  the  papers  call  "a  sunken  water-cavern,"  — 
i  fissure  in  the  limestone  (in  short,  a  nat- 
ur.il  shaft  in  very  much  the  wrong  place),  —  which 
let  the  river  drop  through  altogether  prematurely. 
An  uncontrollable  rush  of  water  down  this  new 
channel,  enlarging  the  opening,  produced  a  frightful 
maelstrom, — the  Mississippi  threatening  to  find 
there  a  new  outlet,  and  to  undermine  the  entire 
rock  basis  of  the  Falls.  A  St.  Paul  paper,  printed  a 
;fter  the  accident,  says  :  "  By  the  herculean 
efforts  of  hundreds  of  stalwart  men  employed  in 
choking  up  the  maelstrom,  such  progress  has  been 
made  as  to  afford  a  fair  prospect  of  averting  fur- 
ther damage." 


dom  and  vastness.  Then  there  is  the 
native  scent  of  the  prairie,  unlike  any 
other  wild  odor  in  the  world,  —  bring- 
ing back  vividly  to  my  memory  a  sum- 
mer of  my  youth  on  the  prairies  of  Illi- 
nois. For  a  moment  I  am  there  again  ; 
—  I  pluck  the  gaudy  Howers,  I  scare 
up  the  whirring  grouse  almost  from 
under  my  feet,  I  tread  the  springing 
turf  with  the  careless  gladness  of  boy- 
hood ; —  then  the  mist  of  the  gulf  of 
years  sweeps  over  me,  and  I  awaken 
here,  with  an  aching  wonder  at  myself 
and  these  new  strange  scenes  around 
me. 

We  run  a  few  miles,  to  the  end  of 
the  railroad,  —  if  that  can  be  called 
an  end  which  is  moving  forward  at 
the  rate  of  a  mile  a  day,  —  and  wit- 
ness the  laying  of  the  track.  The 
grade  is  already  prepared,  — a  simple 
flattened  ridge  of  the  black  prairie  soil 
thrown  up  from  a  trench  on  either  side. 
Teams  go  forward  with  wagon-loads 
of  ties  which  are  laid  across  it  at  inter- 
vals. A  hand-car  follows,  loaded  with 
iron.  The  rails  are  run  out  in  front 
and  laid  on  the  ties,  an  iron  "chair" 
is  slipped  over  the  ends  connecting 
them  ;  a  touch  with  a  measuring-rod, 
a  few  spikes  driven,  and  the  hand-car 
passes  on,  over  rails  which  itself  just 
carried.  A  little  "levelling  up"  and 
straightening  of  the  track  make  it  ready 
for  the  engine  and  freight-train  bring- 
ing up  supplies  of  iron  and  ties,  and 
for  our  own  "  special,"  which  presently 
advances  over  a  portion  of  road  not 
built  when  we  arrived  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before. 

This  is  the  St.  Paul  and  Pacific  Rail- 
road, to-day  pushing  out  its  feelers  like 
some  sentient  crawling  creature  to- 
wards its  present  proposed  terminus, 
Breckenridge,  on  the  Red  River  of  the 
North,  still  some  hundred  and  sixty 
miles  away.  Hundreds  of  miles  far- 
ther on  the  north  and  west  extends 
just  such  a  beautiful,  fertile  country  as 
this  before  us,  awaiting  the  plough  and 
the  seed-grain  of  the  farmer.  The  en- 
tire valley  of  the  Red  River  is  described 
by  those  who  have  seen  it  as  one  of 
the  richest  and  loveliest  in  the  world, — 


282 


The  Military  Ball  at  Gotilacaska. 


[March, 


a  garden  of  delights.  Its  boundless 
wheat-lands  are  capable  of  supplying 
the  granaries  of  Europe.  Its  climate 
is  singularly  mild  and  uniform,  for  it 
lies  embosomed  in  the  heart  of  the 
continent,  where  the  isothermal  lines 
make  an  astonishing  sweep  to  the 
northward,  giving  even  to  the  regions 
of  the  Assineboine  and  Swan  River  be- 
yond, and  to  the  far-off  valley  of  the 
Saskatchawan,  the  summer  tempera- 
ture of  Pennsylvania  and  New  York, 
ten  degrees  further  south.  What  must 
be  the  result  to  America  when  rail- 
roads have  opened  to  civilization  these 
almost  unknown  regions  of  the  vast 
Northwest ! 

Such  thoughts  came  over  us  like  the 


mild  blowing  of  the  prairie  winds  as  we 
watch  the  laying  of  the  initial  track. 
It  is  a  lovely  day  ;  how  fresh  and 
sweet  the  air,  breathing  from  the  haunts 
of  the  bison  and  the  elk,  and  wafting 
the  odors  of  myriads  of  flowers !  We 
scatter  like  school  -  children  over  the 
prairies,  gathering  bouquets,  —  our  fair 
companions  in  their  many-colored  cos- 
tumes showing  like  a  larger  and  love- 
lier garland  spangling  the  turf.  Even 
in  the  midst  of  these  romantic  enjoy- 
ments, inevitable,  all-compelling  hunger 
visits  us,  and  we  are  not  sorry  when  the 
note  of  the  steam-whistle  summons  us 
(Ye  muses  !  must  I  say  it  ? )  to  the  din- 
ner which  the  officers  of  the  road  have 
provided  for  their  guests. 


THE    MILITARY    BALL    AT    GOULACASKA. 


MILITARY  balls  have  borne  their 
part  in  song  and  story  ever  since 
that  memorable  night,  recorded  in  Holy 
Writ,  when  Belshazzar  the  king  drank 
wine  before  a  thousand  of  his  lords, 
and  saw,  it  is  to  be  feared  with  blurred 
vision,  the  prophetic  handwriting  on 
the  wall.  That  the  entertainment  in 
question  partook  largely  of  a  military 
character  I  think  there  can  be  no  rea- 
sonable doubt,  for  it  behooved  the  king 
to  provide  good  cheer  for  his  generals 
when  the  Medes  and  Persians  were  ad- 
vancing their  parallels  within  short  can- 
ister range  of  the  Babylonish  outworks, 
and  when,  as  we  may  fairly  assume, 
the  Persian  and  Chaldean  archers  were 
exchanging  morning  papers,  and  swap- 
ping jackknives,  even  as  our  own  pickets 
used  to  do,  a  few  years  ago,  along  the 
advanced  line  in  Virginia  and  Tennes- 
see. The  resemblance  between  Bel- 
shazzar's  little  entertainment  and  the 
ball  whose  history  and  untimely  end 
I  propose  to  relate  ceases  with  their 
military  character  ;  for  the  palm-dotted 
plains  of  Mesopotamia  bore  as  little 
resemblance  to  the  bayous  and  prai- 


ries by  which  we  were  surrounded  as 
did  the  old  plantation-house,  with  its 
wide  verandas,  to  the  massive  colon- 
nade of  the  royal  palace  in  Babylon. 

There  was  something  of  a  garrison 
at  Goulacaska  in  those  days,  for  it  was 
an  important  outpost  on  the  border  of 
a  vast  territory  of  swamp,  savannah, 
and  bayou,  through  which  from  time 
to  time  armies  moved  or  chased  one 
another,  according  to  the  varying  for- 
tunes of  war.  Our  force  was  divided, 
the  main  body,  composed  exclusively 
of  white  troops,  being  stationed  on  the 
most  important  side  of  the  wide  river 
and  bay,  in  a  well-fortified  position, 
while  we,  that  is  to  say,  two  regiments 
of  colored  troops,  with  a  few  pieces  of 
artillery,  occupied  a  large  tete-du-pont, 
so  called,  on  the  opposite  side. 

On  the  islands  and  along  the  bayous 
of  the  vicinity  lived  the  sparse  remains 
of  local  aristocracy,  composed  for  the 
most  part  of  ladies,  with  a  few  old  men 
and  boys,  unfit  for  service  in  the  field, 
and  whom  the  rigid  conscription  had 
not  yet  reached.  Sons,  brothers,  and 
husbands  who  could  or  would  carry 


1870.] 


77*6-  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


283 


musket  or   sword   were    away   in   the 
army. 

Black  regiments  were  then  at  the 
height  of  their  unpopularity,  officers  and 
all  sharing  in  the  disfavor  with  which 
the  organisations  were  regarded.  For  a 
time  we  felt  rather  keenly  the  coolness 
with  which  our  brother  officers  across 
the  river  treated  us  ;  but  by  the  end  of 
the  summer  these  little  prejudices  wore 
.id  we  were  on  excellent  terms. 

Life  in  both  camps  was  monotonous, 
of  course.  Socially  the  head-quarters 
side  of  the  river  was  preferable.  A 
long  period  of  inactivity  on  the  part  of 
the  Confederate  forces  had  led  many  of 
the  officers  to  send  for  their  wives  as 
winter  came  on,  and  quite  a  little  party 
of  ladies  could  upon  occasion  be  as- 
sembled from  the  various  regiments 
and  batteries  which  composed  the  com- 
mand. On  our  side  we  had  the  excite- 
ment of  occasional  skirmishes  with  the 
enemy:s  cavalry,  and  if  a  foraging-party 
ventured  out  of  sight  of  the  picket-line 
it  was  tolerably  certain  of  a  lively  time 
before  getting  back.  So  we  called  it  an 
even  thing,  and  considered  it  a  great 
privilege  to  have  leave  of  absence  for 
an  evening  across  the  river,  while  they, 
on  the  otaer  hand,  envied  us  the  excite- 
ments of  our  more  exposed  position. 

The  long  period  of  military  inactivity 
and  the  constant  presence  of  good-look- 
ing young  fellows  in  blue  had  caused 
the  memory  of  absent  cavaliers  in  gray 
to  fade  somewhat  in  the  minds  of  our 
fair  Southern  neighbors,  who,  although 
unswerving  in  their  allegiance  to  the 
Confederate  cause,  could  not  bring 
themselves  utterly  to  refuse  masculine 
adulation,  even  when  it  was  bound  in 
blue  and  gold. 

We  of  the  colored  troops  found,  how- 
ever, that  as  soon  as  our  corps  was  an- 
nounced, an  immediate  cooling  off  en- 
sued on  the  part  of  our  Southern  sisters, 
and  we  considered  ourselves  lucky  if 
we  were  not  treated  with  undisguised 
scorn  or  given  the  cut  direct,  if  an  op- 
portunity occurred. 

Our  Post  Commandant  was  an  old 
Regular  Army  officer,  holding  a  briga- 
dier commission  in  the  volunteers.  He 


and  his  wife  occupied  part  of  the  old 
plantation-house  aforementioned,  and 
ruled  with  stern  but  beneficent  tyranny 
respectively  over  our  military  and  so- 
cial world.  Garrison  society  in  the 
volunteer  army  was  apt  to  contain  ele- 
ments so  incongruous  that  an  utter 
lack  of  harmony  often  existed,  but  the 
General's  wife  was  a  woman  who  had 
seen  the  world,  and  was  so  completely 
mistress  of  the  situation  that  no  one  of 
her  female  subordinates  ever  attempted 
to  set  up  a  rival  claim  to  social  su- 
premacy. 

Of  course  it  was  no  more  than  natu- 
ral that  secesh  society  should  have  a 
queen  of  its  own,  and  Madame  Pres- 
bourg,  the  wife  of  a  Confederate  gener- 
al, occupied  the  throne  by  virtue  of  her 
husband's  rank,  and  bore  aloft  the  some- 
what bedraggled  escutcheon  of  local 
upper-tendom.  Her  two  pretty  daugh- 
ters were  Rebels  to  the  tips  of  their  fin- 
gers, but  were  so  deeply  imbued  with 
the  native  coquetry  of  Southern  maidens 
that  they  could  not  forego  the  tempta- 
tions of  society,  and  so  by  some  un- 
known diplomacy  had  persuaded  their 
mamma  to  permit  calls  from  approved 
Federals.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  certain 
officers,  yielding  to  feminine  blandish- 
ments, forwarded  sundry  notes  and  let- 
ters across  the  lines  to  Confederate  ter- 
ritory which  would  have  hardly  reached 
their  destination  by  other  channels. 
However,  no  harm  appears  to  have  been 
done,  although  untold  disaster  might 
easily  have  followed  such  youthful  rash- 
ness. 

The  late  Southern  fall  with  its  charm- 
ing days  was  turning  the  cypresses 
brown,  and  bringing  myriads  of  water- 
fowl from  the  far  north  to  swim  in  the 
sheltered  lagoons  which  surrounded  our 
encampment.  The  rank  and  file  of  our 
colored  regiments  as  they  sat  around 
their  camp-fires  were  beginning  to  re- 
call half  regretfully  memories  of  by- 
gone Christmas  holidays  in  old  planta- 
tion times,  when  it  was  rumored  that  a 
ball  was  to  be  given  on  Christmas  eve 
at  post  head-quarters.  The  report  was 
at  first  disbelieved ;  but  about  two  weeks 
before  that  festival  an  orderly  was  ob- 


284 


The  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


[March, 


served  making  the  rounds  of  our  offi- 
cers' quarters,  bearing  in  his  hand  a 
package  of  unofficial-looking  envelopes, 
which  proved  to  be  manuscript  notifica- 
tions to  the  effect  that  General  and 
Mrs.  Mars  would  be  at  home  on  Christ- 
mas eve  at  half  past  seven  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  Similar  documents  were 
sent  by  the  General's  body-servant  to 
various  secesh  families  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, part  of  the  General's  creed  being 
to  cultivate  the  social  virtues  so  far  as 
was  consistent  with  the  good  of  the 
service,  and  no  further. 

Of  course  this  break  in  the  monotony 
of  our  life  was  looked  forward  to  with 
pleasure  by  everybody  who  was  con- 
cerned, and  it  was  understood  on  all 
sides  that  for  once  the  hatchet  should 
be  buried,  and  that  the  memory  of  the 
absent  should  be  pledged  alike  by 
North  and  South,  thus  laying  a  foun- 
dation for  a  merrier  Christmas  and  a 
happier  New  Year  in  the  days  to  come. 

I  regret  to  say  that  this  charming 
dream  of  social  reconstruction  was  not 
destined  to  attain  a  perfect  realization. 
In  a  few  days  a  rumor  arose,  no  one 
knew  whence,  that  the  secesh  ladies 
had  accepted  their  invitations  only  on 
condition  that  no  officers  of  colored 
troops  were  to  attend  the  ball.  Of 
course  this  proviso  was  not  embodied 
in  the  written  notes  of  acceptance ;  but 
it  is  well  understood  that  ladies  have 
ways  of  making  known  such  decisions, 
without  forwarding  documents  through 
the  regular  official  channels. 

Here  was  a  dilemma,  and  the  faces 
of  our  garrison  ladies  grew  visibly  long- 
er as  the  threatened  danger  assumed 
definite  proportions.  The  General 
would  probably  have  solved  the  diffi- 
culty by  remarking,  with  honest  indig- 
nation, that  they  might  stay  away  and 
be  hanged  ;  and  his  wife  would  have 
expressed  the  same  idea  in  ladylike 
phrase.  This,  however,  would  practi- 
cally have  broken  up  the  ball,  so  it  be- 
came necessary  to  manage  the  affair 
independently  of  head -quarters,  and 
the  whole  responsibility  fell  upon  the 
garrison  ladies  at  large,  some  of  whom, 
as  the  result  proved,  were  willing  to 


stoop  that  they  might  conquer,  and 
who,  sad  to  relate,  found  "officers  and 
gentlemen  "  willing  to  aid  in  their  un- 
patriotic schemes. 

On  our  side  of  the  river  we  had  a 
sort  of  public  hall  where  we  were  wont 
to  meet  in  the  evening,  and  where  such 
papers  and  periodicals  as  came  to  hand 
were  deposited  for  the  common  good. 
This  hall,  not  to  call  it  a  shanty,  was 
built  of  boards,  found,  as  Sherman's 
bummers  used  to  say,  in  the  woods 
more  than  a  mile  from  any  house,  and 
was  an  institution  which  I  recommend 
to  all  officers  of  United  States  troops 
on  detached  stations.  Officers  of  other 
nations  have  mess-rooms  and  tents 
furnished  by  their  respective  govern- 
ments, and  therefore  need  not  scour  the 
neighboring  forests  in  search  of  casual 
boards. 

A  few  evenings  before  the  ball,  such 
of  us  as  were  off  duty  were  sitting 
as  usual  in  our  hall  engaged  in  the 
various  innocent  amusements  charac- 
teristic of  such  gatherings,  when  the 
door  opened  and  in  came  two  officers 
from  the  other  side.  It  was  a  rare 
thing  to  receive  such  a  visit  in  the  even- 
ing, but  this  was  apparently  only  a 
friendly  call,  and  we  endeavored  to 
make  the  occasion  an  agreeable  one  by 
sending  to  the  sutler's  for  a  bottle  or 
two  of  his  best  soda-water,  with  which 
to  drink  the  health  of  our  unexpected 
guests.  After  a  while  the  talk  turned 
on  the  coming  ball,  and  the  last  news 
was  demanded  concerning  the  progress 
of  preparations.  "Why,"  said  Captain 
Linn,  the  most  self-possessed  of  our 
guests,  "haven't  you  heard  that  the 
idea  of  a  ball  has  been  given  up,  and  we 
are  to  have  simply  a  reception,  which 
the  garrison  ladies  only  will  attend." 

This  change  of  programme  excited 
general  surprise,  and  various  were  the 
speculations  concerning  the  cause. 
Our  guests  kept  discreetly  silent  or 
evaded  our  questions  for  some  min- 
utes, till  at  length  the  Captain,  shifting 
rather  uneasily  in  his  seat,  broke  out  as 
follows,  in  reply  to  a  direct  appeal  from 
one  of  our  number  :  — 

"I    didn't    mean    to    say    anything 


1 8;o.] 


The  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


'85 


about  it,  but  the  fact  is  that  we  owe  the 
affair  to  you  fellows  on  this  side  of  the 
river." 

"  To  us  !  "  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
was  queried  on  all  sides  ;  and  the  Cap- 
tain, gaining  courage,  went  on  :  — 

"Well,  you  know  it  has  been  ru- 
mored that  the  secesh  girls,  not  to 
mention  their  mammas,  would  not  at- 
tend the  ball  in  case  you  officers  of  col- 
ored troops  went.  Everybody  thought 
they  would  be  glad  enough  to  come 
anyhow,  and  were  only  talking  so  as  to 
make  a  show  of  loyalty  to  the  Rebel 
cause  ;  but  at  last  it  came  out  that  they 
had  actually  decided  to  stand  by  their 
principles  and  stay  away  altogether, 
unless  assured  that  they  should  not 
meet  the  nig—  the  officers  of  colored 
troops.  So  there  you  are.  I  didn't 
mean  to  tell  you  of  it,  for  of  course  it  is 
disagreeable  to  feel  that  you  are  depriv- 
ing the  rest  of  us  of  a  good  time ;  but  you 
made  me  tell,  so  it  can't  be  helped." 

We  looked  at  one  another  in  mute 
indignation  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
mutterings  of  wrath  indicated  the  sense 
of  the  meeting.  In  the  course  of  ten 
minutes  or  so  the  question  was  pro- 
posed, —  by  whom  we  never  could  find 
out,  —  whether  or  no  we  should  mag- 
nanimously stay  away  so  that  the  ball 
might  come  off  as  at  first  proposed. 
The  proposition  was  greeted  with  scorn, 
and  even  our  guests  joined  us  in  agree- 
ing that  this  would  be  an  unbecoming 
concession  to  rebeldom.  The  question 
was,  however,  discussed,  and  presently 
Captain  Tybale,  who  had  been  quietly 
listening  to  the  talk  and  taking  obser- 
vations, raised  his  voice  so  as  to  arrest 
the  hum  of  general  conversation.  Now 
the  Captain  was  one  of  our  acknowl- 
edged leaders,  first  in  war,  first  in 
peace,  etc.,  and  his  words  always  com- 
manded respect. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "in  my 
opinion,  it  is  a  piece  of  confounded  se- 
cesh impudence,  and  I  'm  no  more  dis- 
posed than  any  of  you  to  yield  to  it ; 
but  if  Southern  girls  don't  appreciate  us, 
we  can't  help  it.  It  is  very  evident  to 
any  disinterested  observer  that  they 
are  the  losers,  so  I  think  our  best  way 


is  to  keep  still  and  take  our  pay  out  of 
the  masculine  Rebs  next  time  we  meet 
'em.  You  see  we  'colored  officers' 
number  only  about  fifty  men  all  told, 
and  probably  not  more  than  thirty 
could  be  allowed  leave  of  absence  to 
attend  the  ball,  while  those  fellows  on 
the  other  side  will  turn  out  at  least  sev- 
enty-five or  a  hundred  pairs  of  shoulder- 
straps.  I  move  that  we  don't  spoil  the 
fun  of  the  majority.  Let  us  just  stay 
away  and  let  them  have  their  old  ball 
to  themselves.  And,  Linn,"  turning  to- 
wards our  guests,  "  you  may  present  my 

compliments  to  Miss  Le  C ,  and  tell 

her  that  I  have  already  had  two  chances 
to  shoot  that  gray-coated  cousin  of  hers, 
and  did  n't  because  I  had  a  slight  ac- 
quaintance with  herself.  Tell  her  there 
is  no  knowing  what  may  happen  anoth- 
er time." 

The  Captain  ceased,  and  at  once  com- 
municated with  two  or  three  of  us  pri- 
vately, urging  us  to  second  his  motion. 
The  result  was  that  in  half  an  hour  our 
guests  departed  authorized  to  say  that, 
as  a  body,  we  would  not  attend  the  ball. 
Tybale  escorted  them  to  their  boat,  and 
we  broke  up  to  attend  tattoo  roll-call. 
Soon  after  "  taps "  Tybale's  servant 
brought  word  to  me  that  the  Captain 
wished  to  see  me,  and  going  over  to 
his  quarters  we  spent  an.  hour  talking 
over  certain  plans  which  shall  be  laid 
before  the  reader  as  my  tale  proceeds. 

It  is  sufficient  to  say  here  that,  from 
certain  facts  in  Tybale's  possession,  it 
was  made  evident  to  all  who  were  ad- 
mitted to  his  confidence,  that  a  few  of 
the  garrison  ladies  had  conspired  to 
keep  us  away  from  the  ball,  so  that  the 
tender  feelings  of  their  secesh  acquaint- 
ance should  not  be  harrowed  by  meet- 
ing officers  of  colored  troops  on  a 
social  equality. 

The  two  officers  whose  visit  to  us 
I  have  just  described  were  secret  emis- 
saries from  this  female  cabal,  sent 
over  to  pave  the  way  for  a  voluntary 
consent,  on  our  part,  to  stay  away  from 
the  entertainment.  The  next  day  the 
affair,  was  more  generally  talked  of, 
the  greatest  secrecy  being  observed 
with  regard  to  the  discovered  conspir- 


286 


The  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


[March, 


acy.  The  field  and  staff  officers,  with 
others  who  had  not  been  present  on  the 
previous  evening,  approved  our  action. 
The  Colonel  of  our  regiment,  who,  being 
senior  officer,  commanded  on  our  side 
the  river,  agreed  with  us,  but  said  that 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  pay  his 
respects  to  the  General  in  an  official 
way  on  the  evening  of  the  ball,  and  that 
he  would  take  one  of  his  staff  with  him 
for  form's  sake. 

So  it  was  all  quietly  settled,  and 
everything  went  on  with  the  usual 
clock-like  regularity  of  military  routine. 

At  this  epoch  of  my  story  I  beg 
leave  to  introduce  a  letter  from  Harry 
Wistar,  at  that  time  our  Adjutant.  A 
day  or  two  after  the  ball  he  was  com- 
missioned in  a  Regular  regiment  then 
stationed  in  the  far  West,  and,  starting 
at  once  to  join  his  command,  he  heard 
none  of  the  stories  which  were  soon  in 
circulation  concerning  events  at  Goula- 
caska. His  letter  shows  the  view 
taken  by  the  outside  public,  and  I  cer- 
tify on  honor  that  the  following  is  a 
true  and  correct  copy  of  the  original 
epistle. 

ADJUTANT  WISTAR'S  ACCOUNT. 

TERMINUS  PACIFIC  RAILWAY, 
August  29,  1868. 

MY  DEAR  TOM,  —  Ever  since  the  ar- 
rival of  your  letter  I  have  been  trying  in 
vain  to  discover  why,  at  this  late  day, 
you  want  a  particular  account  of  that 
luckless  ball  at  Goulacaska  and  its  un- 
timely end.  The  request  for  such  a 
narrative  is,  however,  a  modest  one, 
considering  the  source  ;  so  here  it  is, 
exactly  as  I  recollect  it. 

You  know  the  history  of  the  affair  as 
well  as  I  do  up  to  6.30  p.  M.  on  Christ- 
mas eve,  1863,  when  the  Colonel  and  I, 
arrayed  in  our  best  uniforms,  embarked 
in  the  yawl,  and  were  pulled  away 
through  the  gathering  darkness  toward 
the  twinkling  lights  of  the  east  side. 
When  we  were  some  fifty  yards  from 
the  landing  the  Colonel,  who  had  until 
that  time  maintained  a  reflective  si- 
lence, suddenly  ordered  the  men  to 
avast  pulling,  and,  turning  to  me  as  he 
crowded  the  tiller  to  starboard,  "  Adju- 


tant," said  he,  "  I  'm  very  certain  that 
the  devil  is  to  pay  somewhere  to-night, 
and  I  've  a  good  notion  to  step  ashore 
and  send  you  with  my  excuses  to  the 
General." 

The  boat  swung  slowly  round,  bob- 
bing up  and  down  on  the  sea  which 
the  ebb  tide  was-  making,  and  we  both 
sat  in  the  stern-sheets  looking  back  at 
the  lights  and  fires  which  marked  the 
camp.  Everything  bore  its  ordinary 
appearance.  I  reminded  the  Colonel 
that  Jones  was  officer  of  the  day,  and 
that  Major  Thomas  was  sober,  which 
latter  rather  exceptional  state  of  things, 
together  with  the  fact  that  all  was  quiet 
outside  the  pickets,  had  the  reassuring 
effect  which  I  intended,  and  the  Colo- 
nel, still  shaking  his  head  somewhat 
dubiously,  ordered  the  men  to  give 
way,  and  brought  the  boat's  head 
round  once  more  toward  the  opposite 
shore.  A  steady  pull  of  an  hour  brought 
us  to  the  opposite  side,  and  during  the 
voyage  we  had  some  further  conversa- 
tion on  the  subject  of  the  'suspicions 
which,  when  we  were  half-way  across, 
I  admitted  were  shared  by  myself.  We 
concluded  that  our  forebodings  had  no 
sufficient  foundation,  and  were  only 
caused  by  our  simultaneous  absence 
from  camp,  which  was  an  event  of  rare 
occurrence. 

At  about  a  quarter  before  eight  we 
reached  head-quarters,  and  found,  as 
we  anticipated,  that  only  the  loyal  part 
of  the  company  had  as  yet  arrived. 
The  Colonel  and  I  made  our  bow  with- 
out serious  discomfort,  and,  leaving 
him  in  conversation  with  our  host  and 
hostess,  I  proceeded  to  make  myself 
agreeable  to  any  one  whom  I  could  get 
to  talk  with  me. 

I  soon  found  it  expedient  to  confine 
my  attentions  to  my  own  sex,  for  as 
the  hour  for  the  expected  arrival  of  the 
secesh  contingent  drew  near  the  femi-  - 
nine  intellect  became  so  intensely  pre- 
occupied in  watching  for  that  event 
that  it  was  impossible  to  engage  any  of 
the  ladies  present  in  rational  conversa- 
tion. From  this  sweeping  assertion  I 
wish,  however,  to  except  Mrs.  General 
Mars,  who  ro.se  superior  to  all  such 


1 870.] 


The  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


weakness,  and  was  just   her  ordinary 
charming  self. 

Soon  after  eight  o'clock  the  expected 
guests  began  to  arrive.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  cast  ridicule  upon  the  pov- 
erty which  fell  .  upon  so  many  once 
wealthy  Southern  families  during  those 
days  ;  but  when  I  saw  the  old  tumble- 
down relics  of  former  grandeur,  — once 
elegant  carriages,  drawn  to  the  door  by 
such  animals  as  had  been  left  behind 
after  successive  occupations  by  the 
hostile  armies,  and  driven  by  such  de- 
crepit darkies  as  still  remained  faithful 
to  "  de  ole  place,"  —  I  may  be  pardoned 
if  the  ludicrous  side  of  the  picture 
caught  my  eye  before  its  sadder  moral 
sobered  my  thoughts.  It  was  curi- 
ous to  see  these  Southern  ladies 
enter  the  rooms  arrayed  in  the  forgot- 
ten fashions  of  years  past.  Many 
dresses  were  rich  and  elegant,  and 
some  of  them  seemed,  to  my  unculti- 
vated eye,  far  more  graceful  than  the 
modern  costumes  worn  by  our  garrison 
ladies,  which  observation  aroused  a 
suspicion  in  my  mind,  since  confirmed, 
that  every  succeeding  fashion  is  not 
necessarily  more  tasteful  and  beauteous 
than  its  predecessor.  Most  of  the 
Southern  ladies,  some  thirty  in  number, 
came  without  any  escort  save  the  driv- 
ers of  their  respective  vehicles.  A 
few  old  men  and  young  boys,  however, 
were  made  to  do  duty,  but  they  attract- 
ed comparatively  little  attention,  and  a 
pleasant  hum  of  conversation  began  to 
diffuse  itself  through  the  parlors.  Mrs. 
Mars  had,  with  her  usual  taste  and 
skill,  draped  the  rooms  with  flags,  for 
which  purpose  all  the  bunting  pos- 
sessed by  the  land  and  naval  forces  of 
the  Union,  then  stationed  at  Goulacas- 
ka, had  been  borrowed.  Among  the 
naval  signals  the  sharp  eyes  of  some  of 
our  fair  Southern  guests  soon  detected 
a  pennant  of  red,  white,  and  red,  with  a 
"lone  star,"  near  one  corner.  This 
was  at  once  seized  upon  as  a  recog- 
nition of  Southern  rights,  and  much 
good-humored  talk  ensued,  amid  which 
the  General  was  repeatedly  thanked  for 
his  courtesy  in  thus  giving  a  place  to 
the  colors  of  the  "  new  nation." 


"  Ladies,"  said  he,  as  a  bevy  of  his 
guests  tendered  him  their  thanks, — 
"  ladies,  you  are  very  welcome,  but 
your  new  nation  is,  I  think,  only  an 
imagination." 

So  the  talk  went  on,  and  society  was 
fast  being  reorganized  on  an  excellent 
basis  of  good  fellowship,  when  interrup- 
tion number  one  came  in  the  shape  of 
the  party  from  St.  Jean's.  You  remem- 
ber Madame  Presbourg,  Tom,  with  her 
two  lovely  daughters,  of  course  ?  Why, 
we  used  to  joke  you  about  one  of  them. 
Well,  after  everybody  was  there  and  in 
good  spirits,  at  forty-five  minutes  past 
eight  precisely  by  the  Post  Adjutant's 
clock,  I  beheld  Madame  Presbourg  in 
the  doorway  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
good-looking,  dark-complexioned  man 
of  thirty  or  thereabout,  and  followed 
at  easy  supporting  distance  by  the  two 
young  ladies.  In  this  order  the  party 
passed  without  wincing  under  the 
crossed  battery-guidons  over  the  door, 
and  advanced  resolutely  upon  the  big 
garrison  flag  that  hung  across  the  end 
of  the  parlor,  in  front  of  which  our 
hosts  stood  to  receive  their  onset. 
The  ladies  were  simply  and  tastefully 
dressed,  and  looked  their  loveliest,  but 
all  eyes  were  concentrated  upon  the 
male  escort  whose  presence  and  bear- 
ing so  enhanced  the  effect  of  this  very 
successful  entri.  Who  could  he  be  ? 
No  able-bodied  Southern  man  of  his 
stamp  had  been  seen,  at  least  during 
Federal  occupancy,  in  that  vicinity  since 
1 86 1.  Was  he  a  Confederate  officer  in 
disguise,  or  an  emissary  from  Rich- 
mond, or  only  a  distinguished  for- 
eigner? Speculation  was  rife  as  the 
party  moved  through  the  not  very  full 
rooms,  and  saluted  the  General  and 
his  wife  with  a  dignity  which  said  as 
plainly  as  words  could  have  done,  "  We 
are  Rebels,  every  one  of  us.  We  have 
come  to  your  ball,  but  are  not  con- 
ciliated by  any  means." 

I  watched  the  General  curiously. 
There  was  a  slight  elevating  of  his 
gray  eyebrows  as  the  stranger  ap- 
peared, then  a  searching  glance  at  him 
from  head  to  foot,  but  nothing  betrayed 
his  suspicions  if  he  had  any.  Those 


288 


The  Military  Ball  at  Goitlacaska. 


[March, 


of  the  company  who  stood  nearest  the 
General  heard  Madame  Presbourg  say, 
as  she  introduced  her  escort,  "  My 
nephew,  Presley  Creighton  of  Virginia. 
He  arrived  quite  unexpectedly  to-day, 
and  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  avail- 
ing myself  of  his  escort." 

"  Most  happy  to  see  him,  madame," 
was  the  General's  reply;  and  a  short 
commonplace  talk  followed,  ending  with 
the  earnestly  expressed  hope  from  Ma- 
dame Presbourg,  reiterated  by  the 
young  ladies,  that  no  serious  inter- 
ruption should  occur  to  mar  the  fes- 
tivities of  the  evening. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  orchestral  troupe 
entered  and  made  their  way  to  the 
lower  end  of  the  rooms,  whence  forth- 
with proceeded  the  shriekings  conse- 
•quent  upon  the  adjustment  of  stringed 
instruments.  The  orchestra  was  com- 
posed of  a  bass-viol,  three  fiddles,  and 
•two  banjos,  all  in  the  hands  of  musical 
members  of  the  colored  troops,  and 
of  similarly  gifted  freedmen  from  the 
neighboring  plantations. 

The  Colonel  during  all  this  time 
showed  no  disposition  to  leave,  as  I 
expected,  and  everything  went  on  se- 
renely, notwithstanding  our  presence. 
At  half  past  ten  the  dancing  was  at  its 
height  (and  Southern  girls  do  dance 
better  than  Northern  ones,  although 
they  are  not  near  so  pretty  or  clever), 
when  suddenly  I  became  conscious  of 
a  cessation  in  the  hum  of  talk,  and  of  a 
movement  among  the  non-dancing  part 
of  the  company  towards  windows  and 
doors.  As  the  music  did  not  stop,  the 
dancing  continued,  but  in  a  few  sec- 
onds more  there  came  through  the 
windows  the  crack-crack  of  rifles  up 
the  river.  The  sound  was  too  palpable 
for  any  mistake.  The  first  fiddle  rolled 
-the  whites  of  his  eyes  toward  the  win- 
dow and  missed  two  notes,  then  turned 
purple  and  broke  down,  carrying  with 
him  the  whole  sable  orchestra,  just  as 
the  rattling  crash  of  a  solid  volley 
echoed  down  the  river,  and  shook  the 
sashes  in  their  frames,  while  the  last 
figures  of  the  cotillon  melted  into  a 
crowd  which  now  hurried  toward  the 
gallery.  By  this  time  the  long  roll  was 


beating,  the  troops  were  falling  in,  and 
we  could  hear  the  first  sergeants  hur- 
rying up  the  laggards  and  forming 
their  companies.  At  this  moment  the 
General  called  out  in  his  military  tone, 
"  Stations,  gentlemen,  stations,"  and 
away  went  the  masculine  portion  of 
the  assembly.  At  this  point  I  repress 
a  strong  desire  to  quote  a  certain 
apropos  verse  from  Childe  Harold,  but 
if,  as  I  half  suspect,  you  are  going  to 
print  this  yarn,  I  won't  deprive  you  of 
the  pleasure  which  I  know  arises  from 
an  apt  quotation. 

As  the  Colonel  and  I  were  rushing 
out  with  the  rest,  the  General  stopped 
us.  "  You  cannot  reach  your  com- 
mand," said  he,  "  in  time  to  be  of  any 
service.  This  affair  will  be  over,  one 
way  or  the  other,  before  you  could  get 
there.  I  want  you  two  to  stay  here, 
and  don't  let  a  soul  leave  this  house. 
I  'm  afraid  that  nephew  of  the  Pres- 
bourgs  has  escaped  already ;  but  if  he 
has  not,  don't  let  him.  I  '11  send  a 
guard  at  once."  The  General  went  off 
toward  his  horse,  and  the  Colonel  sent 
me  immediately  to  guard  the  back  gal- 
lery. The  house  was  built,  like  many 
Southern  mansions,  with  a  broad  gal- 
lery in  front  and  rear  at  the  height  of 
the  second  story,  where  were  the  par- 
lors, etc.  A  single  flight  of  stairs  led 
from  each  of  these  galleries  to  the 
ground.  The  Colonel  stationed  himself 
at  the  head  of  the  front  stairs,  while  I 
mounted  guard,  revolver  in  hand,  at  the 
rear  ones.  My  stairs  were  fortunately 
provided  with  a  swinging  gate,  which 
when  closed  rendered  my  position  im- 
pregnable to  any  feminine  assault. 

The  Colonel  was  less  lucky,  and  was 
obliged  single-handed  to  keep  the  stair- 
head against  a  threatened  attack,  which 
might  well  have  caused  Horatius  him- 
self to  quail.  As  soon  as  the  first 
moments  of  confusion  had  passed,  the 
feminine  crowd  on  the  gallery  resolved 
itself  into  two  elements,  to  wit,  loyal 
and  rebel.  The  latter  had  the  advan- 
tage in  point  of  numbers,  and  very 
soon  announced  its  intention  of  going 
home  ;  then  it  was  that  the  Colonel  and 
myself  were  discovered  at  our  posts. 


8/o.] 


TJic  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


289 


Madame  Presbourg  at  once  assumed 
command  of  the  Confederate  forces,  by 
virtue  of  seniority,  and,  making  a  stately 
farewell  to  our  hostess,  swept  into  the 
ladies'  dressing-room,  followed  by  her 
daughters  and  by  nearly  all  of  the 
secesh  contingent.  A  wide  hall  opened 
through  the  house,  so  that  I  had  a  clear 
view,  and  could  even  hear  most  of  the 
conversation.  A  few  moments  served 
to  complete  the  plan  of  operations,  and 
Madame  Presbourg,  at  the  head  of  her 
force,  moved  out  from  the  dressing- 
room  intrenchments  in  a  two-rank  for- 
mation, which  deployed  into  line  as 
the  gallery  was  reached.  The  male 
escort  was  not  visible,  and  had  not  been 
since  the  firing  commenced.  Mean- 
while the  skirmishing  up  stream  had 
slackened  into  a  dropping  fire,  which 
seemed  to  draw  slowly  nearer.  Ma- 
dame Presbourg,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  led  the  forlorn  hope  of  her 
two  daughters  to  the  assault,  while  the 
rest  of  her  command  halted  at  support- 
ing distance  to  await  the  result.  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  superb  air  of  indif- 
ference which  the  party  assumed  as 
they  drew  near  the  stairs  and  made  as 
if  they  would  walk  past  or  over  the 
Colonel.  It  was  as  if  the  honor  of  the 
whole  Confederacy  rested  upon  their 
individual  shoulders.  The  Colonel's 
soldierly  figure  looked  more  dignified 
than  ever  as  he  quietly  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  post  at  his  side,  so  that  his 
arm  barred  the  way,  and  addressed  the 
party  in  perfectly  respectful  tones  :  — 

"  Ladies,  it  is  my  painful  duty  to  in- 
form you  that  I  am  directed  by  the 
General  commanding  to  prevent  your 
leaving  this  house  until  further  or- 
ders." 

Madame  Presbourg  halted,  and  with 
the  most  cutting  hauteur  in  her  accents 
answered  :  "  This,  then,  is  your  North- 
ern hospitality,  to  invite  defenceless 
women  to  your  camp  and  then  imprison 
them."  Just  at  this  moment  the  drop- 
ping fire  on  the  skirmish-line  swelled 
into  an  irregular  volley  nearer  than 
before,  and  a  faint  yell  was  borne  to  our 
ea?s,  as  it"  the  assaulting  party  had 
made  a  determined  advance. 

VOL.  xxv.  — NO.  149.  19 


"  Madame,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that 
sound  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  your 
detention." 

The  Confederate  leader  doubtless 
saw  the  force  of  the  Colonel's  logic, 
but  not  one  whit  did  her  magnificence 
abate.  Turning  to  her  reserve  troop 
she  spoke :  — 

"  Ladies,  there  are  occasions  when  it 
is  proper  and  womanly  for  us  to  lay 
aside  our  gentler  nature  and  acquire 
by  force  what  we  cannot  gain  by  more 
moderate  means.  This  is  one  of  those 
occasions,  and  I  call  upon  you  as  South- 
ern women  to  aid  me  in  forcing  a  pas- 
sage to  our  husbands  and  sons,  whose 
voices  we  but  now  —  " 

"  Halt !  order  arms  !  "  came  from 
the  darkness  outside  and  the  but- 
plates  of  twenty  rifles  rang  on  the 
flagging  below.  In  another  moment 
a  brace  of  sentries  with  fixed  bayonets 
was  posted  at  each  exit,  and  a  sergeant 
with  a  squad  of  men  was  searching  the 
house  for  the  missing  male  escort,  who, 
by  the  way,  was  never  seen  more.  Ma- 
dame Presbourg,  however,  was  equal  to 
the  emergency,  and  remarked,  in  tones 
loud  enough  for  all  to  hear  :  — 

"  Pray  be  seated,  ladies ;  we  can  afford 
to  wait  a  few  minutes  until  our  friends 
are  in  possession  of  the  post,  and  then, 
perhaps,"  she  added,  "the  ball  may  be 
continued  under  different  management, 
and  Southern  gentlemen  may  be  your 
partners,  ladies,  instead  of  this  North- 
ern canaille." 

Such  was  Madame's  last  withering 
remark  as  the  Colonel  and  I  hastened 
off  to  report  to  the  General  for  further 
orders.  The  firing  had  by  this  time 
nearly  ceased,  the  General  had  sent  out 
supports  to  the  pickets,  who  were  strag- 
gling in  through  the  bushes  in  a  state 
of  utter  demoralization,  bringing  ac- 
counts of  an  overwhelming  force  of 
Rebels  ;  the  gunboats  were  shelling  the 
woods,  and  everything  bore  a  pleasing 
aspect  of  efficient  readiness. 

We  were  ordered  t®  return  to  our 
camp,  which  we  did  with  all  possible 
expedition,  reaching  it  in  time  to  pre- 
vent the  Major  from  opening  fire  on  the 
gunboat  with  grape  and  canister. 


2QO 


TJie  Military  Ball  at  Gonlacaska. 


[March, 


Now  I  have  always  suspected  that 
there  was  something  about  the  events 
of  that  night  which  my  transfer  to  the 
Regulars  prevented  my  finding  out,  and 
I  wish  you  would  let  me  know  what 
it  is. 

Yours  as  ever, 

HENRY  C.  WISTAR. 

I  now  resume  the  history  of  the  ball 
at  Goulacaska,  or  rather  of  Christmas 
eve,  1863,  as  the  events  which  occurred 
thereon  were  observed  by  myself.  Soon 
after  the  Colonel  and  his  companion 
left  the  wharf,  as  related  by  Adjutant 
Wistar,  and  darkness  had  settled  down 
over  camp  and  river,  a  careful  observer 
might  have  suspected,  as  the  Colonel 
did,  that  "  the  devil  was  to  pay  some- 
where." The  little  flotilla  of  half  a 
dozen  scows  in  front  of  the  Colonel's 
quarters  had  been  mysteriously  re- 
duced to  two,  which  were  the  smallest 
and  most  unserviceable  of  all.  Stran- 
ger still,  the  sharp-eyed  sentry  on  the 
wharf,  one  of  whose  duties  it  was  to 
watch  these  boats,  had  given  no  notice  of 
their  disappearance.  A  further  investi- 
gation would  have  revealed  the  fact  that 
the  missing  boats  were  moored  just  back 
of  Captain  Tybale's  tent,  and  that  from 
six  to  ten  rifles  were  stowed  away  in 
each  one.  Moreover,  each  boat  was 
furnished  with  oars,  —  a  remarkable  fact, 
as  our  flotilla  was  notoriously  deficient 
in  those  necessary  implements. 

Other  quiet  but  unusual  movements 
were  to  be  detected  in  and  about  the 
line  officers'  quarters,  but  elsewhere 
everything  kept  the  even  tenor  of 
its  way.  The  Major  and  Quartermas- 
ter sat  over  their  whiskey-toddy,  and 
bewailed  their  inability  to  taste  the 
General's  sherry,  the  rank  and  file  sat 
about  the  cook-fires  or  danced  noisily 
in  the  company  streets,  striving,  with 
but  partial  success,  to  realize  some- 
thing like  the  careless  jollity  of  ante- 
war  times  ;  and  so  the  evening  wore 
away. 

At  length  the  drum-corps  rattled  off 
tattoo,  roll-call  was  over,  the  officer  of 
the  day  reported  at  the  Major's  quar- 
ters, "All  present  or  accounted  for." 


"  Very  true,  me  boy,"  replied  that  officer, 
who  was  dozing  after  his  fourth  tumbler, 
and  becoming  indifferent  to  the  Gen- 
eral's sherry.  The  camp-fires  burned 
low,  lights  were  extinguished,  and  at 
9.30  P.  M.  silence  reigned  supreme. 

Immediately  after  "  taps  "  officers  be- 
gan to  gather  at  the  rear  of  Tybale's 
tent,  where  the  boats  were  moored. 
Each  one  wore  a  waist-belt  and  car- 
tridge-box, and  each  was  dressed  in  his 
most  undressy  clothes.  Silently  they 
gathered  on  the  shore  under  the  over- 
hanging bank.  Tybale  called  off  in  a 
whisper  the  names  of  the  crew  and  de- 
tail for  each  boat,  —  thirty  names  all 
told,  just  the  number  which  could  be 
spared,  as  Tybale  said,  to  attend  the 
ball.  Silently  as  each  boat  was  filled 
it  was  shoved  clear  of  the  shore  and 
held  in  position  by  the  bow  oarsman. 
Taking  charge  of  the  largest  boat,  Ty- 
bale signalled  to  shove  off,  and,  follow- 
ing his  lead,  the  four  boats  moved  off 
into  the  darkness  of  mid-channel.  The 
tide  had  now  turned,  the  wind  had 
fallen,  and  we  fancied  that  we  could 
hear  strains  of  music  from  head-quar- 
ters, telling  us  that  the  dancing  had  be- 
gun and  that  our  fellow-officers  of  the 
more  favored  white  regiments  were  en- 
joying the  smiles  of  beauty,  thoughtless 
of  our  shameful  exclusion. 

Pulling  with  great  care,  we  safely 
passed  the  river  picket  on  our  side  and 
then  drew  in  shore,  in  order  to  avoid 
the  patrol-boat,  and  run  less  risk  of 
challenge  from  the  pickets  of  the  main 
detachment.  Silence  was  now  less  im- 
peratively necessary,  and  we  were  be- 
coming quite  merry  in  a  stifled  way, 
when  suddenly  "  Boat  ahoy  !  "  split  the 
darkness  ahead  of  us.  "  Ay,  ay," 
answered  Tybale,  adding,  sotto  voce, 
"  There  's  that  infernal  patrol-boat." 

"  Come  alongside,"  said  the  same 
voice  ;  and  Tybale  reluctantly  turned 
the  boat's  head  to  the  sound,  the  other 
boats  meanwhile  resting  on  their  oars 
in  utter  silence.  Presently  a  dim  some- 
thing loomed  ahead,  we  could  hardly 
see  it  at  all,  but  sailor  eyes  made  out 
our  numbers  and  a  sharp  voice  ordered, 
"  Starn  all !  or  I  '11  fire  into  you." 


Military  Ball  at  Gonlacaska. 


291 


We  checked  our  headway  willingly 
enough,  and  then  a  parley  ensued. 
Tybale  tried  various  means  to  get  away, 
but  without  avail,  and  so  at  last  he 
made  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  appealed 
to  sailor  generosity.  Fortunately  the 
non-commissioned  officer  in  charge  of 
the  boat  was  a  volunteer,  and  the  love 
of  fun  which  dwells  in  the  heart  of 
Jack  Tar  proved  stronger  than  his  sense 
of  duty,  so  we  were  suffered  to  go  on 
our  way,  while  the  men-of-war's  men, 
after  solemnly  promising  inviolable  se- 
crecy, lay  on  their  oars  as  our  four 
boats  pulled  past. 

In  half  an  hour  more  we  landed  just 
as  the  distant  gunboat  struck  five  bells. 
The  disembarkation  was  effected  with- 
out noise,  and,  leaving  one  man  in  each 
boat  with  orders  to  drop  down  stream, 
keeping  just  behind  us,  so  as  to  be 
ready  in  case  of  accident,  we  walked 
down  the  river-bank  without  any  regu- 
lar formation,  simply  keeping  well  to- 
gether. Tybale  had  studied  the  ground, 
and  presently,  halting  the  whole  party, 
sent  me  with  a  squad  of  ten  men  to 
station  myself  in  a  clump  of  trees  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  off,  and  near,  as  he  in- 
formed me,  to  the  bayou  picket  on  that 
side,  while  he  with  the  main  body 
waited  at  the  river-bank  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  reserve  guard, 
and  a  still  shorter  distance  of  the  picket- 
line.  My  orders  were  to  open  fire  as 
soon  as  I  ascertained  the  position  of 
the  picket  on  the  bayou,  and  if  possible 
drive  them  in  on  the  reserve.  Fortune 
favors  the  brave,  and  so  she  had  on 
this  occasion  caused  the  detail  for  picket 
to  be  made  from  a  green  short-term 
regiment,  which  the  government  in  its 
wisdom  had  raised  at  a  maximum  cost 
to  do  a  minimum  of  fighting. 

The  unmilitary  reader  should  know 
that  a  picket-line  was  at  that  time  usu- 
ally composed  of  successive  posts  of 
three  men  each,  stationed  within  easy 
sight  and  hail  of  each  other.  One  man 
on  each  post  must  always  be  on  the 
alert.  At  the  most  important  part  of 
the  line  a  reserve  of  some  thirty  or 
forty  men  is  posted,  and  the  detached 
posts  are  often  ordered  to  fall  back 


at  once  on  the  reserve,  in  case  of  a 
determined  night  attack.  Such  we 
knew  were  the  orders  in  the  present 
case. 

On  reaching  the  clump  of  trees  I 
crawled  forward  to  reconnoitre,  and 
soon  discovered  the  pickets  comfortably 
smoking  their  pipes  around  the  smoul- 
dering remains  of  a  fire,  all  which  was 
exactly  contrary  to  their  orders.  We 
were  soon  in  position  behind  trees,  and, 
taking  a  careful  sight  so  that  my  bullet 
should  pass  a  foot  or  two  above  the 
group,  I  fired.  The  rest  of  the  party 
followed  my  example,  and,  lying  close, 
we  reloaded.  Precaution,  however,  was 
needless  ;  only  one  of  the  party  had  the 
pluck  to  return  our  fire;  the  others 
obeyed  orders  with  the  most  exemplary 
promptitude,  and  fell  back  on  the  re- 
serve at  the  top  of  their  speed,  followed 
at  once  by  our  plucky  man,  who  evi- 
dently did  not  consider  it  his  duty  to 
remain  on  picket  alone.  We  gave  chase 
at  a  respectable  distance,  loading  and 
firing  as  we  advanced,  and  making  all 
the  noise  we  could  in  the  underbrush. 
The  panic  spread  along  the  line,  scatter- 
ing shots  were  delivered,  and  we  could 
hear  men  crashing  through  the  bushes 
as  we  walked  back  towards  our  party 
along  the  line  just  abandoned  by  our 
short-term  friends. 

Presently  I  stumbled  over  something 
which  gave  a  groan.  I  stopped  in  hor- 
ror, fearing  that  a  chance  shot  had 
killed  some  poor  fellow,  and  the  rash- 
ness of  our  adventure  flashed  upon  me 
as  it  had  not  before  done.  Stooping 
down  I  placed  my  hand  on  the  dimly 
visible  form.  It  winced  at  my  touch. 

«O  for  God's  sake,"  said  a  pitiful 
voice,  "don't  kill  me!" 

"  Are  you  wounded  ?  "  said  I. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so;  no,  I  ain't,  but 
the  bullets  were  flying  around  so  thick 
that  I  thought  I  'd  better  lay  down." 

The  true  state  of  the  case  began  to 
dawn  upon  me.  Seizing  him  by  the 
collar,  I  jerked  him  to  his  feet  !  some- 
thing clanked  on  the  ground.  Could 
this  be  an  officer  ?  I  laid  my  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  and  there,  sure  enough, 
were  the  straps  of  a  lieutenant. 


292 


TJie  Military  Ball  at  Goulacaska. 


[March, 


"  What 's  your  name  ?  "  said  I. 

"Elkanah  Duzenbury,"  was  the  re- 
ply. "  Gentlemen,"  he  added,  "  I  did 
n't  expect  to  have  to  fight  when  I  came 
out,  —  I  did  n't,  indeed." 

My  reply  was  at  least  patriotic.  I 
jerked  his  sword  from  its  scabbard,  and 
whacked  him  soundly  over  the  shoul- 
ders, admonishing  him  between  the 
strokes  not  to  fight  Southerners  again. 
Then  with  a  parting  kick  I  precipi- 
tated him  into  the  swamp,  and  flung 
his  sword  beyond  him,  and  then  we 
resumed  our  advance. 

This  little  episode  occupied  not  more 
than  three  minutes,  and  soon  after  we 
recommenced  firing  it  became  evident 
that  the  reserve  had  turned  out  and 
was  making  a  stand.  Bullets  began 
to  be  uncomfortably  plentiful,  and  we 
took  to  cover,  firing  blank  cartridge 
from  behind  our  logs.  Tybale's  silence 
puzzled  us,  but  he  had  seen  a  chance 
to  render  the  discomfiture  of  our  friends 
complete.  The  fact  of  the  case  was 
that  an  attack  from  this  direction  from 
a  considerable  hostile  force  was  well- 
nigh  impossible,  and  the  General  had 
allowed  the  Post  Quartermaster  to  pas- 
ture his  surplus  and  disabled  mules 
on  the  upper  part  of  the  promontory. 
Tybale  had  discovered  these  mules 
huddled  together,  and  in  a  moment  of 
inspiration  caused  them  to  be  driven 
quietly  down  toward  the  reserve.  As 
soon  as  it  became  evident  that  the 
men  were  turned  out  and  formed  across 
the  road,  which  was  just  after  our  cas- 
tigation  of  Duzenbury,  Tybale  drove 
his  mules  into  the  road,  headed  them 
towards  camp,  fired  a  volley  of  blank 
cartridge  right  among  them,  and  at  the 
same  moment  everybody  gave  a  regular 
Rebel  yell.  The  intentions  of  the  re- 
serve were  good,  but  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  they  were  fresh  from  home, 
and  had  never  smelt  powder  before  ;  at 
any  rate,  when  the  Quartermaster's  bro- 
ken-winded, wheezing,  terrified  mules 
charged,  snorting  with  fear,  down  the 
road,  followed  by  a  rattling  volley  and 
the  yells  of  a  score  of  throats,  the  re- 
serve broke  ranks  and  took  the  double- 
quick  toward  camp  without  any  par- 


ticular orders,  while  we  reassembled 
our  scattered  forces  to  the  sound  of  the 
long-roll  beaten  in  both  camps,  fired  a 
few  parting  shots,  and  embarked  just  as 
shells  from  the  gunboat  began  to  burst 
in  the  woods  behind  us. 

We  arrived  without  further  adven- 
ture, and  found  the  Major  full  of  fight, 
but  entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
more  than  half  his  officers  had  been 
absent  without  leave.  Jones,  the  offi- 
cer of  the  day,  was  in  our  confidence, 
and  had  managed  everything  admira- 
bly, so  that  our  absence  was  as  little 
noticed  as  possible.  Of  course  we 
slept  under  arms  all  night,  but  that  was 
a  cheap  price  to  pay  for  our  fun. 

It  only  remains  for  me  to  explain 
that  mysterious  male  escort  whose  ap- 
pearance and  disappearance  at  the  ball 
caused  the  sensation  described  by  Ad- 
jutant Wistar. 

It  so  happened  that  early  in  the  foil 
the  regiment  of  which  my  brother  was 
colonel  was  ordered  to  a  station  a  few 
miles  east  of  Goulacaska.  We  of 
course  exchanged  visits ;  and  while 
with  him  I  had  become  acquainted 
with  one  of  his  officers,  between  whom 
and  myself  something  of  an  intimacy 
had  sprung  up.  His  family  and  his- 
tory were  entirely  unknown  in  his  regi- 
ment, except  to  my  brother,  who,  after 
the  war  was  over,  told  me  his  story. 
The  poor  fellow  was  killed  before 
Petersburg,  so  that  secrecy  was  no 
longer  necessary.  He  was  the  son  of 
one  of  Virginia's  proudest  families,  and 
yet  he  had  no  parents.  Born  as  it  was 
possible  to  be  in  slave  times,  he  had 
been  brought  up  as  one  of  the  planter's 
legitimate  children,  until  misfortune  had 
compelled  his  sale.  Natural  abilities 
of  a  high  order  had  received  an  impulse 
by  such  education  as  had  been  given 
him  in  boyhood ;  and  after  a  year  or 
two  in  the  far  South  he  had  effected 
his  escape,  and  had  lived  as  he  could, 
at  last  getting  upon  the  stage  and  win- 
ning his  bread  as  an  actor.  He  had 
improved  himself  by  study  and  reading, 
and  when  the  war  broke  out  had  won 
for  himself  at  least  a  name.  No  one 
would  for  a  moment  suspect  that  negro 


1870.] 


The  Military  Ball  at  Gonlacaska. 


293 


blood  flowed  in  his  veins,  arid  he  had 
enlisted  as  a  private  in  my  brother's 
regiment.  In  the  course  of  two  years 
he  had  by  sheer  merit  earned  a  com- 
mission. When  my  brother  sent  for 
him  and  told  him  that  his  name  had 
been  forwarded  for  confirmation  as 
second  lieutenant,  the  poor  fellow 
broke  down,  and,  as  in  honor  bound, 
told  my  brother  his  story,  evidently  ex- 
pecting to  be  kicked  out  of  the  regi- 
ment. My  brother,  who  is  not  over 
partial  to  the  negro,  hesitated  but  a 
moment,  then,  grasping  his  hand,  ad- 
dressed him  pathetically  as  follows : 
"  See  here  ;  what  are  you  boohooing 
at  ?  You  just  go  to  Captain  Gray's 
tent  and  report  for  duty." 

While  we  were  planning  for  the  coup 
of  Christmas  eve,  the  idea  entered  my 
head  that  this  young  actor  might  play 
a  part  in  our  drama.  No  one  in  our 
two  detachments  knew  him,  so  I  sent 
a  special  messenger  for  him  to  come 
down  at  once  as  secretly  as  possible, 
giving  him  a  hint  as  to  what  was 
wanted  of  him.  His  histrionic  instincts 
were  at  once  awakened  on  hearing  the 
details  of  our  plan.  At  that  time  I 
little  suspected  what  motives  of  pri- 
vate revenge  led  him  the  more  willingly 
to  give  us  his  aid. 

He  was  to  personate  a  relative  of  the 
Presbourgs,  Presley  Creighton,  who 
was  actually  serving  in  the  Virginia 
army,  and  whom  they  had  not  seen 
since  his  early  boyhood.  Corwin  (for 
such  was  his  name  on  the  regimental 
rolls)  knew  the  Creighton  family  only 
too  well,  and  anticipated  none  of  the 
difficulties  which  we,  ignorant  of  his 
history,  warned  him  against.  We  fitted 
him  out  with  a  tattered  gray  uniform, 
and  on  Christmas  eve  he  presented 
himself  at  Madame  Presbourg's  as  their 
cousin,  having  been  kept  in  close  con- 
cealment, so  that  not  a  soul  save  those 
of  us  who  were  in  the  secret  had  seen 
him. 

He  told  the  Presbourgs  that  an  at- 
tack was  to  be  made  that  night  on  the 
Federal  lines,  and  that  his  object  was 
to  get  inside  their  camp,  and  blow  up 
the  magazine  soon  after  the  attack  com- 


menced. It  was  naturally  decided  that 
he  should  act  as  their  escort  to  the 
ball,  be  introduced  under  his  own 
name,  so  as  to  secure  him,  if  possible, 
against  the  fate  of  a  spy,  should  he  be 
taken,  watch  his  opportunity  to  leave  the 
house,  and  so  accomplish  his  purpose. 

Of  course  the  patriotism  of  the  whole 
Presbourg  family  was  deeply  stirred  by 
the  arrival  of  the  handsome,  ragged 
young  Confederate  officer.  The  young 
ladies  kissed  him, and  called  him  "dear 
Cousin  Presley."  They  dressed  him 
up  in  some  of  General  Presbourg's  old 
clothes,  and  were  as  proud  as  possible 
of  their  adventurous  cousin,  until  a  few 
days  after  what  Madame  Presbourg 
considered  the  unaccountable  repulse 
of  the  Confederate  forces,  when  she 
received  a  neat  package  containing  her 
husband's  clothes,  and  enclosing  the 
following  note :  — 

MADAME,  —  Permit  one  whom  you 
have  called  nephew,  and  whom  your 
charming  daughters  have  treated  with 
cousinly  intimacy,  to  return  the  gar- 
ments which  you  were  so  kind  as  to 
provide  for  his  use.  The  former  slave 
of of  Virginia  did  not  antici- 
pate so  early  a  recognition  from  his 
father's  family.  Thanking  you  and  my 
cousins  for  your  kindness, 
I  remain, 

Your  nephew, 

The  note  was  signed  with  the  name 
by  which  Corwin  was  once  known  at 
his  father's  house,  and  the  consterna- 
tion produced  by  its  receipt  at  the  St. 
Jean  plantation  must  be  imagined,  for 
it  cannot  be  described. 

We  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a 
searching  military  investigation  into  the 
proceedings  of  that  night,  for  a  few 
days  later  some  of  our  Jack  Tar  friends 
"sprung  aleak,"  as  the  boatswain  ex- 
pressed it,  and  a  story  was  soon  in 
circulation  to  the  effect  that  the  Christ- 
mas attack  was  a  sham  one.  The  re- 
port presently  reached  the  General's 
ears,  but  by  good  fortune  the  old  sol- 
dier had  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  and  had 
detailed  me  on  his  staff.  When  I  saw 


294 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


[March, 


that  he  was  bent  on  an  investigation,  I 
thought  the  matter  over,  and  told  him 
the  whole  story  one  day  after  dinner, 
with  such  success  that  he  nearly  went 
into  an  apoplectic  fit. 

The  only  court-martial  which  resulted 
was  in  the  case  of  Elkanah  Duzenbury, 
who  was  easily  convicted  of  cowardice, 
and  had  his  shoulder-straps  cut  off  and 


his   sword  broken  in  the  presence  of 
the  whole  command. 

The  only  life  lost  in  the  fight  at  the 
picket-line  was  that  of  one  poor  broken- 
down  army  mule,  shot  dead  in  his 
tracks  by  a  bullet  from  the  reserve 
while  gallantly  leading  the  charge  that 
broke  up  the  military  ball  at  Goula- 
caska. 


THE  MINOR  THEATRES  OF  LONDON. 


HPHE  minor  shows  of  London  form 
J-  a  subject  of  rather  wide  scope  ;  it 
embraces  those  numerous  popular  en- 
tertainments necessarily  pertaining  to  a 
great  city,  commencing  with  the  minor 
theatre  proper,  graduating  to  music- 
halls  and  open-air  exhibitions,  and 
ending  with  "the  penny-gaff,"  —  a  the- 
atrical entertainment  of  the  vilest  de- 
scription, supplied,  though  forbidden 
by  law,  to  the  young  of  both  sexes,  of 
the  very  lowest  class. 

Beginning  with  the  minor  theatres, 
we  may  observe,  in  a  preliminary  kind 
of  way,  that  the  London  stage  at  the 
present  time  is  a  very  different  thing 
to  what  it  was  even  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury back.  In  the  old  and  palmy  days 
of  theatrical  affairs,  the  distinction  be- 
tween major  and  minor  theatres  was 
very  broad.  The  major  theatres  were 
established  under  letters-patent  from 
the  crown,  which  conferred  many  valua- 
ble privileges,  and  the  actors  were  hon- 
ored —  if  honor  it  were  —  by  the  appel- 
lation of  "  His  Majesty's  Servants." 
The  minor  theatres  were  simply  li- 
censed by  the  Lord  Chamberlain  with 
powers  of  a  very  limited  description. 
The  major  theatres  were  empowered 
to  play  tragedy,  comedy,  drama,  domes- 
tic or  otherwise,  opera,  farce,  ballet,  — 
whatever,  in  fact,  could  come  into  the 
category  of  dramatic  representation. 
The  minors  were  really  confined  to 
music,  singing,  dancing,  dumb  show, 
"ground  and  lofty  tumbling,"  and  tight 
and  slack  rope  performances. 


Some  enterprising  managers  began 
to  insinuate  into  their  entertainments 
musical  interludes  and  trifling  pieces  of 
which  no  notice  was  taken  by  the  su- 
perior members  of  their  craft ;  and  they 
crept  on  step  "by  step  until  farces  and 
what  were  termed  melodramas  —  the 
first  sensational  pieces  —  were  placed 
upon  their  respective  boards.  But  all 
this  was  upon  sufferance.  By  and  by 
the  encroachments  stretched  to  posi- 
tive infringements  of  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  the  patent  theatres,  and 
then  the  law  was  appealed  to.  The 
ultimate  result,  however,  of  a  long  and 
keenly  contested  struggle  was  an  act 
of  Parliament,  which  threw  open  to  all 
theatres  alike  the  right  to  play  all  en- 
tertainments sanctioned  by  the  law. 

During  the  battle  of  the  theatres, 
what  was  known  as  the  legitimate 
drama  began  to  wane.  It  had  received 
a  severe  shock  in  the  disappearance 
from  the  stage  of  the  famous  tragedian 
Edmund  Kean,  and  the  destruction 
of  the  patents  of  the  great  theatres  — 
the  homes  of  tragedians  and  come- 
dians who  had  been  carefully  trained 
in  provincial  theatres  —  may  be  said  to 
have  given  it  the  coup  de  grace.  Those 
actors  were  dispersed,  and  a  tragedy  or 
comedy  by  the  old  dramatists,  excellent- 
ly played  in  its  subordinate  parts  as  in 
its  principal  characters,  became  a  thing 
of  the  past. 

It  is  true  that  spasmodic  attempts 
have  been  made  since  to  resuscitate  a 
taste  for  the  old  tragedies  and  comedies. 


1 870.] 


The  Minor  TJicatrcs  of  London. 


295 


Charles  Kean  endeavored  to  accom- 
plish it  with  the  aid  of  gorgeous  dresses 
and  magnificent  scenery,  but  failed. 
The  veteran  Phelps  still  floats  about 
the  London  stage,  enveloped  in  that 
Shakespearian  mantle  conferred  upon 
him  at  a  public  banquet  by  William 
Charles  Macready  on  his  retirement 
from  the  stage,  —  a  phantom  of  tragic  art. 
Fechter  has  attempted  to  carry  London 
by  storm  —  although  he  amazed  and 
confounded  his  audiences  —  by  playing 
Hamlet  in  a  yellow  wig.  Mademoiselle 
Stella  Colas  sought  to  restore  Shake- 
speare to  the  foot-lights  by  representing 
Juliet'as  a  sentimental  Parisian  young 
lady,  —  not  an  altogether  unpleasing 
representation,  by  the  way ;  and  Mrs. 
Scott  Siddons  has  proved  to  us  what 
a  fascinating  creature  that  most  lova- 
ble of  all  Shakespeare's  women,  Rosa- 
lind, must  have  been,  if  she  closely 
resembled  her :  still,  so  far  as  the 
resuscitation  of  the  purely  legitimate 
drama  is.  concerned,  without  avail. 
Indeed,  so  little  faith  have  theatrical 
managers  had  in  these  attempted  re- 
vivals, that,  as  a  rule,  the  plays  of  the 
old  dramatists  have  been,  on  these  oc- 
casions, put  on  the  stage  by  them  in 
the  most  slovenly  way.  A  weak  and 
wretchedly  inefficient  cast  has  been 
supplemented  by  horribly  old  scenery 
and  more  dreadful  supernumeraries. 
The  public,  which  is  mostly  keen-sight- 
ed in  its  own  interest,  has  therefore  re- 
fused to  accept  the  "  Brummagem  "  as 
the  genuine  article.  It  insisted  upon 
a  better  setting  to  the  polished  gem, 
and,  not  getting  it,  declined  any  further 
part  in  the  transaction. 

On  the  first  liberation  from  their 
bonds,  the  managers  of  the  minor  the- 
atres made  a  dash  at  Shakespeare  and 
other  contemporary  dramatists  ;  but  al- 
though they  were  able  to  produce  the 
pieces,  they  failed  to  supply  the  actors, 
and  failure  was  the  result.  It  is  a 
somewhat  remarkable  fact  that  the  ef- 
forts which  succeeded  in  throwing  open 
all  theatres  alike  to  the  performance  of 
the  works  of  the  highest  dramatic  liter- 
ature should  have  resulted  in  almost 
driving  it  altogether  out  of  the  field. 


Covent  Garden  Theatre,  so  long  the 
home  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  the 
scene  of  the  triumphs  of  a  long  line 
of  celebrated  actors  and  actresses,  in 
which  the  names  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  the 
Kembles,  and  Miss  O'Neill  shine  re- 
splendent, soon  gave  up  the  attempt  to 
compete  with  the  smaller  theatres  on 
their  ground,  and  resigned  itself  to  be, 
and  was,  resolved  into  an  Italian  Opera 
House.  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  with  the 
memories  of  Garrick,  Kean,  Macready, 
James  Wallack,  and  other  great  men 
racking  its  brain,  staggered  about  in 
the  fight  like  a  beaten  man.  At  one 
time  it  took  to  equestrianism  and  great 
"  bare-backed "  riders,  and  has  since 
wandered  deliriously  into  any  path 
whither  the  manager  for  the  time  being 
thought  the  public  was  beckoning  it. 
While  the  Haymarket,  the  third  patent 
theatre  which,  under  the  management 
of  Webster,  saw  "  The  Bridal "  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  and  "  The  School 
for  Scandal "  of  Sheridan  acted  through- 
out as  they  never  had  been  before  and 
as  probably  they  never  will  be  again, 
has  glided  into  representations  by  Buck- 
stone,  Sothern,  and  Compton,  and 
Compton,  Sothern,  and  Buckstone. 

Having,  then,  no  prescribed  major 
theatres  for  the  performance  of  what  is 
known  as  the  legitimate  drama,  one 
may  be  tempted  to  ask,  "  What  is  a 
London  minor  theatre  ?  "  That  ques- 
tion we  will  attempt  to  answer. 

The  minor  theatres  referred  to  in  the 
preceding  remarks  are  still  in  full  vig- 
or, and  we  will  make  a  flying  visit  to 
the  most  prominent  of  them. 

In  the  West  Central  district  of  Lon- 
don the  largest  number  of  them  are 
congregated  together  within  the  radius 
of  little  more  than  a  mile.  They  all 
hugged  the  vicinity  of  the  patent  thea- 
tres, and  for  many  years  they  received 
no  accession  of  numbers.  Indeed,  in 
1735  an  act  Avas  passed  to  limit  the 
number  of  theatres.  But  whether  that 
act  has  been  repealed  by  the  last  act  of 
Parliament  regulating  theatres  we  do 
not  pretend  to  say;  but  within  three 
or  four  years  several  new  theatres,  all 
in  the  same  neighborhood,  have  been 


296 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


[March, 


erected  and  opened,  while  others,  in 
the  course  of  building,  will  soon  be 
added  to  the  list.  Managers  of  old 
standing  and  well-tried  experience 
shake  their  heads  at  the  new  experi- 
ments, but  actors  of  mediocre  talents, 
whose  name  is  legion,  are  elate ;  for 
situations  will  become  plentiful,  and 
even  very  moderate  talent  will  com- 
mand higher  prices.  Between  the  two 
the  public  betrays  serenity  :  it  is  nei- 
ther buoyant  nor  depressed ;  it  sadly 
needs  "good  "  entertainments,  but  guid- 
ing its  anticipations  by  its  knowledge 
of  the  past,  if  it  is  hopeful  it  is  not  too 
sanguine. 

If  anything  will,  however,  tend  to 
bring  about  a  healthier  condition  of 
dramatic  art,  it  will  be  through  ener- 
getic theatrical  competition.  Managers 
are  already  bidding  high  for  the  best 
dramas,  the  best  actors,  and  the  best 
scenic  effects.  Those  managers  who 
desire  even  to  hold  their  own  must  at 
least  keep  pace  with  their  rivals  ;  and  if 
there  be  any  to  suffer,  which  is  by  no 
means  a  necessary  consequence,  the 
public  at  least  will  be  the  gainer. 

Many  of  the  minor  theatres,  it  may 
be  here  mentioned,  affix  the  word  "  Roy- 
al "  to  their  distinctive  titles  ;  but  while 
the  patent  theatres  used  it  by  right  as 
holding  letters-patent  direct  from  the 
crown,  the  minor  theatres  assume  it  on 
the  ground  that  her  Majesty  or  some 
member  of  the  royal  family,  prince  or 
princess,  has  paid  a  visit  to  their  thea- 
tre. 

Of  these  is  the  Theatre  "Royal" 
Adelphi,  in  the  Strand,  one  of  the 
main  thoroughfares  of  London,  which 
runs  parallel  to  the  Thames  from  Tem- 
ple Bar  to  Charing  Cross.  This  thea- 
tre dates  from  1806,  and  has  from  the 
commencement  to  the  present  time 
kept  on  in  its  own  way,  playing  dramas 
of  the  sensational  kind,  as  well  as  pan- 
tomime, farce,  and  burlesque.  It  has 
among  its  associations  the  production 
of  "  Tom  and  Jerry,"  which  was  played, 
we  believe,  for  three  hundred  nights, 
without  a  break,  excepting  the  intervals 
between  its  seasons.  The  original  and 
celebrated  Charles  Mathews  was  once 


its  lessee,  in  conjunction  with  Freder- 
ick Yates,  the  father  of  the  present 
Edwin  Yates.  John  Reeve  and  Buck- 
stone  played  beneath  its  roof  for  many 
years  together;  the  "Colleen  Bavvn" 
was  produced  here,  and  ran  for  many 
hundred  nights.  Here  Miss  Bateman 
achieved  an  extraordinary  success  as 
Leah,  and  here  Mr.  Fechter  has  ap- 
peared in  Dickens's  "  No  Thorough- 
fare "  and  Wilkie  Collins's  "  Black  and 
White."  The  present  theatre  was 
built  by  Mr.  Benjamin  Webster,  one 
of  the  best  and  most  versatile  actors 
who  ever  graced  a  theatre.  He  is  the 
founder  and  master  of  the  Dramatic 
College,  and,  though  in  his  seventieth 
year,  still  acts  with  unabated  excellence. 

Near  to  it  stands  the  Lyceum  Thea- 
tre, erected  in  1765,  burnt  down  in  1815, 
burnt  down  again  in  1829,  and  reopened 
in  1830.  It  has  been  everything  by 
turns  and  nothing  long,  —  tragedy,  com- 
edy, opera,  sensation  dramas,  panto- 
mime, burlesque,  cum  multis  aliis.  Here 
the  notorious  Madame  Vestris  once 
displayed  that  leg  of  faultless  symmetry, 
which  was  modelled,  in  compliment  to 
its  beauty,  by  Brucciani  ;  here  Balfe 
acted  in  his  own  operas  ;  here  the  Har- 
rison Pyne  troupe  discoursed  excellent 
English  music  ;  here  Fechter  became 
for  a  time  lessee,  and  left  it  a  sadder  and 
we  fear  a  poorer  man  ;  here  the  cancan 
was  introduced  not  long  back,  it  is  said, 
by  a  veritable  cocotte  from  the  Mabille  ; 
and  here,  perhaps  in  penitence,  the  de- 
linquent manager  has  produced  "  The 
Rightful  Heir,"  by  Lord  Lytton,  and 
the  last  new  play  by  Westland  Marston, 
but  without  overflowing  his  treasury. 

The  St.  James  Theatre  is  placed  in 
a  very  aristocratic  quarter.  Around  it 
dwell  princes,  dukes,  earls,  and  bish- 
ops. Contiguous  to  it  are  the  crack 
West-End  clubs  and  the  residence  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales.  It  is  a  handsome 
theatre,  and  was  built  and  opened  in 
1835  by  John  Braham,  the  celebrated 
singer,  not  long  after  he  had  confided  to 
a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons 
that  no  inducement  of  any  kind  what- 
soever should  cause  him  to  become  the 
manager  of  a  theatre.  It  bears  the 


1870.] 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


297 


odor  of  more  failures  than  successes. 
At  a  certain  part  of  the  year  it  is  oc- 
cupied by  a  French  company,  the  ex- 
cellence of  which  may  be  judged  from 
the  fact  that  it  has  numbered  among 
its  artistes  the  great  Rachel,  Ravel, 
Frederick  Lemaitre,  Dupuis,  and  last, 
and  in  the  interest  of  startling  effects 
not  least,  Mademoiselle  Schneider. 
This  theatre  has  been  taken  by  Mrs. 
John  Wood,  well  known  in  the  theat- 
rical circles  of  New  York.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  she  is  about  to  carry  on 
her  campaign  with  some  special  and 
novel  claims  to  success. 

The  Olympic  Theatre,  situated  in 
Wych  Street,  near  to  the  Strand,  was 
built  and  opened  in  1806  by  the  famous 
old  equestrian,  Philip  Astley.  It  sub- 
sequently fell  into  the  hands  of  Robert 
William  Elliston,  and  afterwards  into 
those  of  Scott,  the  original  proprietor 
of  the  Adelphi.  It  changed  hands 
many  times  after  this,  falling  lower  in 
the  scale  of  respectability,  until  it  be- 
came a  kind  of  refuge  for  destitute  ac- 
tors and  a  resort  for  the  scum  of  the 
vicinity.  While  in  this  condition  Ma- 
dame Vestris  selected  it  for  her  first 
essay  in  a  managerial  capacity.  Noth- 
ing could  be  greater  than  the  public 
surprise  at  this  step,  for  the  theatre  was 
placed  in  a  very  narrow,  dirty  street, 
surrounded  by  filthy,  squalid  slums. 
Undeterred  by  this  circumstance,  Ma- 
dame converted  the  sty  into  an  elegant 
French  drawing-room.  She  surrounded 
herself  with  accomplished  actors,  among 
whom  may  be  enumerated  Listen,  Far- 
ren,  and  John  Brougham,  and  with  clev- 
er actresses,  and  pretty  as  well.  With 
a  compact  little  army  of  the  best  light 
comedians  of  the  day,  and  assisted  by 
clever,  sparkling  pieces  and  burlesques 
by  Planche,  Charles  Dauce,  Brougham, 
and  others,  she  not  only  drew  crowded 
audiences,  but  she  attracted  to  her 
charming  little  theatre  —  disreputable 
as  the  neighborhood  was  —  the  very 
cream  of  the  English  aristocracy.  She 
was,  however,  not  content  to  leave  well 
alone,  but  transferred  herself  and  com- 
pany to  the  Lyceum  Theatre, — and 
failed.  The  Olympic  Theatre  was  af- 


terwards burnt  down,  but  was  rebuilt 
on  a  much  handsomer  scale.  It  was 
leased  by  one  Watts,  who  embezzled 
the  funds  of  an  insurance  company 
with  which  to  carry  on  his  speculation. 
When  the  day  of  inevitable  discovery 
came,  and  he  was  consigned  to  a  pris- 
on, he  destroyed  himself  in  his  cell. 
In  this  theatre  Robson  established  his 
fame.  The  Olympic  is  now  in  the  pos- 
session of  Mr.  Benjamin  Webster,  who 
occasionally  acts  there. 

It  was  at  the  Princess's  Theatre,  in 
Oxford  Street,  that  Charles  Kean  en- 
deavored to  sustain  the  legitimate 
drama  upon  a  principle  initiated  by 
Macready ;  which  was  to  combine  the 
most  popular  works  of  the  best  old 
dramatists  with  the  aids  and  appliances 
of  magnificent  scenery  and  splendid  but 
accurately  correct  costumes.  He  carried 
out  this  idea  at  a  vast  expense,  but  with 
comparatively  poor  pecuniary  reward. 
The  conception  was  good,  but  he  omit- 
ted one  important  element  of  success, 
—  a  strong  cast.  His  own  abilities, 
aided  by  those  of  his  wife  and  one  or  two 
other  artists  worthy  of  mention,  were 
insufficient  to  satisfy  the  expectations 
of  the  public.  It  admired  the  scenery 
and  dresses,  but  it  wanted  good  subor- 
dinate actors  as  well ;  those  not  being 
forthcoming,  the  public  grew  indifferent, 
the  lessee's  efforts  were  rewarded  with 
the  nickname  "upholstery  manage- 
ment," and  the  enterprise  came  to  a 
bad  end.  At  this  theatre  that  excel- 
lent actor,  perhaps  the  best  melodra- 
matic actor  the  stage  has  ever  known, 
James  Wallack,  may  be  said  to  have 
taken  his  farewell  of  a  British  public ; 
and  here  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault  has 
been  running  riot  with  "Arrah  na 
Pogue,"  the  "  Streets  of  London,"  "  Af- 
ter Dark,"  and  other  such  sensational 
productions. 

With  Charles  Kean's  management 
all  attempts  to  resuscitate  the  "legiti- 
mate drama  "  on  a  decent  scale  may  be 
said  to  have  ended.  The  respective 
managers  of  the  old  and  the  very  new 
theatres  have  applied  themselves  to 
what  has  been  aptly  described  as  the 
"presentation  of  contemporary  sub- 


298 


The  Minor  TJieatres  of  London. 


[March, 


jects  treated  in  a  contemporary  spirit." 
Mr.  T.  W.  Robertson  is  at  present  the 
most  successful  exponent  of  the  new 
style,  and  three  of  his  latest  efforts  have 
been  played  recently  at  three  of  the 
London  theatres  at  the  same  time. 
One  of  these  theatres  is  the  Gaiety,  a 
spick  and  span  brand-new  theatre 
erected  on  the  site  of  the  most  lugu- 
brious of  music-halls  in  the  Strand.  It 
is  an  exceptional  theatre  in  intention 
and  effect.  It  strives  to  combine  com- 
fort with  luxury  ;  there  are  no  fees  to 
servants,  no  charge  for  anything  be- 
yond the  price  of  admission  ;  footstools 
are  provided ;  fans  are  presented  to 
ladies,  together  with  some  small  appli- 
ances of  the  toilet ;  gentlemen  are  fa- 
vored with  the  evening  papers,  and  the 
proceedings  at  the  House  of  Commons, 
as  they  occur,  are  telegraphed  to  the 
theatre  for  those  who  need  the  infor- 
mation. The  auditorium  is  tastefully, 
elegantly,  and  richly  decorated  ;  and  to 
the  theatre  itself  a  very  large  restaurant 
has  been  added,  so  that  a  man  can  dine, 
enter  the  theatre,  and  return  to  the  en- 
joyment of  any  selected  beverage  and 
cigars  during  or  after  the  performances. 
The  aim  seems  to  have  been  to  ren- 
der the  theatre  like  its  French  name- 
sake, and  yet  something  beyond  it ;  the 
result  at  present,  apart  from  its  com- 
forts and  luxuries,  appears  to  be  a  com- 
pound in  which  it  is  hard  to  determine 
whether  theatre,  music-hall,  or  grand 
hotel  predominate.  The  entertain- 
ments are  a  play  by  T.  W.  Robertson, 
burlesque,  and  ballet.  A  burlesque 
entitled  "  Robert  the  Devil  "  is  said  to 
have  been  the  occasion  of  a  letter  of  re- 
proof, and  a  lecture  upon  propriety,  from 
the  Lord  Chamberlain  to  managers  gen- 
erally; inasmuch  as  the  ballet-girls  at 
this  theatre  presented  themselves  to 
the  audience  with  the  scantiest  attire 
imaginable. 

Another  new  theatre  near  at  hand, 
placed  in  Long  Acre,  called  the  Queen's 
Theatre,  was  erected  about  eighteen 
months  back,  on  the  site  of  St.  Martin's 
Hall,  a  building  devoted  to  the  per- 
formance of  sacred  music.  It  was 
opened  under  the  management  of  Al- 


fred Wigan,  commenced  with  "  draw- 
ing-room plays  "  to  the  thinnest  audi- 
ences, and  then  made  a  dash  at  sensa- 
tional pieces  and  burlesques. 

The  Globe  Theatre,  scarcely  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  Olympic,  is  also  a 
new  theatre  not  many  months  old.  It 
catered  for  the  public  with  a  drama  by 
Byron,  the  well-known  burlesque-writer, 
a  comic  extravaganza  by  T.  W.  Robert- 
son, and  a  burlesque.  It  is  in  the  throes 
of  a  struggle  for  existence,  which  it  will 
probably  successfully  win  at  no  distant 
date. 

The  Holborn  Theatre,  built,  like  the 
Globe,  by  Mr.  Sefton  Parry,  still  lessee 
of  the  former,  tried  to  gain  popularity 
and  success  with  Dion  Boucicault's 
"  Flying  Scud,"  which  was  produced 
here.  For  a  time  it  succeeded,  but  the 
play  having  run  itself  out,  the  manager 
resigned  the  theatre  to  Miss  Patty  Jo- 
sephs, whose  efforts  at  management 
were  rewarded  with  only  questionable 
success.  It  is  now  under  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Barry  Sullivan,  who  hopes  to 
make  a  new  home  for  "  high  -  class 
dramatic  literature." 

The  Strand  Theatre,  situated  in  the 
Strand,  is  called  the  "  band-box  of  bur- 
lesque." It  is  one  of  the  smallest,  if 
not  the  smallest,  theatre  in  London,  but 
it  describes  itself  as  "  Royal,"  because 
of  a  visit  from  the  Prince  of  Wales.  It 
revels  in  burlesques,  and  has  produced 
the  smartest  and  liveliest  of  those 
written  by  H.  I.  Byron  and  Bernaud. 
Marie  Wilton,  the  pretty,  piquant,  and 
clever  lessee  of  the  Prince  of  Wales's 
Theatre,  made  her  first  appearance  in 
London  at  this  theatre,  and  by  her 
saucy  acting,  her  affectation  of  sparse 
attire,  her  lively  singing,  and  her  nim- 
ble performance  of  those  terpsichofean 
feats  known  as  "break-downs,"  she  gave 
increased  popularity  to  a  class  of  en- 
tertainments, generally  confessed  to  be 
more  amusing  than  edifying.  It  was  at 
this  little  theatre  that  Douglas  Jerrold 
undertook  the  part  of  lessee,  and  made 
his  first  and  last  appearance  as  an  actor 
in  his  own  play,  the  "  Painter  of  Ghent." 
Its  present  manageress,  Mrs.  Swan- 
borough,  confines  herself  to  "scream- 


1 870.] 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


299 


ing  "  pieces  and  "  rattling  "  burlesques  ; 
and  it  is  here  that  Mr.  J.  S.  Clarke  has 
recently  gained  universal  approbation 
for  his  performance  of  Major  de  Boots 
in  a  farce  called  "  The  Widow  Hunt." 

The  Royalty,  in  Dean  Street,  Soho, 
under  the  management  of  "  Patty  Oli- 
ver," pursues  a  similar  course  and  with 
a  like  success.  Lively,  light  pieces  and 
smart  burlesques  are  the  staple  enter- 
tainments. It  was  at  this  miniature 
*  play-house  "  that  the  well-known  bur- 
lesque "  Ixion  "  was  produced.  The 
pretty  faces  and  the  pretty  limbs  of  the 
actresses  in  it  went  far  to  obtain  the  suc- 
cess it  achieved,  and  that  success  seems 
not  to  have  deserted  the  theatre  since. 

The  Prince  of  Wales's  Royal  The- 
atre—  royal  through  a  visit  from  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  —  has 
had  a  somewhat  remarkable  career.  It 
stands  in  a  mean  street  leading  out  of 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  which  is  a  pop- 
ulous thoroughfare  leading  from  St. 
Giles's  Holborn  to  Hampstead,  not  fre- 
quently patronized  by  "  the  nobility  and 
gentry  "  of  the  metropolis.  Many  years 
back,  when  known  as  the  Queen's  The- 
atre, it  achieved  notoriety  by  fighting 
the  battle  of  minors  against  the  majors 
by  the  production  of  the  tragedies  of 
Shakespeare.  The  speculation  was  not 
successful,  although  it  served  its  pur- 
pose, and  it  subsequently  declined  to  the 
status  of  the  "penny-gaff  "  class.  Any- 
thing more  deplorable  than  its  theatri- 
cal condition  can  scarcely  be  conceived ; 
yet  from  such  a  slum  Marie  Wilton,  as 
Madame  Vestris  had  done  'with  the 
Olympic,  created  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able theatres  in  London.  She  com- 
menced with  burlesques  and  dramas  by 
H.  I.  Byron,  and  has  followed  with  "  So- 
ciety," "  Ours,"  "  Caste,"  "  Play,"  and 
"  School."  The  light  and  pleasing  char- 
acter of  these  pieces,  the  sparkling  and 
brilliant  dialogues,  and  the  excellent 
acting  of  the  performers,  male  and  fe- 
male, engaged  in  them,  have  produced 
such  a  succession  of  crowded  houses 
that  seats  are  engaged  a  month  in  ad- 
vance, and  the  audiences  are  one  blaze 
of  rank  and  fashion.  It  is,  in  truth,  a 
remarkable  illustration  of  the  fact  that 


the  secret  of  theatrical  success  is,  after 
all,  to  be  found  in  "good  pieces  well 
and  carefully  acted." 

The  category  of  the  West-End  minor 
theatres  ends  here.  Taking  our  way  to 
the  north,  we  proceed  to  Sadler's  Wells 
Theatre.  'This  is  at  least  one  of  the 
oldest  theatres  in  London.  It  takes  its 
name  from  a  man  named  Sadler,  who, 
discovering  a  mineral  spring  here  in 
1683,  erected  a  music-house  to  tempt 
the  public  to  come  and  drink  the  waters. 
This  grew  into  a  place  of  theatrical 
entertainment,  and,  though  many  times 
altered  and  even  rebuilt,  has  remained 
such  to  the  present  day.  One  lessee 
over  and  above  his  entertainments  pre- 
sented his  visitors  with  a  pint  of  good 
wine  for  their  admission  money,  —  "A 
pleasant  custom,"  naively  remarks  a 
writer  sixty  years  since,  "but  it  is  no 
longer  continued."  Tumbling  and  rope- 
dancing,  musical  interludes,  "  real-wa- 
ter "  pieces  — for  it  stands  on  the  very 
banks  of  the  "New  River," — panto- 
mimes, etc.,  for  years  formed  the  bill  of 
fare;  and  here,  in  1820,  the  author's 
own  version  of  "  Tom  and  Jerry  "  was 
produced  ;  here  Joey  Grimaldi,  the  inim- 
itable clown,  tumbled,  stole,  swallowed 
strings  of  sausages,  and  burnt  every- 
body, himself  in  particular,  with  the  fa- 
mous red-hot  poker.  It  was  at  Sadler's 
Wells  that  Mr.  Phelps  took  up  the 
Shakespearian  drama  where  Macready 
had  left  it,  and  made  a  determined  strug- 
gle to  keep  its  head  above  water.  But 
his  efforts  proved  futile,  and  he  ultimate- 
ly abandoned  the  attempt.  Miss  Mar- 
riot,  a  clever  tragedienne,  followed  in 
his  footsteps  with  a  similar  purpose,  but 
she  too  has  given  up  the  management 
and  the  hope,  and  found  her  way  to  the 
United  States. 

A  few  hundred  yards  from  this  house 
is  one  of  the  chief  streets  of  London 
leading  from  Islington  to  the  city, 
called  the  City  Road.  Not  very  many 
years  since  it  was  flanked  by  green 
fields,  not  a  trace  of  which  is  left. 
Near  to  the  roadside  towards  the  city 
end  there  stood  a  small  tavern,  to  which 
were  appended  "tea-gardens."  It  bore 
the  sign  of  the  "  Eagle,"  or,  as  its  patrons 


300 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


[March, 


styled  it,  "Ther  He-gull."  In  bright, 
warm,  summer  afternoons,  often  on 
week-days  and  especially  on  Sundays, 
the  "  tea-gardens  "  were  thronged  with 
artisans  and  their  wives  and  children. 
Hot  water  was  supplied  at  "  tuppence  " 
per  head,  and  all  the  appliances  of  the 
tea-table,  except  edibles,  were  included. 
But  other  fluids  were  freely  partaken  of, 
from  malt  liquors  or  ginger-beer  at 
"  tuppence  "  a  bottle  up  to  a  glass  of 
rum-and-water,  "varm  vith  a  slice  of 
lemming  in  it."  To  enliven  the  cheer- 
ing glass,  the  proprietor  introduced  two 
musicians,  with  violin  and  harp ;  to 
these  instruments  a  key-bugle  was  add- 
ed ;  then  a  clarionet,  and  subsequently 
a  drum  and  cymbals.  The  "  pandean  " 
pipes  were  excluded  as  a  thought  too 
low.  This  band  was  a  great  success 
and  drew  immensely ;  but  there  are 
often  wet  nights  during  the  English 
summer,  and  the  tavern-keeper  wanted 
to  secure  visitors  every  night,  so  he 
built  a  commodious  room,  furnished  it 
with  tables  and  seats  and  an  orchestra 
for  the  band.  But  it  was  needful  even 
among  his  customers  to  draw  a  line,  so 
as  to  keep  the  room  sacred  from  the  in- 
trusion of  the  irrepressibly  "  wulgar  "  ; 
he  therefore  demanded  sixpence  ad- 
mission, but  this  amount  was  returned 
in  refreshments.  To  secure  the  preser-  . 
vation  of  order,  the  landlord  occupied  a 
seat  in  the  room  as  chairman,  or,  as  he 
declared  it,  to  see  "  fair  play  "  between 
party  and  party.  This  room  and  the 
band  suggested  dancing,  and  balls  were 
th.ence  occasionally  got  up.  This  ar- 
rangement prospered ;  the  landlord  ob- 
tained additional  ground  and  built  a 
circular  platform,  with  an  orchestra  in 
the  centre,  that  there  might  be  dancing 
every  fine  night.  By  and  by  the  large 
room  was  converted  into  a  theatre,  in 
which  the  proprietor,  Mr.  Rouse,  occu- 
pied a  conspicuous  place,  seated  in  a 
private  box  upon  a  glass  chair.  He 
was  provided  with  a  tumbler  of  spirits, 
and  with  a  clay  pipe  from  which  he  in- 
haled the  fragrant  weed ;  and  this  was 
tacit  permission  to  those  who  wished 
to  do  likewise  during  the  performances. 
The  motive  for  this  proceeding  was  un- 


derstood and  appreciated  by  his  audi- 
ences, mostly  of  the  working-class,  and 
they  were  so  pleased  with  what  he  had 
done  to  contribute  to  their  amusement 
that  they  gave  him  credit  for  everything 
that  was  done.  Whatever  commanded 
their  approbation  on  the  stage  received 
their  applause  by  cries  addressed  per- 
sonally to  him  of  "  Brayvo,  Rouse  ! " 
This  exclamation,  repeated  again  night 
after  night,  made  its  way  out  of  the 
house  into  the  streets,  and  for  a  time 
nothing  was  heard  all  over  London  but 
"Brayvo,  Rouse  !  "  It  was  applied  to 
all  manner  of  fortunate  circumstances, 
by  even  feminine  lips  in  respectable  cir- 
cles, and  was  once  greeted  with  shouts 
of  laughter  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
when  uttered  as  a  cheer  to  an  orator 
of  the  Dundreary  school.  But  Rouse 
has  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh,  and  the 
old  establishment  has  passed  into  other 
hands.  The  successor,  a  popular  comic 
actor,  by  name  Conquest,  pushed  for- 
ward the  place  of  old  Rouse  to  its  pres- 
ent development,  which  comprehends 
a  large,  handsomely  decorated  theatre, 
in  which  are  performed  dramas  of  all 
kinds,  ballets  and  pantomimes. 

This  theatre  is  named  "The  Gre- 
cian," for  what  consideration  or  by 
what  parity  of  reasoning  is  not  gener- 
ally known.  The  gardens  have  been 
enlarged  and  beautified,  extensive  ball- 
rooms added,  and  a  large  hotel  has 
taken  the  place  of  the  old  one.  The 
tavern  retains  the  sign  of  the  "  Eagle,'* 
but  its  patrons  in  familiar  parlance  term 
it  "  The  Bird."  Mr.  George  Conquest, 
the  son  of  the  proprietor,  is  manager  of 
the  theatre,  playwright,  comic  actor,  and 
contortionist.  He  is  indefatigable  in 
his  exertions,  and  the  remarkable  suc- 
cess which  attends  his  large  establish- 
ment is  in  great  measure  due  to  them. 
On  Saturdays  there  is  usually  a  great 
gathering  of  young  Hebrew  persons  of 
both  sexes.  They  divide  their  evenings 
mostly  between  the  attractions  of  the  the- 
atre and  the  "  fust  set "  on  the  platform. 

More  to  the  eastward  are  Hoxton, 
Shoreditch,  and  Whitechapel ;  these 
are  new  and  splendid  theatres  of  great 
size,  which  have  sprung  up  from  the 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


301 


ashes  of  the  lowest  of  their  kind,  name- 
ly, the  Britannia  at  Hoxton,  originally 
a  drinking-saloon,  the  City  of  London, 
and  the  Standard  in  Shoreditch,  the 
East  London  in  Whitechapel,  and  the 
Oriental  in  Poplar.  We  may  dismiss 
all  these  establishments  but  one  with 
a  few  words.  They  were  each  of  a 
poor  description,  appealing  to  the  lower 
classes  with  entertainments  of  the  worst 
school;  now  the  buildings  are  commo- 
dious, lavishly  decorated,  and  the  per- 
formances, though  still  rather  of  the 
"  terrific  descent  of  the  avalanche " 
order,  are  superior  to  what  they  were 
even  a  few  years  back. 

But  the  minor  theatre,  which  stands 
quite  alone  among  its  class,  is  the  New 
National  Standard,  reared  upon  the 
charred  ruins  of  a  predecessor  which 
boasted  only  one  private  box,  —  and 
such  a  box  !  The  new  building  faces 
the  terminus  of  the  Great  Eastern  Rail- 
way in  Shoreditch,  —  a  very  densely  pop- 
ulated, poor  locality,  where  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  toilers  and  workers 
in  factories  and  dock-yards  dwell.  The 
working  classes  are  decent  and  orderly 
enough,  but  mingled  with  them  are 
roughs  and  Arabs  of  the  vilest  kinds. 
For  the  delectation  of  all  these  persons 
Mr.  John  Douglas  has  erected  one  of 
the  most  magnificent  theatres,  both  for 
magnitude  and  decoration,  in  the  king- 
dom. It  surpasses  the  Chatelet  in  Par- 
is, and  equals  the  Royal  Italian  Opera, 
Covent  Garden,  in  all  respects.  The 
area  it  occupies  is  something  consider- 
able, for  the  auditorium  alone  can,  with- 
out inconvenience,  seat  five  thousand 
persons.  Jt  is  of  the  horseshoe  form  ; 
each  tier  of  boxes  up  to  the  gallery, 
which  is  something  of  a  journey,  slight- 
ly recedes  from  the  lower,  the  balcony 
at  the  lowest  part  being  the  nearest  to 
the  stage.  The  pit  is  occupied  with 
stalls  as  far  as  the  balcony,  but  runs 
a  long  way  under  the  boxes.  The 
price  of  the  pit  stalls  is  one  shilling  (25 
cents),  the  gallery  fourpence  (8  cents). 
The  front  of  the  boxes,  of  which  a 
large  number  are  private,  is  painted 
pearl-white,  ornamented  with  rich  em- 
blazon ings  of  gold  scroll-work.  The 


appointments  are  of  crimson  Utrecht 
velvet,  and  the  private  boxes  are 
draped  with  crimson  curtains.  Not- 
withstanding the  vast  dimensions  of 
this  building,  the  stage  can  be  seen 
from  every  part  of  the  house.  The 
voice  in  its  lightest  intonation  can  be 
distinctly  heard  in  the  back  seat  of  the 
gallery,  from  whence  the  actors  look 
mere  pygmies.  Withal,  the  ventilation 
is  as  near  perfection  as  can  be  ex- 
pected, —  the  heat  on  the  most  crowded 
nights  not  even  approaching  inconven- 
ience. The  most  remarkable  part  of 
these  desirable  results  is,  that  no  archi- 
tect was  employed.  Mr.  Douglas  and 
his  sons  arranged  their  plans  as  the 
building  rose  story  by  story,  and  yet, 
with  all  its  comforts  and  luxuries,  its 
noble  corridors,  saloons,  staircases, — 
all  fire-proof,  —  it  might  well  serve  as 
a  model  for  the  best  theatre  yet  to  be 
built.  It  is  justly  entitled  to  be  con- 
sidered one  of  the  sights  of  London. 
The  proprietor,  as  may  be  imagined, 
possesses  a  remarkable  spirit  of  enter- 
prise, for  while  one  week  he  has  favored 
his  audiences  with  "  A  Deed  of  Blood," 
he  has  on  the  succeeding  week  intro- 
duced Sims  Reeves  to  them.  "The 
Bride  of  Death  "  has  been  followed  by 
James  Anderson  and  tragedy,  or  an 
opera  company,  or  some  attraction 
supposed  to  be  proper  and  pertinent 
to  the  West-End  of  London  alone.  It 
speaks  well  for  the  intellectual  appre- 
ciation of  the  artisans  and  toilers,  that 
the  highest  class  of  dramatic  or  musi- 
cal representations  draws  them  in  thou- 
sands to  the  theatre.  Mr.  J.  L.  Toole, 
the  versatile  comedian,  has  recently 
concluded  a  very  successful  engage- 
ment at  this  theatre. 

The  theatres  on  the  south  of  the 
Thames  are  few  in  number,  but  they 
have  been  long  established  ;  they  bear 
some  remarkable  associations,  and  have 
made,  with  one  exception,  but  little 
change  in  their  style  of  entertainments. 
They  are  named  respectively  the  Surrey, 
the  Victoria,  and  Astley's  Amphithe- 
atre. The  Surrey  was  originally  built 
in  1782,  under  the  superintendence  of 
the  celebrated  national  song -writer, 


302 


The  Minor  Theatres  of  London. 


[March, 


Charles  Dibdin.  It  was  destroyed  in 
1805,  and  replaced  by  a  new  theatre, 
which  was  tenanted  successively  by 
Tom  Dibdin  (the  son  of  Charles),  Wat- 
kins  Burroughs,  Honeyman,  and  Ellis- 
ton.  Many  noted  and  well -remem- 
bered actors  have  played  in  this  theatre. 
T.  P.  Cooke,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fitzwilliam, 
Mrs.  Egerton,  Buckstone,  and  others 
of  the  same  reputation,  played  together 
in  Tom  Dibdin's  dramatizations  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  novels.  It  was  here 
that  Robert  William  Elliston,  "the 
magnificent,"  many  years  lessee  of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre,  played  his  last 
part  in  life,  here  Douglas  Jerrold  pro- 
duced the  ever-popular  drama,  "  Black- 
Eyed  Susan,"  and  here  stubborn  efforts 
have  been  made  to  reproduce  Shake- 
speare, with  Mr.  Cresorick  as  its  expo- 
nent. The  theatre  was  again  burnt 
down  in  1865,  and  a  handsome  building 
has  been  reared  in  its  place.  Spec- 
tacular and  sensational  dramas  are  the 
entertainments  now  provided  for  its 
patrons. 

Astley's,  or,  as  cockneys  love  to  call 
it,  "  Ashley,"  was  first  erected  near  the 
foot  of  Westminster  Bridge  by  Philip 
Astley,  in  1782,  for  equestrian  entertain- 
ments, but  it  went  the  way  of  all  such 
buildings,  —  was  destroyed  by  fire,  re- 
built and  burnt  in  1794,  rebuilt  and 
burnt  in  1803,  rebuilt  and  burnt  in 
1841.  It  was  rebuilt,  and  seven  years 
back  was  taken  to  pieces  by  Dion 
Boucicault,  who  converted  it  into  a 
theatre,  minus  the  circus,  it  being  pre- 
viously an  amphitheatre,  or  equestrian 
circus.  In  the  building  which  perished 
in  1841  flourished  the  celebrated  rider 
Ducrow,  and  it  was  in  his  time  that  the 
"  Battle  of  Waterloo  "  with  "  real  sol- 
diers "  was  produced,  and  commanded 
an  amazing  long  run.  It  had  its  u  real " 
Napoleon,  too,  that  is  to  say,  one 
Mr.  Gomersal,  who  dressed  and  looked 
the  part  so  exactly  like  the  well-known 
portraits  of  the  great  Emperor,  that  he 
used  to  receive  nightly  many  rounds 
of  applause  when  he  came  on  the  stage 
tapping  a  "  real "  snuff-box  in  which 
there  was  "  real "  snuff.  Then  there 
was  the  evergreen  Widdicombe,  father 


of  Harry  Widdicome,  the  excellent  low 
comedian,  now  no  more,  who,  for  many 
years,  attracted  admiration  and  ap- 
plause as  master  of  the  ring,  or  rather 
"  monarch  of  the  circle."  He  was  al- 
ways attired  as  a  Polish  nobleman  of 
supreme  rank,  and  his  make-up  was  so 
youthful  that  each  succeeding  year  he 
seemed  to  grow  younger.  Many  bets 
were  made  respecting  his  age ;  and 
Punch,  when  referring  to  the  subject, 
declared  the  date  to  be  a  thing  buried 
in  the  mist  of  ages  ;  all  that  could  be 
determined  was  that  he  was  well  ad- 
vanced in  years  when  he  came  over  to 
England  in  the  train  of  William  the 
Conqueror. 

The  Victorin  Theatre  stands  in  the 
Waterloo  Road,  about  ten  minutes'  walk 
from  Waterloo  Bridge.  It  was  origi- 
nally called  the  Coburg,  but  changed 
its  name  in  1833,  and  is  now  best 
known  as  "  The  Vic  "  ;  at  least  it  is,  in 
a  kind  of  petting  way,  so  designated  by 
its  patrons  and  worshippers.  It  was 
first  opened  to  the  public  in  1817  ;  in 
those  days  it  was  regarded  as  a  marvel 
of  commodiousness  and  elegant  deco- 
ration, and  once  boasted  a  magnificent 
glass  curtain.  Like  most  of  its  con- 
temporaries, it  changed  hands  many 
times,  and  submitted  every  variety  of 
entertainment  to  the  motley  assem- 
blages which  nightly  filled  its  audi- 
torium. At  one  time  a  "  professor " 
walked  along  the  ceiling  with  his  feet 
upwards  and  his  head  downwards  ;  and 
not  long  afterwards  the  young  Irish 
Roscius,  Master  Brooke,  afterwards 
well  known  as  Gustavus  Brooke,  who 
unhappily  perished  in  the  "  London  " 
steamship  on  his  way  to  Australia, 
made  his  first  appearance  before  a 
British  audience  in  one  act  of  the  play 
of  Virginius.  He  spoke  the  words  of 
the  author  with  a  strong  Dublin  brogue, 
but  he  was  a  clever,  handsome  boy, 
and  was  rapturously  applauded.  Warde, 
a  celebrated  tragedian,  made  an  attempt 
at  this  house  to  occupy  the  place  which 
Edmund  Kean  left  vacant,  but  he  suc- 
ceeded only  in  making  Kean's  loss  to 
the  stage  more  apparent. 

But  not  by  these  events  did  the  "  Vic  " 


8;o.] 


T/ic  Minor  TJicatrcs  of  London. 


303 


establish  its  claims  to  be  one  of  the 
sights  of  London.  The  neighborhood, 
owing  to  some  hardly  recognizable 
cause,  took  to  declining  in  respecta- 
bility. It  not  only  became  the  residence 
of  a  very  humble,  but  of  a  very  disgrace- 
ful class.  Thieves  and  disreputable 
women  poured  into  it  in  droves  ;  in  con- 
sequence the  tone  of  the  theatre  changed 
with  its  audiences :  prices  of  admis- 
sion were  reduced,  and  the  house  was 
crammed  every  night  to  witness  pieces 
of  the  "  Jack  Sheppard  "  and  "  Dick 
Turpin  "  school.  Crammed  to  suffoca- 
tion, and  by  such  an  audience  !  The 
denizen  of  a  private  box,  —  for  private 
boxes,  admission  two  shillings  (50  c.) 
each  person,  were  still  retained,  —  on 
looking  down  on  the  people  in  the  pit, 
could  not  but  ask  himself,  If  these  be 
the  quasi-respectable  pitites,  what  in 
the  name  of  anything  by  construction 
commonly  decent  can  the  gallery  audi- 
ence be  composed  of?  He  observed 
that  the  positively  "great  unwashed" 
were  beneath  him,  that  soap  and  water 
must  be  unknown  luxuries  to  them,  and 
that  even  their  shirt-sleeves  —  for  coats 
as  a  rule  were  dispensed  with  —  could 
never  have  come  in  contact  with  soap 
from  the  date  of  their  manufacture,  — 
a  remote  period.  He  would  notice,  too, 
that  refection  went  on  throughout  the 
night  in  the  form  of  a  composition 
fearful  to  contemplate,  called  by  the 
man  who  sold  it  and  served  it  from  a 
large  tin  can,  "  por'er "  ;  also  that  it 
was  varied  by  the  gentlemen  with  rum, 
and  by  the  ladies  with  gin,  which  they 
lovingly  termed  "  Jacky."  Bread  and 
cheese,  flavored  with  onions  and  'am 
sandwiches,  were  freely  partaken  of. 
Often,  by  way  of  relish,  these  were  sup- 
plemented by  an  article  bearing  the 
haughty  name  of  "polony."  This,  be 
it  known,  was  a  small,  horrible-looking 
mahogany-colored  sausage,  composed 
but  too  often  of  horse-flesh  and  taint- 
ed pork,  although  it  professed  to  be 
chopped  beef  and  ham,  flavored  with 
herbs.  About  this  time  the  astounded 
spectator  would  feel  himself  compelled 
to  suspend  his  survey  of  the  lower  re- 
gion ;  for,  the  house  being  badly  ven- 


tilated and  the  heat  great,  there  would 
arise  to  his  nostrils  a  steam  bearing  an 
odor  —  to  parody  a  line  of  Shelley's  — 

"  So  fetidly  foul  and  intense 
It  was  felt  like  a  sewer  within  the  sense." 

In  the  boxes  he  would  see  the  free 
and  independent  Briton,  if  the  evening 
happened  to  be  oppressive,  dispense, 
untrammelled  by  bashfulness,  with  coat 
and  necktie,  and  display  the  manly 
shirt-bosom  or  the  convenient  "dicky," 
free  from  fear  or  embarrassment.  He 
would  notice  that  baked  potatoes 
cooked  in  their  "jackets,"  were  among 
the  fruits  devoured  by  the  box  gentry. 
They  were  as  cheap  as  oranges,  were 
warm,  seasoned  with  pepper  and  salt, 
and  moistened  with  a  butter  of  the 
"  rank "  of  which  there  could  be  no 
doubt,  and  they  gave  an  impression 
of  supper.  Turning  his  eyes  upward, 
he  would  note  also  that  the  tenants 
of  the  gallery,  who  on  full  nights  num- 
bered over  3.  thousand  persons,  were 
utterly  regardless  of  dress,  as  on  en- 
tering the  theatre  they  strove  to  get  rid 
of  as  much  of  it  from  the  upper  part  of 
their  dusky  forms  as  they  could  ;  that 
they  were  a  turbulent  and  self-willed  par- 
ty, much  given  to  practical  joking  ;  that 
they  spent  no  inconsiderable  portion 
of  their  evening  in  fights,  sharp  and 
short;  if  fatigued  with  this  pleasure, 
that  they  would  proceed  to  pelt  then- 
richer  friends  in  the  pit  with  anything 
dirty  or  hard  which  might  be  conven- 
iently at  hand,  —  a  ginger-beer  bottle 
not  being  objected  to,  if  there  happened 
to  be  a  bald  head  visible  in  the  pit.  It 
was  not  an  uncommon  thing,  also,  to 
see  a  mother  carrying  a  child ;  if  she 
arrived  late  and  discovered  her  friends 
in  the  first  row,  hand  that  child  to  a 
sympathizing  neighbor,  and  then  make 
a  shoot  in  the  "  sensation -header " 
style  over  the  heads  of  those  before 
and  beneath  her.  After  much  battling, 
thrusting,  and  shouting,  she  would  land 
in  the  coveted  seat,  and  then  be  heard 
to  scream  out  to  her  friend,  "  Hand 
down  the  child."  It  was  a  terrifying 
sight  to  see  the  poor  baby  tossed  like 
a  ball  from  hand  to  hand,  the  object  of 
what  was  called  a  good  "  ketch,"  pass- 


304                                     Balder  s  Wife.                                     [March, 

ing  the  horrors  of  the  middle  passage,  ment  of  Miss  Vincent,  this  state  of 
until  at  last  it  reached  its  mother's  things  obtained ;  but  the  theatre  has, 
arms,  more  dead  than  alive.  The  noise  since  her  death,  changed  hands,  and 
arising  from  cat-calls,  cries  of  recogni-  an  improvement  has  been  effected  ;  at 
tion  to  friends  in  distant  parts  of  the  least,  whistling  is  banished  and  fight- 
house,  advice  to  parties  to  "throw  him  ing  is  not  tolerated.  No  encore  is  al- 
over,"  when  "  him  "  objected  to  being  lowed  if  whistled  for,  and  combatants 
hustled  out  of  his  seat  by  covetous  per-  are  ejected  from  the  theatre  as  soon 
sons  who  preferred  his  position  to  their  after  an  action  has  commenced  as  can 
own,  peals  of  shrill  whistling  when  ap-  be  managed.  The  class  of  entertain- 
proval  of  an  actor's  "  bould  speaking  "  ments  given  are  sensational  dramas  of 
or  of  a  gorgeous  scenic  effect  was  sig-  a  broad  class,  accompanied  by  pieces  of 
nified,  is  not  to  be  described :  it  could  a  lighter  description,  and  at  Christmas 
only  be  realized  by  being  heard.  a  very  grand  pantomime  is  the  princi- 
For  some  years,  under  the  manage-  pal  dish  in  the  bill  of  fare. 


BALDER'S     WIFE. 

HER  casement  like  a  watchful  eye 
From  the  face  of  the  wall  looks  down, 
Lashed  round  with  ivy  vines  so  dry, 

And  with  ivy  leaves  so  brown. 
Her  golden  head  in  her  lily  hand 

Like  a  star  in  the  spray  o'  th'  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so  low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 

Never  so  light  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

Like  some  bright  honey-hearted  rose 

That  the  wild  wind  rudely  mocks, 
She  blooms  from  the  dawn  to  the  day's  sweet  close 

Hemmed  in  with  a  world  of  rocks. 
The  livelong  night  she  doth  not  stir, 

But  keeps  at  her  casement  lorn, 
And  the  skirts  of  the  darkness  shine  with  her 

As  they  shine  with  the  light  o'  the  morn. 
And  all  who  pass  may  hear  her  lay, 

But  let  it  be  what  tune  it  may, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

And  there  within  that  one-eyed  tower, 

Lashed  round  with  the  ivy  brown, 

She  droops  like  some  unpitied  flower 
That  the  rain-fall  washes  down: 


A  Romance  of  Real  Life. 


305 


The  damp  o'  th'  dew  in  her  golden  hair, 

Her  cheek  like  the  spray  o'  th'  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so  low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 

Never  so  glad  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 


A    ROMANCE    OF    REAL    LIFE. 


IT  was  long  past  the  twilight  hour, 
which  has  been  elsewhere  men- 
tioned as  so  oppressive  in  suburban 
places,  and  it  was  even  too  late  for 
visitors,  when  a  resident,  whom  I  shall 
briefly  describe  as  the  Contributor,  was 
startled  by  a  ring  at  his  door,  in  the 
vicinity  of  one  of  our  great  maritime 
cities,  —  say  Plymouth  or  Manchester. 
As  any  thoughtful  person  would  have 
done  upon  the  like  occasion,  he  ran 
over  his  acquaintance  in  his  mind, 
speculating  whether  it  were  such  or 
.such  a  one,  and  dismissing  the  whole 
list  of  improbabilities,  before  laying 
down  the  book  he  was  reading,  and 
answering  the  bell.  When  at  last  he 
did  this,  he  was  rewarded  by  the  ap- 
parition of  an  utter  stranger  on  his 
threshold,  —  a  gaunt  figure  of  forlorn 
and  curious  smartness  towering  far 
above  him,  that  jerked  him  a  nod  of 
the  head,  and  asked  if  Mr.  Hapford 
lived  there.  The  face  which  the  lamp- 
light revealed  was  remarkable  for  a 
harsh  two  days'  growth  of  beard,  and 
a  single  bloodshot  eye  ;  yet  it  was  not 
otherwise  a  sinister  countenance,  and 
there  was  something  in  the  strange 
presence  that  appealed  and  touched. 
The  contributor,  revolving  the  facts 
vaguely  in  his  mind,  was  not  sure,  after 
all,  that  it  was  not  the  man's  clothes 
rather  than  his  expression  that  soft- 
ened him  towards  the  rugged  visage : 
they  were  so  tragically  cheap,  and  the 
misery  of  helpless  needlewomen  and 

'VOL.    XXV.  —  NO.    149.  20 


the  poverty  and  ignorance  of  the  pur- 
chaser were  so  apparent  in  their  shabby 
newness,  of  which  they  appeared  still 
conscious  enough  to  have  led  the 
way  to  the  very  window,  in  the  Semitic 
quarter  of  the  city,  where  they  had  lain 
ticketed,  "  This  nobby  suit  for  $  15." 

But  the  stranger's  manner  put  both 
his  face  and  his  clothes  out  of  mind, 
and  claimed  a  deeper  interest  when, 
being  answered  that  the  person  for 
whom  he  asked  did  not  live  there,  he 
set  his  bristling  lips  hard  together,  and 
sighed  heavily. 

"  They  told  me,"  he  said,  in  a  hope- 
less way,  "  that  he  lived  on  this  street, 
and  I  've  been  to  every  other  house. 
I  'm  very  anxious  to  find  him,  Cap'n," 
—  the  contributor,  of  course,  had  no 
claim  to  the  title  with  which  he  was 
thus  decorated, — "for  I  've  a  daughter 
living  with  him,  and  I  want  to  see  her ; 
I  've  just  got  home  from  a  two  years' 
voyage,  and"  —  there  was  a  struggle 
of  the  Adam's-apple  in  the  man's  gaunt 
throat  —  "I  find  she 's  about  all  there 
is  left  of  my  family." 

How  complex  is  every  human  mo- 
tive !  This  contributor  had  been  lately 
thinking,  whenever  he  turned  the  pages 
of  some  foolish  traveller,  —  some  empty 
prattler  of  Southern  or  Eastern  lands, 
where  all  sensation  was  long  ago  ex- 
hausted, and  the  oxygen  has  perished 
from  every  sentiment,  so  has  it  been 
breathed  and  breathed  again, —  that 
nowadays  the  wise  adventurer  sat  clown 


306 


A  Romance  of  Real  Life, 


[March, 


beside  his  own  register  and  waited  for 
incidents  to  seek  him  out.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  cultivation  of  a  patient 
and  receptive  spirit  was  the  sole  condi- 
tion needed  to  insure  the  occurrence 
of  all  manner  of  surprising  facts  within 
the  range  of  one's  own  personal  knowl- 
edge ;  that  not  only  the  Greeks  were  at 
our  doors,  but  the  fairies  and  the  genii, 
and  all  the  people  of  romance,  who  had 
but  to  be  hospitably  treated  in  order  to 
develop  the  deepest  interest  of  fiction, 
and  to  become  the  characters  of  plots 
so  ingenious  that  the  most  cunning 
invention  were  poor  beside  them.  I 
myself  am  not  so  confident  of  this, 
and  would  rather  trust  Mr.  Charles 
Reade,  say,  for  my  amusement  than 
any  chance  combination  of  events.  But 
I  should  be  afraid  to  say  how  much  his 
pride  in  the  character  of  the  stranger's 
sorrows,  as  proof  of  the  correctness  of 
his  theory,  prevailed  with  the  contribu- 
tor to  ask  him  to  come  in  and  sit  clown  ; 
though  I  hope  that  some  abstract  im- 
pulse of  humanity,  some  compassionate 
and  unselfish  care  for  the  man's  mis- 
fortunes as  misfortunes,  was  not  wholly 
wanting.  Indeed,  the  helpless  simplici- 
ty with  which  he  had  confided  his  case 
might  have  touched  a  harder  heart. 
"  Thank  you,"  said  the  poor  fellow, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "  I  be- 
lieve I  will  come  in.  I  've  been  on  foot 
all  day,  and  after  such  a  long  voyage 
it  makes  a  man  dreadfully  sore  to  walk 
about  so  much.  Perhaps  you  can 
think  of  a  Mr.  Hapford  living  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood." 

He  sat  down,  and,  after  a  pondering 
silence,  in  which  he  had  remained  with 
his  head  fallen  upon  his  breast,  "  My 
name  is  Jonathan  Tinker,  he  said,  with 
the  unaffected  air  which  had  already 
impressed  the  contributor,  and  as  if  he 
felt  that  some  form  of  introduction  was 
necessary,  "  and  the  girl  that  I  want 
to  find  is  Julia  Tinker."  Then  he  said, 
resuming  the  eventful  personal  history 
which  the  listener  exulted  while  he  re- 
gretted to  hear :  "  You  see,  I  shipped 
first  to  Liverpool,  and  there  I  heard 
from  my  family  ;  and  then  I  shipped 
again  for  Hong-Kong,  and  after  that  I 


never  heard  a  word  :  I  seemed  to  miss 
the  letters  everywhere.  This  morning, 
at  four  o'clock,  I  left  my  ship  as  soon 
as  she  had  hauled  into  the  dock,  and 
hurried  up  home.  The  house  was  shut, 
and  not  a  soul  in  it ;  and  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  do,  and  I  sat  down  on 
the  doorstep  to  wait  till  the  neighbors 
woke  up,  to  ask  them  what  had  become 
of  my  family.  And  the  first  one  come 
out  he  told  me  my  wife  had  been  dead  a 
year  and  a  half,  and  the  baby  I  'd  never 
seen,  with  her  ;  and  one  of  my  boys 
was  dead  ;  and  he  did  n't  know  where 
the  rest  of  the  children  was,  but  he  'd 
heard  two  of  the  little  ones  was  with  a 
family  in  the  city." 

The  man  mentioned  these  things  with 
the  half-apologetic  air  observable  in  a 
certain  kind  of  Americans  when  some 
accident  obliges  them  to  confess  the 
infirmity  of  the  natural  feelings.  They 
do  not  ask  your  sympathy,  and  you  offer 
it  quite  at  your  own  risk,  with  a  chance 
of  having  it  thrown  back  upon  your 
hands.  The  contributor  assumed  the 
risk  so  far  as  to  say,  "  Pretty  rough  !  " 
when  the  stranger  paused  ;  and  perhaps. 
these  homely  words  were  best  suited 
to  reach  the  homely  heart.  The  man's 
quivering  lips  closed  hard  again,  a 
kind  of  spasm  passed  over  his  dark 
face,  and  then  two  very  small  drops  of 
brine  shone  upon  his  weather-worn 
cheeks.  This  demonstration,  into  which 
he  had  been  surprised,  seemed  to  stand 
for  the  passion  of  tears  into  which  the 
emotional  races  fall  at  such  times.  He 
opened  his  lips  with  a  kind  of  dry 
click,  and  went  on:  — 

';  I  hunted  about  the  whole  fore- 
noon in  the  city,  and  at  last  I  found 
the  children.  I  :d  been  gone  so  long 
they  did  n't  know  me,  and  somehow 
I  thought  the  people  they  were  with 
were  n't  over-glad  I  'd  turned  up.  Fi- 
nally tlie  oldest  child  told  me  that 
Julia  was  living  with  a  Mr.  Hapford 
on  this  street,  and  I  started  out  he.' re- 
to-night  to  look  her  up.  If  I  can  find 
her,  I  'm  all  right.  I  can  get  the  fam- 
ily together,  then,  and  start  new." 

"It  seems  rather  odd,"  mused  the 
listener  aloud,  "that  the  neighbors  let 


1 870.] 


A  Romance  of  Rail  Life. 


307 


them  break  up  so,  and  that  they  should 
all  scatter  as  they  did." 

'•  Well,  it  ain't  so  curious  as  it  seems, 
Cap'n.  There  was  money  for  them  at 
the  owners',  all  the  time  ;  I  'd  left  part 
of  my  wages  when  I  sailed ;  but  they 
did  n't  know  how  to  get  at  it,  and  what 
could  a  parcel  of  children  do  ?  Julia's 
a  good  girl,  and  when  I  find  her  I  'm  all 
right." 

The  writer  could  only  repeat  that 
there  was  no  Mr.  Hapford  living  on 
that  street,  and  never  had  been,  so 
far  as  he  knew.  Yet  there  might  be 
such  a  person  in  the  neighborhood ; 
and  they  would  go  out  together,  and 
ask  at  some  of  the  houses  about.  But 
the  stranger  must  first  take  a  glass  of 
wine  ;  for  he  looked  used  up. 

The  sailor  awkwardly  but  civilly 
enough  protested  that  he  did  not  want 
to  give  so  much  trouble,  but  took  the 
glass,  and,  as  he  put  it  to  his  lips,  said 
formally,  as  if  it  were  a  toast  or  a  kind 
of  grace,  "  I  hope  I  may  have  the  op- 
portunity of  returning  the  compliment." 
The  contributor  thanked  him  ;  though, 
as  he  thought  of  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  case,  afad  considered  the  cost  at 
which  the  stranger  had  come  to  enjoy 
his  politeness,  he  felt  little  eagerness  to 
secifre  the  return  of  the  compliment  at 
the  same  price,  and  added,  with  the  con- 
sequence of  another  set  phrase,  "  Not 
at  all."  But  the  thought  had  made  him 
the  more  anxious  to  befriend  the  luck- 
less soul  fortune  had  cast  in  his  way  ; 
and  so  the  two  sallied  out  together,  and 
rang  door-bells  wherever  lights  were 
still  seen  burning  in  the  windows,  and 
asked  the  astonished  people  who  an- 
*  swered  their  summons  whether  any  Mr. 
Hapford  were  known  to  live  in  the 
neighborhood. 

And  although  the  search  for  this 
gentleman  proved  vain,  the  contributor 
could  not  feel  that  an  expedition  which 
set  familiar  objects  in  such  novel  lights 
was  altogether  a  failure.  He  entered 
so  intimately  into  the  cares  and  anxie- 
ties of  his  firotJgc,  that  at  times  he  felt 
himself  in  some  inexplicable  sort  a  ship- 
mate of  Jonathan  Tinker,  and  almost 
personally  a  partner  of  his  calamities. 


The  estrangement  of  all  things  which 
takes  place,  within  doors  and  without, 
about  midnight  may  have  helped  to 
cast  this  doubt  upon  his  identity;  —  he 
seemed  to  be  visiting  now  for  the  first 
time  the  streets  and  neighborhoods 
nearest  his  own,  and  his  feet  stum- 
bled over  the  accustomed' Walks.  In 
his  quality  of  houseless  wanderer,  and, 
—  so  far  as  appeared  to  others, — pos- 
sibly worthless  vagabond,  he  also  got 
a  new  and  instructive  effect  upon  the 
faces  which,  in  his  real  character,  he 
knew  so  well  by  their  looks  of  neigh- 
borly greeting;  and  it  is  his  belief  that 
the  first  hospitable  prompting  of  the 
human  heart  is  to  shut  the  door  in  the 
eyes  of  homeless  strangers  who  pre- 
sent themselves  after  eleven  o'clock. 
By  that  time  the  servants  are  all  abed, 
and  the  gentleman  of  the  house  an- 
swers the  bell,  and  looks  out  with  a 
loath  and  bewildered  face,  which  grad- 
ually changes  to  one  of  suspicion,  and 
of  wonder  as  to  what  those  fellows  can 
possibly  want  of  him,  till  at  last  the 
prevailing  expression  is  one  of  contrite 
desire  to  atone  for  the  first  reluctance 
by  any  sort  of  service.  The  contribu- 
tor professes  to  have  observed  these 
changing  phases  in  the  visages  of  those 
whom  he  that  night  called  from  their 
dreams,  or  arrested  in  the  act  of  going 
to  bed;  and  he  drew  the  conclusion  — 
very  proper  for  his  imaginable  connec- 
tion with  the  garroting  and  other  adven- 
turous brotherhoods  —  that  the  most 
flattering  moment  for  knocking  on  the 
head  people  who  answer  a  late  ring  at 
night  is  either  in  their  first  selfish  be- 
wilderment, or  their  final  self-abandon- 
ment to  their  better  impulses.  It  does 
not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  him  that 
he  would  himself  have  been  a  much 
more  favorable  subject  for  the  preda- 
tory arts  than  any  of  his  neighbors,  if 
his  shipmate,  the  unknown  companion 
of  his  researches  for  Mr.  Hapford,  had 
been  at  all  so  minded.  But  the  faith 
of  the  gaunt  giant  upon  which  he  re- 
posed was  good,  and  the  contributor 
continued  to  winder  about  with  him  in 
perfect  safety.  Not  a  soul  among  those 
they  asked  had  ever  heard  of  a  Mr. 


308 


A  'Romance  of  Real  Life. 


[March, 


Hapford,  —  far  less  of  a  Julia  Tinker 
living  with  him.  But  they  all  listened 
to  the  contributor's  explanation  with 
interest  and  eventual  sympathy;  and 
in  truth,  —  briefly  told,  with  a  word 
now  and  then  thrown  in  by  Jonathan 
Tinker,  who  kept  at  the  bottom  of  the 
steps,  showing  like  a  gloomy  spectre 
in  the  night,  or,  in  his  grotesque 
length  and  gauntness,  like  the  other's 
shadow  cast  there  by  the  lamplight,  — 
it  was  a  story  which  could  hardly  fail  to 
awaken  pity. 

At  last,  after  ringing  several  bells 
where  there  were  no  lights,  in  the  mere 
wantonness  of  good-will,  and  going 
away  before  they  could  be  answered 
(it  would  be  entertaining  to  know  what 
dreams  they  caused  the  sleepers  with- 
in), there  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  it 
but  to  give  up  the  search  till  morning, 
and  go  to  the  main  street  and  wait  for 
the  last  horse-car  to  the  city. 

There,  seated  upon  the  curbstone, 
Jonathan  Tinker,  being  plied  with  a 
few  leading  questions,  told  in  hints  and 
scraps  the  story  of  his  hard  life,  which 
was  at  present  that  of  a  second  mate, 
and  had  been  that  of  a  cabin-boy  and 
of  a  seaman  before  the  mast.  The 
second  mate's  place  he  held  to  be  the 
hardest  aboard  ship.  You  got  only  -a 
few  dollars  more  than  the  men,  and  you 
did  not  rank  with  the  officers  ;  you  took 
your  meals  alone,  and  in  everything 
you  belonged  by  yourself.  The  men 
did  not  respect  you,  and  sometimes  the 
captain  abused  you  awfully  before  the 
passengers.  The  hardest  captain  that 
Jonathan  Tinker  ever  sailed  with  was 
Captain  Gooding  of  the  Cape.  It  had 
got  to  be  so  that  no  man  would  ship 
second  mate  under  Captain  Gooding  ; 
and  Jonathan  Tinker  was  with  him 
only  one  voyage.  When  he  had  been 
home  awhile,  he  saw  an  advertisement 
for  a  second  mate,  and  he  went  round 
to  the  owners'.  They  had  kept  it  se- 
cret who  the  captain  was  ;  but  there 
was  Captain  Gooding  in  the  owners' 
office.  "  Why,  here  's  the  man,  now, 
that  I  want  for  a  second  mate,"  said 
he,  when  Jonathan  Tinker  entered ; 
"  he  knows  me."  "  Captain  Gooding, 


I  know  you  'most  too  well  to  want  to 
sail  under  you,"  answered  Jonathan. 
*'  I  might  go  if  I  had  n't  been  with  you 
one  voyage  too  many  already." 

"  And  then  the  men  !  "  said  Jonathan, 
"the  men  coming  aboard  drunk,  and 
having  to  be  pounded  sober !  And  the 
hardest  of  the  fight  falls  on  the  second 
mate  !  Why,  there  is  n't  an  inch  of  me 
that  has  n't  been  cut  over  or  smashed 
into  a  jell.  I  Ve  had  three  ribs  bro- 
ken ;  I  've  got  a  scar  from  a  knife  on 
my  cheek  ;  and  I  've  been  stabbed  bad 
enough,  half  a  dozen  times,  to  lay  me 
up." 

Here  he  gave  a  sort  of  desperate 
laugh,  as  if  the  notion  of  so  much 
misery  and  such  various  mutilation 
were  too  grotesque  not  to  be  amusing. 
"  Well,  what  can  you  do  ? "  he  went 
on.  "  If  you  don't  strike,  the  men 
think  you  're  afraid  of  them  ;  and  so 
you  have  to  begin  hard  and  go  on 
hard.  I  always  tell  a  man,  '  Now,  my 
man,  I  always  begin  with  a  man  the 
way  I  mean  to  keep  on.  You  do  your 
duty  and  you  're  all  right.  But  if  you 
don't — '  Well,  the  men  ain't  Ameri- 
cans any  more,  —  Dutch,  Spaniards, 
Chinese,  Portuguee,  —  and  it  ain't  like 
abusing  a  white  man." 

Jonathan  Tinker  was  plainly  part  of 
the  horrible  tyranny  which  we  all  know 
exists  on  shipboard  ;  and  his  listener 
respected  him  the  more  that,  though 
he  had  heart  enough  to  be  ashamed  of 
it,  he  was  too  honest  not  to  own  it. 

Why  did  he  still  follow  the  sea  ?  Be- 
cause he  did  not  know  what  else  to  do. 
When  he  was  younger,  he  used  to  love 
it,  but  now  he  hated  it.  Yet  there  was 
not  a  prettier  life  in  the  world  if  you 
got  to  be  captain.  He  used  to  hope 
for  that  once,  but  not  now ;  though  he 
thought  he  could  navigate  a  ship.  Only 
let  him  get  his  family  together  again, 
and  he  would  —  yes,  he  would  —  try  to 
do  something  ashore. 

No  car  had  yet  come  in  sight,  and 
so  the  contributor  suggested  that  they 
should  walk  to  the  car -office,  and 
look  in  the  Directory,  which  is  kept 
there  for  the  name  of  Hapford,  in 
search  of  whom  it  had  alreadv  been 


is/a] 


A  Romance  of  Real  Life. 


309 


arranged  that  they  should  renew  their 
acquaintance  on  the  morrow.  Jona- 
than Tinker,  when  they  had  reached 
the  office,  heard  with  constitutional 
phlegm  that  the  name  of  the  Hapford 
for  whom  he  inquired  was  not  in  the 
Directory.  "  Never  mind,"  said  the 
other,  "  come  round  to  my  house  in 
the  morning.  We  '11  find  him  yet." 
So  they  parted  with  a  shake  of  the 
hand,  the  second  mate  saying  that  he 
believed  he  should  go  down  to  the 
vessel  and  sleep  aboard,  —  if  he  could 
sleep,  —  and  murmuring  at  the  last 
moment  the  hope  of  returning  the 
compliment,  while  the  other  walked 
homeward,  weary  as  to  the  flesh,  but, 
in  spite  of  his  sympathy  for  Jonathan 
Tinker,  very  elate  in  spirit.  The  truth 
is,  —  and  however  disgraceful  to  hu- 
man nature,  let  the  truth  still  be  told,  — 
he  had  recurred  to  his  primal  satisfac- 
tion in  the  man  as  calamity  capable  of 
being  used  for  such  and  such  literary 
ends,  and,  while  he  pitied  him,  re- 
joiced in  him  as  an  episode  of  real  life 
quite  as  striking  and  complete  as  any- 
thing in  fiction.  It  was  literature  made 
to  his  hand.  Nothing  could  be  bet- 
ter, he  mused  ;  and  once  more  he 
passed  the  details  of  the  story  in  re- 
view, and  beheld  all  those  pictures 
which  the  poor  fellow's  artless  words 
had  so  vividly  conjured  up  :  he  saw' 
him  leaping  ashore  in  the  gray  summer 
dawn  as  soon  as  the  ship  hauled  into 
the  dock,  and  making  his  way,  with  his 
vague  sea-legs  unaccustomed  to  the 
pavements,  up  through  the  silent  and 
empty  city  streets ;  he  imagined  the 
tumult  of  fear  and  hope  which  the  sight 
of  the  man's  home  must  have  caused  in 
him,  and  the  benumbing  shock  of  find- 
ing it  blind  and  deaf  to  all  his  appeals  ; 
he  saw  him  sitting  down  upon  what 
had  been  his  own.  threshold,  and  wait- 
ing in  a  sort  of  bewildered  patience  till 
the  neighbors  should  be  awake,  while 
the  noises  of  the  streets  gradually 
arose,  and  the  wheels  began  to  rattle 
over  the  stones,  and  the  milkman  and 
the  ice-man  came  and  went,  and  the 
waiting  figure  began  to  be  stared  at, 
and  to  challenge  the  curiosity  of  the 


passing  policeman ;  he  fancied  the 
opening  of  the  neighbor's  door,  and 
the  slow,  cold  understanding  of  the 
case  ;  the  manner,  whatever  it  was,  in 
which  the  sailor  was  told  that  one 
year  before  his  wife  had  died,  with 
her  babe,  and  that  his  children  were 
scattered,  none  knew  where.  As  the 
contributor  dwelt  pityingly  upon  these 
things,  but  at  the  same  time  estimated 
their  aesthetic  value  one  by  one,  he 
drew  near  the  head  of  his  street,  and 
found  himself  a  few  paces  behind  a  boy 
slouching  onward  through  the  night,  to 
whom  he  called  out,  adventurously,  and 
with  no  real  hope  of  information, — 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  anybody  on 
this  street  by  the  name  of  Hapford  ? " 

"Why  no,  not  in  this  town,"  said  the 
boy ;  but  he  added  that  there  was  a 
street  by  the  same  name  in  a  neighbor- 
ing suburb,  and  that  there  was  a  Hap- 
ford living  on  it. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  thought  the  contributor, 
"  this  is  more  like  literature  than  ev- 
er "  ;  and  he  hardly  knew  whether  to 
be  more  provoked  at  his  own  stupid- 
ity in  not  thinking  of  a  street  of  the 
same  name  in  the  next  village,  or  de- 
lighted at  the  element  of  fatality  which 
the  fact  introduced  into  the  story ;  for 
Tinker,  according  to  his  own  account, 
must  have  landed  from  the  cars  a 
few  rods  from  the  very  door  he  was 
seeking,  and  so  walked  farther  and 
farther  from  it  every  moment.  He 
thought  the  case  so  curious,  that  he 
laid  it  briefly  before  the  boy,  who.  how- 
ever he  might  have  been  inwardly  af- 
fected, was  sufficiently  true  to  the  na- 
tional traditions  not  to  make  the  small- 
est conceivable  outward  sign  of  concern 
in  it. 

At  home,  however,  the  contributor 
related  his  adventures  and  the  story  of 
Tinker's  life,  adding  the  fact  that  he 
had  just  found  out  wfiere  Mr.  Hapford 
lived.  "  It  was  the  only  touch  want- 
ing," said  he  ;  "  the  whole  thing  is  now 
perfect." 

"It's  too  perfect,"  was  answered 
from  a  sad  enthusiasm.  "  Don't  speak 
of  it  !  I  can't  take  it  in." 

"  But  the  question  is,"  said  the  con- 


3io 


A  Romance  of  Real  Life. 


[March, 


tributor,  penitently  taking  himself  to 
task  for  forgetting  the  hero  of  these  ex- 
cellent misfortunes  in  his  delight  over 
their  perfection,  "how  am  I  to  sleep  to- 
night, thinking  of  that  poor  soul's  sus- 
pense and  uncertainty  ?  Never  mind,  — 
I  '11  be  up  early,  and  run  over  and  make 
sure  that  it  is  Tinker's  Hapford,  before 
he  gets  out  here,  and  have  a  pleasant 
surprise  for  him.  Would  it  not  be  a 
justifiable  coup  de  theatre  to  fetch  his 
daughter  here,  and  let  her  answer  his 
ring  at  the  door  when  he  comes  in  the 
morning  ?  " 

This  plan  was  discouraged.  "  No, 
no ;  let  them  meet  in  their  own  way. 
Just  take  him  to  Hapford's  house  and 
leave  him." 

"Very  well.  But  he's  too  good  a 
character  to  lose  sight  of.  He  's  got  to 
come  back  here  and  tell  us  what  he 
intends  to  do." 

The  birds,  next  morning,  not  having 
had  the  second  mate  on  their  minds 
either  as  an  unhappy  man  or  a  most  for- 
tunate episode,  but  having  slept  long 
and  soundly,  were  singing  in  a  very 
sprightly  way  in  the  wayside  trees  ;  and 
the  sweetness  of  their  notes  made  the 
contributor's  heart  light  as  he  climbed 
the  hill  and  rang  at  Mr.  Hapford's 
door. 

The-  door  was  opened  by  a  young 
girl  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  whom  he 
knew  at  a  glance  for  the  second  mate's 
daughter,  but  of  whom,  for  form's  sake, 
he  asked  if  there  were  a  girl  named 
Julia  Tinker  living  there. 

"  My  name  's  Julia  Tinker,"  an- 
swered the  maid,  who  had  rather  a 
disappointing  face. 

"  Well,"  said  the  contributor,  "  your 
father 's  got  back  from  his  Hong-Kong 
voyage." 

1       "  Hong-Kong  voyage  ?  "  echoed  the 
*  girl,   with  a  stare  of  helpless  inquiry, 
but  no  other  visiKle  emotion. 

"  Yes.  He  hacl  never  heard  of  your 
mother's  death.  He  came  home  yes- 
terday morning,  and  was  looking  for 
you  all  day." 

Julia  Tinker  remained  open-mouthed 
but  mute  ;  and  the  other  was  puzzled 
at  the  want  of  feeling  shown,  which  he 


could  not  account  for  even  as  a  na- 
tional trait.  "  Perhaps  there  's  some 
mistake,"  he  said. 

"There  must  be,"  answered  Julia: 
"  my  father  has  n't  been  to  sea  for  a 
good  many  years.  My  father,"  she 
added,  with  a  diffidence  indescribably 
mingled  with  a  sense  of  distinction.  — 
"my  father's  in  State's  Prison.  What 
kind  of  looking  man  was  this  ?  " 

The  contributor  mechanically  de- 
scribed him. 

Julia  Tinker  broke  into  a  loud,  hoarse 
laugh.  "Yes,  it's  him,  sure  enough." 
And  then,  as  if  the  joke  were  too  good 
to  keep  :  "  Miss  Hapford,  Miss  Hap- 
ford, father 's  got  out.  Do  come  here ! " 
she  called  into  a  back  room. 

When  Mrs.  Hapford  appeared,  Julia 
fell  back,  and,  having  deftly  caught  a 
fly  on  the  door-post,  occupied  herself 
in  plucking  it  to  pieces,  while  she  lis- 
tened to  the  conversation  of  the  others. 

"  It 's  all  true  enough,"  said  Mrs. 
Hapford,  when  the  writer  had  recounted 
the  moving  story  of  Jonathan  Tinker, 
"so  far  as  the  death  of  his  wife  and 
baby  goes.  But  he  has  n't  been  to  sea 
for  a  good  many  years,  and  he  must 
have  just  come  out  of  State's  Prison, 
where  he  was  put  for  bigamy.  There  's 
always  two  sides  to  a  story,  you  know ; 
but  they  say  it  broke  his  first  wife's 
heart,  and  she  died.  His  friends  don't 
want  him  to  find  his  children,  and  this 
girl  especially." 

"  He  's  found  his  children  in  the 
city,"  said  the  contributor,  gloomily, 
being  at  a  loss  what  to  do  or  say,  in 
view  of  the  wreck  of  his  romance. 

"  O,  he  's  found  'em,  has  he  ?  "  cried 
Julia,  with  heightened  amusement. 
•'  Then  he  'II  have  me  next,  if  I  don't 
pack  and  go." 

"  I  'm  very,  very  sorry,"  said  the 
contributor,  secretly  resolved  never  to 
do  another  good  deed,  no  matter  how 
temptingly  the  opportunity  presented 
itself.  "  But  you  may  depend  he  won't 
find  out  from  me  where  you  are.  Of 
course  I  ha*d  no  earthly  reason  for  sup- 
posing his  story  was  not  true." 

"Of  course,"  said  kind-hearted  Mrs. 
Hapford,  mingling  a  drop  of  honey  with 


1870.] 


A  Romance  of  Real  Life. 


the  gall  in  the  contributor's  soul,  "you 
only  did  your  duty." 

And  indeed,  as  he  turned  away  he 
did  not  feel  altogether  without  com- 
pensation. However  Jonathan  Tin- 
ker had  fallen  in  his  esteem  as  a  man, 
he  had  even  risen  as  literature.  The 
episode  which  had  appeared  so  perfect 
in  its  pathetic  phases  did  not  seem 
(less  finished  as  a  farce;  and  this  per- 
son, to  whom  all  things  of  e very-day 
life  presented  themselves  in  periods 
more  or  less  rounded,  and  capable  of 
use  as  facts  or  illustrations,  could  not 
but  rejoice  in  these  new  incidents,  as 
dramatically  fashioned  as  the  rest.  It 
occurred  to  him  that,  wrought  into  a 
story,  even  better  use  might  be  made  of 
the  facts  now  than  before,  for  they  had 
developed  questions  of  character  and 
of  human  nature  which  could  not  fail  to 
interest.  The  more  he  pondered  upon 
his  acquaintance  with  Jonathan  Tinker, 
the  more  fascinating  the  erring  mariner 
became,  in  his  complex  truth  and  false- 
hood, his  delicately  blending  shades  of 
artifice  and  naivete.  He  must,  it  was 
felt,  have  believed  to  a  certain  point  in 
his  own  inventions  :  nay,  starting  with 
that  groundwork  of  truth,  —  the  fact  that 
his  wife  w.us  really  dead,  and  that  he  had 
not  seen  his  family  for  two  years,  —  why 
should  he  not  place  implicit  faith  in 
all  the  fictions  reared  upon  it  ?  It  was 
probable  that  he  felt  a  real  sorrow  for 
her  loss,  and  that  he  found  a  fantas- 
tic consolation  in  depicting  the  circum- 
stances of  her  death  so  that  they  should 
look  like  his  inevitable  misfortunes  rath- 
er than  his  faults.  He  might  well  have 
repented  his  offence  during  those  two 
years  of  prison  ;  and  why  should  he  not 
now  cast  their  dreariness  and  shame 
out  of  his  memory,  and  replace  them 
with  the  freedom  and  adventure  of  a 
two  years'  voyage  to  China,  —  so  proba- 
ble, in  all  respects,  that  the  fact  should 
appear  an  impossible  nightmare  1  In 
the  experiences  of  his  life  he  had  abun- 
dant material  to  furnish  forth  the  facts 
of  such  a  voyage,  and  in  the  weariness 
and  lassitude  that  should  follow  a  day's 
walking  equally  after  a  two  years'  voy- 
age and  two  years'  imprisonment,  he 


had  as  much  physical  proof  in  favor 
of  one  hypothesis  as  the  other.  It  was 
doubtless  true,  also,  as  he  said,  that  he 
had  gone  to  his  house  at  dawn,  and 
sat  down  on  the  threshold  of  his  ruined 
home  ;  and  perhaps  he  felt  the  desire 
he  had  expressed  to  see  his  daughter, 
with  a  purpose  of  beginning  life  anew  ; 
and  it  may  have  cost  him  a  veritable 
pang  when  he  found  that  his  little  ones 
did  not  know  him.  All  the  sentiments 
of  the  situation  were  such  as  might 
persuade  a  lively  fancy  of  the  truth  of 
its  own  inventions  ;  and  as  he  heard 
these  continually  repeated  by  the  con- 
tributor in  their  search  for  Mr.  Hap- 
ford,  they  must  have  acquired  an  objec- 
tive force  and  repute  scarcely  to  be 
resisted.  At  the  same  time,  there  were 
touches  of  nature  throughout  Jonathan 
Tinker's  narrative  which  could  not  fail 
to  take  the  faith  of  another.  The  con- 
tributor, in  reviewing  it,  thought  it  par- 
ticularly charming  that  his  mariner  had 
not  overdrawn  himself  or  attempted  to 
paint  his  character  otherwise  than  as 
it  probably  was  ;  that  he  had  shown  his 
ideas  and  practices  of  life  to  be  those 
of  a  second  mate,  nor  more  nor  less, 
without  the  gloss  of  regret  or  the  pre- 
tences to  refinement  that  might  be 
pleasing  to  the  supposed  philanthro- 
pist with  whom  he  had  fallen  in.  Cap- 
tain Gooding  was  of  course  a  true  por- 
trait, and  there  was  nothing  in  Jonathan 
Tinker's  statement  of  the  relations  of  a 
second  mate  to  his  superiors  and  his 
inferiors  which  did  not  agree  perfectly 
with  what  the  writer  had  just  read 
in  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast,"  —  a 
book  which  had  possibly  cast  its  gla- 
mour upon  the  adventure.  He  admired 
also  the  just  and  perfectly  characteris- 
tic air  of  grief  in  the  bereaved  husband 
and  father,  —  those  occasional  escapes 
from  the  sense  of  loss  into  a  brief 
hilarity  and  forge tfulness,  and  those  re- 
lapses into  the  hovering  gloom,  which 
every  one  has  observed  in  this  poor, 
crazy  human  nature  when  oppressed 
by  sorrow,  and  which  it  would  kave 
been  hard  to  simulate.  But,  above  all, 
he  exulted  in  that  supreme  stroke  of 
the  imagination  given  by  the  second 


3I2 


Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  New   York.      [March, 


mate  when,  at  parting,  he  said  he  be- 
lieved he  would  go  down  and  sleep  on 
board  the  vessel.  In  view  of  this,  the 
State's  Prison  theory  almost  appeared 
a  malign  and  foolish  scandal. 

Yet  even  if  this  theory  were  correct, 
was  the  second  mate  wholly  answera- 
ble for  beginning  his  life  again  with  the 
imposture  he  had  practised  ?  The  con- 
tributor had  either  so  fallen  in  love 
with  the  literary  advantages  of  his 
forlorn  deceiver  that  he  would  see 
no  moral  obliquity  in  him,  or  he  had 
touched  a  subtler  verity  at  last  in  pon- 
dering the  affair.  It  seemed  now  no 
longer  a  farce,  but  had  a  pathos  which, 
though  very  different  from  that  of  its 
first  aspect,  was  hardly  less  tragical. 
Knowing  with  what  coldness,  or,  at  the 
best,  uncandor,  he  (representing  Soci- 
ety in  its  attitude  toward  convicted  Er- 
ror) would  have  met  the  fact  had  it 
been  owned  to  him  at  first,  he  had  not 
virtue  enough  to  condemn  the  illusory 


stranger,  who  must  have  been  helpless 
to  make  at  once  evident  any  repent- 
ance he  felt  or  good  purpose  he  cher- 
ished. Was  it  not  one  of  the  saddest 
consequences  of  the  man's  past,  —  a 
dark  necessity  of  misdoing, — that, 
even  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  to 
retrieve  himself,  his  first  endeavor  must 
involve  a  wrong?  Might  he  not,  in- 
deed, be  considered  a  martyr,  in  some 
sort,  to  his  own  admirable  impulses? 
I  can  see  clearly  enough  where  the  con- 
tributor was  astray  in  this  reasoning, 
but  I  can  also  understand  how  one 
accustomed  to  value  realities  only  as 
they  resembled  fables  should  be  won 
with  such  pensive  sophistry ;  and  I  can 
certainly  sympathize  with  his  feeling 
that  the  mariner's  failure  to  reappear 
according  to  appointment  added  its 
final  and  most  agreeable  charm  to  the 
whole  affair,  and  completed  the  mystery 
from  which  the  man  emerged  and  which 
swallowed  him  up  again. 


ADVENTURERS  AND  ADVENTURESSES  IN  NEW  YORK. 


-ADVENTURERS  and  adventur- 
•£•*•  esses  are  associated  in  our  minds 
with  the  Old  World  rather  than  with 
the  New,  with  the  past  rather  than  the 
present.  The  very  names  carry  us 
back  a  century  or  more,  when  the  time 
and  civilization  were  more  favorable 
than  now  to  the  development  of  the 
character  they  recall. 

Saint  Germain  —  the  favorite  of 
Pompadour,  the  mysterious  count,  who 
was  believed  to  be  an  Alsatian  Jew,  to 
be  the  illegitimate  son  of  a  Spanish 
princess,  to  be  a  Portuguese  marquis, 
and  who  was  none  of  these  — glimmers 
out  of  the  voluptuous  and  selfish  reign 
of  Louis  XV.  We  think  of  his  personal 
grace,  his  fine  tact,  his  prodigious  mem- 
ory, his  reputed  discovery  of  the  phi- 
losopher's stone,  and  the  elixir  of  life, 
his  boasting  that  he  had  lived  four 
hundred  years.  We  remember  Voltaire 


told  Frederic,  that  Saint  Germain  was 
a  man  who  never  died,  and  who  knew 
everything ;  and  how,  after  a  varied 
career  as  a  splendid  spy,  he  died  quietly 
at  the  court  of  Hesse-Cassel. 

Casanova,  the  magnificent  profligate, 
who  charmed  both  men  and  women, 
and  described  his  licentious  career  in 
his  own  memoirs,  rises  lustrous  among 
our  recollections.  A  checkered  life  was 
his.  He  was  always  in  intrigues,  and 
often  in  prison.  At  ten  years  of  age 
he  began  life  by  making  love  to  Bettina, 
and  still  a  youth  left  Padua  on  account 
of  a  student's  brawl ;  revelled  in  the 
choicest  vices  of  Venice  ;  escaped  from 
Sant'  Andrea,  and  won  the  favor  of 
Pope  Benedict.  Weary  of  Yussuf  Ali's 
doting  wife  and  of  all  manner  of  success, 
he  left  Constantinople  with  an  immense 
fortune,  and,  gambling  it  away,  per- 
formed in  the  orchestra  of  the  theatre 


1 8 /o.]          Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  Nciv    York.  313 


of  San  Samuele  at  Venice,  to  save  him- 
self from  starvation.  Playing  the  gal- 
lant, the  politician,  the  financier,  the 
priest,  the  magician,  as  occasion  de- 
manded, he  became  the  bosom  friend 
of  Marshal  de  Richelieu,  and  the  wildly 
loved  of  the  Duchess  de  Chartres.  The 
companion  of  philosophers,  empresses, 
and  kings,  he  died  at  last  prosaically 
enough  as  the  librarian  of  a  Bohemian 
count,  reviving  his  vanity  and  comfort- 
ing his  age  with  the  grateful  task  of 
narrating  in  many  volumes  what  he 
should  have  blushed  to  confess  to  the 
silence  of  the  night. 

Then  comes  Chevalier  d'Eon,  the  fa- 
vorite of  the  Empress  Elizabeth ;  a 
brave  soldier  and  ingenious  trickster, 
condemned  for  years  to  wear  woman's 
garments,  and,  after  a  life  as  roman- 
tic as  dishonest,  dying  neglected  and 
wretched  in  a  land  of  strangers. 

We  think  of  modern  adventurers  as 
frequenters  of  London  or  Paris  or  Ber- 
lin, Jiabilucs  of  Brighton  or  Biarritz, 
Hombourg  or  Wiesbaden,  and  as  our 
unavoidable  companions  on  the  Danube 
or  the  Rhine.  But  we  scarcely  expect 
to  find  on  our  own  shores  the  men  and 
women  who  live  by  their  wits  and  the 
absence  of  wit  in  others.  They  are 
numerous,  however.  All  our  large  cities 
have  them,  and  New  York  has  more 
than  all  the  rest.  They  gravitate  to 
great  centres,  which  are  needful  to  their 
existence,  and  whose  varied  phases  of 
life  yield  the  opportunities  that  make 
their  career  possible.  The  last  few 
years  have  materially  added  to  our  ad- 
venturers. The  war  made  many  by 
disturbing  the  ordinary  conditions  of 
society,  and  lowering  the  moral  tone  of 
the  community  as  it  is  always  lowered 
at  such  times.  New  York  is  now  the 
chosen  home  of  adventurers  both  foreign 
and  domestic,  especially  of  the  latter, 
who  hold  that  all  roads  lead  to  Rome, 
and  that  Rome  is  on  the  island  of  Man- 
hattan. Broadway  eclipses  the  Strand, 
the  Boulevards,  or  the  Corso  in  the 
variety  of  its  throngs,  which  include 
adventurers  by  the  hundred  at  any  hour 
of  the  clay. 

Adventurers  seem  persons  born  out 


of  parallel  with  nature,  who  misdirect 
their  energies  and  capacities.  To  avoid 
wholesome  occupation,  they  endure 
anxious  toil ;  to  be  free  from  common 
duties,  they  accept  the  degradation  of 
perpetual  shame  and  the  pain  of  per- 
petual doubt.  Their  whole  mental  and 
moral  code  is  strangely  deranged. 
They  believe  that  to  seem  is  better  than 
to  be  ;  that  falsehood  is  preferable  to 
truth ;  that  cheating  is  the  chief  end 
and  crowning  glory  of  man.  They  see 
all  fitnesses  at  a  wrong  angle  ;  their  in- 
stincts are  inverted  ;  their  apprehension 
is  wholly  at  fault.  Nothing  is  sacred 
to  them ;  nothing  worthy  of  esteem. 
To  their  thinking,  all  seriousness  and 
responsibility  are  taken  out  of  life.  He 
is  the  best  who  deceives  the  most,  and 
gains  by  all  moral  failure  material  suc- 
cess. 

In  a  great  city  the  temptation  to  get 
along  without  work  is  besetting  and 
constant.  Wealth  without  worth,  pros- 
perity without  labor,  flash  by  on  every 
hand ;  and  the  weak  nature  says  to 
itself,  "Why  should  I  toil  without 
reward  when  others  no  better  than  I 
enjoy  without  desert?"  So  the  weak 
nature  conceives  that  to  get  without 
earning  is  most  desirable,  and  bends  all 
his  faculties  to  such  accomplishment. 
The  first  false  idea  of  every  adventurer 
is  to  have  something  for  nothing ;  to 
share  the  fruit  of  labor  without  labor  ; 
to  be  at  the  restful  summit,  omitting  the 
fatigue  of  climbing.  Discarding  hon- 
esty and  the  obligation  of  work,  the 
way  downward  is  easy  ;  for  it  is  paved 
with  the  smooth  mosaics  of  selfishness 
and  self-indulgence. 

In  New  York  the  adventurer  and  ad- 
venturess are  part  of  society.  They 
are  so  many  as  to  form  distinctive 
classes,  recognizable  to  a  trained  eye, 
though  not  at  a  glance.  The  men  and 
women  representing  the  profession  — 
for  it  is  strictly  such  —  are  as  different 
as  any  persons  can  be  who  have  the 
same  object  and  the  same  needs.  They 
carry  out  their  purpose  in  dissimilar 
ways,  each  managing  men  and  circum- 
stances in  a  manner  peculiar  to  his  or 
her  sex.  They  cannot  be  treated  to- 


3H 


Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  New   York.       [March, 


gether,  they  are  so  unlike.  Let  us, 
therefore,  look  at  the  adventurers  first. 

To  \ew  York  all  who  leave  Europe 
for  their  own  good  and  our  ill  of  course 
come  first ;  and  there  they  stay  while 
dupes  may  be  had  and  falsehoods  can 
deceive.  That  city  has  had  a  vast  num- 
ber of  French  counts,  German  barons, 
Italian  marquises,  and  will  have,  no 
doubt,  for  many  generations.  America 
has  a  strange  fascination  for  the  nobility 
of  the  Continent.  They  will  persist  in 
leaving  their  picturesque  chateaux,  and 
Rhenish  castles,  and  Tuscan  villas,  with 
all  their  splendors,  for  the  rude  homes  of 
the  great  Republic  and  the  uncultivated 
natives  who  are  bent  upon  making- 
money  and  incapable  of  appreciating 
art. 

They  often  obtain  the  entree  to 
houses  of  the  wealthy,  criticise  the 
elaborate  dinners,  pay  court  to  the  de- 
lighted daughters,  and  are  feted  and 
coddled  in  every  way,  until  the  adven- 
turers condescend  to  borrow  money. — 
which  it  is  considered  a  high  pleasure 
to  lend,  —  and  soon  after  suddenly  dis- 
appear. 

Polish  patricians,  tracing  their  pedi- 
gree back  to  John  Sobieski,  who  have 
fled  from  Russian  persecution,  have 
been  welcomed  and  petted  by  gener- 
ous gentlemen  and  sympathetic  ladies. 
They  have  been  contended  for  by  fash- 
ionable dames,  and  to  secure  them  has 
been  the  triumph  of  the  season.  They 
have  been  on  the  eve  of  making  an  alli- 
ance with  staid  merchants'  bewitching 
daughters,  when  they  have  found  it  con- 
venient to  take  an  early  train  on  some 
road  that  issues  no  return  tickets. 

Distinguished  Irishmen  without  num- 
ber have  favored  the  city  with  their 
presence,  and  made  epics  about  the 
glory  of  their  ancestors.  The  differ- 
ence between  them  and  the  representa- 
tives of  other  nations  is  that  they  stay 
with  us  even  after  they  are  found  out. 
They  accommodate  themselves  to  cir- 
cumstances, and  have  keen  perceptions 
of  the  situation.  As  it  changes  they 
change.  They  make  a  good  deal  of 
noise  when  their  pretension  is  de- 
throned ;  but  they  soon  resign  them- 


selves to  the  inevitable,  and'look  cheer- 
fully upon  destiny.  An  inflated  Celt, 
whose  talk  makes  common  romances 
insipid,  slips  out  of  the  charmed  circle 
he  broke  into  by  force  of  sheer  impu- 
dence, and  devotes  himself  with  equal 
complacency  to  borrowing  small  sums 
and  reciting  Tom  Moore  over  punches 
of  fusel-oil.  Take  him  all  in  all,  the 
Irish  adventurer  is  the  most  tolerable 
of  his  kind.  He  can  always  appre- 
ciate a  joke  ;  and  he  is  so  self-satis- 
fied that  it  does  not  seem  to  make 
much  difference  with  him  whether  he 
is  toasted  in  the  place  of  honor,  or  is 
a  rollicking  devotee  to  a  free  lunch. 

Few  of  the  foreign  adventurers  gain 
much  more  than  infamy  and  a  little 
newspaper  gossip,  which  is  poor  com- 
pensation for  the  magnificent  imposi- 
tions they  practise.  Sometimes  they 
contrive  to  capture  a  wealthy  wife,  and 
the  paternal  Croesus,  being  unable  to 
undo  what  has  once  been  done,  says, 
'"Bless  you,  my  children  !  M  with  a  sar- 
donic smile,  and  transfers  a  certain  por- 
tion of  his  income  to  the  fellow  he  would 
have  horsewhipped  if  it  were  not  un- 
fashionable so  to  treat  one's  son-in-law. 

The  foreign  adventurers  must  deplore 
these  degenerate  days  of  rationalism 
and  common  sense,  and  long  for  the 
shifting  back  of  a  century  when  such 
fellows  as  Cagliostro  could  infatuate 
cardinals,  and  bring  women  like  Elisa 
von  der  Recke  in  humble  worship  at 
their  feet. 

Of  the  true  American  adventurers 
there  is  a  great  variety.  They  range 
from  the  lofty,  brilliant  fellows  who  in 
the  days  of  Elizabeth  of  England  would 
have  plotted  with  Essex  and  fought 
with  Raleigh,  to  the  mean  and  vulgar 
creatures  that  exchange  glaring  false- 
hoods for  trivial  loans,  and  kiss  the  dust 
to  escape  the  penalty  of  their  misdeed. 

The  brightest  class  are  men  of  strong- 
mind  and  weak  morals,  supreme  ego- 
tists whom  the  eternal  Ich  of  the  Ger- 
man metaphysicians  always  dazzles  and 
deludes..  They  glitter  through  the  com- 
munity constantly,  and  in  these  weak, 
piping  times  of  peace,  seek  commercial 
triumphs  and  financial  crowns.  Their 


1 870.] 


Adventurers  a) id  Adventuresses  in  Nciv    York. 


315 


natural  field  is  Wall  Street.  The  mag- 
nitude of  its  operations,  and  the  reck- 
less spirit  of  its  operators,  attract  at 
first  and  fascinate  at  last.  They  crave 
and  need  the  excitement  of  "  corners  " 
and  "lockings-up "  of  bull  and  bear 
combinations  involving  millions.  It  is 
to  them  the  daily  intoxication  to  which 
they  have  accustomed  their  nervous 
system.  Withhold  it,  and  they  cannot 
live.  To  wealth  they  grow  indifferent. 
At  first  the  end,  it  soon  becomes  the 
means.  Love  of  power  and  sensation 
drives  them  on  when  mere  avarice  has 
long  been  sated.  The  energy,  the  fore- 
sight, the  resolution,  the  daring,  that 
might  have  instituted  great  reforms, 
and  moulded  empires  are  spent  in  the 
pursuit  of  superfluous  riches. 

Many  of  the  present  rulers  of  Wall 
Street  have  been  in  very  different  call- 
ings. They  have  been  cattle-drivers, 
ferrymen,  shoemakers,  pedlers,  and 
horse-jockeys.  They  have  extraordi- 
nary ability  of  a  certain  kind,  under- 
stand human  nature,  and  believe  in 
the  commercial  advantage  of  unscrupu- 
lousness.  The  financial  magnates  are 
more  adventurous  now  than  they  ever 
were  before.  Each  month  seems  to 
render  them  more  reckless  and  unprin- 
cipled, more  dishonest  actually.  Jacob 
Little  used  to  make  country  people 
stare  by  the  magnitude  of  his  opera- 
tions and  the  suddenness  of  his  com- 
binations ;  but  he  never  forfeited  his 
reputation  for  financial  integrity,  and 
never  dreamed  of  doing  what  is  now 
done  in  Wall  Street  almost  daily  with- 
.out  compunction  or  criticism. 

Speculation  in  the  banking  quarter 
means  making  money  by  any  means 
that  will  not  lead  to  the  penitentiary. 
By  success  they  are  preserved  from 
;  the  necessity  of  offending  in  the  com- 
mon way,  and  are  able  to  dictate  terms 
to  fortune.  Early  failure  would  have 
changed  the  entire  current  of  their  lives. 

Yet  how  few  of  the  financial  adven- 
turers have  any  permanent  success  ! 
Those  who  were  powers  and  radiating 
influences  ten  or  twelve  years  ago 
have  sunk  out  of  sight  and  are  forgot- 
ten now.  Hardly  a  great  name  on  the 


Stock  Exchange  to-day  had  been  heard 
of  twenty  years  ago  ;  and  the  monetary 
kings  of  the  present  will  be  uncrowned 
and  throneless  before  the  eighth  decade 
of  the  century  has  past.  They  rise  and 
fall  with  the  rapidity  of  revolutionary 
heroes  in  Mexico  or  South  America, 
and,  once  down,  the  most  sensitive 
echo  does  not  murmur  that  they  have 
ever  been.  They  are  used  as  pawns 
by  the  great  players,  who  let  them 
stand  or  move  them  about  for  a  while ; 
then  exchange  them  as  the  game  grows 
interesting,  or  sweep  them  ruthlessly 
from  the  board. 

They  learn  nothing  by  experience. 
Each  one  fancies  himself  wiser  than 
his  predecessor  ;  trusts  his  thought  and 
his  destiny  more,  and  yet  is  ruined  in 
exactly  the  same  way.  Some  subtle 
law  of  temperament  deters  them  from 
following  uniform  courses  for  any 
length  of  time.  They  seem  to  become 
victims  of  what  might  be  called  great 
moral  surprises.  They  lie  down  hon- 
est in  intention,  and  bent  upon  duty. 
They  awake  in  the  morning,  or  out  of 
a  midnight  dream,  in  the  midst  of  a 
spiritual  revolution,  and  the  rebels  of 
their  constitution  beat  down  the  guards 
of  their  strongest  purpose. 

Their  hopefulness  is  always  beyond 
their  executive  capacity,  and  their  in- 
tense desires  strangle  their  conscien- 
tiousness. However  much  they  may  be 
in  the  dark  to-day,  they  fondly  believe 
they  will  be  in  the  full  tide  of  radiance 
to-morrow.  They  are  not  wholly  dis- 
honest by  any  means  ;  they  simply  have 
an  elastic  code  of  morals,  and  stretch 
or  contract  it  to  suit  their  passing  inter- 
est. 

This  is  not  truer  of  stock  gamblers 
than  of  any  class  of  men  who  set  their 
future  upon  the  cast  of  a  die,  who  large- 
ly hope,  largely  play,  and  largely  lose. 

There  is  something  to  admire,  after 
all,  in  the  adventurer ;  for  he  is  cut  by 
a  broad  pattern.  He  does  not  whine 
nor  fret  because  he  throws  double  aces 
instead  of  double  sixes.  He  does  not 
make  wry  faces  when  he  finds  the  cor- 
dial, so  tempting  at  first,  very  bitter  at 
the  drejrs.  There  is  usually  cheerful 


316 


Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  New   York,       [March, 


stoicism  in  his  philosophy,  and  he  is 
really  strongest  in  his  adversity ;  for 
the  buoyancy  of  spirit  that  runs  into 
wild  schemes,  while  the  sun  shines, 
lends  no  little  grace  to  misfortune  after 
the  night  has  fallen. 

Adventurers  of  another  order,  not  far 
removed  from  Wall  Street  speculators, 
are  the  persons  interested  in  gold  and 
silver  mines,  who  can  direct  everybody 
to  wealth  but  themselves.  They  make 
a  good  show,  live  superbly,  have 
handsome  offices  and  impressive  stock 
certificates,  talk  smoothly  and  plausi- 
bly, persuade  you  they  are  personally 
interested  in  your  welfare,  and  that  to 
insure  it  you  must  take  a  few  shares 
that  cannot  help  paying  twenty  to  thir- 
ty per  cent  the  first  year,  and  will  be 
certain  to  double  in  value  the  second. 

They  are  very  adroit  managers. 
Their  great  point  is  gained  when  they 
induce  you  to  make  your  first  invest- 
ment, perhaps  but  a  few  hundreds  ;  for 
they  know  you  will  continue  what  you 
have  begun,  your  love  of  gain  once 
excited.  They  always  assure  you  that 
only  such  an  amount,  naming  a  fixed 
sum,  will  be  needed  to  develop  the  re- 
sources of  the  mine.  You  are  generally 
told  you  are  to  have  a  peculiar  advan- 
tage over  ordinary  stockholders,  that 
you  are  one  of  the  corporators,  and 
that  you  are  taken  into  the  company  as 
a  particular  favor.  If  you  ask  why  a 
mine  so  rich  requires  capital,  you  are 
answered  that  the  precious  metal  is 
there,  but  that  machinery  must  be  had 
to  work  the  mine  with  profit.  A  slen- 
der sum  will  suffice.  The  trap  is  deftly 
laid,  and  you  walk  into  it  so  easily  you 
do  not  perceive  you  are  in  it  until  you 
have  been  there  some  time.  Not  to 
resist  stubbornly  in  the  beginning  is 
to  be  overcome  completely  in  the  end. 

The  vicinity  of  Pine  Street,  where 
Potosi  and  California  are  supposed  to 
be  held  in  condensed  form,  is  dedicated 
to  mining  companies  whose  prospects, 
if  realized,  would  pay  the  national 
debt  in  six  months.  Pine  Street  has 
many  sins  to  answer  for,  many  deep 
disappointments  and  sorrows  to  heal 
which  it  only  aggravates.  Of  late  its 


success  in  clever  swindling  has  been 
diminished,  and  many  adventurers  who 
owned  buried  fortunes  in  Colorado  and 
Nevada  have  been  obliged  to  abandon 
their  determination  of  making  the  com- 
munity rich  for  the  slenderest  advance, 
and  seek  some  new  form  of  financial 
philanthropy. 

Many  unspoken  tragedies  are  shut 
up  in  those  handsome  offices.  The 
smiles  of  the  sleek  president  and  the 
bland  manner  of  the  stately  secretary 
have  been  purchased  at  heavy  cost. 
They  are  the  bright  foreground  to  a 
very  dark  picture.  Those  who  can 
least  afford  to  lose  money  —  widows 
left  with  a  little  property,  invalid  clergy- 
men, young  men  of  small  savings,  hard- 
working tradesmen  providing  against 
a  rainy  day  —  are  usually  the  people 
who  invest  in  mines,  and  who  seldom, 
if  ever,  get  returns. 

The  political  adventurer  abounds  in 
Manhattan,  which  offers  him  a  better 
field  than  any  other  city  under  the  sun. 
The  condition  of  the  municipal  govern- 
ment is  such  that  any  man  of  persistent 
sycophancy  and  low  instincts  can  get 
any  office  for  which  he  is  unfit.  Men 
sit  on  the.  judicial  bench  and  try  fel- 
lows who  might  with  much  reason  ex- 
change places  with  the  judge,  and  try 
him. 

People  from  the  country  are  lost  in 
perplexity  when  they  enter  a  metropoli- 
tan court  of  so-called  justice.  They  are 
unable  to  distinguish  between  the  judge 
and  the  criminal.  But  the  resident  cit- 
izens pick  out  the  man  with  the  worst 
face,  and  set  him  down  for  the  wearer 
of  the  ermine. 

A  biographic  sketch  of  city  officers 
would  be  marvellous  reading.  It  would 
be  termed  a  bitter  satire  on  free  institu- 
tions, and  the  representation  of  an  in- 
credible state  of  corruption. 

The  literary  adventurer  is  a  curious 
specimen.  He  is  not  dangerous,  but 
he  is  a  superhuman  bore.  He  haunts 
Printing-House  Square,  and  is  ever  go- 
ing up  the  stairs  of  newspaper  and  mag- 
azine offices  with  rolls  of  manuscript 
that  timid  men  would  rather  die  than 
read,  and  which  editors  dream  of  when 


1 870.] 


Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  New   York. 


317 


they  suffer  from  the  nightmare.  The 
misfortune  of  this  order  of  persons  is 
that  they  are  great  geniuses  whom  the 
world  has  conspired  against,  having  de- 
termined in  universal  conclave  to  reject 
them  from  the  roll  of  fame.  If  you 
don't  understand  how  this  can  be,  don't, 
for  your  love  of  peace,  tell  them  so. 
If  you  do,  they  will  prove  to  you  by 
endless  monologue  why  they  are  per- 
secuted of  fate,  and  that  you  are  the 
one  favored  mortal  predestined  to  com- 
prehend them.  That  may  be  a  flatter- 
ing assurance,  but  you  would  need  to 
be  ten  times  a  Job  to  endure  with  pa- 
tience the  infliction  they  seek  to  put 
upon  you. 

How  such  adventurers  keep  body 
.and  soul  together  is  past  finding  out. 
No  one  seems  willing  to  buy  their  writ- 
ings, but  they  console  themselves  with 
the  recollection  that  "  Paradise  Lost " 
sold  for  five  pounds  ;  that  "Jane  Eyre " 
could  not  for  years  find  a  publisher  ; 
that  '•  Vanity  Fair "  went  begging. 
They  therefore  quit  the  higher  walks 
of  composition,  and  descend  to  the  vul- 
gar affairs  of  every-day  life.  They  make 
reports  of  sublunary  things  as  they  see 
them  in  the  city,  and  the  sordid  edi- 
tors give  them  legal-tenders  therefor, 
which  they  take  under  protest,  for  they 
feel  that  they  must  live  for  the  enlight- 
enment of  after  ages.  Their  invention 
is  better  than  their  memory  sometimes. 
What  once  finds  a  market  they  sell 
again  and  again  in  the  same  form,  and 
when  censured  for  dishonesty,  they  vow 
that  it  is  the  lot  of  genius  to  suffer,  and 
mourn  the  degenerate  age. 

Below  all  such  adventurers  are  those 
who  live  by  their  wits  ;  who  enjoy  the 
excitement  that  springs  from  the  uncer- 
tainty of  rising  without  knowing  where 
they  will  get  their  breakfast,  and  after 
breakfast  where  they  will  secure  their 
dinner.  Such  men  hang  about  the  ho- 
tels and  places  of  amusement,  walk  in 
crowded  thoroughfares,  and  lounge  in 
the  parks,  with  a  keen  eye  for  a  benev- 
olent person  that  will  part  with  money 
and  be  chary  of  counsel.  They  are 
subtle  physiognomists,  and  no  reserve 
or  discipline  can  shut  them  away  from 


you,  if  you  are  capable  of  the  slenderest 
loan.  They  make  acquaintances  with- 
out the  least  observation  of  form,  with- 
out regard  to  time  or  place  or  circum- 
stance. They  know  all  their  race  on 
instinct,  and  after  a  single  though  mon- 
osyllabic response  from  you,  they  are 
willing  to  take  you  into  the  holy  of  ho- 
lies of  their  confidence.  They  believe 
that  the  firmest  purpose  of  man  will 
yield  to  artful  flattery,  and  they  act 
upon  that  belief.  They  are  not  long  in 
detecting  the  weak  side  or  the  chief 
point  of  your  self-love.  Having  that 
advantage,  you  are  assaulted  with  your 
own  surrendered  weapons,  and  are  en- 
tirely vanquished  while  you  fancy  you 
are  the  victor. 

Subtle  and  successful  politicians 
these  livers  by  their  wits  would  have 
been.  They  might  have  been  gov- 
ernors or  have  gone  to  Congress  with- 
out difficulty,  if  they  had  directed  their 
energies  to  that  end,  and  were  capa- 
ble of  any  stability  of  purpose.  But 
their  bane,  at  least  part  of  it,  is  vacil- 
lating will  and  unsettled  motive.  They 
are  half  Bourbons  in  that  they  learn 
nothing  and  forget  everything/  Their 
plan  of  the  morning  is  changed  in  the 
afternoon,  and  that  of  the  evening  is 
revolutionized  at  midnight.  They  are 
always  poor,  of  course  ;  and  poverty 
is  too  pressing  to  admit  of  serious 
deliberation.  They  are  as  improvi- 
dent when  they  have  money  as  if  they 
had  Fortunatus's  purse ;  and  if  they 
had  it  they  would,  I  believe,  by  some 
means  exhaust  its  magic  power.  To 
supply  immediate  need  is  their  ob- 
ject. They  resemble  the  Italian  lazza- 
roni,  who,  when  asked  to  earn  money 
in  some  honest  way,  touch  their  waist- 
coats imperiously,  say  they  are  not  hun- 
gry, and  refuse  to  work. 

Many  of  them  were  no  doubt  honest 
at  the  beginning  ;  but  by  bad  manage- 
ment, bad  habits,  or  bad  fortune,  they 
either  fell  too  far  below  their  own  stand- 
ard of  duty  to  rise  again,  or  blunted 
their  moral  sense  to  an  extent  that 
made  any  kind  of  successful  fraud  seem 
legitimate.  As  they  continue  in  false 
relations,  their  pride  lessens  and  thoir 


318 


Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  Arcw   York.      [March, 


selfishness  grows  ;  while  a  new  and 
wretched  vanity,  that  finds  pleasure  in 
prosperous  imposition,  comes  to  their 
aid.  They  labor  to  wheedle  and  dupe 
a  man  very  much  as  an  artist  labors  to 
finish  a  statue  or  poem ;  and  when 
the  task  is  accomplished,  they  look 
upon  their  shameful  execution  with  ad- 
miring eyes.  They  set  out  with  a  cer- 
tain largeness  of  purpose,  determined  to 
beard  the  gods,  in  the  King  Cambyses' 
vein.  But  their  ambition  lowers,  and 
their  scope  of  action  narrows  rapidly. 
They  talk  of  mortgaged  real  estate  and 
involved  lawsuits  at  first,  and  borrow 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  dollars. 
But  they  soon  descend  to  lower  planes, 
are  contented  with  decimal  loans,  and 
careless  of  the  rudest  rebuffs.  After 
a  while  they  condescend  to  borrow  so 
paltry  a  sum  as  a  dollar  or  even  postal- 
currency.  But,  reaching  that  stage, 
Blackwell's  or  Randall's  Island  is  draw- 
ing them  beyond  their  power  to  resist, 
and  their  course  must  be  near  a  close. 

When  they  find  a  new  person  or  set 
of  persons,  they  frequently  make  de- 
mands they  have  -long  before  surren- 
dered, hoping  by  fresh  audacity  to  win. 
After  asking  for  five  hundred  dollars, 
and  declaring  they  must  have  it,  they 
touch  the  sliding-scale,  and  accept  fifty 
cents  ultjmately,  with  an  air  of  having 
been  cheated  out  of  four  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  dollars  and  a  half. 

Marvellous  their  capacity  to  borrow 
money,  and  marvellous  their  instinct  of 
pecuniary  perception !  I  think  they 
are  clairvoyants,  at  least  so  far  as  pock- 
et-books are  concerned.  They  are  able 
to  determine  just  how  much  you  have, 
which  is  just  the  sum  they  cannot  live 
without.  They  tell  such  pitiful  stories, 
so  appeal  to  you  in  the  name  of  human- 
ity, that  if  you  refuse  you  feel  as  if  you 
had  incurred  a  dreadful  responsibility, 
had  stained  your  soul  with  a  possible 
crime.  If  you  have  refused,  you  hesi- 
tate to  read  the  notices  under  the  head 
of  The  Morgue  in  your  morning  paper  ; 
but  if  you  had  second  sight  you  might 
know  that  the  fellow  who  stood  the 
day  before  on  the  brink  of  destruction 
is  on  the  brink  of  a  bar-room,  from 


which  he  is  in  rapid  process  of  expul- 
sion. 

Magnificent  Secretaries  of  the  Treas- 
ury such  adventurers  would  make  ;  for 
they   can   always   borrow,    and  always 
avoid  payment.     They  have  prostituted 
their  financial   genius.     They  can   ex- 
tract  money  from  almost   any  source. 
I  am  not  sure  they  could  not  get  a  loan  . 
from  some  of  our  wealthiest  men  with-  ' 
out  giving  a  mortgage  on  their  souls. 

The  common  rule,  that  men  who  ob- 
tain money  of  you  once  and  don't  pay 
it  are  effectually  got  rid  of,  does  not 
apply  to  this  kind  of  adventurer.  He 
borrows  this  week  with  more  coolness 
and  adroitness  than  he  did  last  week, 
and  the  fact  that  you  have  lent  to  him 
again  and  again  assures  him  of  his. 
right  to  your  purse.  Even  when  you 
are  angry  and  resolved  to  punisli  the 
insolence  of  the  fellow,  he  mollifies  you, 
and  has  another  favor  before  you  are 
well  aware  of  it. 

I  remember  a  notorious  person  of 
the  sort  who  owed  everybody,  from  his 
nearest  relatives  to  his  barber  and 
washerwoman,  and  who,  though  lie 
bore  all  of  nature's  credentials  that  he 
was  a  fool,  was  gifted  as  a  borrower. 
"  There  comes  that  scoundrel,"  said 
one  of  his  victims  to  a  friend.  "  He 
owes  me  two  hundred  dollars,  and 
if  he  does  n't  pay  it,  I  '11  thrash  him." 
The  next  day  the  victim  met  his  friend, 
who  asked.  "  Did  you  get  your  mon- 
ey ?  "  "  No  !  Confound  the  fellow  ;  he 
borrowed  five  hundred  more  of  me  ;  and 
I  'm  afraid  I  had  to  apologize  to  myself 
for  thinking  him  dishonorable,  though 
I  know  he  's  as  great  a  villain  as  ever 
went  unhanged." 

These  parasites  have  regular  divis- 
ions, which  can  be  understood  by  the 
amount  they  want  to  borrow.  There 
are  the  thousand-dollar,  the  five-hun- 
dred, the  one-hundred,  the  fifty,  the  ten, 
the  one-dollar,  and  the  fifty-cent  men, 
—  the  first  the  alpha  and  the  last  the 
omega  of  the  entire  profession.  You 
know  the  thousand-dollar  borrower  is 
a  freshman  in  the  college  of  swindling, 
and  the  one-dollar  borrower  a  senior. 
The  former  has  a  disease  that  may  be 


1  3/0.]         Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in 


York. 


cured,  the  latter  lias  the  seal  of  death 

.    LlCU. 

Some  of  these  spongers  seem  to  have 
uiiii.  Tin  success.  They  neither  advance 
nor  retrograde.  You  see  them  to-day 
lounging  on  the  Astor  House  steps  or 
in  front  of  Niblo's,  and  they  look  pre- 
cisely as  if  they  had  gone  to  bed  ten 
years  ago,  slept  the  time  away  in  a 
night,  and  risen  fresh  in  the  morning. 
In  all  that  while  they  have  not  earned 
a  single  dollar,  and  they  have  spent 
a  small  fortune.  What  sacrili 
faith  they  have  made,  what  ingenuity 
they  have  displayed,  what  energy  they 
have  spent  to  unworthy  purpose  !  They 
have  distributed  their  deceptions  im- 
partially. They  have  even  deceived 
the  deceivers,  have  Had  adventures 
with  adventurers.  They  have  bor- 
rowed of  the  foreign  rogues,  of  the 
Wall  Street  gamesters,  of  the  mining 
swindler,  of  the  political  trickster,  of 
the  literary  charlatan,  of  the  social  sav- 
ages of  their  own  tribe.  They  are  all 
the  enemies  of  society,  and  if  they  cduld 
prey  upon  each  other  the  community 
would  be  none  the  worse. 

The  first  class  is  the  most  audacious, 
the  second  the  most  reckless,  the  third 
the  most  unscrupulous,  the  fourth  the 
most  infamous,  the  fifth  the  most  ridic- 
ulous, and  the  sixth  the  most  con- 
temptible. There  are  variations  from 
each  of  these  that  can  hardly  be  deter- 
mined ;  but  wherever  an  adventurer  is, 
entire  dishonesty,  inextinguishable  self- 
ishness, and  coarseness  of  character 
may  be  found. 

Probably  most  of  them  follow  the 
bent  of  a  temperament  for  which  their 
ancestors  are  responsible  ;  but  they  are 
guiltier  than  branded  convicts,  because 
they  commit  crimes  that  the  law  can- 
not reach  and  society  will  not  punish. 
Keen  insight  or  close  observation  will 
detect  them  ;  for  it  is  nature's  hat  that 
a  counterfeit  cannot  long  deceive.  Hut 
they  impose  year  after  year  upon  the 
many  who  rarely  have  protection  in  un- 
derstanding of  character  or  wholesome 
scepticism.  Nor  do  the  adventurers 
suffer  from  remorse.  Their  spiritual 
part  is  materialized  away ;  the  best 


instincts  are  vulgari/ed  ;  the  ideals, 
by  and  through  which  men  aspire  and 
ascend,  are  with  them  interpreted  by 
the  commonest  vanity  and  the  merest 
self-interest.  They  may  believe  they 
err  sometimes  ;  they  may  be  willing  to 
admit  society  has  a  prejudice  against 
them  ;  but  if  they  have  a  bad  name, 
they  must  have  the  sweet  and  secret 
consciousness  of  having  deserved  their 
reputation. 

The  adventuresses  have  a  narrower 
field,  as  all  women  do,  for  their  opera- 
tions ;  but  no  one  can  say  they  do  not 
work  it  well.  They  have  but  two  ob- 
jective points,  —  men  and  money  ;  and 
one  of  them  is  always  obtained  through 
the  other. 

There  are  no  courts  nor  kings  here 
for  our  modern  adventuresses  to  tam- 
per with  and  control ;  but  there  are 
men  who,  though  the  strongest  and  the 
shrewdest,  can  be  made  to  dance  to  a 
woman's  will,  if  she  will  but  sing  a  new 
and  seductive  tune. 

European  adventuresses  have  but 
few  opportunities  in  this  country.  I  'n- 
supported  by  relatives,  friends,  or  for- 
tune, they  are  always  suspected  ;  and 
coming  here  only  in  quest  of  money, 
they  sink  to  a  grade  too  low  to  admit 
of  anything  deserving  the  name  of  ad- 
venture. 

Feminine  Americans  have  little  nat- 
ural aptitude  for  the  career,  shameful 
for  men,  hideous  for  women.  They 
rarely  accept  or  seek  it ;  it  is  forced 
upon  them  by  circumstance.  ]>ut.  once 
entering  upon  it,  they  follow  it  with  an 
ardor  and  bring  to  it  a  degree  of  tact 
that  only  France  has  heretofore  shown. 
Something  goes  wrong  with  a  woman's 
heart  usually  before  her  ethics  are  at 
fault.  Let  her  meet  her  destiny,  as  the 
romancers  style  it,  in  the  shape  of  ten- 
derness, sympathy,  and  loyalty,  and 
there  will  be  no  smouldering  volcanoes 
in  her  life,  no  unacted  tragedies  surg- 
ing through  her  soul. 

The  great  city  invites  adventuresses 
from  every  town  and  village  between 
the  Northern  lakes  and  the  Gulf,  the 
Atlantic  and  the  Pacific.  In  this 
crowded  wilderness,  in  this  confusion 


,20 


Adventurers  and  Adventuresses  in  New   York.      [March, 


of  individuals,  it  says,  you  can  so  lose 
yourself  that  the  man  who  starves  for 
you  cannot  hunt  you  down.  If  you 
have  shame  or  woe  to  hide,  or  memo- 
ries to  banish,  leap  into  the  currents 
of  Broadway,  and  its  waves  will  conceal 
you,  and  its  tumult  will  drown  the  voice 
of  self-accusation. 

An  adventuress  is  not  difficult  of 
detection  to  a  clear  vision ;  but  eyes 
are  used  in  this  world  for  almost  every- 
thing but  seeing.  She  varies  her  form  ; 
but  in  the  place  where  her  heart  was 
before  some  man  broke  it  (as  she 
would  say),  she  is  almost  always  the 
same.  She  is  usually  handsome  or 
bears  traces  of  handsomeness  departed 
or  departing.  At  least,  she  looks  in- 
teresting, and  interestingness  is  the 
sum  of  all  we  seek  in  humanity,  litera- 
ture, and  art.  She  is  rarely  young,  nor 
is  she  old.  She  is  of  an  uncertain  age. 
She  may  be  thirty,  she  may  be  less  ; 
she  may  be  forty.  She  is  calm  and 
cold  apparently  ;  but  if  you  study  her, 
you  will  see  her  calmness  and  coldness 
are  the  result  of  severe  self-discipline, 
and  in  her  eye  gleams  of  intensity  and 
anxiety  that  dart  out  while  her  manners 
are  relieving  guard. 

There  are  certain  hard  lines  in  her 
face ;  the  soft  mouth  has  lost  some  of 
its  symmetry,  the  nose  is  questioning 
and  suspicious,  the  nostril  expanded  as 
though  it  knew  each  individual  had  an 
odor,  and  were  determining  to  what 
species  he  should  be  assigned.  Across 
the  brow  flit  subtle  shadows,  and  be- 
tween and  over  the  eyes  they  gather 
ever  and  anon  as  if  the  electricity  of  her 
system  were  centring  there  to  burst : 
and  then  the  lightning  leaps  sharp  and 
quickly  out  below,  and  momentary  dark- 
ness falls  from  the  hair  to  the  defiant 
chin.  Her  ears  are  a  trifle  prominent, 
and  when  you  look  at  them  you  see 
they  are  listening, — listening  perhaps 
for  what  she  will  never  hear  again.  Her 
form  is  full,  a  trifle  too  full  to  indicate 
fineness  and  spirituality  ;  and  her  man- 
ner is  too  decided  and  positive  to  be 
attractive  at  first.  Her  toilet  is  some- 
what outre,  and  there  is  more  and  less 
of  it  than  there  should  be,  while  some 


of  her  jewelry  might  be  spared  for  the 
sake  of  taste.  But  above  all  there  is 
an  expression  in  her  face  and  her  air 
that  declares  something  has  gone  out  of 
her  life,  —  something  that  rounded  and 
completed  her  womanhood,  —  some- 
thing that  will  never  return.  She  has 
been  a  wife  and  mother ;  she  is  not 
likely  to  be  again ;  for  the  memory 
of  that  wifehood  and  maternity  makes 
her  shudder,  and  sends  the  strange  al- 
most lurid  look  out  of  her  eye.  She 
may  have  a  child  or  children  wifli  her  ; 
and  if  you  could  look  into  her  chamber 
after  midnight,  you  would  see  her  bend- 
ing over  the  bed  where  the  little  crea- 
tures lie,  with  tears  baptizing  the  whis- 
pered prayers  for  them,  which  she 
never  utters  for  herself. 

Unlike  the  adventurer,  the  adven- 
turess has  a  conscience,  feels  remorse, 
suffers  for  the  past,  dares  not  reflect 
upon  the  future.  When  the  mental 
torture  comes,  she  plunges  into  excite- 
ment, and  laughs  wildest  when  her 
heart  sinks  like  burning  lead  in  her 
bosom. 

Adventuresses  are  most  at  home  in 
the  great  hotels. .  Hardly  one  of  the 
Broadway  houses  that  has  not  several 
of  the  singular  sisterhood.  They  al- 
ways avoid  each  other,  are  enemies  on 
instinct.  Men  alone  they  affect.  With- 
out doing  anything  you  can  describe, 
they  always  attract  attention.  When 
they  enter  the  ordinary,  or  sit  in  the 
drawing-room,  or  walk  in  the  corridor, 
every  masculine  eye  beholds,  and  many 
masculine  eyes  follow  them.  They 
know,  with  almost  mathematical  cer- 
tainty, the  impression  they  are  making, 
when  is  their  time  to  glance,  to  speak, 
to  drop  a  handkerchief,  to  write  a  note. 
Nothing  escapes  their  acute  senses. 
The  man  whom  they  have  selected  for 
a  dupe  is  such  before  he  has  spoken. 
What  is  the  boasted  reason  of  our  sex 
to  the  subtle  instincts  of  theirs  !  They 
have  made  men  a  study  as  Balzac  and 
Goethe  made  women  a  study,  and  they 
have  found  their  profit  in  it,  be  sure. 
They  grow  upon  their  acquaintances 
imperceptibly  but  rapidly,  and,  after  a 
few  hours  of  untrammelled  talk,  seem 


8;o.] 


Time  ivorks   Wonders. 


321 


like  old  friends  you  are  bound  to  assist 
when  trouble  comes.  It  will  come 
very  soon.  The  adventuress  is  always 
in  trouble,  and  she  tells  so  sad  a  story 
that  you  feel  during  its  narration  as  if 
you  should  dry  every  tear  with  a  hun- 
dred-dollar note.  You  are  too  liberal 
altogether.  She  accepts  half  the  sum  : 
is  eternally  grateful,  and  the  situation 
changes  with  the  pressure  of  a  hand. 

The  adventuress  lives  in  Manhat- 
tan ;  but  she  goes  to  Washington  fre- 
quently when  Congress  is  in  session, 
for  there  she  reaps  a  harvest.  She 
brings  all  her  arts  to  bear  on  members 
of  the  House  and  Senate,  who  yield  to 
feminine  influence  when  they  can  with- 
stand bribes  and  the  clamor  of  constitu- 
ents. The  adventuress  often  arranges 
her  campaign  on  the  Hudson,  and  fights 
it  out  on  the  Potomac.  She  completes 
there  what  she  begins  here. 

Women  want  their  rights.  Let  them 
have  their  rights  by  all  means  ;  but 
their  rights  arc  little  compared  to  their 
privileges.  Men  have  neither  when  an 
accomplished  adventuress  has  fairly 
taken  them  in  her  toils. 

"  Keep  pretty  women  out  of  my 
sight,''  said  St.  Evremond,  "and  the 
thunder  -  stroke  shall  not  make  me 
swerve.  But  with  their  eyes  looking 
into  mine,  I  am  like  wax  over  the  flame 
of  a  taper." 

Adventuresses  do  not  decline  so  rap- 


idly as  the  adventurers.  Women  of 
education  and  some  breeding,  as  they 
usually  are,  seldom  descend  with  the 
plummet-like  promptness  of  men.  Cul- 
ture seems  to  make  ledges  for  them, 
and  there  they  lodge,  instead  of  plung- 
ing over  the  precipice  down  to  the  dixzy 
depths  below.  They  change  their  near- 
est friends  as  they  do  their  gowns  ;  for 
those  wear  out  even  quicker  than  these. 
But  they  laugh  and  are  gay,  go  clad  in 
purple,  and  seem  to  float  on  the  top 
wave  of  life.  At  the  theatre  and  the 
opera,  at  the  picture-galleries  and  the 
Academy  balls,  they  queen  it  grandly, 
and  many  of  their  sex  who  know  them 
not  envy  them  the  gilded  shell  in  which 
they  masquerade.  They  all  have  a  his- 
tory different  from  the  one  they  tell, 
and  sadder  far.  If  they  wrote  autobi- 
ographies, the  simple  truth  would  be 
more  eloquent  than  any  rhetoric. 

If  they  could  be  set  right,  could  once 
get  their  feet  on  the  firm  rock  of  princi- 
ple, all  might  be  well;  but  they  seem 
incapable  somehow;  their  will  is  too 
weak,  their  love  of  variety  and  excite- 
ment too  great.  They  often  turn  to 
white  memories  and  fairer  futures,  and 
stretch  out  their  pale  hands.  But  the 
voice  that  drove  Ahasuerus  seems  to 
say,  '•'  March,  march  !  "  and  they  go  on 
and  on,  until  the  long  grass  of  the 
churchyard  muffles  their  weary  footsteps 
forever. 


TIME    WORKS    WONDERS. 


VKRY  seldom  do  we  realize  the  ex- 
tent of  the  relations  involved  in 
the  distinctions  we  make  in  the  talk 
of  everyday  life.  You  call  your  dog 
Fido,  and  in  so  doing  you  draw  three 
broad  distinctions  between  him  and 
the  rest  of  creation  :  — 

ist.  In  that  he  is  a  dog,  and  not  a 
cat  or  a  sheep  or  a  bear. 

2d.  In  that  his  name  is  Fido,  and  not 
Cnssar  or  Pompey. 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.   149.  21 


3d.  In  that  he  is  your  dog,  and  not 
the  property  of  some  other  man. 

But  this  is  not  all :  for  Fido  is  of  the 
male  sex  and  is  two  years  of  age  ;  he 
belongs  to  the  variety  called  Black 
and  Tan  Terrier  ;  he  has  never  been 
cropped,  and  he  has  an  extra  toe  upon 
one  fore  foot ;  and,  finally,  he  differs 
from  all  other  dogs  of  that  sex  and  age 
possessing  the  extra  toe,  in  the  propor- 
tionate extent  of  the  black  and  the  tan 


322 


Time  works    Wonders, 


[March, 


colors  upon  his  legs  ;  or  in  his  precise 
weight  or  height,  or  length  of  tail ;  or 
in  his  disposition  ;  or,  if  you  choose,  in 
the  exact  number  of  the  hairs  with 
which  he  is  clothed  ;  or  at  least  in  the 
peculiar  combination  of  all  these  attri- 
butes which,  by  the  doctrine  of  chances, 
it  is  wellnigh  impossible  should  ever 
be  found  repeated  in  another  indi- 
vidual. Here  you  may  conclude  that 
Fido  has  already  received  a  sufficient- 
ly extensive  designation ;  but  your 
sporting  acquaintance  remind  you  that 
Fido  is  not  the  same  dog  he  was  a  year 
ago  ;  and,  once  started  on  this  matter  of 
age,  reflection  soon  convinces  you  that 
this  is  true  not  only  of  a  year  ago,  but  of 
last  week,  of  yesterday,  of  the  previous 
hour  and  minute,  and  that,  according 
to  some  authorities,  it  is  probable  that, 
in  seven  years  hence,  there  will  not  re- 
main in  your  pet  a  single  atom  which 
now  enters  into  his  composition,  and 
that  strictly  speaking  it  will  be,  not  Fi- 
do, but  another  dog.  From  this  rather 
distressing  metaphysical  conclusion  you 
are  recalled  by  your  friend  the  zoolo- 
gist, who  informs  you  that  your  terrier 
is  a  variety  of  the  speciesy?r;///7?V?;7>,  and 
only  thereby  preserved  from  being  a 
wolf  or  a  fox,  or  some  other  species  of 
the  genus  Cants ;  and  that  this  entitles 
him  to  a  place  in  the  family  Canidce^  the 
order  Carnivora,  the  class  Mamm&lia, 
the  type  Vertebrata,  and  the  animal 
kingdom  ;  and  that  as  such  he  holds 
an  individual  place  upon  this  planet 
and  so  in  this  great  universe,  and  as 
such  is  the  recipient  of  life  from  the 
Creator. 

All  this  is  undeniable  :  all  these  attri- 
butes are  embraced  by  the  single  name 
you  have  given  your  pet  ;  from  the  in- 
dividual you  have  risen  through  all  the 
characteristics  of  an  individual,  and 
the  more  and  more  comprehensive  rela- 
tion of  age,  sex,  variety,  species,  genus, 
family,  order,  class,  type,  and  kingdom 
of  nature  ;  from  the  least  to  the  great- 
est things,  from  the  most  concrete  to 
the  most  abstract  ;  from  nature  up  to 
nature's  God.  But  this  is  only  one  of 
the  two  roads  which  lead  from  the  visi- 
ble to  the  invisible,  from  the  knowable 


to  the  unknowable,  from  the  finite  to 
the  infinite ;  and,  beginning  with  the 
individual  again,  you  might  proceed 
analytically  and  consider  the  various 
ways  in  which  it  may  be  subdivided 
into  smaller  and  smaller  units.  The 
dog  is  made  up  of  a  right  and  a  left  half, 
which,  however  similar,  are  more  or  less 
distinct  from  each  other,  not  only  in 
position  and  direction,  but  in  all  other 
respects  ;  each  of  these  halves  is  again 
composed  of  a  fore  and  a  hind  region, 
between  which,  as  may  be  hereafter 
shown,  there  are  distinctions  similar 
in  kind  to  those  between  the  right 
and  left  halves,  though  differing  in 
degree.  Any  one  of  these  quarters, 
say  the  right  hind  quarter,  is  funda- 
mentally a  series  of  vertebral  segments, 
and  to  one  of  these  segments  is  at- 
tached the  hind  leg.  From  among  the 
various  organs  which  make  up  this 
limb  we  select  the  patella,  or  knee-pan  : 
and  from  its  several  component  tissues, 
fatty,  cartilaginous,  and  bony,  we  des- 
ignate the  latter  ;  and  from  its  many 
osseous  cells,  a  particular  one,  and  from 
the  several  crystals  of  carbonate  of 
lime,  one  ;  out  of  this,  one  of  its  chemi- 
cal elements,  the  lime,  and  from  this  at 
least  one  of  those  hypothetical,  phys- 
ical units  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
atom. 

Designating  now  this  hypothetical 
atom  as  .1%  it  is  chemically  lime,  and 
microscopically,  part  of  a  bone  cell, 
which  helps  to  make  up  the  osseous 
tissue  of  the  organ  called  patella  ;  this 
again  is  a  part  of  the  leg,  and  this  is 
an  appendage  of  the  pelvic  segment  of 
the  vertebra]  column  and  in  the  hinder 
half  of  the  right  side  of  your  dog  Fido  ; 
he  is  only  one  out  of  many  other  Fi- 
dos  ;  he  is  one  of  the  masculine  half 
of  the  dog  race,  and  is  one  of  the  many 
others  of  the  same  age,  two  years  ;  from 
all  of  which  he  doubtless  differs  some- 
what in  size  and  weight,  or  color  or 
disposition,  or  at  least  in  the  number 
and  exact  length  of  his  hairs  (for  no- 
possible  ground  of  difference  should  be 
omitted):  he  belongs  to  the  tan  ter- 
rier variety,  of  the  species  favnliaris. 
of  the  genus  Cam's,  of  the  family  Ca~ 


1 870.] 


}\'ondcrs. 


niifce,  of  the  order  Carnivora,  of  the 
(  Li.>s  Mammalia^  of  the  type  \\'rtebrala, 
of  the  animal  kingdom.  And  all  these 
are  simply  broader  and  broader  natural 
distinctions  which  exist,  and  which  we 
may  recogni/e,  between  any  two  con- 
stituent atoms  of  the  same  individual 
being  and  between  any  one  individual 
and  all  others.  No  wonder  that  Agas- 
siz,  after  a  somewhat  similar  recapitula- 
tion, says  (Essay  on  Classification,  Part 
I.,  Chap.  II.,  Sect.  VI.):  "Viewing  in- 
dividuals in  this  light,  they  resume  all 
their  dignity;  and  they  are  no  longer 
so  absorbed  in  species  as  to  be  ever  its 
representatives  without  being  anything 
for  themselves.  On  the  contrary,  it  be- 
comes plain,  from  this  point  of  view, 
that  the  individual  is  the  worthy  bearer, 
for  the  time  being,  of  all  the  riches  of 
nature's  wealth  of  life." 

In  this  and  succeeding  articles  let 
us  examine  some  of  the  objects  in  na- 
ture with  reference  to  the  differences 
which  mark  their  age,  which  character- 
ize their  right  and  left  sides,  which  be- 
long to  the  male  and  the  female  sex, 
and  lastly,  those  which  serve  to  dis- 
tinguish each  individual  of  the  same 
sex  from  all  others. 

The  butterfly  lays  an  egg.  This  egg, 
aside  from  its  protecting  envelopes,  is 
the  germ  of  a  new  being.  After  a  time 
it  is  hatched  and  conies  forth  as  a  little 
worm-like  caterpillar.  This  eats  vora- 
ciously, grows  rapidly,  and  ends  its  lar- 
val existence  by  casting  its  skin,  and 
changing  as  to  form  and  appearance 
and  habits  so  as  to  become  a  pupa  or 
chrysalis,  which  neither  eats  nor  moves. 
But  under  the  brown  skin  a  wonderful 
change  occurs;  in  place  of  thick  and 
horny  jaws  there  comes  a  long  and 
tubular  tongue  ;  the  enormous  reser- 
voir of  masticated  leaves  dwindles  into 
a  slender  stomach  which  craves  only 
honey ;  broad  wings  appear  upon  the 
shoulders,  the  legs  increase  in  length, 
delicate  hairs  are  formed  upon  the  sur- 
face ;  and  all  at  once,  after  an  interval 
of  apparent  death,  these  and  many  other 
transformations  are  disclosed  by  the 
splitting  of  J;h.2  pupa  skin  and  the  res- 


urrection, so  to  speak,  of  the  insect 
under  the  form  of  a  butterfly  :  and  this, 
by  hiving  its  eggs,  sets  in  motion  again 
the  same  wonderful  cycle  of  changes  . 
which  to  the  Greeks  seemed  to  typify 
the  birth  and  death  of  the  body  and 
the  resurrection  of  the  immortal  soul ; 
for  1'syche  was  one  of  their  names  for 
the  butterfly. 

Again,  at  a  given  hour  to-day,  each 
of  us  is  in  a  certain  condition  of  body.  , 
To-morrow  we  see  no  change  with  the 
eye,  but  one  has  occurred  ;  we  have 
lost  a  hair  from  the  head  or  beard,  or 
our  morning  bath  has  cost  us  a  feu- 
effete  branny  scales  of  the  outer  skin  ; 
and  this  loss,  were  it  but  a  single  hair, 
or  a  single  scale,  is  an  all-sufficient  cause 
of  a  difference  between  to-day  and  yes- 
terday. \Ve  cannot  ignore  this  as  too 
insignificant  and  say  it  is  unessential  ; 
for  it  is  the  gradual  loss  and  replace- 
ment of  just  such  minute  scales  which 
cleans  off  the  thickened  covering  of  a 
wound  and  leaves  the  skin  smooth  and 
soft  as  before. 

From  the  extraordinary  transforma- 
tions of  insects,  involving  as  they  often 
do  not  merely  a  casting  off  of  the  outer 
covering,  but  an  essential  modification 
of  form,  and  the  loss  or  acquisition  of 
appendages  accompanied  by  a  more  or 
less  complete  change  of  habit,  from  all 
this  to  the  gradual  gain  or  loss  of  epi- 
dermal scales  or  of  hairs  in  man,  seems 
at  first  an  impossible  step.  And  yet 
it  is  really  but  a  long  one ;  for  if  we 
consider  all  that  takes  place  upon  the 
surface  of  the  human  body,  and  espe- 
cially of  the  bodies  of  the  lower  animals, 
and  if  also  we  make  allowance  for  the 
longer  periods  of  their  existence,  we 
shall  be  convinced  that  the  two  ex- 
tremes we  have  mentioned  are  connect- 
ed by  such  a  variety  of  intermediate 
grades  of  transformation  that  a  natural 
passage  exists  between  the  t\vo. 

The  time  required  for  a  complete 
change  of  the  body  has  been  various- 
ly estimated  by  different  authors  :  so 
variously,  iadeed,  that  it  is  idle  to  dis- 
cuss the  subject ;  except  to  remind  our- 
selves that  by  experiment  some  tissues 
and  organs  are  found  to  undergo  this 


Time  works    Wonders. 


[March, 


change  more  rapidly  than  others,  so  that 
while  one  part  is  being  once  replaced, 
others  may  undergo  the  process  half  a 
dozen  times. 

But  it  is  neither  easy  nor  desirable 
to  embrace  the  whole  organism  in  our 
search  for  gradual  or  periodical  trans- 
formations. And  it  is  amply  sufficient 
for  our  present  purpose  to  trace  the 
more  easily  recognized,  yet  not  always 
appreciated,  gains  and  losses  and  alter- 
ations which  occur  in  the  vertebrate 
type  of  the  animal  kingdom. 

Let  us,  then,  inquire  how  far  the  peri- 
ods of  growth  and  development  in  ani- 
mals and  in  man  are  attended  by  alter- 
ation in  size,  shape,  and  proportion  ;  in 
color,  texture,  and  function ;  and  how 
far  the  phrase  at  the  head  of  this  arti- 
cle may  apply  to  the  change  in  all 
created  things. 

From  the  surface  of  the  sun  and  the 
crust  of  our  globe  to  the  drop  of  proto- 
plasm that  circulates  in  the  one-celled 
plant,  all  is  motion  ;  and  motion  im- 
plies a  change  of  position  at  least,  and 
that  of  molecular  relation,  which  is  the 
simplest  form  of  structural  differentia- 
tion. Motion  is  the  vital  process,  and 
time  the  physical  condition  under 
which  it  is  carried  on  ;  and  the  two  to- 
gether give  us  in  more  or  less  definite 
divisions  all  that  we  call  seasons  and 
epochs  and  ages  and  states. 

The  riddle  of  the  Sphinx,  which  only 
(Edipus  was  able  to  solve,  has  been 
greatly  improved  upon  by  modern  com- 
parative anatomy ;  for,  not  confined  to 
going  first  upon  four,  then  upon  two, 
and  finally  upon  three  legs,  man  is 
by  some  believed  to  be  the  animal 
which,  as  the  head  and  archetype  of 
all  inferior  species,  actually  represents 
them  all  in  his  development  ;  the  sev- 
eral stages  through  and  beyond  which 
he  passes  typifying  the  states  which 
the  various  species  merely  reach  and 
in  which  they  remain. 

As  a  theory  it  is  a  very  pretty  one, 
and  there  are  plenty  of  facts  to  be  given 
in  its  support ;  the  difficulty  has  been 
and  is,  to  restrain  our  inclination  to 
extend  the  theory  far  beyond  what  is 
justified  by  the  facts;  and  as  doctors 


still  disagree  upon  its  precise  limitation, 
let  us  avoid  controversy  and  look  only 
at  a  few  striking  features  in  the  devel- 
opment of  the  human  body  which  shall 
at  least  confirm  our  modest  thesis  that 
time  works  wonders,  without  attempt- 
ing to  say  just  what  the  wonders  mean. 

The  ante-natal  existence  of  a  human 
being  is  a  period  of  miracles,  if  by  this 
word  we  understand  things  which  are 
astounding,  and  apparently  indepen- 
dent of  familiar  laws.  But  to  give  full 
details  of  these  embryonic  changes  is 
impossible  without  figures  and  a  long 
description  ;  so  let  us  take  up  the  child 
again  upon  its  entrance  into  the  world. 
The  strange  atmosphere  carries  a  sud- 
den shock  to  its  sensorium,  and  the 
response  is  a  first  effort  to  breathe  and  a 
cry,  —  the  never-failing  sign  of  life.  The 
lungs  now  act  regularly,  for  their  struc- 
ture has  been  perfected  during  the  long 
season  of  total  inaction  when  the  moth- 
er's own  blood  supplied  the  vivifying 
oxygen  to  the  little  one.  The  stomach 
soon  craves  food  from  without ;  and  the 
organs  of  sense  by  degrees  accustom 
themselves  to  the  rude  impressions  of 
light  and  sound  and  material  contact. 

But  there  are  other  peculiarities  of 
this  early  age  which  are  more  easy  to 
describe.  At  birth  the  kidneys  form 
one  eightieth  part  of  the  whole  body ; 
they  grow  less  rapidly,  and  so  the  pro- 
portion is  reduced  to  a  third  of  that  in 
adult  life,  when  they  are  only  one  two 
hundred  and  fortieth  of  the  whole 
body. 

The  liver  also  loses  ground  as  the 
body  increases,  and  its  left  lobe  is  far 
outgrown  by  the  right.  The  peculiar 
ductless  gland,  called  thymus,  which  lies 
just  under  the  upper  end  of  the  breast- 
bone, is  large  at  birth  and  reaches  us 
full  size  at  the  end  of  the  second  year, 
after  which  it  gradually  dwindles  until 
at  puberty  it  has  almost  disappeared. 
The  brain  of  the  infant  is  larger  in  pro- 
portion than  that  of  the  adult,  being  to 
the  body  as  one  to  eight  in  the  former 
and  as  one  to  forty-three  in  the  latter. 
The  head  is  proportionally  larger  than 
the  face  at  the  early  age  ;  and  this  is  so 
striking  in  the  quadrumana  that  in  the 


1 870.] 


Time  works    Wonders. 


325 


young  of  some  apes  and  monkeys  the 
head  and  face  have  a  relative  size  close- 
ly approximating  that  which  exists  in 
the  full-grown  man. 

The  following  from  Dalton  shows  how 
greatly  the  relative  weight  of  the  sever- 
al viscera  changed  during  growth  :  — 

New-born  Infant.        Adult. 


Entire  body 
Brain 
Liver 
Heart 
Kidneys 
Renal  capsules 
Thyroid  body 
Tliymus  body 


1,000.00  1,000.00 

148.00  23.00 

37-00  29.00 

7-77  4-'7 

.  6.00  4.00 

1.63  0-13 

0.60  0.51 

3.00  o.oo 


Whoever  undertakes  to  ascertain  that 
all-important  fact,  What  does  the  baby 
weigh  ?  will  find  it  necessary  to  have  the 
chief  support  under  the  upper  part  of 
the  belly,  at  or  near  the  umbilicus, 
where  centred  the  embryonic  artery 
and  vein,  and  where  is  now  the  middle 
of  its  length  ;  but  in  a  man  lifted  in  the 
same  way,  or,  more  conveniently,  laid 
upon  a  balanced  platform,  the  centre 
of  gravity  is  found  to  be  much  lower 
down  and  nearer  to  his  centre  of  length, 
the  hips.  The  difference  is  due  partly 
to  the  natural  flexion  of  the  infant's 
legs,  as  if  in  readiness  to  creep  and 
in  imitation  of  the  quadruped's  natural 
mode  of  progression,  but  chiefly  to  the 
fact  that  the  legs  of  the  infant  are  very 
much  shorter  in  proportion  to  the  length 
of  the  whole  body. 

The  chest  is  laterally  compressed  as 
in  quadrupeds,  for  the  wide  and  flat 
chest  of  the  adult  would  render  creep- 
ing far  more  laborious  ;  and  the  promi- 
nence of  the  abdomen,  with  the  single 
forward  curve  of  the  spine,  leaves  no 
constriction  at  the  waist,  and  renders 
the  contour  of  the  trunk  comparable  to 
that  of  an  ape. 

Much  has  been  written  upon  the 
epochs  of  human  existence,  and  many 
are  the  proposed  divisions  ;  all  of  them 
based  in  part  upon  facts,  but  too  of- 
ten also  upon  preconceived  notions  and 
analogies.  At  any  rate,  their  wide  dis- 
agreement suggests  great  caution  in 
proposing  any  new  arrangement,  and 
warns  us  to  avoid  the  rock  upon  which 
most  of  them  split.  This  seems  to  be 


the  effort  to  assign  definite  limits  in 
years  to  each  subdivision  of  life ;  and 
the  periods  are  made  to  be  multiples 
of  certain  numbers,  as  three  or  five  or 
seven,  in  utter  disregard  of  the  fact 
that  one  of  the  universally  admitted 
epochs,  that  of  puberty,  varies  in  its 
occurrence  in  different  individuals,  in 
different  races,  and  under  different  cli- 
matic and  social  conditions  ;  and  that 
the  close  of  the  reproductive  period, 
called  the  turn  or  change  of  life,  and 
one  of  the  grand  climacterics,  must  like- 
wise vary  according  to  the  same  con- 
ditions. And,  therefore,  while  fully  ad- 
mitting the  supernatural  significance  of 
certain  numbers,  let  us  do  away  with 
them  and  with  the  arbitrary  divisions 
based  upon  them,  and  look  for  undeni- 
able epochs  and  states  of  life  as  they 
occur  in  natural  succession. 

All  men  are  born,  and  we  all  must 
die ;  birth  implies  death,  and  both 
epochs  are  attended  with  marked 
changes  in  all  the  vital  processes  ;  it 
is  the  beginning  of  respiration  which 
announces  the  birth,  and  the  cessation 
of  it  which  marks  the  legal  death  of  the 
individual ;  and  with  the  entrance  and 
exit  of  the  breath  comes  and  goes  the 
distinctively  animal  powers  of  con- 
sciousness and  voluntary  motion  :  but 
there  is  life  in  the  unborn  babe  and  in 
the  motionless  corpse  before  and  after 
the  lungs  begin  and  cease  to  act ;  a 
life  which  in  the  one  case  induced  all 
the  wonderful  changes  elsewhere  de- 
scribed, and  in  the  other  shines  out  to 
mourning  friends  in  the  placid  smile  of 
the  dead. 

Between  birth  and  death  is  a  long 
interval ;  it  is  the  period  of  active  life, 
and  has  been  generally  divided  into 
growth,  maturity,  and  decline,  as  to 
both  mental  and  physical  power;  or 
into  youth,  manhood  or  womanhood, 
and  old  age.  But  however  easily  rec- 
ognized as  general  states,  they  offer 
very  numerous  and  great  exceptions, 
and  are  wholly  incapable  of  exact  limi- 
tation by  years  ;  for  we  know  not  the 
natural  duration  of  human  life,  and  the 
averages  which  it  is  so  easy  to  collect 
mean  nothing,  until  we  know  whether 


326 


Time  works    Wonders. 


[March, 


the  various  causes  of  early  death  affect 
the  entire  life,  or  only  certain  periods 
of  it. 

There  is,  however,  a  part  of  the  life 
of  men  which  stands  off  boldly  from 
the  years  that  precede  and  those  which 
follow ;  a  period  during  which  the 
individual  is  not  only  in  the  fullest 
enjoyment  of  health  and  strength  and 
mental  vigor,  and  can  thus  work  best 
for  himself  and  his  fellows  of  the  pres- 
ent, but  when  he  is  endowed  with  pecu- 
liar powers  and  the  instinct  to  use  them 
for  the  future  of  the  species.  This,  the 
reproductive  period,  is  ushered  in  by 
marked  changes  in  the  organism ;  the 
essential  ones  it  is  not  necessary  to 
speak  of  here,  but  the  accessory  ones 
are  none  the  less  remarkable  and  con- 
stant. The  bony  framework  solidifies, 
and  the  growing  ends  of  the  long  bones 
become  fixed  to  their  epiphyses  ;  the 
beard  appears  ;  the  voice  changes,  more 
decidedly  in  the  male  ;  and  the  features 
take  on  the  expression  which  they  gen- 
erally wear  through  life.  All  these 
changes,  extending  through  several 
years,  mark  the  epoch  of  puberty,  and 
the  beginning  of  the  state  when  boy 
and  girl,  youth  and  maiden,  are  man 
and  woman. 

The  end  of  this  state  is  marked  by 
less  decided  phenomena,  and  by  little 
which  can  be  definitely  described  ;  but 
the  practical  recognition  of  the  pecu- 
liar dangers  attendant  upon  this  epoch 
and  the  following  period  is  the  publi- 
cation of  distinct  works  upon  the  dis- 
eases of  old  age. 

We  have,  then,  six  undeniable  epochs 
of  human  life,  which  may  be  approxi- 
mately designated  by  years,  but  which 
depend  upon  various  attendant  changes 
which  are  identical  in  no  two  individ- 
uals ;  and,  separated  by  these  six 
'  epochs  of  conception,  birth,  puberty, 
sterility,  death,  and  disorganization,  we 
have  five  states  of  greater  and  less  du- 
ration, which  are  endowed  with  certain 
powers  for  certain  general  purposes. 

That  the  absolute  weight  and  stature 
of  the  body  changes  from  year  to  year, 
and  that  the  increase  is  not  uniform 
throughout  the  period  of  growth,  is  a 


matter  of  common  observation.  Dra- 
per thinks  that  the  infant  triples  its 
weight  during  the  first  year  ;  that  dur- 
ing the  succeeding  seven  years  this 
weight  itself  is  doubled,  and  that  this 
again  is  doubled  before  the  age  of  fif- 
teen ;  and  probably  this  statement  will 
be  found  true  in  regard  to  the  majority 
of  individuals  below  the  age  of  puberty- 

But  the  rates  and  limits  of  increase 
in  stature  and  weight  are  far  less  uni- 
form in  different  adult  individuals  than 
in  young  persons  ;  for  at  puberty  the 
body  seems  to  acquire  its  permanent 
habit,  as  full  or  spare  ;  and  the  condi- 
tions of  existence  as  to  diet,  occupa- 
tion, and  exercise  are  variable  in  the 
highest  degree. 

Obviously  the  most  reliable  conclu- 
sions are  to  be  drawn  from  military 
statistics,  since  there  the  above  condi- 
tions are  as  uniform  as  possible,  and 
a  tendency  to  excessive  obesity  would 
disqualify  a  man  for  active  service. 

The  late  war  for  the  Union  has  fur- 
nished us  with  a  greater  amount  of 
material  than  was  ever  before  accessi- 
ble ;  and  the  United  States  Sanitary 
Commission  showed  their  appreciation 
of  this,  as  well  as  their  conviction  that 
no  such  opportunity  would  ever  again 
occur,  by  devoting  a  part  of  their  sur- 
plus funds  and  the  talents  and  energies 
of  their  best  agents  to  the  careful  col- 
lection and  thorough  study  of  the  facts 
furnished  by  more  than  two  million  sol- 
diers. 

The  more  important  and  conclusive 
results  of  this  work  have  been  reached 
under  the  direct  superintendence  of 
Dr.  Benjamin  A.  Gould,  who  not  only 
brought  to  it  the  qualities  which  have 
elsewhere  distinguished  his  work,  but 
also,  through  the  premature  exhaustion 
of  the  funds  devoted  to  this  purpose, 
made  it  a  labor  of  true  scientific  devo- 
tion. 

I  quote  from  his  work,  —  "  Statistics 
of  United  States  Volunteers." 

"  Examination  of  the  materials  col- 
lected leads  to  the  following  inferences 
for  white  soldiers  :  — 

"  i.  That  the  rate  of  growth  under- 
goes a  sudden  diminution  at  about  the 


1870.] 


Time  works    Wonders. 


327 


age  of  twenty  years,  the  increase  of 
stature  continuing  nevertheless  unin- 
terruptedly until  about  the  age  of  twen- 
ty-four. 

"2.  That  for  a  year  or  two  after 
this  latter  epoch  the  height  remains 
nearly  stationary,  if,  indeed,  it  does  not 
diminish,  after  which  a  slight  increase 
,  again  manifests  itself,  and  continues 
until  the  full  stature  is  attained. 

"  3.  That  the  normal  epoch  of  maxi- 
mum stature  must  generally  be  placed, 
at  least  for  American  States,  as  late  as 
thirty  years,  but  that  it  varies  for  differ- 
ent classes  of  men."  (p.  1 08.) 

That  the  height  and  the  weight  are 
by  no  means  coequal  in  their  rate  of 
increase  at  given  ages,  and  that  their 
respective  limits  are  not  reached  simul- 
taneously, may  be  seen  from  state- 
ments made  further  on  in  the  work. 

i;  An  empirical  determination  of  the 
mean  weight  belonging  to  each  age 
shows  that  the  increase  between  the 
ages  of  twenty-one  and  forty-five  can- 
not well  exceed  five  pounds,  great  as 
is  the  change  in  many  individual 
cases/'  (p.  428.) 

1  add  a  selection  of  items  from  the 
table,  showing  the  average  weight  of 
a  certain  number  of  white  soldiers  at 
given  ages  (Table  XXVII.,  page  438), 
and  place  by  its  side  a  selection  from 
Table  VIII.,  page  113,  giving  the 
heights  by  ages  for  all  white  soldiers 
of  all  nativities. 


Stgt. 

Afa 

»%*** 

Height. 

'7 

44'' 

I28.S 

f,5.*> 

iS 

1,100 

J33-5 

66.23 

") 

1,150 

137-7 

67.01 

20 

1,357 

140.8 

67-52 

21 

1,446 

142.7 

67.77 

=3 

1,108 

1  45-o 

67.97 

25 

745 

I4&6 

67.99 

28 

512 

147.0 

68.02 

35 

239 

M7-5 

f>8.oo 

40 

98 

T47-7 

67.9S 

42 

102 

147.8 

45  '7  M7-S 

The  above  table  confirms  the  three 
vv,;u-lusions  already  given  respecting  the 
rate  and  limit  of  increase  in  stature,  and 
also  allows  us  to  make  a  very  sugges- 
tive comparison  between  them  and  the 
rate  and  limit  of  increase  in  weight. 

The    weight    increases    nearly    five 


pounds  between  17  and  18,  about  four 
between  18  and  19,  three  during  the 
next  year,  two  the  next,  then  at  the 
rate  of  a  pound  and  two  tenths  a  year 
to  23,  eight  tenths  to  25,  two  tenths  to 
28,  one  fourteenth  to  35,  one  twenty- 
fifth  to  40,  and  about  the  same  to  42 ; 
after  which  no  increase  occurred,  but 
rather,  as  our  common  observation  tells, 
a  diminution.  The  rate  of  increase  in 
weight  then  steadily  decreases  from  17 
to  42,  and  the  limit  is  reached  between 
40  and  45  with  soldiers;  but  this  law  can 
hardly  apply  to  persons  at  home,  with 
superabundance  of  food  and  no  \ 
exercise,  added  to  a  full  habit  of  body 
which  would  generally  exclude  them 
from  military  service. 

That  the  circulatory  and  respiratory 
movements  are  more  rapidly  performed 
in  extreme  youth  than  at  a  later  age  is 
a  matter  of  common  observation  with 
all  who  have  watched  or  handled  kit- 
tens, puppies,  and  babies ;  but  only 
with  the  latter  have  accurate  observa- 
tions been  recorded  and  compared  with 
what  exists  in  the  adult.  According  to 
Dr.  Guy,  the  pulsations  of  the  heart 
in  the  unborn  child  are  pretty  uni- 
formly 140  per  minute ;  at  birth  about 
136 ;  during  the  first  year  of  life  it 
gradually  diminishes  to  about  128,  and 
during  the  second  to  107.  From  two 
to  seven  years  of  age  the  average  pulse 
is  97.  And  it  then  steadily  diminishes 
until  forty  or  fifty  years,  after  which  it 
may  again  increase  several  beats  per 
minute.  But  while  this  is  true  of  both 
sexes,  there  is  a  very  marked  differ- 
ence in  the  diminution  of  the  pulse  for 
the  two  sexes  between  the  seventh  and 
fourteenth  years.  In  the  male  its  aver- 
age during  that  period  is  about  84, 
while  in  the  female  it  is  94 ;  and  dur- 
ing the  next  seven  years  it  is  76  for 
the  former  and  82  for  the  latter,  pre- 
serving a.  difference  of  five  or  ten  beats 
thereafter  through  life,  with  a  greater 
acceleration  in  the  aged  female  than  in 
the  male. 

The  rapidity  of  the  heart's  action  is 
also  greatly  influenced  by  the  internal 
and  external  condition  of  the  system  in 
regard  to  digestion,  posture,  and  exer- 


328 


Time  works    Wonders. 


[March, 


cise,  temperature  and  mental  emotion. 
That  the  heart  stops  from  sudden  fright, 
anger,  and  grief  is  commonly  believed, 
and  is  no  doubt  the  fact ;  syncope  and 
even  death  may  result  from  it;  and  we 
all  have  noted  in  ourselves  the  rapid 
and  forcible  beating  of  the  heart  against 
the  walls  of  the  chest  when  excited  in 
a  less  violent  degree  by  fear,  love,  and 
expectation.  It  would  lead  us  too  far 
to  express  in  full  my  conviction  that 
these  responses  of  the  bodily  organ  to 
mental  emotion  are  due  to  something 
far  beyond  the  mere  anatomical  con- 
nection of  heart  and  brain  ;  that  the 
heart  is  really,  as  common  people  think, 
the  outward  representation  of  affection, 
and  that  the  correspondence  is  as  close 
as  that  between  the  ear  and  the  quality 
of  obedience. 

It  has  been  found  by  experiment  that 
"the  pulse  maybe  doubled  by  exposing 
the  body  to  extreme  heat  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  and  also  that  it  may  be  greatly 
reduced  in  frequency  for  a  short  time 
by  the  cold  douche.  It  has  also  been 
remarked  that  the  pulse  is  habitually 
more  rapid  in  warm  than  in  cold  cli- 
mates." * 

The  pulse  may  be  increased  to  more 
than  twice  its  usual  rate  by  severe  exer- 
cise ;  and  even  the  position  of  the  body 
will  make  a  very  decided  difference ; 
the  rapidity  being  greater  while  sitting 
than  while  lying,  and  greatest  while 
standing;  for  to  maintain  either  of 
these  positions  requires  considerable 
muscular  exertion.  It  does  not  appear 
that  the  pulse  of  sleep  differs  materially 
from  that  of  repose  in  the  recumbent 
position;  at  least  not  in  males,  though 
Quetelet  has  said  that  in  women  and 
children  it  is  slower  during  sleep. 

After  each  meal  there  is  a  temporary 
increase  in  the  pulse  of  from  five  to  ten 
beats  per  minute  ;  while  prolonged  fast- 
ing may  reduce  its  frequency  by  an 
even  greater  number.  Alcohol  first 
diminishes  and  afterward  accelerates, 
and  it  has  been  found  that  the  pulse 
is  quickened  by  animal  food  more  than 
by  vegetable. 

The  statistics  of  respiration  are  less 

*  Flint. 


complete,  but  they  indicate  the  same 
liability  to  be  affected  by  internal  and 
external  conditions.  Soon  after  birth 
the  infant  breathes  about  44  times  per 
minute ;  at  five  years  the  number  has 
diminished  to  26  ;  at  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  years  it  is  20;  and  at  thirty 
years,  16;  during  old  age  a  slight  in- 
crease occurs.  During  sleep  the  num- 
ber of  respirations  is  decidedly  less,  by 
about  twenty  per  cent. 

Here  is  the  place  to  mention  a 
change  which  occurs  in  the  heart  itself 
during  early  life,  other  than  the  rapid 
ones  already  described  with  the  phe- 
nomena attendant  upon  birth. 

The  wall  of  the  right  ventricle  is  at 
first  nearly  equal  in  thickness  to  that  of 
the  left ;  but  the  latter  begins  at  once 
to  increase  in  order  to  perform  the  con- 
stantly augmenting  labor  of  sending 
blood  over  the  growing  body.  The 
work  of  the  right  ventricle  increases 
to  a  less  extent,  and  its  growth  is  less 
in  that  proportion,  for  it  has  only  to 
force  the  blood  through  the  lungs. 

The  statistics  given  by  Dr.  Gould 
upon  the  foregoing  points  are  very  in- 
structive ;  perhaps  the  most  remark- 
able result  is  that  expressed  upon  pages 
521  and  523,  in  respect  to  the  compara- 
tive constancy  of  both  pulse  and  res- 
piration during  the  years  of  military  eli- 
gibility. For  instance,  of  8,284  whites 
in  usual  vigor,  all  had  between  16  and 
17  respirations  per  minute;  and  the 
highest  fractions  are  .55  for  17  years, 
.53  for  21,  .50  for  24,  .51  for  29,  and  .50 
for  35  and  over.  The  lowest  fractions 
being  in  like  manner  scattered  through 
the  years  from  17  to  35.  The  same 
facts  appear  when  the  pulse  is  com- 
pared at  different  ages  ;  and  although 
these  results  are  not  in  accordance  with 
the  observations  of  Hutchinson,  Quete- 
let, and  others,  yet  as  the  present  series 
far  outnumbers  all  previous  ones,  and 
as,  moreover,  it  includes  men  of  aver- 
age good  health,  we  must  accept  the 
results  as  more  conclusive. 

The  following  table  (compiled  from 
Tables  IX.  and  XL,  pages  521  and 
523)  exhibits  the  principal  facts  con- 
cerning pulse  and  respiration :  — 


Time  works    \Vonderx. 


329 


White  Men. 

8,284  in  Health.           1,352  nut  in  Usual  Vigor. 

sJ 

*i 

II 

CK 

I 

1  4 

*3 

PH 

.2 

16,439 

74.84 

4.5+ 

18.838 

77.21 

4-  — 

The  first  fact  is  the  decided  accelera- 
tion of  both  processes  during  ill  health, 
amounting  to  four  tenths  of  a  respira- 
tion, and  about  two  and  a  half  pulsa- 
tions per  minute. 

And  the  second  is  that  this  increase 
is  less  marked  in  the  latter  than  in  the 
former ;  in  other  words,  a  lack  of  usual 
vigor  from  all  causes  increases  the  fre- 
quency of  the  respiration  more  than 
that  of  the  heart's  action,  although  it 
is  by  the  pulse  that  we  generally  detect 
any  febrile  condition. 

And  this  is  not  only  true  of  the  two 
processes  during  ill  health,  but  a  com- 
parison of  the  averages  for  the  several 
ages  has  convinced  Dr.  Gould  that  there 
is  no  apparent  definite  ratio  between 
the  two,  and  that  they  appear  to  be 
normally  independent  of  each  other, 
although  the  abnormal  manifestations 
of  each  are  more  frequently  in  the  form 
of  acceleration  than  of  retardation.  The 
well-established  facts,  that  in  any  in- 
dividual case  increased  frequency  of 
respiration  is  attended  by  an  increased 
frequency  of  the  pulse,  and  that  the 
pulse  may  be  greatly  affected  by  vol- 
untary modification  of  the  respiratory 
movements,  as  shown  by  Mitchel,  do 
not  seem  at  all  opposed  to  this  infer- 
ence regarding  the  non-existence  of  a 
definite  normal  ratio  of  frequency,  (p. 
524.) 

Dr.  Gould  then  compares  the  pulse 
and  respiration  in  the  different  races, 
and  finally  shows  by  the  figures  that 
the  idea  of  Rameaux  and  Sarrus,  which 
was  cited  by  Ouetelet  with  apparent 
approval,  that  the  pulse  diminishes 
with  the  stature  according  to  a  distinct 
law,  is  wholly  inapplicable  to  our  sol- 
diers ;  and  that  indeed  the  relation 


between  the  stature  and  the  pulse 
scarcely  appears  to  follow  any  general 
law.  (p.  525.) 

The  statistics  of  range  of  distinct 
vision  are  quite  remarkable  in  s 
respects ;  but  we  can  speak  only  of 
those  which  refer  to  differences  accord- 
ing to  age  and  state  of  health.  The 
best  object  employed  was  a  paragraph 
of  twelve  lines  in  "  double-leaded  small 
pica  type,"  and  this  was  held  at  the 
distance  of  distinct  vision  for  each 
individual,  with  the  following  result  :  — 

The  average  distance  for  6,564  white 
soldiers  in  usual  vigor  was  47.77  inch- 
es j  for  1,357  not  in  usual  vigor  was 
45.10  inches.  Here  is  a  marked  differ- 
ence ;  but  this  average  difference"  is  by 
no  means  constant  when  the  individuals 
of  a  single  age  are  compared ;  for  in- 
stance, the  average  at  eighteen  years 
of  428  in  usual  vigor  was  47.8  inches, 
while  that  of  49  not  in  usual  vigor  was 
48  inches ;  and  that  for  twenty-five 
years  of  331  in  usual  vigor  was  46.3 
inches,  while  that  of  71  not  in  usual  vig- 
or was  48.9  inches  ;  and  the  same  and 
even  greater  differences  in  favor  of  the 
"  weaker  parties  "  exist  among  the  num- 
bers for  other  ages,  where  the  individ- 
uals were  few.  So  that  we  must  bear 
in  mind  that  this  is  one  of  the  most 
indefinite  measurements,  and  that  the 
answer  in  a  given  case  must  be  greatly 
affected  by  the  interest  taken  by  the 
subject  of  the  examination,  and  by  his 
ability  to  discriminate  between  what  is 
distinct  and  what  is  indistinct.  It 
shows  how  important  large  numbers 
are  in  statistics,  and  also  that  the 
number  which  would  be  adequate  in 
one  part  of  the  investigation  may  be 
quite  insufficient  in  another  part,  where 
the  individual  results  are  liable  to  be 
affected  by  the  bias  of  either  examiner 
or  examined,  and  by  the  number  or 
extent  of  the  variable  quantities  con- 
cerned. 

The  figures  representing  the  dis- 
tance of  distinct  vision  by  ages  are  ex- 
tremely unsatisfactory  to  those  who 
have  believed  and  taught  that,  in  spite 
of  exceptions,  people  grow  long-sight- 
ed as  they  advance  in  years  ;  partly 


330 


Time  works    Wonders. 


[March, 


through  actual  flattening  of  the  crystal- 
line lens,  and  partly  through  diminu- 
tion of  the  power  of  accommodation, 
hut  there  seems  to  be  no  regularity 
of  either  increase  or  decrease  of  dis- 
tinct vision  from  16  to  50  years,  the 
least  capable  ages  being  45  and  over, 
36,  16  and  under,  25,  31,  34,  and  41, 
while  the  ages  of  longest  vision  are  17, 
19,  23,  28,  37,  and  42  ;  the  ages  from 
17  to  28  including  the  largest  number 
of  individuals  and  the  longest  ranges 
of  vision.  To  quote  from  the  work  it- 
self (p.  536):- 

"  It  is  evident  that  the  outer  limit 
of  distinct,  vision  gradually  diminishes 
with  advancing  years,  although  we 
have  here  no  means  of  learning  wheth- 
er the  decrease  is  greater  than  would 
result  from  the  well-known  diminution 
of  the  power  of  accommodation.  The 
maximum  mean  value  would  seem  to 
be  between  the  ages  of  17  and  25,  and 
the  subsequent  decrease  to  amount  to 
not  less  than  ten  per  cent  before  the 
age  of  50.  The  fact  that  the  minimum 
limit  increases  with  the  age  is  well 
known,  so  that  it  would  appear  that 
increasing  age  brings  with  it  a  diminu- 
tion of  the  range  of  vision  by  curtail- 
ment at  each  of  its  limits." 

The  belief  that  baldness  is,  as  a  rule, 
an  accompaniment  of  advancing  years 
finds  complete  confirmation  in  the  sta- 
tistics of  15,005  white  soldiers  in  usual 
vigor;  under  21  years  the  proportion 
was  of  i  to  4,339  ;  and  the  proportion 
increases  steadily,  so  as  to  be  .032  at 
35  years,  .093  at  42  to  44,  and  .100  at 
45  and  over.  (p.  567.) 

The  condition  of  the  teeth  also,  and 
the  number  of  teeth  lost  at  different 
ages,  are  also  given  ;  but  the  results 
are  only  interesting  as  confirmatory 
upon  a  very  large  scale  of  the  opinions 
based  upon  individual  and  general  ob- 
servation. 

To  pass  now  to  the  lower  mammalia, 
we  need  only  allude  to  the  fact  that 
their  teeth,  like  those  of  man,  are  pro- 
duced in  an  orderly  succession  ;  witli 
the  horse,  the  period  of  appearance 
is  succeeded  by  a  wearing  down  of 
the  crowns,  which  is  generally  so  uni- 


form as  to  serve  the  initiated  for  a 
tolerably  sure  indication  of  age,  up  to 
the  ninth  or  tenth  year ;  after  that 
time  the  marks  of  age  are  less  definite, 
although  there  are  some  who  assert 
that  in  the  teeth  alone  there  are  annual 
changes  until  the  twenty-first  year  which 
may  be  relied  upon,  in  addition  to  the  fa- 
miliar marks  of  age,  such  as  deepening 
hollows  over  the  eyes,  sinking  of  the 
back,  and  appearance  of  gray  hairs 
about  the  eyes  and  muzzle.  In  the 
opinion  of  some,  every  year  after  the 
ninth  is  indicated  by  an  additional 
wrinkle  upon  the  upper  eyelid,  and,  as 
there  are  plenty  of  horses  more  than 
nine  years  old,  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  test  the  criterion. 

The  facility  with  which  the  age  of  a 
stag  may  be  judged  from  the  number 
of  tines  upon  the  antlers  is  well  under- 
stood by  sportsmen. 

Many  reptiles  annually  shed  the 
skin,  and  in  the  rattlesnake  a  ring  is 
added  with  each  year's  moult;  but 
the  frequent  and  irregular  loss  of  the 
terminal  rings  renders  it  impossible  to 
determine  the  age  by  their  number. 

The  young  of  birds  have  almost 
always  a  different  plumage  from  the 
adult,  and  great  care  is  necessary  to 
avoid  placing  them  in  different  species. 
Still  more  remarkable  is  the  difference 
between  the  larval  and  adult  condition 
of  many  batrachians  ;  for  the  tadpole 
is  fitted  for  swimming  and  for  aquatic 
respiration,  and  might  naturally  be 
ranked  among  fishes,  so  long  as  we  re- 
mained ignorant  of  its  transformations. 
The  same  is  true,  in  a  less  degree,  of 
some  fishes,  of  which  the  young  and 
old  have  been  at  first  described  as  dis- 
tinct species. 

We  have  thus  far  considered  only 
those  changes  in  the  structure  and 
function  which  normally  succeed  each 
other,  and  occur  but  once  in  the  life  of 
the  individual ;  they  are,  strictly  speak- 
ing, the  only  alterations  due  to  age. 
hut  there  are,  especially  with  the  lower 
animals,  other  and  no  less  striking 
changes,  which  appear  to  be  closely  de- 
pendent upon,  or  at  least  associated 
with,  the  natural  divisions  of  time,  and 


1 8/0.] 


Time  ivorks    Wonders. 


33* 


which  may,  therefore,  be  repeated  in- 
definitely according  to  the  duration  of 
life  of  the  individual.  These  again 
may  be  subdivided.  For  some  of  them, 
such  as  the  annual  increase  of  hair  and 
feathers  upon  animals,  and  the  inde- 
scribable, yet  not  the  less  real,  adapta- 
tion of  the  system  to  a  given  tempera- 
ture which  makes  a  fall  of  the  mercury 
to  a  given  degree  attended  with  far  more 
suffering  to  us  in  summer  than  in  win- 
ter, appear  to  be  in  reference  to  purely 
physical  necessities;  for  they  disappear 
with  them.  But  the  vast  majority  of 
these  changes  are  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctly referable  to  the  periodical  mani- 
festation of  the  reproductive  instinct, 
and  are  indeed  of  the  same  kind  often 
as  those  already  described  as  attendant 
upon  its  original  appearance,  of  which 
indeed  they  are,  as  it  were,  the  periodi- 
cal repetition. 

The  voice,  which  undergoes  a  great 
and  permanent  alteration  at  puberty, 
Is  in  many  animals  modified  once  a 
year,  or  is  even  heard  only  at  the  re- 
productive season,  as  in  the  porcupine, 
the  giraffe,  and  the  deer  tribe. 

The  modification  in  the  song  of 
birds  at  the  season  of  mating  is  owing 
perhaps  to  both  internal  and  external 
conditions  ;  for  it  has  a  gladsome,  hap- 
py note,  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
spring-time  of  surrounding  nature. 

The  horns  of  the  deer  tribe  are  the 
organs  which  exhibit  the  most  decided 
sympathy  with  the  periodical  develop- 
ment of  sexual  instinct.  They  often 
exist  in  the  males  alone  ;  and  even  when 
both  sexes  possess  them,  the  male  has 
the  longer,  and  employs  them  in  fierce 
combat  with  his  rivals,  uttering  at  the 
same  time  characteristic  cries  which  are 
seldom  or  never  heard  at  other  seasons. 
These  horns  or  antlers  are  sometimes 
•  immense  ;  in  the  extinct  Irish  elk  they 
measure  eight  feet  from  tip  to  tip,  and 
in  a  red  deer  of  Wallachia,  described 
by  Professor  Owen,  each  antler  meas- 
ured five  feet  and  eight  inches  along 
the  curve,  and  the  pair  weighed  seven- 
ty-four pounds  avoirdupois. 

But  more  noteworthy  than  the  actual 
size  of  these  appendages  and  the  use 


to  which  they  are  put  is  the  fact  that 
they  are  annually  shed  and  reproduced. 
The  shedding  and  the  beginning  of  the 
new  growth  takes  place  in  the  spring, 
the  exact  time  varying  with  the  species  ; 
and  it  is  to  be  noted  that  at  the  same 
time  the  fawns  are  dropped  ;  otherwise 
they  might  be  in  danger  from  the  vi- 
cious propensities  of  the  fully  armed 
males. 

The  blood-vessels  of  the  skin  about 
the  pedicle  or  persistent  base  of  the 
horn  now  begin  to  deposit  additional 
osseous  material  ;  and  this  process 
goes  on  so  rapidly  that  by  early  au- 
tumn the  antlers  are  completed,  larger 
and  with  more  branches  than  those  of 
the  previous  year.  But  they  are  still 
covered,  as  with  a  sheath,  by  the  skin 
which  has  kept  pace  in  its  growth  and 
has  afforded  support  to  the  nutritive 
vessels.  This  skin  finally  dies  and 
dries  up,  and  the  horns  are  freed  of  it 
and  burnished  by  friction  against  a  tree. 
They  are  now  ready  for  action,  and 
continue  so  during  the  winter  until  the 
time  of  shedding  arrives  in  the  spring. 
In  estimating  the  change  which  takes 
place  during  this  process,  we  must  not 
forget  that,  in  order  to  support  and  use 
such  an  enormous  weight  at  the  end  of 
a  long  neck,  the  muscles  which  move 
the  head,  and  the  spines  and  ridges  of 
the  backbone  and  the  skull,  must  also 
be  strengthened  and  increased  in  pro- 
portion. 

Now  all  this  is  wonderful  enough 
and  fitly  closes  our  list  of  illustrations 
of  the  changes  which  occur  in  animals 
at  the  various  stages  of  their  existence  ; 
but  I  would  like  to  call  attention  to 
what  seems  to  me  the  significance  of 
the  phenomenon  last  considered,  in 
view  of  the  real  or  assumed  difficulty 
which  some  believers  in  transmutation 
theories  find  in  admitting  the  suc- 
cession of  being  in  time  to  have  been 
other  than  direct  and  genetic. 

The  serial  connection  of  the  horns 
of  successive  years  is  not  less  close 
than  that  which  all  admit  to  exist  be- 
tween the  species  of  animals  found  in 
successive  strata  of  the  earth's  crust. 
Yet  each,  as  it  falls,  loses  forever  and 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


[March, 


entirely  all  possible  influence  upon  its 
successor;  just  as  fully  as,  according  to 
Agassiz,  species  have  been  destroyed 
in  the  various  convulsions  which  lim- 
ited geological  epochs.  There  is  not 
the  least  chance  for  an  egg,  or  a  germ 
of  any  kind,  to  guide  the  next  year's 
growth  to  a  resemblance  to  itself;  but 
in  the  blood  which  mounts  and  presses 
upward  there  is  something  more  than 
the  mere  earthly  material  which  is 
needed  ;  there  is  in  its  every  particle  a 
definite  aim  and  effort  ins-pired  by  in- 
flux from  God  himself,  which  impels  it 
to  deposit  the  lime  and  the  gelatine  in 
such  a  way  as  to  construct  a  horn  dif- 
fering from  its  predecessor  to  a  certain 
extent,  according  to  the  needs  of  the 
animal. 

And  so  in  like  manner,  why  may  we 


not  conceive  the  orderly  succession 
of  organized  beings  as  produced  by 
the  direct  influx  of  life  into  matter, 
moulding  it  into  more  and  more  com- 
plex forms,  which  resemble  each  other 
closely  enough  to  appear  like  parent 
and  child,  yet  which  are  really  no  more 
such  than  the  horns  of  the  first  year  are 
the  ancestors  of  the  horns  of  the  sec- 
ond? 

Once  admitting  that  the  succession 
is  a  mental  and  not  a  physical  one,  it 
matters  not  whether  the  various  forms 
originated  as  eggs  or  as  fully  developed 
beings.  For  however  impossible  the 
latter  miracle  seems  to  our  finite  under- 
standing, we  can  set  no  limits  to  Divine 
Omnipotence,  especially  when  it  is  as 
impossible  for  us  to  create  an  egg  as  a 
full-grown  man. 


THE   BLUE   RIVER   BANK   ROBBERY. 


I. 

"  T  T  is  not  of  the  least  use  to  argue 

J-  the  question,  father.  Tell  me 
plainly,  yes  or  no,  and  I  will  bother  you 
no  more  about  it." 

"  I  cannot  indulge  you  in  this,  Harry. 
Indeed,  you  should  believe  me  when  I 
say  we  cannot  afford  it." 

Mr.  Houghton  leaned  his  head  heav- 
ily on  his  hands  as  he  spoke,  and  seemed 
to  deprecate  the  displeasure  of  his  hand- 
some, impatient  son. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  the  youth  of 
nineteen,  his  hand  quivering  as  he  rose 
with  the  anger  he  seemed  striving 
to  keep  out  of  his  words  and  tones. 
"  I  hope  you  will  never  be  sorry  for  the 
trifle  you  have  refused  me  to-night.  I 
shall  make  the  trip  to  Lake  George  next 
week,  nevertheless,  if  I  have  to  sell  my 
grandfather's  watch  and  chain  to  get 
the  money." 

A  half-groan  came  from  the  hidden 
face  of  Foster  Houghton,  and  a  re- 
proachful "  O  Harry  !  "  from  his  moth- 


er, whose  eyes  had  been  filling  with 
tears  as  she  sat  silent  through  the 
stormy  interview.  But  the  boy  was  an- 
gry, and  in  earnest,  and  he  twisted  the 
chain  in  his  waistcoat  to  give  emphasis 
to  the  threat.  Then  as  he  took  his 
cloak  and  cap  from  the  closet  he  con- 
tinued :  — 

"  You  need  not  sit  up  for  me,  or 
leave  the  door  unlocked  ;  I  am  going 
to  Tinborough  with  the  fellows  to  the 
strawberry  party,  and  as  there  will  be 
a  dance,  and  the  nights  are  short,  I 
shall  wait  for  daylight  to  come  home, 
if  I  do  not  stop  and  catch  a  nap  at  the 
Valley  House  before  starting." 

"Who  is  going  from  Elmfield?" 
inquired  the  father,  more  from  a  de- 
sire to  show  an  interest  and  win  the 
boy  from  his  moodiness  than  any  real 
curiosity. 

"  Nearly  everybody  of  my  set,"  said 
Harry,  with  something  of  studied  cold- 
ness ;  "  Arthur  Brooks  and  Tom  Box- 
ham  and  Frank  Pettengill,  —  and  Harri- 
son Fry,  if  you  want  the  whole  list." 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


333 


His  hither  turned  sharply  away,  but 
the  mother  spoke  appeal!  ngly  :  — 

"If  you  would  cut  off  your  intimacy 
with  Harrison  Fry,  now  and  forever, 
I  think  there  are  very  few  things  your 
father  would  refuse  you.  I  have  seen 
his  evil  influence  over  you  ever  since 
he  came  back  from  the  city.  He  was 
a  bad  boy,  and  will  be  a  bad  man." 

"  Like  myself  and  other  wicked  peo- 
ple," said  the  boy,  looking  at  his  watch, 
"  1  larry  Fry  is  not  half  so  black  as  he 
is  painted.  But  I  am  not  as  intimate 
with  him  as  you  fancy ;  and  as  to  fa- 
ther, I  don't  think  his  treatment  of  me 
to-night  gives  him  a  claim  to  interfere 
with  my  friendships." 

Henry  Houghton  shot  his  shaft  de- 
liberately, for  he  knew  his  father's  sen- 
sitive nature,  in  which  it  would  rankle 
cruelly  ;  and  in  a  moment  he  was  off, 
bounding  through  the  low,  open  win- 
dow, and  running  witli  fleet  steps  down 
the  gravel  sidewalk  toward  the  com- 
mon. 

The  family  circle  thus  divided  was 
that  of  the  cashier  of  the  Blue  River 
National  Bank  of  Elmfield.  Foster 
Houghton  was  a  man  past  middle  age, 
and  older  than  his  years  in  appearance 
and  in  heart.  He  had  petted  his  only 
son  in  his  childhood  enough  to  spoil 
most  boys,  and  now  made  the  balance 
even  by  repressing  the  exuberance  of 
his  youth  with  a  sharpness  sometimes 
no  more  than  just,  sometimes  queru- 
lous and  unreasonable.  The  boy's 
grandfather,  old  Peleg  Houghton,  who 
died  a  year  before  at  ninety  and  over, 
had  almost  worshipped  Harry,  and,  on 
his  death-bed,  had  presented  his  own 
superb  Frodsham  watch  to  the  lad  ;  and 
both  father  and  mother  knew  he  must 
be  deeply  moved  to  speak  so  lightly  at 
parting  with  it. 

"  I  fear  Henry  is  getting  in  a  very 
bad  way,"  said  Mr.  Houghton,  gloom- 
ily, after  a  pause  in  which  the  sharper 
click  of  his  wife's  needles  told  that  her 
thoughts  were  busy.  "  He  goes  to  the 
other  church  too  often  to  begin  with. 
He  smokes,  after  I  have  repeatedly 
told  him  how  the  habit  hurt  me  in  my 
boyhood,  and  what  a  fight  I  had  to 


break  it  off.  He  is  altogether  too  much 
in  Harrison  Fry's  company.  He  has 
been  twice  before  to  Tinborough,  driv- 
ing home  across  country  in  the  gray  of 
the  morning.  And  this  project  of  going 
alone  to  Lake  George  on  a  week's  trip 
is  positively  ridiculous.'' 

"Very  likely  you  are  the  best  judge, 
my  clear,"  said  Mrs.  Houghton.  She 
always  began  in  that  way  when  she 
meant  to  prove  him  otherwise.  "  I 
fully  agree  with  you  about  that  reckless 
young  Fry.  But  as  to  Harry's  going 
to  the  brown  church,  and  his  visits  to 
Tinborough,  I  think  the  same  cause  is 
at  the  bottom  of  both.  Grace  Cham- 
berlain has  been  singing  in  the  choir 
over  there  this  spring,  and  now  she  is 
visiting  her  aunt  at  Tinborough.  And 
as  to  that,  she  is  going  with  her  aunt's 
family  to  Lake  George  to  spend  July, 
and  I  suppose  they  have  expressed  a 
wish  to  meet  him  there.  Grace  Cham- 
berlain is  a  very  pretty  girl ;  and  Harry 
is  like  what  you  were  at  his  age." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Mary,"  said  the 
cashier,  "  then  why  did  n't  the  boy  tell 
me  what  he  was  driving  at?  Chasing 
across  the  country  after  a  pretty  face  is 
foolish  enough,  at  his  age,  but  it  is  not 
so  bad  as  going  to  a  watering-place 
merely  for  the  fashion  of  it,  like  some 
rich  old  nabob  or  professional  dandy. 
If  Harry  had  told  me  he  wanted  to 
dangle  after  Grace  Chamberlain,  instead 
of  talking  in  that  desperate  way  about 
the  watch,  I  might  have  received  it 
differently.  There  is  a  charm  on  the 
chain  with  my  mother's  hair,  that  I 
would  n't  have  go  out  of  the  family  for 
a  fortune." 

Just  here  the  door-bell  rang,  as  if  a 
powerful,  nervous  hand  were  at  the 
knob.  Mr.  Houghton  answered  the 
ring,  for  their  one  domestic  had  been 
called  away  by  a  message  from  a  sick 
sister,  and  the  mistress  of  the  house 
was  "  getting  along  alone  "  for  a  day. 
So  when  her  quick  ear  told  her  the 
visitor  was  one  to  see  ber  husband  on 
business,  she  quitted  the  room  to  set 
away  the  milk  and  lock  tip  the  rear 
doors  of  the  house  for  the  night. 

The  caller  was  Mr.  Silas  Bixbv.    He 


334 


The  Bine  River  Bank  Robbery. 


[March, 


would  have  been  a  sharp  man  in  Elm- 
field  estimation  who  could  predict  the 
object  of  one  of  Silas  Bixby's  calls, 
though  there  were  few  doors  in  the 
village  at  which  his  face  was  not  fre- 
quently seen.  He  was  the  constable, 
but  he  was  also  the  superintendent  of 
the  Sunday  school,  and  the  assessor  of 
internal  revenue  in  the  district,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  being  the  agent  of  two 
or  three  sewing-machine  firms,  and  one 
life-insurance  company,  and  the  cor- 
respondent of  the  Tinborough  "  Trum- 
pet." He  owned  a  farm,  and  managed 
it  at  odd  hours.  He  gave  some  of  his 
winter  evenings  to  keeping  a  writing- 
school,  with  which  he  sometimes  profit- 
ably combined  a  singing-school,  with 
lucrative  concerts  at  the  end  of  the 
term.  He  was  the  clerk  of  the  fire 
company,  and  never  had  been  absent 
from  a  fire,  though  some  of  his  man- 
ifold duties  kept  him  riding  through 
the  neighboring  towns  in  his  light  gig  a 
great  deal  of  the  time.  He  had  raised 
a  company  and  commanded  it,  in  the 
nine  months'  army  of  '62.  He  kept  a 
little  bookstore  in  one  corner  of  the 
village  quadrangle,  and  managed  a  very 
small  circulating  library,  with  the  aid 
of  the  oldest  of  his  ten  children  ;  and 
he  was  equal  partner  in  the  new  factory 
enterprise  at  the  Falls.  So  Mr.  Hough- 
ton  did  not  venture  to  guess  on  what 
errand  Mr.  Bixby  came  to  see  him,  and 
showed  him  to  a  chair  in  the  twilighted 
sitting-room,  with  a  face  composed  to 
decline  a  request  to  discount  a  note,  or 
to  join  with  interest  in  a  conversation 
on  the  Sunday  school,  or  to  listen  to  a 
report  on  the  new  fire-engine  fund, 
with  equal  ease  and  alacrity. 

Mr.  Bixby  looked  about  him  to  see 
that  nobody  was  in  hearing.  "  You  '11 
excuse  me,  I  know,  'Squire,  if  I  shut 
the  windows,  hot  as  it  is  "  ;  and  before 
his  host  could  rise  to  anticipate  him 
he  had  suited  the  action  to  the  word. 
"  It 's  detective  business.  It 's  a  big 
thing.  It 's  a  mighty  big  thing.  Do 
you  know  I  told  you,  Mr.  Houghton, 
the  first  of  the  week,  that  there  was 
dangerous  characters  about  town,  and 
asked  you  to  keep  your  eyes  open  at 


the  bank.     Will   you   bear  witness  of 
that  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it  very  well,  Mr.  Bixby, 
and  also  that  there  has  not  been  a  sin- 
gle person  in  the  bank  since  that  day, 
other  than  our  own  townspeople  and 
friends." 

"That  is  just  it,"  said  Silas  Bix- 
by, twisting  his  whiskers  reflectively  ; , 
"they  have  got  some  accomplice  who' 
knows  the  neighborhood,  and  whom  we  £ 
don't  suspect.  But  we  shall  catch  him 
with  the  rest.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Hough- 
ton,  the  Blue  River  National  Bank  is 
to  be  robbed  to-night.  The  plot  is  laid, 
and  I  have  got  every  thread  of  it  in  my 
hand." 

Foster  Houghton  was  one  of  a  class 
in  the  village  who  were  habitually  in- 
credulous as  to  Silas  Bixby's  achieve- 
ments, as  announced  by  himself;  but 
there  was  a  positiveness  and  assurance 
about  the  constable's  manner  which 
carried  conviction  with  it,  and  he  did 
not  conceal  the  shock  which  the  news 
gave  him. 

"Just  you  keep  very  cool,  sir,  and 
I  '11  tell  you  the  whole  story  in  very 
few  words,  for  I  have  got  one  or  two 
things  to  do  before  I  catch  the  burglars, 
and  I  have  promised  to  look  into  Par- 
son Pettengill's  barn  and  doctor  his  sick 
horse.  There  is  two  men  in  the  job, 
beside  somebody  in  the  village  here 
that  is  working  with  them  secretly. 
You  need  n't  ask  me  how  I  managed  to 
overhear  their  plans,  for  I  sha'  n't  tell ; 
you  will  read  it  all  in  the  Tinborough 
'Trumpet '  of  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
They  are  regular  New  York  cracks- 
men, and  they  have  been  stopping  at 
the  hotel  at  the  Falls,  pretending  to 
be  looking  at  the  water-power.  They 
come  here  on  purpose  to  clean  out  the 
Blue  River  Bank." 

"  Do  they  mean  to  blow  open  the 
safe  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Houghton,  who 
was  pacing  the  room. 

"  Just  have  patience,  'Squire,"  said 
Silas  Bixby.  "I  thought  it  best  to 
prepare  you, .and  so  led  you  up  kind 
o'  gradual.  They  have  got  false  keys 
to  your  house  door  and  your  bedroom 
door.  They  are  going  to  come  in  at 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbuy. 


335 


midnight  or  an  hour  after,  and  gag  you 
and  your  wife,  and  force  you  at  the 
mouth  of  the  revolver  to  go  over  to  the 
bank  and  open  the  combination  lock. 
Your  help,  they  say,  has  gone  off;  and 
they  seemed  not  to  be  afraid  of  Henry." 

"  Henry  has  gone  to  Tinborough," 
said  Mr.  Houghton,  mechanically. 

"  I  presume  they  knew  that  too, 
then,"  said  the  constable.  "  They  cal- 
culate on  forty  thousand  dollars  in  the 
safe,  government  bonds  and  all.  Their 
team  is  to  be  ready  on  the  Tinborough 
road,  and  they  mean  to  catch  the  owl 
train.  You  they  calculate  to  leave,  tied 
hand  and  foot,  on  the  bank  floor,  till 
you  are  found  there  in  the  morning.'' 

Foster  Houghton  stopped  in  his  rap- 
id walk  up  and  down  the  little  room, 
and  took  his  boots  from  the  closet. 

''  Fair  play,  'Squire/'  said  Bixby,  lay- 
ing a  hand  on  the  cashier's  arm  as  he 
sat  down  and  kicked  off  his  slippers. 
"  I  've  told  you  the  whole  story,  when 
I  might  have  carried  out  my  plan  with- 
out telling  a  word.  Now  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Going  to  order  a  stout  bolt  put  on 
my  front  door  at  once,  and  to  deposit 
the  bank  keys  in  the  safe  at  Felton's 
store." 

;'  You  will  think  better  of  it  if  you 
will  just  sit  still  and  hear  me  through," 
replied  the  visitor.  '•  Don't  you  see 
that  will  just  show  our  hand  to  the 
gang  who  are  on  the  watch,  and  they 
will  only  leave  Klmfield  and  rob  some 
other  bank  and  make  their  fortunes  ? 
Moreover,  the  plot  never  would  be 
believed  in  the  village,  and  such  a  way 
of  meeting  it  would  make  no  sensation 
at  all  in  print.  No,  Mr.  Houghton,  you 
are  cashier  of  the  bank,  and  it  is  your 
business  to  protect  the  property.  I  am 
constable  at  Elmfield,  and  it  is  my  duty 
to  capture  the  burglars.  I  propose  to 
do  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  whole 
State  shall  ring  with  my  brilliant  man- 
agement of  the  matter,  and  yours,  too, 
of  course,  so  far  as  your  part  goes. 
The  programme  is  all  complete,  and 
you  have  only  to  fall  in.'' 

"Well,  Mr.  Bixby,"  said  the  elder 
gentleman,  again  surrendering  to  his 


companion's  superior  force  and  deter- 
mination of  character;  "and  what  is 
the  programme  ?  " 

••  As  far  as  you  are  concerned,  simply 
to  remain  passive,"  said  the  rural  con- 
stable. "You  are  to  show  no  knowl- 
edge of  expecting  the  visit,  and  after  a 
proper  display  of  reluctance  you  are  to 
go  with  the  burglars,  with  your  keys  in 
your  hand.  If  I  were  to  arrest  the 
rascals  now,  I  should  have  nothing  to, 
charge  them  with,  and  could  only 
frighten  them  out  of  town.  When  the 
bank  is  entered,  the  crime  is  compl 
I  shall  be  on  the  watch,  with  two  strong 
fellows  I  have  secured  to  help  me, — 
men  who  served  in  my  company, 
stout,  afraid  of  nothing,  and  not  smart 
enough  to  claim  the  whole  credit  when 
the  job  is  done.  When  you  are  fairly 
inside  the  bank  we  shall  pop  out  from 
behind  the  bowling-alley,  guard  the 
door,  flash  our  lanterns  in  their  faces, 
and  overpower  them  at  once.  It  sounds 
very  short  now  ;  but  it  will  easily  fill  a 
column  in  the  city  papers.'' 

"  Mr.  Bixby,"  said  Foster  Houghton, 
with  a  good  deal  of  deliberate  empha- 
sis, "  I  have  always  thought  you  a  man 
of  sense.  I  think  so  now.  Do  you 
suppose  I  am  going  to  stand  quietly  by 
and  see  a  couple  of  ruffians  tie  a  gag  in 
the  mouth  of  my  wife,  at  her  age,  when 
I  know  and  can  prevent  it  before- 
hand ?  " 

'•  No,  sir,  I  expect  no  such  thing." 
said  Bixby,  not  at  all  embarrassed.  "  I 
expected  like  as  not  you  would  bring 
up  some  such  objection,  so  I  have  pro- 
vided for  it  in  advance.  John  Fletch- 
er's little  girl  is  very  sick  ;  they  have 
gone  the  rounds  of  all  the  folks  on  our 
street,  taking  turns  watching  there  ; 
to-night  they  came  to  me  and  said, 
'  Bixby,  can't  you  find  us  somebody  to 
watch  ?  '  and  I  said  I  knew  just  the 
one  that  would  be  glad  to  help  a  neigh- 
bor. So  I  will  deliver  the  message  to 
Mrs.  Houghton,  and  you  needn't  have 
a  mite  of  anxiety  about  her,  up  there  as 
safe  and  comfortable  as  if  she  were 
twenty  miles  away.'' 

While  her  husband  yet  hesitated 
Mrs.  Houghton  re-entered  the  room  ; 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


[March, 


and  Bixby,  quick  to  secure  an  advan- 
tage, was  ready  at  the  moment  with 
his  petition. 

"  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Houghton. 
Been  waiting  very  patient  for  you  to 
come  in.  I  called  to  see  if  you  felt 
able  and  willing  to  set  up  to-night  along 
with  John  Fletcher's  little  girl.  The 
child  don't  get  any  better,  and  Mrs. 
Fletcher,  she  's  just  about  sick  abed 
herself,  with  care  and  worry." 

"You  know  I  am  always  ready  to 
help  a  neighbor  in  such  trouble,"  said 
the  lady,  graciously,  with  the  prompt 
acquiescence  which  people  in  the  coun- 
try give  to  such  calls.  "  And  now  I 
think  of  it,  Mr.  Bixby,  I  have  another 
call  to  make  on  your  street.  I  think 
I  will  walk  up  with  you,  and  so  get 
around  to  Fletcher's  at  nine  o'clock. 
My  husband  has  several  letters  to 
write,  so  he  will  not  miss  me." 

Foster  Houghton  sat  in  a  sort  of 
maze,  while  fate  thus  arranged  affairs 
for  him,  though  they  tended  to  a  con- 
summation which  was  far  from  wel- 
come to  his  mind.  His  wife  went  out 
for  her  smelling-salts,  her  spectacles, 
and  her  heavy  shawl ;  and  Bixby 
snatched  the  brief  opportunity. 

"  I  have  told  you  everything,  'Squire, 
that  you  need  to  know.  Keep  your 
mind  easy  and  your  head  cool,  and  the 
whole  thing  may  be  done  as  easy  as 
turning  your  hand  over.  Remember 
it  is  the  only  way  to  save  the  bank,  and 
catch  the  men  that  may  have  robbed  a 
dozen  banks.  Do  not  stir  out  of  the 
house  again  this  evening,  or  you  will 
excite  suspicion  and  ruin  the  game. 
Between  twelve  and  two  you  may  ex- 
pect your  company  ;  and  rely  upon  me 
in  hiding  close  to  the  bank.  Mum  is 
the  word."  For  Mrs.  Houghton  was 
descending  the  stairs. 

"  Come  in  again  when  you  come 
back,  Bixby  ;  can't  you  ? "  said  the 
cashier,  still  loath  to  close  so  hasty  and 
so  singular  a  bargain. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  replied  the  con- 
stable. "  It  would  expose  our  hand  at 
once,  and  spoil  the  trick.  Now.  Mrs. 
Houghton,  I  'm  really  proud  to  be  the 
beau  to  such  a  sprightly  young  belle." 


And  so,  with  a  word  of  farewell,  they 
were  off,  and  Foster  Houghton  sat 
alone  in  the  house  with  his  secret. 

He  was  not  a  coward,  but  a  man  of 
peace  by  temperament  and  training, 
and  the  enterprise  in  which  he  had 
been  enlisted  was  both  foreign  and  dis- 
tasteful to  him.  How  many  incidents 
might  occur,  not  set  down  in  Bixby's 
programme,  to  make  the  night's  work 
both  dangerous  and  disagreeable  !  His 
very  loneliness  made  the  prospect  seem 
doubly  unpleasant.  A  dozen  times,  as 
he  sat  musing  over  it,  he  put  forth  his 
hand  for  his  boots  with  intent  to  go  out 
and  frustrate  the  robbery  in  his  own 
way,  regardless  of  Bixby's  schemes  of 
capture  and  glory.  As  many  times  he 
fell  back  in  his  easy-chair,  thinking 
now  that  he  was  bound  in  honor  by 
his  tacit  agreement  with  the  constable, 
and  again  that  the  whole  story  was 
nothing  but  the  fruit  of  the  "officer's 
fertile  imagination,  and  that  only  the 
inventor  should  make  himself  ridicu- 
lous by  his  credulity.  Now  he  wished 
his  wife  were  at  home  to  make  the 
waiting  moments  pass  more  quK-hly  ; 
then  that  Harry  were  there  to  give  the 
aid  of  his  daring  and  the  stimulus  of 
his  boyish  enthusiasm  in  the  strange 
emergency.  And  sometimes  the  old 
man's  thoughts  wandered,  in  spite  of 
the  excitement  of  the  hour,  to  his  boy, 
dancing  away  the  night  at  Tinborough. 
He  recalled  his  anxieties  over  his  son's 
dissipations,  his  associates,  his  grow- 
ing recklessness  of  manner,  his  extrav- 
agant tastes,  the  look  of  hard  defiance 
in  his  face  but  an  hour  or  two  before. 
His  heart  yearned  over  the  lad  in  spite 
of  his  wild  ways,  like  David's  over 
Absalom,  and  he  resolved  to  try  the 
mother's  method  and  imagine  excuses, 
and  replace  harshness  with  indulgence, 
hereafter.  The  village  bell  clanged 
out  from  the  steeple  close  by,  and  Fos- 
ter Houghton  dropped  the  thread  of  his 
revery  with  a  start,  and  went  back  to 
the  robbery  again.  Clearly  he  was 
getting  too  nervous.  He  must  do 
something  to  shake  it  off. 

"  I  '11  get  Harry's  revolver,"  he 
thought,  with  little  purpose  what  he 


1870.] 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


337 


should  do  with  it ;  and  he  took  the 
lamp  and  went  up  stairs  to  the  boy's 
empty  room.  The  drawers  were  thrown 
open  in  a  confusion  which  offended 
the  cashier's  neat  prejudices  acquired 
in  the  profession.  He  knew  where  the 
pistol  was  kept,  but  its  box  was  empty  ; 
and  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath,  — 

"That  is  a  boy  all  over.  He  goes 
to  Tinborough  to  dance  and  eat  straw- 
berries, and  he  carries  a  pistol,  load- 
ed I  dare  say  to  the  muzzle.  It  is  ten 
to  one  he  will  shoot  himself  or  his 
sweetheart  before  the  evening  is  over." 

As  Mr.  Houghton  fumbled  over  the 
bureau  his  hand  encountered  a  cov- 
ered flask.  Even  his  unaccustomed 
nose  was  able  to  recognize  its  contents 
as  whiskey;  and  his  regret  at  such  a 
discovery  in  his  son's  room  was  lost  in 
the  joy  with  which  he  hailed  a  stimu- 
lant so  greatly  needed  to  put  his  nerves 
in  condition  for  the  events  to  come. 
Perhaps  he  forgot  how  long  it  was  since 
he  had  called  in  such  a  reinforcement ; 
perhaps  his  hand  shook;  perhaps  he 
thought  the  occasion  required  a  large 
dose.  He  took  a  hearty  one ;  and 
when  he  was  down  stairs  again  the 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  bagging  the 
burglars  vanished  from  his  mind.  He 
was  a  young  man  once  more,  and  en- 
tered into  the  romance  of  Bixby's  plot, 
he  said  to  himself,  as  enthusiastically 
as  Harry  would  have  done.  He  paced 
the  room  with  an  elastic  stride  very 
different  from  the  nervous,  wavering 
step  with  which  he  had  heard  the  news. 
Bixby  and  himself,  he  thought,  would 
be  enough  to  overpower  any  three 
burglars.  Then  his  head  was  heavy, 
and  he  felt  drowsy.  To  be  in  proper 
condition  for  the  emergency,  he  reflect- 
ed, he  needed  all  the  sleep  he  could 
get.  The  resolve  was  one  to  be  exe- 
cuted as  promptly  as  formed  ;  and  a 
few  minutes  later  the  cashier  had  locked 
the  door,  fastened  the  lower  windows, 
and  was  snugly  in  bed. 

A  gentle  tinkle  of  the  door-bell 
aroused  him  again  before,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  he  had  fairly  closed  his  eyes. 
"  The  robbers  at  last,"  he  thought ; 
and  then  he  rebuked  himself  for  the 

VOL.    XXV.  —  NO.    149.  22 


absurdity  of  supposing  that  a  burglar 
would  announce  his  coming  by  the 
door-bell.  "  It  is  Bixby,  of  course,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "come  to  own  he  was 
a  fool  and  the  story  all  nonsense."  But 
he  paused  before  he  turned  the  key, 
and  said  in  his  fiercest  tone,  "  Who  is 
there  ? " 

"  It  is  only  me,  Foster,"  said  the 
svveet,  familiar  voice  of  his  wife,  with- 
out ;  and  when  he  had  admitted  her 
she  told  him,  in  her  quick  way,  that 
after  she  had  watched  with  the  child  an 
hour  or  two,  a  professional  nurse  who 
had  been  sent  for  a  week  before  had 
arrived  unexpectedly,  and  that  she  had 
been  glad  to  give  up  her  vigil  and  come 
home. 

Foster  Houghton  rarely  did  anything 
without  thinking  twice  about  it,  if  not 
more  ;  so  it  came  about  that  while  he 
balanced  in  his  mind  the  pros  and  cons 
as  to  revealing  to  his  wife  the  secret 
which  Bixby  had  confided  to  him,  and 
thus  giving  her  a  fright  in  advance  for 
what  might  prove*  to  be  a  false  alarm 
after  all,  the  tired  lady  went  sound 
asleep ;  and  thus  the  scale  was  turned 
in  favor  of  reticence.  Perhaps  the  hus- 
band's continued  drowsiness  contrib- 
uted to  the  resolve  also ;  for  his  eye- 
lids still  drooped  with  strange  obstinacy, 
and  an  influence  more  powerful  than 
even  the  apprehension  of  danger  trans- 
formed his  terrors  into  dreams  again. 

II. 

ONE,  two,  rang  out  from  the  belfry 
on  the  breathless  June  night,  already 
heavy  with  the  rising  fog  from  the  river. 
Foster  Houghton  found  himself  broad 
awake  as  he  counted  the  strokes ;  but 
even  while  he  thought  it  was  the  clock 
that  had  disturbed  him,  he  felt  a  cold, 
hard  ring  of  steel  against  his  temple, 
and  saw  through  the  darkness  a  man 
by  his  bedside. 

"  Not  one  word,  or  you  will  never 
utter  another." 

He  noted  the  voice  even  in  the  whirl 
of  the  moment,  and  knew  that  it  was 
strange  to  him.  He  turned  toward  his 
wife,  and  saw  that  there  was  a  man  by 
her  side  also,  with  revolver  aimed ; 


338 


The  Bine  River  Bank  Robbery. 


[March, 


felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  she  had 
waked  when  he  did,  and  was  waiting, 
self-possessed,  for  whatever  was  to 
come.  As  the  darkness  yielded  to  his 
eyes,  he  was  aware  of  a  third  figure, 
standing  at  the  window. 

"  Perfect  quiet,  remember,  and  we 
will  tell  you  what  is  to  be  done,"  said 
the  same  voice,  cool,  firm,  with  an 
utterance  entirely  distinct  yet  hardly 
louder  than  a  whisper.  "You  have 
nothing  to  fear  if  you  obey  orders.  A 
knife  is  ready  for  the  heart  of  each  of 
you  if  you  disobey.  The  lady  has  sim- 
ply to  lie  still ;  as  she  will  be  bound  to 
the  bed  and  her  mouth  stopped,  that 
will  be  easy  ;  and  the  gag  is  very  gen- 
tle, and  will  not  hurt  if  she  does  not 
resist.  Mr.  Houghton  will  rise,  put  on 
his  trousers,  and  go  with  us  to  the 
bank,  always  in  range  of  this  pistol  and 
in  reach  of  this  blade.  The  keys  are 
already  in  my  pocket.  Number  Three, 
will  you  scratch  a  match  that  I  may 
help  the  gentleman  to  his  clothes." 

The  figure  in  the'  window  stepped 
noiselessly  forward  at  the  summons. 
As  the  blue  flame  lighted  the  room 
Foster  Houghton  observed  that  his 
visitors  were  all  masked  with  black 
silk,  through  which  a  narrow  slit  per- 
mitted vision.  He  noticed  that  their 
feet  were  shod  with  listing,  so  thick 
that  a  step  made  no  audible  sound 
upon  the  straw  carpet.  He  noticed 
that  long,  thin  black  cloaks  covered 
their  forms  to  the  ankles,  so  that  no 
details  of  clothing  could  be  noted  to 
identify  them.  And  while  he  observed 
these  things,  not  venturing  to  stir  until 
the  threatening  muzzle  was  withdrawn 
from  his  face,  he  felt  his  hand  tightly 
clutched  by  the  fingers  of  his  wife  be- 
neath the  coverlid. 

Years  of  familiar  association  had 
made  him  apt  at  interpreting  his  wife's 
thoughts  and  feelings,  without  the  aid 
of  the  spoken  word.  Either  by  some 
peculiar  expression  in  the  grasp  itself, 
or  by  that  subtle  magnetism  which  we 
know  exists  among  the  unknown  forces, 
he  felt  that  there  was  something  more 
than  the  natural  terror  of  the  moment, 
more  than  the  courage  of  a  heart  ever 


braver  than  his  own,  more  than  sym- 
pathy for  his  own  supposed  dismay,  in 
his  wife's  snatch  at  his  hand.  More 
alarmed,  at  the  instant,  by  the  shock 
thus  given  him  than  by  the  more  palpa- 
ble danger,  he  turned  his  head  towards 
his  wife  again,  and  in  her  eyes  and  in 
the  direction  they  gave  to  his  saw  all 
that  she  had  seen. 

The  masked  figure  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  in  producing  a  match,  had 
unwittingly  thrown  back  one  side  of  its 
cloak.  By  the  sickly  flame  just  turn- 
ing to  white  Foster  Houghton  saw, 
thus  revealed,  the  twisted  chain  he  had 
played  with  in  his  own  boyhood,  the 
golden  crescent  with  his  mother's  hair, 
the  massive  key  with  its  seal,  just  as 
he  had  seen  them  on  his  boy's  breast 
at  sunset.  In  an  instant  more  a  taper 
was  lighted  ;  the  curtain  of  the  cloak 
was  drawn  together  again.  But  the 
secret  it  had  exposed  was  impressed 
upon  two  hearts,  as  if  they  had  been 
seared  with  iron.  As  a  drowning  man, 
thinks  of  the  crowded  events  of  a  life- 
time, Foster  Houghton  thought,  in  that 
moment  of  supreme  agony,  of  a  dozen 
links  of  circumstantial  evidence,  —  the 
boy's  baffled  desire  for  money,  his  an- 
gry words,  his  evil  associates,  his  mias- 
ing  revolver,  his  deliberate  explanation 
of  a  night-long  absence,  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  affairs  of  the  bank, 
except  the  secret  combination  of  the 
lock  which  he  had  often  teased  for  in 
vain.  Two  things  were  stamped  upon 
his  brain  together,  and  he  was  thankful 
that  his  wife  could  know  the  horror  of 
but  one  of  them. 

His  own  son  was  engaged  in  a  plot 
to  rob  the  bank,  by  threats  of  assas- 
sination against  those  who  gave  him 
life. 

He  himself  was  irrevocably  enlisted 
in  a  plot  to  capture  the  robbers,  and  so 
to  bring  his  boy  to  infamy  and  a  pun- 
ishment worse  than  death. 

The  discovery  compels  a  pause  in 
the  narrative.  It  made  none  in  the  ac- 
tual progress  of  events.  The  man  who 
had  spoken  motioned  the  cashier  to 
rise,  and  assisted  his  trembling  hands 
in  covering  his  limbs  with  one  or  two 


1 870.] 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


339 


articles  of  clothing.  The  one  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  bed,  moving  quick- 
ly and  deftly  as  a  sailor,  bound  Mrs. 
Houghton  where  she  lay,  without  a 
touch  of  rudeness  or  indignity  beyond 
what  his  task  made  necessary.  A  knot- 
ted handkerchief  from  his  pocket  was 
tied  across  her  mouth.  The  third  fig- 
ure stood  at  the  window,  either  to  keep 
a  watch  without  or  to  avoid  seeing 
what  took  place  within  ;  but  Foster 
Houghton's  eyes  could  discern  no  tre- 
mor, no  sign  of  remorse  or  hesitation, 
in  its  bearing. 

"  Now,  cashier,"  said  the  one  voice 
which  alone  had  been  heard  since  the 
stroke  of  the  clock,  "you  will  have  to 
consider  yourself  ready,  for  we  have  no 
time  to  spare.  I  feel  sure  you  know 
what  is  healthy  for  you,  but  still  I  will 
tie  this  rope  round  your  wrist  to  save 
you  from  any  dangerous  temptation  to 
try  a  side  street.  Number  Two,  you 
will  go  below,  and  see  that  the  coast  is 

With  one  more  look  at  his  wife's 
eyes,  in  which  he  saw  outraged  mother- 
ly affection  where  the  strangers  saw 
only  fright  and  pain,  Foster  Houghton 
snffered  himself  to  be  led  from  the 
room.  One  of  the  robbers  had  preced- 
ed him;  one  held  him  tightly  by  the 
wrist ;  one,  the  one  whose  presence 
gave  the  scene  its  treble  terror,  re- 
mained only  long  enough  to  extinguish 
the  taper  and  to  lock  the  door.  The 
outer  door  was  fastened  behind  them 
also  ;  and  then  the  noiseless  little  pro- 
cession (for  the  cashier  had  been  per- 
mitted to  put  on  his  stockings  only) 
filed  along  the  gravel  walk,  through  the 
pitchy  blackness  which  a  mist  gives  to 
a  moonless  night,  toward  the  solitary 
brick  building  occupied  by  the  Blue 
River  National  Bank. 

They  passed  the  school-house  where 
Foster  Houghton  had  carried  his  boy 
a  dozen  years  before  with  a  bright  new 
primer  clutched  in  frightened  little  fin- 
gers ;  then  the  desolate  old  mansion 
of  his  own  father,  where  the  lad  had 
been  petted  and  worshipped  as  fervent- 
ly as  at  home  ;  a  little  farther  on,  the 
church,  where  the  baby  had  been  bap- 


tized, and  where  the  youth  had  chafed 
beneath  distasteful  sermons,  —  its  white 
steeple  lost  in  the  upper  darkness ; 
and,  a  few  paces  beyond,  the  academy, 
within  whose  walls  the  cashier  had 
listened  with  such  pride  to  his  Harry's 
eloquent  declamation  of  "  The  Return 
of  Regulus  to  Carthage  "  on  the  last 
Commencement  day.  He  thought  of 
these  things  as  he  passed,  though  so 
many  other  thoughts  surged  in  his 
mind  ;  and  he  wondered  if  another 
heart  beside  his  own  was  beset  with 
such  reminiscences  on  the  silent  jour- 
ney. 

Before  they  reached  the  bank  the 
man  who  had  gone  in  advance  rejoined 
them. 

"  It  is  all  serene,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
tone,  but  with  a  coarser  voice  and  utter- 
ance than  his  confederate's  ;  "  nothing 
more  than  a  cat  stirring.  I  have  un- 
hitched the  mare,  and  we  should  be  off 
in  fifteen  minutes." 

"  All  right,  Number  Two,"  said  the 
leader.  "  The  swag  will  be  in  the  bug- 
gy in  less  time.  Cashier,  you  are  a 
man  of  prudence,  I  know.  If  you 
work  that  combination  skilfully  and 
promptly,  not  a  hair  of  your  head  shall 
be  harmed.  If  you  make  a  blunder 
that  costs  us  a  minute,  not  only  will 
this  knife  be  at  home  in  your  heart,  but 
we  shall  stop  on  our  way  back  and  set 
your  cottage  on  fire.  Our  retreat  will 
be  covered,  and  you  know  the  conse- 
quences there  before  the  alarm  will 
rouse  anybody.  I  have  sworn  to  do 
it." 

Foster  Houghton  fancied  he  saw  a 
shudder  in  the  slighter  figure  beside 
him  ;  but  it  might  have  been  a  puff  of 
wind  across  the  long  drapery. 

"  O,  blow  the  threats,"  said  Number 
Two.  "The  man  values  his  life,  and 
he  is  going  to  open  the  safe  quicker 
than  he  ever  did  before.  Open  the 
door,  yowng  one,  and  let 's  be  about  it." 
The  robber  who  had  not  yet  opened 
his  lips,  and  whose  every  motion  the 
cashier  still  watched  stealthily,  stepped 
forward  to  the  bank  door  ;  and  as  he 
drew  a  key  from  under  his  cloak  the 
prisoner  caught  another  glimpse  of  the 


340 


TJic  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


[March, 


chain  he  could  have  sworn  to  among  a 
thousand. 

The  door  swung  open.  The  cash- 
ier's heart  was  in  his  throat.  He  had 
not  heard  a  sound  of  Bixby  ;  but  he 
knew  the  village  constable  too  well  to 
fear,  or  hope,  that  he  might  have  given 
up  the  chase.  All  four  entered  the 
building  ;  but  before  the  door  could  be 
closed  behind  them  there  was  a  shout, 
a  cry  of  dismay,  a  rush  of  heavy  feet,  a 
flash  of  light  in  a  lantern  which  gleamed 
but  a  moment  before  it  was  extin- 
guished, the  confused  sound  of  blows 
and  oaths  and  the  breaking  of  glass, 
punctuated  by  the  sharp  report  of  a 
pistol.  Foster  Houghton  could  never 
give  a  clearer  account  of  a  terrible 
minute  in  which  his  consciousness 
seemed  partly  benumbed.  He  took  no 
part  in  the  struggle,  but  seemed  to  be 
pushed  outside  the  door ;  and  there,  as 
the  tumult  within  began  to  diminish, 
Silas  Bixby  came  hurriedly  to  him, 
dragging  a  masked  figure  by  the  shoul- 
der. 

"  Houghton,  you  must  help  a  little. 
We  have  got  the  better  of  'em,  and  my 
men  are  holding  the  two  big  fellows 
down.  But  the  fight  is  not  out  of 
them  yet,  and  you  must  hold  this  little 
one  three  minutes  while  I  help  to  tie 
their  hands.  Just  hold  this  pistol  to 
his  head,  and  he  will  rest  very  easy." 

Even  while  he  spoke  Bixby  was  in- 
side the  door  again,  and  the  gleam  of 
light  which  followed  showed  that  he 
had  recovered  his  lantern  and  meant  to 
do  his  work  thoroughly. 

Foster  Houghton's  left  hand  had 
'  been  guided  to  the  collar  of  his  captive, 
and  the  revolver  had  been  thrust  into 
his  right.  There  was  no  question  of 
the  composure  of  the  robber  now.  He 
panted  and  sobbed  and  shook,  and 
made  no  effort  to  tear  himself  from  the 
feeble  grasp  that  confined  him. 

If  the  cashier  had  been  irresolute 
all  his  life,  he  did  not  waver  for  an  in- 
stant now.  He  did  not  query  within 
himself  what  was  his  duty,  or  what 
was  prudent,  or  what  his  wife  would 
advise,  or  what  the  bank  directors 
would  think. 


"  Harry,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely, 
his  lips  close  to  the  mask,  "  I  know 
you." 

The  shrinking  figure  gave  one  great 
sob.  Foster  Houghton  went  right  on 
without  pausing. 

"Bixby  does  not  know  you,  and 
there  is  time  to  escape  yet.  I  shall  fire 
this  pistol  in  the  air.  Run  for  your  life 
to  your  horse  there,  and  push  on  to 
Tinborough.  You  can  catch  the  train. 
May  God  forgive  you." 

The  figure  caught  the  hand  which 
had  released  its  hold  as  the  words  were 
spoken,  and  kissed  it.  Then,  turning 
back  as  if  upon  a  sudden  impulse,  the 
robber  murmured  something  which 
could  not  be  understood,  and  thrust 
into  the  cashier's  hand  a  mass  of  chilly 
metal  which  his  intuition  rather  than 
his  touch  recognized  as  Peleg  Hough- 
ton's  watch  and  chain.  He  had  pres- 
ence of  mind  enough  to  conceal  it  in 
his  pocket,  and  then  he  fired  his  pistol, 
and  he  heard  the  sound  of  flying  feet 
and  rattling  wheels  as  Silas  Bixby  ac- 
costed him. 

"  What  in  thunder  !  did  he  wriggle 
away  from  ye  ?  why  did  n't  you  sing 
out  sooner." 

"  I  think  I  am  getting  faint.  In 
Heaven's  name  go  quick  to  my  house 
and  release  my  wife  and  tell  her  aH  is 
safe.  The  fright  of  these  shots  will 
kill  her." 

Foster-  Houghton  sunk  in  a  swoon 
even  as  he  spoke,  and  only  the  quick 
arm  of  Silas  Bixby  saved  him  from  a 
fall  on  the  stone  steps. 

"  See  here,  boys,"  said  he.  "  If  you 
have  got  those  fellows  tied  up  tight, 
one  of  you  take  'Squire  Houghton 
and  bring  him  to,  and  I  '11  go  over  to 
his  house  and  untie  his  wife,  before 
I  start  after  that  pesky  little  rascal 
that  has  got  away.  If  I  had  'a'  sup- 
posed he  would  dare  to  risk  the  pistol 
I  should  have  hung  on  to  him  my- 
self. Mike,  you  just  keep  your  revol- 
ver cocked,  and  if  either  of  those  men 
more  than  winks,  shoot  him  where  he 
lies." 

Having  thus  disposed  of  his  forces, 
and  provided  for  the  guard  of  the  pris- 


18/0.] 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


341 


oners  and  the  restoration  of  the  dis- 
abled, the  commander  was  off  at  a  run. 
Half  Elmfield  seemed  to  have  been 
awakened  by  the  shots,  and  he  was 
met  by  a  half-dozen  lightly  clad  men 
and  boys  whom  he  sent  on  this  errand 
and  that,  to  open  the  lock-up  under 
the  engine-house,  to  harness  horses  for 
the  pursuit,  vouchsafing  only  very  curt 
replies  to  their  eager  questions  as  to 
what  had  happened.  He  was  exasper- 
ated on  arriving  at  Foster  Houghton's 
dwelling  to  find  the  door  locked  and 
the  windows  fastened.  So  he  raised 
a  stentorian  shout  of,  "It's  —  all  — 
right  —  Mrs.  —  Hough  ton.  Robbers  — 
caught  —  and  —  nobody —  hurt "  ;  sepa- 
rating his  words  carefully  to  insure 
being  understood  ;  and  then  scud  at 
full  speed  back  toward  the  bank  again. 
He  met  half-way  an  excited,  talkative 
little  group,  the  central  figure  of  which 
was  the  cashier  of  the  bank,  restored 
to  life,  but  still  white  as  death,  and 
supported  by  friendly  hands.  Assured 
that  Houghton  himself  was  now  able  to 
release  his  wife,  Bixby  ran  on  to  the 
green,  and  in  five  minutes  more  was 
settled  in  his  gig,  and  urging  his  cheer- 
ful little  bay  Morgan  over  the  road  to 
Tinborough,  mentally  putting  into  form 
his  narrative  for  the  "  Trumpet  "  as  he 
went. 

III. 

THUS  it  came  about  that  it  was  Fos- 
ter Houghton  himself  who  unloosed 
his  wife's  bonds, — bending  his  gray 
head,  as  he  did  so,  to  print  a  kiss  of 
sorrow  and  sympathy  on  her  wrinkled 
cheek,  and  leaving  a  tear  there. 

"  He  has  escaped,"  he  said,  "and  is 
on  the  road  to  the  station." 

"  Will  he  not  be  overtaken  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  He  has  a  fair  start, 
and  knows  what  is  at  stake  ;  and  the 
train  passes  through  before  daylight." 

Then  the  woman's  heart,  which  had 
borne  her  bravely  up  so  far,  gave  way, 
and  she  broke  into  terrible  sobs  ;  and 
the  husband  who  would  comfort  her 
was  himself  overcome  by  the  common 
grief,  and  could  not  speak  a  word. 
Silently  they  suffered  together, pressing 
hands,  until  the  entering  light  of  dawn 


reminded  them  that  even  this  day  had 
duties  and  perhaps  new  phases  of  sor- 
row. They  could  hear  the  quick  steps 
of  passers  evidently  full  of  excitement 
over  the  event  of  the  night,  and  talking 
all  together.  They  could  not  be  long 
left  undisturbed.  As  they  dressed, 
Foster  Houghton,  —  unable  or  reluc- 
tant to  describe  in  any  detail  the  scene 
at  the  bank,  as  his  wife  was  to  ask 
him  about  it,  —  suddenly  encountered 
in  his  pocket  the  watch,  entangled  in 
its  chain. 

"He  gave  me  this,  and  a  kiss,"  he 
said,  every  word  a  sob;  and  Mary 
Houghton  pressed  it  to  her  heart. 
Then,  as  a  quick  step  sounded  on 
the  porch,  she  hastily  thrust  it  into  a 
drawer. 

"  What  shall  we  say  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know.  Heaven  will  direct 
us  for  the  best,"  he  replied. 

The  step  did  not  pause  for  ceremony, 
but  came  in,  and  up  the  stairs  as  if  on 
some  pressing  errand.  Then  the  door 
opened,  and  Harry  Houghton  ran  in, 
—  his  curls  wet  with  the  fog  of  the 
morning  his  cheeks  rosy  as  from  a 
rapid  ride,  his  eyes  dancing  with  ex- 
citement. 

His  father  and  mother  stood  speech- 
less and  bewildered,  filled  with  a  new 
alarm.  But  the  boy  was  too  busy  with 
his  own  thoughts  to  observe  his  recep- 
tion. Thick  and  fast  came  his  words, 
questions  waiting  for  no  answers,  and 
narrative  never  pausing  for  comment. 

"What  is  this  Bixby  shouted  to  me 
when  I  met  him  about  robbers  ?  And 
what  is  there  such  a  crowd  at  the  bank 
about  ?  Did  I  come  sooner  than  you 
expected  me  ?  We  had  a  glorious  time, 
at  Tinborough,  you  know,  and  when  we 
were  through  dancing  I  decided  to 
drive  home  at  once.  And  a  few  miles 
out  I  met  Silas  in  his  gig  driving  like 
mad,  and  he  shouted  at  me  till  he  was 
out  of  hearing,  but  I  could  not  catch 
one  word  in  a  dozen.  But  before  any- 
thing else,  I  want  to  beg  your  pardon 
for  my  roughness  last  night.  I  nm  old 
enough  to  know  better,  but  I  was  an- 
gry when  I  spoke ;  and  I  have  been 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself  ever 


342 


The  Blue  River  Bank  Robbery. 


[xMarch, 


since.  You  will  forgive  and  forget,  fa- 
ther, won't  you  ?  —  Hallo,  I  did  n't  sup- 
pose you  felt  so  badly  about  it,  mother 
darling." 

Mary  Houghton  was  clasping  her 
son's  neck,  crying  as  she  had  not  cried 
that  night.  But  the  cashier,  slower  in 
seeing  his  way  as  usual,  stood  passing 
his  hand  across  his  brows  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  spoke  :  — 

"  Henry,  where  is  your  grandfather's 
watch  ? " 

4<  There,  did  you  miss  it  so  quickly  ? 
I  meant  to  get  it  back  before  you  dis- 
covered it  was  gone.  I  will  have  it 
after  breakfast.  The  fact  is,  I  was  not 
myself  when  I  left  the  house  last  night, 
with  temper,  and  Harrison  Fry  offered 
me  two  hundred  dollars  for  it,  to  be 
paid  next  week,  and  in  my  temper  I 
let  him  take  it  to  bind  the  bargain.  I 
was  crazy  for  money,  and  I  sold  him 
my  pistol  too.  I  regretted  about  the 
watch  before  I  had  fairly  quit  the  vil- 
lage ;  but  he  broke  his  engagement  and 
did  not  go  with  us  to  Tinborough  after 
all,  so  I  have  had  no  chance  to  get  it 
back  again  till  now." 

"  Harrison  Fry  !  "  exclaimed  Foster 
Houghton  ;  and  his  hands  clasped  and 
his  lips  moved  in  thankful  prayer. 

"  But  if  you  don't  tell  me  what  is  all 
this  excitement  in  the  village,  I  shall 
run  out  and  find  out  for  myself,"  cried 
the  boy,  impatiently.  "  You  never  would 
stand  here  asking  me  questions  about 
trifles,  if  the  bank  had  been  broken 
open  in  the  night." 

Foster  Houghton  put  his  hands  on 
his  boy's  shoulders  and  kissed  him,  as 
he  had  not  done  since  his  son's  child- 
hood. Then  he  took  from  its  hiding- 
place  the  watch  and  hung  it  on  Harry's 
neck,  his  manifest  emotion  checking 
the  expression  of  the  lad's  astonish- 
ment. 

"  There  is  much  to  tell  you,  Harry," 
he  said,  <;  and  perhaps  you  will  think 
I  have  to  ask  your  forgiveness  rather 
than  you  mine.  But  my  heart  is  too 


full  for  a  word  till  after  prayers.  Let 
us  go  down." 

Then  the  three  went  down  the  stairs, 
the  mother  clinging  to  the  boy's  hand, 
which  she  had  never  relinquished  since 
her  first  embrace.  Foster  Houghton 
took  the  massive  Bible,  as  was  his  daily 
custom,  and  read  the  chapter  upon 
which  rested  the  mark  left  the  morning 
before  ;  but  his  voice  choked  and  his 
eyes  filled  again  when  he  came  to  the 
lines  :  — 

"  For  this  my  son  was  dead  and  is 
alive  again  ;  he  was  lost  and  is  found." 

Silas  Bixby  galloped  into  Tinborough 
two  minutes  late  for  the  owl  train  ;  and 
the  fugitive  was  too  sharp  to  be  caught 
by  the  detectives  who  were  put  on  the 
watch  for  him  by  telegraphic  messages. 
In  a  few  hours  all  Elmfield  had  discov- 
ered that  Harrison  Fry  was  missing, 
and  had  made  up  its  mind  that  he  was 
the  escaped  confederate  in  the  burglary. 
The  Blue  River  National  Bank  offered 
a  reward  for  him,  but  he  has  never  yet 
been  found.  The  zealous  constable 
found  compensation  for  the  loss  of  one 
prisoner  in  the  discovery  that  the 
other  two  were  a  couple  of  the  most 
skilful  and  slippery  of  the  metropolitan 
cracksmen,  known  among  other  aliases 
as  Gentleman  Graves  and  Toffey  Ben. 
Silas  Bixby's  courage  and  discretion 
received  due  tribute  from  counsel,  press, 
and  public  during  the  trial  that  ensued 
the  next  month  in  the  Tinborough 
Court-house  ;  and  by  some  influence  it 
was  so  managed  that  Mrs.  Houghton 
was  not  called  to  the  stand,  nor  was 
Foster  Houghton  closely  questioned  in 
regard  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
third  robber  had  escaped  from  his  cus- 
tody on  the  steps  of  the  bank. 

Harry  Houghton  went  to  Lake  George 
that  summer,  starting  a  day  after  the 
departure  of  Grace  Chamberlain  ;  but 
this  year  they  go  together,  and  the 
programme  of  the  tour  includes  Niag- 
ara and  Quebec. 


A  NigJit  in  a  Typhoon* 


343 


A    NIGHT    IN     A    TYPHOON. 


"PROBABLY  no  other  vessel  in  the 
-L  navy  has  had  so  eventful,  though 
so  short  a  career,  as  the  Idaho.  She 
was  designed,  during  the  later  years 
of  the  war,  as  a  steam  frigate  of  the 
first  class,  to  have  a  speed  of  fifteen 
knots  an  hour;  her  enthusiastic  and 
confident  projectors  even  guarantee- 
ing to  abate  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars of  her  price  for  every  knot  less 
than  fifteen,  provided  they  should  re- 
,m  equal  sum  for  every  one  she 
might  exceed  that  rate.  Alas  for  hu- 
man calculations !  On  her  trial  trip 
she  was  scarcely  able  to  make  nine. 
The  well-known  patriotism  and  un- 
doubted integrity  of  the  distinguished 
citi/en  who  had  contracted  for  her,  the 
world-wide  reputation  of  her  builders, 
and  the  unrivalled  beauty  of  her  hull, 
determined  the  government  to  accept 
her  as  she  was,  and,  removing  her  en- 
gines, she  became  and  has  ever  since 
remained  a  sailing-vessel.  The  war 
was  over,  and  the  immediate  need  for 
steamers  no  longer  existed ;  whence  it 
happened  that  the  problem  was  never 
solved,  whether  engines  of  a  different 
construction  might  not  have  accom- 
plished other  results. 

The  Navy  Department  had,  for  some 
time,  been  proposing  to  establish  float- 
ing hospital  and  store  ships  at  the 
head  -  quarters  of  the  several  foreign 
stations,  and  the  Idaho  was  deemed  a 
proper  vessel  with  which  to  make  the 
experiment.  .She  was  accordingly  fitted 
out  with  merely  sufficient  sail  power  to 
carry  her  to  her  destination  ;  and  on  the 
first  day  of  November,  1867,  she  left 
New  York  for  Nagasaki  in  Japan,  where 
.she  was  "  to  be  permanently  stationed, 
and  used  in  part  as  hospital  and  store 
ship  for  the  Asiatic  squadron." 

In  naval  circles  she  was  undoubtedly 
regarded  as  a  costly  failure.  Her  only 
appearance  upon  the  ocean  had  been 
discreditable.  Many  even  doubted 
whether  she  could  reach  her  destina- 


tion, and  the  excuse  for  refusing  re- 
quests was  more  than  once  given  that 
she  would  certainly  be  lost,  and  that 
there  was  no  use  of  wasting  more 
money  upon  her.  The  officers  who 
joined  her  went  on  board  with  mis- 
givings as  to  her  powers,  doing  so  with 
that  growl  of  resignation  which  be- 
comes a  habit  with  men  who  lead  that 
uncertain  career,  in  which  obedience  to 
orders  brings  often  more  danger  and 
discomfort  than  ease  and  pleasure. 
Her  men  superstitiously  foreboded  evil 
to  her  because  she  commenced  her 
cruise  on  Friday.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  she  started  on  her  long  voyage  ere 
she  gave  evidence  of  her  extraordinary 
powers,  and  nobly  did  justice  to  the 
genius  which  had  modelled  her  beau- 
tiful lines.  Soon  after  leaving  New 
York  the  wind  drew  ahead,  and  hour 
by  hour  she  logged  fourteen  and  a  half 
knots  with  her  yards  braced  almost  as 
sharp  as  they  could  be.  Both  crew  and 
officers  at  once  became  enraptured  with 
her  ;  and,  as  if  to  merit  the  praises  they 
lavished  upon  her,  she  made  sixty-five 
knots  (about  seventy-five  statute  miles) 
in  four  hours,  running  down  to  Rio  de 
Janeiro  before  the  southeast  trades,  — 
a  rate  which  she  afterwards  exceeded, 
on  one  occasion,  in  the  South  Indian 
Ocean,  when  she  ran  all  the  line  off  the 
reel,  marking  eighteen  and  a  half  knots, 
before  the  sand  had  entirely  left  the 
glass,  and  when  she  was,  in  all  prob- 
ability, moving  through  the  water  twen- 
ty miles  an  hour.  Nautical  men,  who 
have  not  personally  inspected  her  log, 
need  not  be  blamed  for  regarding  speed 
so  unparalleled  as  an  idle  boast  or  ex- 
aggeration. Even  one  who  has  stood 
upon  her  decks  and  witnessed  how 
steadily  she  glided  over  the  sea,  cutting 
the  billows  noiselessly,  leaving  no  wake 
of  troubled  foam,  not  even  bending  to 
the  breeze,  but  standing  upright  as  a 
steeple,  would  himself  have  been  in- 
credulous, until  he  had  seen  the  chip 


344 


A  Night  in  a  TypJioon. 


[March, 


thereon,  and  counted  ten,  twelve,  and 
fifteen,  with  a  recorded  force  of  wind 
which  would  have  impelled  many  an- 
other noble  vessel,  with  proportionately 
greater  spread  of  canvas,  only  six, 
eight,  or  nine. 

But  it  was  not  all  a  summer  day  on 
board  the  Idaho,  nor  her  march  one 
of  triumph  only.  At  two  o'clock  of  the 
afternoon  of  November  22d,  just  as 
the  officers  had  finished  their  tiffin,  and 
were  lazily  occupying  themselves  after 
their  wont,  reading,  writing,  smoking,  or 
chatting,  one  of  the  passengers  rushed 
up  from  the  lower  wardroom  with  un- 
covered head  and  blanched  face  gasp- 
ing out,  "  My  God,  the  magazine  is  on 
fire  ! "  and  thick  volumes  of  black  smoke 
quickly  following  him  showed  that  it 
was  no  false  alarm.  Immediately  the 
fire-bell  rang,  and  the  crew  hastened 
to  their  several  stations,  working  with 
that  desperate  courage  which  charac- 
terizes the  disciplined  sailor,  no  matter 
what  the  emergency.  All  on  board 
were  conscious  of  their  fearful  peril. 
Trained  from  their  entering  into  the 
service  to  be  so  careful  in  handling 
powder,  that  even  when  it  is  brought 
on  board  in  securely  fastened  copper 
tanks,  they  extinguish  every  light  and 
fire,  however  distant,  and  do  not  even  go 
into  the  magazine  with  ordinary  shoes 
lest  the  iron  nails  might  strike  a  spark, 
here  they  saw  the  flames  themselves 
fiercely  playing  around  thousands  of 
pounds  of  the  dangerous  explosive. 
The  demon  of  fire  had  entered  the  very 
chamber  of  death,  but  brave  men  fol- 
lowed to  do  him  battle,  and  toiled  amid 
the  smoke  and  the  darkness  and  flame, 
without  a  hope  of  life  for  themselves,  to 
save  the  lives  of  their  shipmates  on  deck, 
who  stood  there,  many  with  nothing  to 
do,  and  all  the  more  wretched  there- 
fore, greedily  listening  to  the  wild  re- 
ports that  came  from  below,  that  the  fire 
was  gaining,  that  the  magazine  cork 
could  not  be  started,  —  that  it  was  all  up 
with  us.  For  ten  minutes  —  hours  they 
seemed  —  men  looked  death  steadily  in 
the  face  (later  in  the  cruise  we  stared 
at  him  as  many  hours  in  reality),  and 
thought  of  those  dear  ones  at  home 


whom  they  were  never  again  to  meet, 
and  of  the  agony  they  would  suffer 
when  they  knew  how  they  had  been 
bereaved.  Few  men,  I  imagine,  who 
have  any  one  to  love  them,  even  at 
such  a  time,  think  of  themselves  or 
their  own  future,  but  pray  for  escape 
only  for  the  sake  of  others,  —  dear 
mother  or  sister  or  wife.  Gradually 
the  flames  subsided,  the  smoke  became 
denser,  and  fainting  and  half-suffocated 
men,  drawn  up  from  below,  announced 
the  danger  over.  One  seldom  escapes 
a  more  imminent  peril  than  this,  but  it 
was  to  be  the  lot  of  the  Idaho  to  bear 
us  still  nearer  the  brink  of  eternity. 

Having  made  the  extraordinary  run 
in  the  Indian  Ocean,  already  stated, 
the  fickle  wind,  as  though  content  with 
having  given  the  ship  an  opportunity 
of  showing  her  pace,  deserted  her.  A 
succession  of  provoking  calms  and 
head-winds  befell  her;  and  the  fastest 
sailing-vessel  afloat  in  any  sea  made  a 
passage  of  two  hundred  days  to  Japan, 
—  one  of  the  longest  on  record.  She 
lingered  fifty -three  days  among  the 
straits  and  islands  which  constitute  Om- 
bay  Passage,  twenty  of  that  time  being 
consumed  in  making  only  seventeen 
miles.  Her  stay  at  Nagasaki  was  un- 
eventful. The  reports  of  her  speed, 
and  the  remonstrances  of  officers  that 
such  a  beautiful  specimen  of  our  naval 
architecture  should  be  left  to  rot  on 
duty  for  which  she  was  so  manifestly 
unfitted,  finally  determined  the  govern- 
ment to  recall  her,  and  she  was  ordered 
to  Yokohama,  prior  to  going  to  Hong- 
Kong  to  discharge  her  surplus  stores, 
and  then  sailing  for  Panama  with  the 
invalids  of  the  squadron,  and  ultimately 
for  San  Francisco,  there  to  be  repaired 
and  refitted  as  a  cruising  vessel. 

As  anticipated,  fifteen  months'  swing- 
ing at  the  same  moorings  in  the  harbor 
of  Nagasaki  had  so  fouled  her  bottom 
with  sea-weed  and  barnacles,  that  she 
did  not  exhibit  anything  of  her  famous 
speed  on  the  passage  to  Yokohama. 
Her  bad  luck,  however,  still  attended 
her,  for  in  a  course  which  led  first 
south-southwest,  then  southeast,  after- 
\vards  east,  and  finally  north-northeast, 


8;o.] 


A  Night  in  a  Typhoon. 


345 


she  invariably  experienced  an  opposing 
wind,  and  on  the  iQth  of  August  en- 
countered a  typhoon,  which,  though  it 
sorely  strained  her  rotten  sides,  de- 
monstrated her  admirable  qualities  as 
a  sea-boat.  Notwithstanding  the  se- 
verity of  the  hurricane,  which,  as  af- 
terwards discovered,  occasioned  an  im- 
mense amount  of  injury  to  the  ship- 
ping at  and  near  Yokohama  and  in 
Yeddo,  —  among  other  ravages,  lifted  a 
building  one  hundred  feet  long  more 
than  thirty  feet  into  the  air,  and  there 
blew  it  to  pieces,  —  the  Idaho  did  not 
lose  a  spar,  nor  scarcely  shipped  a  sea. 
Seams  were  opened,  bolts  drawn,  and 
beams  broken,  but  she  behaved  nobly, 
and  established  her  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered the  paragon  of  sea-goers.  Vio- 
lent as  was  this  hurricane,  it  was  only 
a  moderate  gale  compared  with  the 
ordeal  soon  to  be  undergone  by  the 
ship,  and  which  it  is  the  purpose  of 
this  paper  to  relate.  Three  hundred 
souls,  which  this  gallant  vessel  bore 
within  the  very  gates  of  eternity  and 
brought  safely  back,  have  had  an  expe- 
rience vouchsafed  few  men,  and  hence 
their  story  has  a  claim  to  be  put  on  rec- 
ord, if  only  in  the  interests  of  science. 

Preliminary  to  the  narration  of  these 
events,  it  may  be  desirable  to  explain 
to  the  non-professional  reader  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  typhoons.  The 
term  is  of  Chinese  etymology,  denoting 
in  the  original  merely  "a  very  great 
wind,"  and  is  accepted  by  mariners  as 
expressive  of  the  most  violent  of  that 
class  of  hurricanes,  generically  termed 
"  cyclones,"  or  revolving  gales.  They 
occur  most  frequently  among  the  West 
India  Islands,  in  the  Indian  Ocean, 
and  especially  in  the  China  Sea.  In 
the  latter  region  the  prevailing  winds, 
termed  "  monsoons,"  blow  from  May 
to  September  steadily  from  the  south- 
west, and  from  October  to  April  from 
the  northeast.  The  seasons  of  the 
changes  of  the  monsoons  are  especially 
fruitful  of  atmospheric  disturbances, 
and  particularly  the  time  of  the  setting 
in  of  the  northeast  monsoon,  which, 
coinciding  with  the  autumnal  equinox, 
is  that  when  the  most  violent  typhoons 


occur.  There  is  a  general  tendency  in 
all  winds  to  move  in  a  curvilinear  di- 
rection, and  in  the  case  of  hurricanes 
it  becomes  completely  circular,  and  the 
gale,  while  advancing  bodily  over  the 
face  of  the  ocean  in  any  one  direction, 
at  the  same  time  revolves  upon  its  cen- 
tre, as  the  earth  rotates  upon  its  axis 
while  speeding  along  in  its  orbit,  or 
a  cart-wheel  turns  upon  its  axle-tree 
while  rolling  over  the  ground. 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  while 
the  gale  itself  may  be  travelling,  say  to 
the  northeast,  the  wind  will  be  blow- 
ing from  every  point  of  the  compass  in 
the  several  parts  of  the  circumference 
of  the  tornado,  and  of  course  in  its  op- 
posite sides  or  semicircles,  as  they 
are  technically  called,  in  directly  con- 
trary directions.  The  diameter  of  a 
cyclone  varies  from  one  to  several  hun- 
dred miles,  the  velocity  and  intensity 
of  the  wind  increasing  from  the  exte- 
rior towards  the  centre,  where  it  ab- 
ruptly ceases.  This  centre  of  calm,  or 
vortex  of  the  whirlwind,  may  be  so 
small  that  the  wind  shifts  almost  with- 
out lull  from  one  direction  to  the  oppo- 
site, or,  as  in  the  instance  about  to  be 
narrated,  when  it  was  nearly  two  hours 
passing  over  the  Idaho,  it  may  have 
a  diameter  of  twenty  miles.  The  extent 
of  range  of  a  revolving  gale  is  often  sev- 
eral thousand  miles,  over  which  it  ad- 
vances at  a  speed  of  ten  to  thirty  miles 
an  hour,  while,  independent  of  this  pro- 
gressive 'rate  of  the  whole  mass,  the 
gyratory  or  rotatory  velocity  of  the 
wind  in  the  several  planes  of  the  gale 
itself  may  have  every  conceivable  force, 
according  to  its  nearness  to  or  distance 
from  the  vortex. 

On  the  1 8th  of  September  the  Idaho 
was  reported  ready  for  sea,  and  the 
2oth  was  appointed  her  day  for  sail- 
ing for  Hong- Kong.  On  board  ship 
there  was  a  very  general  desire  to  re- 
main only  a  week  longer,  for  two  rea- 
sons,—  the  first,  to  await  the  arrival  of 
the  mail  from  home,  —  that  one  only  real 
pleasure  in  the  lives  of  such  exiles  as 
ourselves  ;  the  other,  because  by  that 
time  the  bad  weather,  which  usually  at- 
tends the  equinoctial  period  everywhere, 


i46 


A  NigJit  in  a  Typ]ioon. 


[March, 


and  here  invariably,  would  have  been 
over,  with  the  additionally  greater  pros- 
pect of  a  favorable  monsoon  to  urge 
us  along,  which  even  a  week  or  fort- 
night at  this  particular  season  would 
have  given.  Friends  afloat  and  on 
shore,  sailors,  naval  officers,  merchants, 
and  insurance  agents,  advised  and  ex- 
claimed against  our  indiscretion,  and 
pointed  out  that  a  large  number  of 
merchant  vessels,  laden  and  ready  for 
sea,  were  then  detained  in  port  only  by 
the  refusal  of  policies  of  insurance. 
But  the  decision  did  not  rest  with  our- 
selves, and  when  we  actually  uttered 
our  good-bys,  they  were  responded  to 
with  many  a  "  God  bless  you,"  and 
many  a  prayer  that  we  might  escape 
the  dangers  there  were  so  many 
chances  of  encountering.  We  sailed  on 
the  forenoon  of  the  2oth,  our  "  home- 
ward-bound "  pendant  gayly  streaming 
hundreds  of  feet  beyond  us  towards 
our  goal.  The  premonitions  of  impend- 
ing bad  weather  dated  from  one  o'clock 
that  very  morning,  the-  barometer  hav- 
ing fallen  from  30.05  to  29.96  at  eight, 
soon  after  which  we  commenced  get- 
ting under  way.  The  day  was  disagree- 
able, gloomy,  and  threatening.  Some 
of  the  old  residents  and  experts  in  signs 
of  the  weather  had,  even  on  the  previ- 
ous day,  predicted  a  typhoon,  and  the 
event  established  the  correctness  of 
their  prescience.  We  were  taken  in 
tow  by  the  Ashuelot,  but  the  ship, 
as  though  ashamed  of  receiting  such 
assistance,  with  a  fresh,  fair  breeze 
blowing  directly  out  of  the  harbor, 
quickly  ran  away  with  the  little  double- 
ender  and  compelled  her  to  cast  off  her 
lines.  The  wind  slightly  freshened  dur- 
ing the  day,  but  held  its  direction  from 
the  northward  and  eastward.  Towards 
afternoon  the  sky  cleared  up  and  the 
spirits  of  those  on  board  rose  under  the 
influence  of  the  quick  run  we  were 
making  towards  home ;  but  the  ba- 
rometer slowly  yet  steadily  fell.  All 
night  long  the  ship  sped  merrily  along 
with  studding-sails  set,  never  making 
less  than  ten  knots,  and  almost  indu- 
cing us  to  believe  that  our  forebodings 
had  been  Groundless. 


At  daylight  of  the  2ist  a  drizzling 
rain  set  in,  and  by  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  sea  had  become  moder- 
ately rough,  and  the  ship  began  to  ride 
uneasily,  though  the  force  of  the  wind, 
now  from  the  southward  and  eastward, 
had  increased  but  little,  and  the  fall  of 
the  barometer  was  so  gradual  that  at 
noon  the  mercury  still  stood  at  29.70. 
There  was,  however,  no  longer  any 
doubt  that  a  gale  was  approaching,  and 
preparations  were  made  to  meet  it. 
At  one  o'clock  the  topsails  were  close- 
reefed,  and  the  wind  freshened  so  rap- 
idly that  the  mainsail  and  mizzen  top- 
sail were  soon  after  furled.  Two  hours 
later  the  foresail  began  to  split  and  was 
taken  in,  and  by  four  o'clock  the  ship 
was  hove  to  on  the  port  tack,  under  fore 
storm-sail  and  trysail  and  close-reefed 
main  topsail,  heading  southwest  by 
south,  a  furious  gale  blowing  from 
southeast,  the  barometer  at  29.50,  a 
fine,  drizzling  rain  falling,  and  the  sea 
rough  and  irregular.  The  ship  rode  as 
lightly  as  though  she  had  been  in  port. 

From  this  time  the  mercury  fell  rap- 
idly, and  the  wind  as  rapidly  increased 
in  violence,  steadily  maintaining  its 
direction  from  southeast,  and  blowing 
in  terrific  gusts,  which  abated  as  though 
only  to  gather  renewed  force.  The 
gale  had  become  a  hurricane.  It  was 
evident  that  it  was  quickly  nearing  us. 
A  few  minutes  after  five  o'clock  the 
main-yard,  a  piece  of  wood  ninety-eight 
feet  long  and  seven  in  circumference, 
was  broken  into  three  pieced  with  a 
thundering  crash  ;  and  almost  simulta- 
neously with  this  disaster  the  maintop- 
sail  split  with  a  succession  of  loud 
cracks  like  rapid  volleys  of  musketry, 
and  disappeared  to  leeward.  The  main- 
trysail  was  soon  close-reefed  and  set, 
only  to  be  blown  into  ribbons  ;  and  not 
long  after  the  fore-trysail  vanished  in 
a  twinkling,  followed  by  the  fringes  of 
the  storm-staysail.  The  hurricane  had 
become  a  tornado  ;  we  were  wrestling 
with  the  great  scourge  of  the  sea,  the 
dreaded  typhoon.  It  is  a  hopeless 
task  to  attempt  to  give  an  idea  of  one 
of  these  fearful  convulsions  of  nature, 
even  to  nautical  men,  who  have  not 


A  Nig/it  in  a  Typhoon. 


347 


had  the  misfortune  to  experience  one. 
The  howling  of  the  wind,  which  con- 
tinually varies  in  tone  and  force,  is  like 
no  other  noise  ever  heard  on  earth,  but 
is  such  as  all  the  fiends  in  pandemoni- 
um, yelling  in  discord,  might  be  sup- 
posed to  make.  It  pained  and  deafened 
the  ears  and  sent  strange  thrills  of  hor- 
ror throughout  the  frame.  The  ship  lay 
quietly  over  on  her  side,  held  there  by 
the  madly  rushing  wind,  which,  at  the 
same  time,  flattened  down  the  sea,  cut- 
ting off  the  tops  of  the  waves  and  break- 
ing them  into  fine  white  spray,  which 
covered  the  ocean  like  a  thick  cloud  as 
high  as  the  topmast-heads.  At  times 
the  mainmast  was  invisible  from  the 
quarter-deck.  It  was  impossible  to 
elevate  the  head  above  the  rail  or  even 
to  look  to  windward.  The  eyelids  were 
driven  together  and  the  face  stung  by 
the  fleetly  driven  salt  spray.  Men 
breathed  it  and  became  sickened. 
They  crouched  about  the  decks,  cling- 
ing with  all  their  strength  to  whatever 
seemed  most  secure.  One  or  two  had 
crawled  upon  the  poop,  but  had  to  lie 
down  at  full  length.  Orders  could  not 
be  heard  by  the  man  at  your  elbow  ; 
had  they  been,  they  could  not  have 
been  executed.  The  ship  lay  almost 
on  her  beam-ends,  with  her  helm  up, 
stripped  of  even  the  sails,  which  had 
been  furled  upon  the  yards.  Mortal 
hands  could  do  nothing  for  her. 

By  half  past*  six  o'clock  the  fury  of 
the  typhoon  was  indescribably  awful. 
Each  gust  seemed  unsurpassable  in 
intensity,  but  was  succeeded,  after  a 
pause  that  was  not  a  lull,  by  one  of 
still  more  terrific  violence.  The  ba- 
rometer indicated  27.82.  Masts  and 
yards  came  crashing  down  one  after 
another,  though  the  deafening  howling 
of  the  wind  almost  drowned  the  noise 
of  their  fall.  The  ship  began  to  labor 
heavily,  shipping  great  seas  at  every 
lurch,  which  swept  everything  movable 
off  the  decks,  carrying  away  boats  and 
bulkheads,  cabin,  armory,  and  pantry, 
skylights  and  hammock  rail,  and  wash- 
ing men  and  officers  aft  in  one  confused 
and  helpless  crowd.  At  half  past  sev- 
en the  barometer  had  fallen  to  27.62, 


which  of  itself  will  satisfy  nautical 
men  —  who  watch  with  intense  interest 
the  hourly  changes  of  tenths  and  hun- 
dredths  of  the  scale  of  this  little  moni- 
tor—  that  the  elements  were  perform- 
ing one  of  their  grandest  tragedies.  A 
tremendous  sea  now  came  over  the 
weather  bow  and  gangway,  completing 
the  destruction  its  predecessors  had 
commenced,  sweeping  the  decks  clean, 
and  tearing  off  the  battens  and  tarpau- 
lins which  had  been  placed  over  the 
hatches  to  keep  the  water  from  below. 
The  tempest  was  at  its  intensest  fury. 
The  darkness  was  impenetrable,  save 
when  lighted  up  by  occasional  flashes 
of  lurid  sheet-lightning,  adding  fresh 
horror  to  the  spectacle,  at  which  pallid, 
awe-stricken  men  silently  and  despair- 
ingly gazed.  The  ship  quivered  in 
every  part,  her  timbers  working  and 
cracking  as  though  she  were  every  mo- 
ment about  to  break  in  two. 

Suddenly  the  mercury  rose  to  27.90, 
and  with  one  wild,  unearthly,  soul- 
thrilling  shriek  the  wind  as  suddenly 
dropped  to  a  calm,  and  those  who  had 
been  in  these  seas  before  knew  that  we 
were  in  the  terrible  vortex  of  the  ty- 
phoon, the  dreaded  centre  of  the  whirl- 
wind. The  ship  had  been  fast  filling 
with  water,  and  fruitless  efforts  had 
been  made  to  work  the  pumps  ;  but 
when  the  wind  died  away  the  men 
jumped  joyfully  to  the  brakes,  exclaim- 
ing, "  The  gale  is  broken  !  we  are  all 
safe  !  "  For  the  officers  there  was  no 
such  feeling  of  exultation.  They  knew 
that  if  they  did  not  perish  in  the  vortex, 
they  had  still  to  encounter  the  oppo- 
site semicircle  of  the  typhoon,  and  that 
with  a  disabled  ship.  It  was  as  though 
a  regiment  of  freshly  wounded  soldiers 
had  been  ordered  to  meet  a  new  enemy 
in  battle,  and  that  without  delay,  for 
the  cessation  of  the  wind  was  not  to  be 
a  period  of  rest.  Till  then  the  sea  had 
been  beaten  down  by  the  wind,  and  only 
boarded  the  vessel  when  she  became 
completely  unmanageable  ;  but  now  the 
waters,  relieved  from  all  restraint,  rose 
in  their  own  might.  Ghastly  gleams 
of  lightning  revealed  them  piled  up  on 
every  side  in  rough  pyramidal  masses, 


348 


A  Night  in  a  Typhoon. 


[March, 


mountain  high,  —  the  revolving  circle  of 
wind  which  everywhere  enclosed  them 
causing  them  to  boil  and  tumble  as 
though  they  were  being  stirred  in  some 
mighty  caldron.  The  ship,  no  longer 
blown  over  on  her  side,  rolled  and 
pitched,  and  was  tossed  about  like  a 
cork.  The  sea  rose,  toppled  over,  and 
fell  with  crushing  force  upon  her  decks. 
Once  she  shipped  immense  bodies  of 
water  over  both  bows,  both  quarters, 
and  the  starboard  gangway,  at  the 
same  moment.  She  sank  under  the 
enormous  load,  no  one  thought  ever  to 
rise  again,  and  some  making  prepara- 
tions for  a  few  more  minutes  of  life  by 
seizing  ladders  and  chests,  by  which 
they  might  be  buoyed  up  when  she 
should  disappear  from  beneath  them. 
She  trembled  violently,  paused,  then 
slowly,  wearily  rose,  with  four  feet  of 
water  on  her  spar  deck.  Her  seams 
opened  fore  and  aft,  the  water  pouring 
through  in  broad  sheets,  and  giving  to 
those  who  were  shut  down  by  the 
closed  hatches  upon  the  deck  below  a 
feeling  of  the  most  wretched  hopeless- 
ness. For  them  the  situation  was  even 
more  appalling  than  for  those  on  deck, 
since  for  them  there  was  absolutely 
no  prospect  of  escape.  They  saw  the 
water  streaming  through  the  opening 
seams  of  the  deck  above,  and  watched  it 
rising  inch  by  inch  in  the  pump-well,  — 
once  fifteen  in  less  than  an  hour ;  they 
witnessed  the  contortions  of  the  vessel, 
and  looked  at  huge  beams  and  sturdy 
knees  breaking  in  half,  stanchions  fetch- 
ing away,  bolts  drawing,  butts  opening, 
water-ways  gaping,  and  masses  of 
rotten  wood  dropping  out  from  places 
where  a  smooth  surface  of  paint  and 
varnish  had  hidden  the  decay,  and 
they  knew  that  a  single  plank  out  of 
that  ship's  side  would  convert  her  in- 
to their  coffin.  In  one  place  a  man 
thrust  his  arm  through  a  hole  to  the 
very  outer  planking.  Both  above  and 
below  men  were  pitched  about  the 
decks,  and  many  of  them  injured. 
Some,  with  broken  bones  and  dislo- 
cated limbs,  crawled  to  the  surgeons, 
begging  assistance. 


At  twenty  minutes  before  eight 
o'clock  the  vessel  entered  the  vortex ; 
at  twenty  minutes  past  nine  o'clock  it 
had  passed  and  the  hurricane  returned, 
blowing  with  renewed  violence  from 
the  north,  veering  to  the  west. 

The  once  noble  ship,  the  pride  not 
only  of  our  own  navy  but  of  the  whole 
craft  of  ship-builders  over  all  the  world, 
was  now  only  an  unmanageable  wreck. ' 
There  was  little  left  for  the  wind  to  do 
but  entangle  the  more  the  masses  of 
broken  spars,  torn  sails,  and  parted 
ropes  which  were  held  together  by  the 
wire  rigging.  One  curious  bundle, 
about  four  feet  in  thickness,  of  sail  and 
cordage  and  lightning-rod,  so  knotted 
together  that  the  efforts  of  a  dozen  men 
failed  to  undo  it,  has  been  preserved  as 
a  trophy  of  our  battle  with  the  winds, 
and  a  remarkable  example  of  the  mys- 
terious effects  they  are  able  to  accom- 
plish. An  hour  or  two  later  the  tem- 
pest began  sensibly  to  abate,  and  confi- 
dence increased  in  the  ability  of  the 
ship  to  hold  together.  When  daylight 
dawned  the  danger  was  over,  and  we 
first  became  aware  of  the  astonish- 
ing amount  of  damage  the  ship  had  in- 
curred in  bearing  us  through  the  perils 
of  that  dreadful  night.  It  was  evident 
that  she  had  sacrificed  herself  to  save  us. 

All  hands  were  soon  hard  at  work 
clearing  away  the  wreck,  and  rigging 
jury-masts  and  sails  ;  and  ere  the  sun 
again  set  the  ship  was  slowly  working 
back  to  Yokohama,  whence  she  had 
sailed  but  a  few  hours  before  in  all  the 
trimness  of  a  well-appointed  man-of- 
war.  There  was  something  almost 
funereal  about  her  return,  for  she  was 
eight  days  crawling  back  over  the  dis- 
tance she  had  so  gayly  sped  in  «ne, 
before  she  re-entered  the  harbor  and 
reached  the  anchorage  which  she  will 
probably  never  again  leave.  There  she 
lies,  condemned  by  the  board  of  sur- 
vey as  unseaworthy,  an  interesting  relic 
of  our  naval  history,  and  a  noble  monu- 
ment of  that  immortal  genius  which 
enabled  man  to  cope  successfully  with 
the  elements  in  one  of  their  grandest 
contests. 


1870.]  Even-Song.  249 


EVEN-SONG. 

IT  may  be,  yes,  it  must  be,  Time,  that  brings 
An  end  to  mortal  things, 
That  sends  the  beggar  Winter  in  the  train 

Of  Autumn's  burthened  wain,  — 
Time,  that  is  heir  of  all  our  earthly  state, 

And  knovveth  well  to  wait 
Till  sea  hath  turned  to  shore  and  shore  to  sea, 

If  so  it  need  must  be, 
Ere  he  make  good  his  claim  and  call  his  own 

Old  empires  overthrown, — 
Time,  who  can  find  no  heavenly  orb  too  large 

To  hold  its  fee  in  charge, 
Nor  any  motes  that  fill  its  beam  so  small, 

But  he  shall  care  for  all,  — 
It  may  be,  must  be, — yes,  he  soon  shall  tire 

This  hand  that  holds  the  lyre. 

Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

When  to  my  careless  lay 
I  matched  its  chords  and  stole  their  first-born  thrill, 

With  untaught  rudest  skill 
Vexing  a  treble  from  the  slender  strings 

Thin  as  the  locust  sings 
When  the  shrill-crying  child  of  summer's  heat 

Pipes  from  his  leafy  seat, 
The  dim  pavilion  of  embowering  green 

Beneath  whose  shadowy  screen 
The  small  sopranist  tries  his  single  note 

Against  the  song-bird's  throat, 
And  all  the  echoes  listen,  but  in  vain  ; 

They  hear  no  answering  strain, — 
Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

Shall  sadly  turn  away, 

Saying,  "  The  fire  burns  low,  the  hearth  is  cold 

That  warmed  our  blood  of  old ; 
Cover  its  embers  and  the  half-burnt  brands, 

And  let  us  stretch  our  hands 
Over  a  brighter  and  fresh-kindled  flame  ; 

Lo,  this  is  not  the  same, 
The  joyous  singer  of  our  morning  time, 

Flushed  high  with  lusty  rhyme  ! 
Speak  kindly,  for  he  bears  a  human  heart,  — 

But  whisper  him  apart,  — 
Tell  him  the  woods  their  autumn  robes  have  shed 

And  all  their  birds  have  fled, 


350  Even-Song.  [March, 

And  shouting  winds  unbuild  the  naked  nests 

They  warmed  with  patient  breasts ; 
Tell  him  the  sky  is  dark,  the  summer  o'er 

And  bid  him  sing  no  more  ! 

Ah,  welladay  !  if  words  so  cruel-kind 

A  listening  ear  might  find ! 
But  who  that  hears  the  music  in  his  soul 

Of  rhythmic  waves  that  roll 
Crested  with  gleams  of  fire,  and  as  they  flow 

Stir  all  the  deeps  below 
Till  the  great  pearls  no  calm  might  ever  reach 

Leap  glistening  on  the  beach, — 
Who  that  has  known  the  passion  and  the  pain, 

The  rush  through  heart  and  brain, 
The  joy  so  like  a  pang  his  hand  is  pressed 

Hard  on  his  throbbing  breast, 
When  thou,  whose  smile  is  life  and  bliss  and  fame 

Hast  set  his  pulse  aflame, 
Muse  of  the  lyre  !  can  say  farewell  to  thee  ? 

Alas  !  and  must  it  be  ? 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  stately  tongue, 

The  mighty  bards  have  sung ; 
To  these  the  immemorial  thrones  belong 

And  purple  robes  of  song ; 
Yet  the  slight  minstrel  loves  the  slender  tone 

His  lips  may  call  his  own, 
And  finds  the  measure  of  the  verse  more  sweet 

Timed  by  his  pulse's  beat, 
Than  all  the  hymnings  of  the  laurelled  throng. 

Say  not  I  do  him  wrong, 
For  Nature  spoils  her  warblers,  —  them  she  feeds 

In  lotus-growing  meads 
And  pours  them  subtle  draughts  from  haunted  streams 

That  fill  their  souls  with  dreams. 

Full  well  I  know  the  gracious  mother's  wiles 

And  dear  delusive  smiles  ! 
No  callow  fledgling  of  her  singing  brood 

But  tastes  that  witching  food, 
And  hearing  overhead  the  eagle's  wing, 

And  how  the  thrushes  sing, 
Vents  his  exiguous  chirp,  and  from  his  nest 

Flaps  forth  —  we  know  the  rest. 
I  own  the  weakness  of  the  tuneful  kind,  — 

Are  not  old  harpers  blind  ? 
I  sang  too  early,  must  I  sing  too  late  ? 

The  lengthening  shadows  wait 
The  first  pale  stars  of  twilight,  —  yet  how  sweet 

The  flattering  whisper's  cheat, — 
"  Thou  hast  the  fire  no  evening  chill  can  tame, 

Whose  coals  outlast  its  flame  ! " 


1870.]  California  Earthquakes. 

Farewell  ye  carols  of  the  laughing  morn, 

Of  earliest  sunshine  born  ! 
The  sower  flings  the  seed  and  looks  not  back 

Along  his  furrowed  track; 
The  reaper  leaves  the  stalks  for  other  hands 

To  gird  with  circling  bands ; 
The  wind,  earth's  careless  servant,  truant-born, 

Blows  clean  the  beaten  corn 
And  quits  the  thresher's  floor,  and  goes  his  way 

To  sport  with  ocean's  spray ; 
The  headlong-stumbling  rivulet,  scrambling  down 

To  wash  the  sea-girt  town, 
Still  babbling  of  the  green  and  billowy  waste 

Whose  salt  he  longs  to  taste, 
Ere  his  warm  wave  its  chilling  clasp  may  feel 

Has  twirled  the  miller's  wheel. 

The  song  has  done  its  task  that  makes  us  bold 

With  secrets  else  untold, — 
And  mine  has  run  its  errand  ;  through  the  dews 

I  tracked  the  flying  Muse; 
The  daughter  of  the  morning  touched  my  lips 

With  roseate  finger-tips  ; 
Whether  I  would  or  would  not,  I  must  sing 

With  the  new  choirs  of  spring; 
Now,  as  I  watch  the  fading  autumn  day 

And  trill  my  softened  lay, 
I  think  of  all  that  listened,  and  of  one 

For  whom  a  brighter  sun 
Dawned  at  high  summer's  noon.    Ah,  comrades  dear, 

Are  not  all  gathered  here  ? 
Our  hearts  have  answered.  —  Yes!  they  hear  our  call; 

All  gathered  here  !  all !  all ! 


351 


CALIFORNIA    EARTHQUAKES. 


THE  migrations  of  that  race  which, 
for  want  of  a  better  name,  we  must 
term  Anglo-Saxon  have  led  it  to  lands 
that,  on  the  whole,  have  been  re- 
markably free  from  earthquake  disturb- 
ances. The  eastern  and  central  regions 
of  North  America,  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  Australia,  the  seat  of  its 
most  considerable  colonies,  have  never 
suffered  from  earthquakes  very  de- 
structive to  life  or  property.  Jamai- 
ca, the  only  colony  which  has  been 


repeatedly  devastated  by  earthquakes, 
never  held  any  considerable  portion  of 
the  race  ;  and  New  Zealand,  an  island 
which  there  is  reason  to'  fear  may  be 
as  unfortunate  in  the  future  as  Jamaica 
has  been  in  the  past,  has  not  been  long 
enough  settled  for  us  to  know  how 
much  it  has  to  apprehend.  The  por- 
tions of  the  earth's  surface  most  liable 
to  earthquakes  have  been  generally 
held  by  Latin  races,  when  peopled  by 
civilized  men  of  European  stock. 


352 


California  Earthquakes. 


[March, 


Until  within  a  few  years  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  had  not  occupied  any  por- 
tion of  the  continental  border  of  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  and  thus  had  escaped 
contact  with  the  disturbances  which 
are  so  common  all  around  this  great 
sea.  If  the  reader  will  glance  at  any 
map  whereon  the  volcanoes  of  the 
•earth  are  represented,  he  will  see  that 
the  great  basin  of  the  Pacific  is  bor- 
dered with  a  line  of  these  mountains. 
Along  the  American  coast  especially 
he  will  perceive  that  these  vents  of 
internal  force  are  so  crowded  toge'^^r 
that  the  products  of  their  erup'v.ons 
form  an  almost  continuous  belt  sti  etch- 
ing from  Cape  Horn  to  the  extremity 
of  the  Alaskan  Peninsula.  The  con- 
nection which  exists  between  earth- 
quake and  volcanic  action  renders  it 
certain  that  where  the  latter  is  found 
the  former  may  be  expected.  These 
products  of  internal  convulsions,  form- 
ing mountains  miles  in  height,  give 
man  fair  warning  that,  if  he  plants  him- 
self at  their  base,  he  must  be  prepared 
at  any  time  for  the  visitation  of  forces 
against  which  he  will  be  incompetent 
to  struggle,  which  may  in  a  moment 
destroy  him  and  his  proudest  wcrlvS. 

It  is  into  this  volcano -riven  region 
that  the  most  rapid  movement  of  popu- 
lation ever  known  is  tending.  The 
western  slope  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
a  more  important  region  in  point  of 
resources  of  every  description  than  any 
other  geographical  area  on  the  conti- 
nent, is  doubtless  to  bear  within  a  cen- 
tury a  greater  population  than  is  now 
held  by  the  whole  area  of  the  United 
States.  Every  one  who  feels  an  intel- 
ligent interest  in  the  future  of  our  race 
must  be  concerned  for  the  prospects  of 
this  region.  Soil,  climate,  mineral  re- 
sources, relation  to  other  great  centres 
of  population,  alike  promise  that  our 
children  and  children's  children  shall 
find  here  all  the  conditions  of  pros- 
perity which  these  features  can  afford ; 
but  before  we  can  say  that  the  future 
is  altogether  bright,  we  must  ascertain 
whether  society  can  there  find  a  stable 
footing  on  a  firm-set  earth,  or  whether 
this  portion  of  our  continent  is  as  un- 


fortunate as  the  similarly  situated  por- 
tion of  its  southern  mate,  the  coasts  of 
Peru  and  Chili. 

We  have  only  imperfect  data  con- 
cerning the  earthquakes  of  the  Califor- 
nian  shore.  Although  it  was  occupied 
at  a  few  points  by  Jesuit  missions  and 
military  stations  of  the  Spaniards  as 
early  as  1698,  there  have  been  no  rec- 
ords of  earthquake  shocks  discovered 
of  an  earlier  date  than  1800.*  Since 
that  date,  and  prior  to  1850,  the  imper- 
fect archives  mention  only  two  years 
in  which  earthquakes  occurred  ;  so  that, 
with  the  exception  of  three  years'  dis- 
turbances, only  one  of  which  was  made 
memorable  by  its  severity,  our  record 
embraces  only  the  earthquakes  which 
have  happened  within  the  past  twenty 
years.  It  is  not  to  be  conceived  that 
in  the  period  which  has  elapsed  since 
the  first  settlement  of  the  country  by 
the  Spaniards  until  1850,  this  coast 
was  disturbed  by  earthquakes  during 
only  three  years.  As  we  cannot  believe 
that  the  outbreak  of  seismic  force  was 
in  any  way  brought  about  by  the  com- 
ing o*"  the  "  Yankees,"  we  must  suppose 
t/:ax  the  repeated  slight  shocks  which 
have  attracted  so  much  attention  from 
a  people  born  in  a  land  where  such 
movements  were  rare  were  entirely 
overlooked  by  the  Jesuit  priest,  who, 
in  addition  to  his  characteristic  care- 
lessness concerning  all  natural  phe- 
nomena, had  been  long  accustomed  to 
such  slight  movements  in  Mexico  or 
Peru,  whence. he  came 

The  most  important  shock  mentioned 
in  the  Jesuit  archives  occurred  during 
the  month  of  Septembei .,  1812,  and  was 
of  extreme  violence.  It  overthrew  the 
buildings  at  the  missions  of  San  Juan 
Capistrano  in  Los  Ange'es  County,  and 
that  of  Purissima  in  the  county  of  San- 

*  The  records  of  the  first  settlements  of  Califor- 
nia have  not  been  preserved.  The  earliest  archives 
begin  during  the  year  1769.  Fr^m  this  date  to  1800 
no  mention  of  earthquake  action  has  been  found. 
During  the  latter  year,  on  the  nth  of  October, 
a  shock  is  noticed,  and  another  on  the  iSth  of  the 
same  month ;  two  shocks  occurred,  one  at  the 
beginning  of  the  evening  and  another  about  ir  P.  M. 
In  1808,  from  the  2ist  of  June  to  the  i7th  of  July, 
twenty-one  shocks  were  noticed  at  the  Presidio  of 
San  Francisco. 


California  Earthquakes. 


353 


i;i  n.irbar.1.  The  following  account  is 
derived  from  the  articles  on  the  Karth- 
<juakes  of  California  by  Dr.  J.  B.  Trask, 
to  \vhom  \ve  are  indebted  for  most  that 
we  know  concerning  the  earthquakes 
of  this  region.  It  is  to  be  remembered 
that  the  only  source  of  information  was 
the  statements  of  old  inhabitants  of  the 
country  and  foreign  traders  at  that  time 
on  the  coast :  — • 

"  The  day  was  clear  and  uncommon- 
ly warm ;  it  being  Sunday,  the  people 
had  assembled  at  San  Juan  Capistrano 
for  evening  service.  About  half  an 
hour  after  the  opening  of  service,  an 
unusual,  loud  but  distant  rushing  sound 
was  heard  in  the  atmosphere,  to  the 
east  and  also  over  the  water,  which  re- 
sembled the  sound  of  strong  wind  ;  but 
as  it  approached  no  perceptible  breeze 
accompanied  it.  The  sea  was  smooth 
and  the  air  was  calm.  So  distant  and 
loud  was  this  atmospheric  sound  that 
several  left  the  building,  attracted  by 
the  noise. 

"  Immediately  following  the  sound, 
the  first  and  heaviest  shock  of  the 
earthquake  occurred,  which  was  suffi- 
ciently severe  to  prostrate  the  Mission 
Church  of  San  Capistrano  almost  in 
a  body,  burying  in  its  ruins  most  of 
those  who  remained  behind  after  the 
first  indication  of  its  approach  was 
heard. 

"  The  number  killed  is  variously 
stated  at  from  thirty  to  forty-five  (the 
largest  number  of  persons  agree  on  the 
smallest  number  of  deaths  given),  but  in 
the  absence  of  records  such  statements 
should  be  received  with  many  grains  of 
allowance.  A  considerable  number  are 
reported  to  have  been  badly  injured." 

The  church  destroyed  was  a  well- 
built  structure  ;  the  walls  of  stone 
and  cement,  and  not  of  adobe.  There 
was  a  short  steeple  or  cupola  attached, 
which  also  was  overturned  by  the  shock, 
falling  upon  the  roof  of  the  building. 

Accounts  agree  in  describing  the 
movement  as  a  vertical  uplift,  attended 
by  a  rotating  motion.  Although  we 
cannot  believe  that  such  a  movement  is 
possible,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  that 
it  is  thought  to  be  perceived  only  in 

VOL.   XXV.  —  NO.    149.  23 


earthquakes  of  great  violence,  where 
the  bodies  of  the  observers  are  much 
thrown  about  by  the  shocks.  The  in- 
tensity of  the  shock  is  also  shown  by 
the  fact  that  most  of  the  persons  who 
survived  were  much  affected  by  dizzi- 
ness and  nausea. 

Succeeding  the  first  and  most  de- 
structive shock,  five  others  were  felt 
during  the  same  day,  each  accompanied 
by  a  loud,  deep  rumbling  ;  they  were  all, 
however,  much  less  violent  than  the 
first  movement.  The  shocks,  or  at 
least  the  sounds  which  preceded  them, 
seemed  to  come  from  the  south  and 
east. 

"  In  the  valley  of  Santa  Inez,  to  the 
south  and  west  of  Santa  Barbara,  the 
church  now  known  as  the  '  Mission 
Vieja'  (La  Purissima)  was  completely 
destroyed.  At  this  locality  there  were 
also  a  number  of  lives  lost,  but  what 
number  is  yet  very  uncertain.  The  dis- 
tance between  Capistrano  and  Santa 
Inez  is  about  one  hundred  and  seventy 
miles.  The  shock  which  destroyed  this 
building  occurred  about  one  hour  after 
the  former,  and  the  greater  portion  of 
the  inhabitants  had  left  the  building  but 
a  few  minutes  before  it  fell,  service  hav- 
ing closed.  The  first  shock  felt  here 
prostrated  the  building,  as  in  the  pre- 
ceding case. 

"A  Spanish  ship,  which  lay  at  San 
Buenaventura,  thirty-eight  miles  from 
Santa  Barbara,  was  much  injured  by 
the  shock,  and  leaked  to  that  extent 
that  it  became  necessary  to  beach  her 
and  remove  most  of  her  cargo." 

From  a  person  living  in  the  country 
at  the  time  we  have  the  following  ac- 
count of  the  effects  of  the  shocks  upon 
the  sea  in  the  bay  of  Santa  Barbara  : 
"  The  sea  was  observed  to  recede  from 
the  shore  during  the  continuance  of 
the  shocks,  and  left  the  latter  dry  for  a 
considerable  distance,  when  it  returned 
in  five  or  six  heavy  rollers,  which  over- 
flowed the  plain  on  which  Santa  Bar- 
bara is  built.  The  inhabitants  saw  the 
recession  of  the  sea,  and,  being  aware 
of  the  danger  on  its  return,  fled  to  the 
adjoining  hills  near  the  town  to  escape 
the  threatened  deluge." 


354 


California  Earthqitakes. 


[March, 


The  damage  done  to  the  houses  in 
Santa  Barbara  was  not  great,  though 
from  the  simple  character  of  the  struc- 
tures great  devastation  could  not  have 
been  expected. 

The  destructive  shocks  above  de- 
scribed seem  to  have  been  preceded 
by  some  very  singular  disturbances, 
affecting  the  southern  part  of  the  re- 
gion which  is  now  the  State  of  Cali- 
fornia. It  seems  to  be  agreed  that 
these  shocks  began  in  May,  1812,  and 
continued  without  interruption  for  four 
months  and  a  half.  During  this  time 
hardly  a  day  passed  without  a  shock, 
and  sometimes  thirty  occurred  during 
a  single  day.  The  seventy  of  the 
movements  and  their  effect  upon  the 
population  may  be  judged  by  the  fact 
that  the  people  at  Santa  Barbara  fled 
from  their  houses  and  lived  in  the  open 
air  during  their  continuance. 

These  events  can  hardly  fail  to  re- 
mind the  reader  of  what  occurred  dur- 
ing the  same  year  in  the  region  nearly 
two  thousand  miles  to  the  eastward,  in 
the  valley  of  the  Mississippi. 

The  New  Madrid  series  of  earth- 
quakes began  in  the  month  of  Novem- 
ber, 1811,  but  the  shocks  continued  for 
more  than  two  years  thereafter.  Dur- 
ing the  months  while  the  Southern  Cali- 
fornian  region  was  vibrating  in  continu- 
al movement,  the  whole  basin  of  the 
Mississippi,  as  far  Avest  as  settlements 
had  then  extended,  was  also  receiving 
frequent  shocks,  scarcely  a  clay  passing 
without  some  indication  of  the  disturb- 
ing forces  within  the  crust. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  these 
events,  so  unexampled  in  both  regions, 
could  have  had  no  other  than  an  acci- 
dental connection.  If  these  disturb- 
ances were  due  to  the  same  cause,  then 
it  must  be  supposed  that  the  whole 
region  intervening  between  California 
and  the  Mississippi  Valley  was  affected 
by  this  great  convulsion.  The  history 
of  earthquakes  in  other  regions  fur- 
nishes us  with  no  sucli  example  of  a 
region  so  extensive  vibrating  for  many 
monfhs  under  the  influence  of  continu- 
ous earthquake  shocks. 

In  1850  the  earthquake  records  be- 


gin again!  It  is  not  a  little  singular 
that,  although  since  that  date  no  year 
has  passed  without  bringing  from  five 
to  twenty  shocks,  yet  during  the  four 
preceding  years,  although  a  number  of 
stations  were  occupied  by  observant 
United  States  officers,  we  have  no  note 
of  earthquake  movements.  The  fol- 
lowing table  gives  all  the  important  in- 
formation (sixty-two  light  shocks  occur- 
ring at  different  places  having  been 
omitted  from  the  list)  known  concerning 
the  earthquakes  which  have  been  ob- 
served from  1850  to  1866.  It  is  to  be 
regretted  that  the  direction  of  move- 
ment is  rarely  indicated.  The  whole 
of  this  table,  with  slight  exceptions,  is 
taken  from  the  several  papers  of  Dr. 
Trask  on  California  Earthquakes. 

1850. 
May  13.    San  Francisco.     Slight   eruption- 

of  Mauna   Loa,  San  Jose,  and   shock 

same  day. 
August     4.       Stockton     and     Sacramento. 

Smart  shock. 
September    14.    San   Francisco    and    San 

Jose.     Smart  shock. 

1851. 
May    15.    San     Francisco.     Three    severe 

shocks  ;  a  good  deal  of  damage  done. 

Eruption    of  Mauna  Loa,    and   shock 

same  day. 
June  13.    San   Francisco,    San    Luis    Obis- 

po,  and  San  Fernando.     Smart  shock. 
December  31.   Downieville.     Smart  shock. 

1852. 

November  26.  San  Simeon,  Los  Angeles,. 
and  San  Gabriel.  Eleven  strong 
shocks. 

November  27,  28,  29,  30,  31.  Continued 
shocks. 

This  convulsion  disturbed  an  area  of 
over  three  hundred  miles  square,  extend- 
ing east   from   San   Luis  Obispo  to  the 
Colorado  River,  and  north  to  San  Diego. 
During  these  shocks  two  mud-volcanoes 
broke  out  in  the  region  of  the  Colorado. 
December    17.    San    Luis    Obispo.      Two 
smart  shocks,  fractured  adobe  walls. 


January  2.    Mariposa,    San  Francisco,  Bo- 

dega, Shasta  City.     Moderate. 
February  14.   San  Luis  Obispo.    Slight. 


8;a] 


California  Earthquakes. 


355 


March  I.    San  Francisco,   San   Luis   Obis- 

po,  and  Santa  Barbara.     Smart  shock. 
April  24.    Humboldt  Bay.     Light. 
April     25.    \Yeaverville,     Trinity   County. 

Three  light  shocks. 
June  2.    Plains  of  the  San  Joaqnin.     Two 

smart  shocks. 
September   3.    Salinas    and    San  Joaquin 

Plains.     Four  shocks. 

1854. 
January  3.    Mariposa,  Shasta.     Two  smart 

shocks. 
May  3,  5  h.   10  in.    Santa  Barbara. 

Throe  severe  shocks.  The  first  pre- 
ceded by  a  loud  rumbling  ;  the  second, 
by  a  sound  compared  to  that  made  by  a 
high  wind.  Sea-waves  rolled  in  short- 
ly after  the  second  shock.  Not  much 
damage  done. 

October  26.  San  Francisco,  Benicia.  Smart 
shocks,  followed  by  a  sea-wave  which 
caused  vessels  to  sway  heavily  at  their 
moorings. 

1855- 
January  13,  i8h.  30111.    San   Benito,   San 

Miguel.     Smart  shock. 
January  24,  22  h.     Downieville. 

Lasted  several  seconds  ;  severe  shock  ; 
affected  a  tract  of  country  having  a  north- 
and-south  diameter  of  ninety-four  miles, 
and  an  cast-and-west  diameter  of  thirty 
miles.  Buildings  were  severely  shaken, 
and  large  fragments  fell  from  the  moun- 
tains. A  mass  of  rocks  was  thrown  down 
from  the  Downieville  Buttes. 
June  25,  14  h.  Santa  Barbara,  and  north  to 

valley  of  Santa  Maria.     Smart  shock. 
July  10,  20  h.   15  m.    Los  Angeles.     Severe 
shock.     Much  damage  done. 
Four  shocks  were  felt  in  about  twelve 
seconds  ;    fissures    were    formed    in   the 
earth  at  many  places,  some  of  these  two 
inches    wide.      Twenty-six    buildings    in 
the  town  were  considerably  injured.     At 
Point  St.  Juan  two  unusually  heavy  waves 
rolled  in  just  after  the  last  shock. 
October   21,    19  h.   45  m.    San   Francisco. 
Smart  shock.     "  Much   commotion  in 
the  water  of  the  harbor  a  few  minutes 
preceding  the  shock." 
December  n,  4h.   San  Francisco,  Mission 
Dolores.      At   the   latter   place   quite 
severe. 

1856. 

January  2,  loh.  I5m.  San  Francisco,  from 
the  north.  Smart  shock.  A  pendu- 


lum  indicated   a   movement  of  about 
five  and  a  half  inches. 

January  21,  i6h.  San  Francisco.  Smart 
shock.  Most  severe  in  southwest  part 
of  the  city. 

January  28,  3  h.  Petal uma,  Sonoma  Coun- 
ty. Smart  shock. 

January  29,  o  h.  45  m.  San  Francisco,  Mis- 
sion Dolores.  Slight.  Three  distinct 
movements,  apparently  from  the  west- 
ward. 

February    15,   5  h.   25111.    San    Francisco, 
Monterey,    Bodega,  Santa    Rosa,    San 
Jose,  and  Stockton.     Violent  shock. 
The  region  affected  by  this  convulsion 
had  a  length  from  north  to  south  of  over 
one  hundred  and  forty  miles  and  a  width 
of  about  seventy  miles.     There  were  two 
distinct   shocks,   the  second    very  much 
the  lightest.     The  movement  seemed  to- 
come  from  the  northwest.      Many  build- 
ings were  injured.     The  fissures  formed 
in  their  walls  had   all  a  direction   near- 
ly northwest  and  southeast.     The  force 
seemed  to  emerge  from  the  earth  at  a 
tolerably  steep   angle   and   with   a  con- 
siderable velocity.     Small    articles   were 
thrown  three  or  four  feet. 
April   6,   23  h.  30  m.    Los    Angeles,  The 

Monte.     Smart  shock. 

May  10,  21  h.  loin.  San  Francisco.  Light, 
with  a  sound  which  was  mistaken  for 
the  sound  of  a  cannon. 
May  2,  oh.  loni.  Los  Angeles.  Severe 
shock.  Preceded  by  "  two  reports  like 
(the  blasting  of  rocks  "  from  the  north- 
west. 

August  27,  2ih.  15111.    Mission,  San  Juan, 
Monterey,     Santa     Cruz.       Moderate 
shock,  twice  repeated  from  the  west. 
September   6,    3  h.    Santa     Crux.      Smart 

shock.     People  left  their  beds. 
September    20,     23  h.   30  m.     San    Diego 
County.     Very  severe  shock. 
Ceilings  were   shaken  down  at  Santa 
Isabel  ;   "  the  cattle  stampeded,  and  ran 
bellowing  in  all   directions,  and  the  In- 
dians seemed  equally  terrified." 
November  12,   4h.    Humboldt  Bay. 
shock. 

1857. 

January  9.  Sacramento,  and  southward  to 
the  southern  boundary  of  California. 
Powerful  shock.  "At  Santa  Barbara 
water  was  thrown  out  of  a  well  in  which 
it  stood  four  feet  from  the  surface." 

January  20,  8  h.  30  m.  Santa  Cruz,  Mission, 
San  Juan.  Strong  shock. 


356 


California  Earthquakes. 


[March, 


January  21,  evening.  Mariposa.  From  the 
northwest,  accompanied  with  noise  like 
a  gun.  Smart  shock. 

July  5,  7  li.  San  Francisco.  Severe.  Build- 
ings on  made  ground  were  much  shaken, 
those  on  firm  earth  did  not  suffer. 

March  14,  I5h.  Santa  Barbara  and  Mon- 
tecito.  Severe  shocks.  "  Momentary 
in  duration,  attended  with  a  loud  re- 
port." 

May  3,  22  h.  Los  Angeles  and  The  Monte. 
Smart  shock. 

May  23.  Los  Angeles.  Slight,  severe  at 
Fort  Tejon. 

June  14.    Humboldt  Bay.     Severe. 

August  8,  1 1  h.  Rabbit  Creek,  Sierra  Coun- 
ty. Smart  shock. 

August  29.  Tejon  Reserve.     Severe  shock. 

September  2,  19  h.  45  m.  San  Francisco, 
Sacramento,  Marysville,  Nevada,  San 
Juan,  Downieville,  and  Camptonville. 
Slight. 

October  19,  iSh.  30111.  San  Francisco. 
Severe. 

October  20.  Three  shocks,  at  12  h.  8m., 
12  h.  35  m.,  and  13  h.  15  m.  Last  quite 
severe,  caused  general  fright.  Felt  at 
San  Jose,  but  not  at  Oakland. 

1858. 

February  10.   Kanaka  Flat,  Sierra  County. 

Smart  shock. 

September  2.  Santa  Barbara.    Smart  shock. 
September  3,   o  h.  40  m.     San  Jose,  Santa 

Cruz.     Strong  shock.  ^ 

September  12,  19  h.  40  m.  San  Francisco. 
Smart  shock;  two  movements  from 
north  to  south. 

Created  great  alarm,  but  did  little 
damage.  Although  of  considerable  pow- 
er, this  disturbance  seems  to  have  been 
limited  to  an  area  not  more  than  twelve 
miles  square. 

1859. 

January  25,  20  h.  20  m.  Trinity  and  Shas- 
ta Counties.  Severe  shock. 

April  4,  13  h.  San  Jose.  Severe,  several 
vibrations  from  north  to  south. 

August  10,  22  h.  35  m.  San  Francisco. 
Smart  shock. 

September  26,  6  h.  lom.  San  Francisco. 
Smart  shock. 

October  5,  13  h.  8m.  San  Francisco. 
Strong  shock. 

December  r,  oh.  50111.  San  Francisco. 
Smart  shock. 

December  i,    14 h.    lom.     San  Francisco. 


Many  successive  shocks,  some  quite 
powerful,  causing  much  alarm.  No 
damage  done. 

1860. 

March  15,  nh.  Sacramento,  counties  of 
Placer,  Nevada,  El  Dorado,  and  Flu- 
mas.  Violent  shock.  The  church- 
bells  tolled  in  Sacramento  and  at  Iowa 
Hill. 

March  27.    Los  Angeles  and  vicinity.     Se- 
vere. 
November    12.     Humboldt     Bay.      Smart 

shock. 

December  21,  6h.  3om.  Repeated  slight 
vibrations  extending  over  a  period  of 
half  an  hour,  noticeable  only  by  the  vi- 
brations of  the  mercury  in  the  barome- 
ter. 

1861. 

July  4,  i6h.  urn.  San  Francisco.  Se- 
vere shock. 

Three  distinct  movements  were  felt. 
Fissures  opened  in  the  San  Ramon  val- 
ley, and  new  springs  were  produced. 
For  several  days  light  shocks  were  felt 
in  the  region  about  the  city. 

1862. 

September  29,    15  h.  5111.     San  Francisco. 

Strong  shock. 
December  23,   2011.19111.     San  Francisco. 

Smart  shock. 

1863. 

January  25,  5  h.  20111.  San  Diego.  Se- 
vere shock;  continued  five  to  eight 
seconds.  A  series  of  sharp  jars,  pre- 
ceded by  a  "  profound  rumbling  sound." 

February  i,  i6h.  I  m.  Mission  San  Juan, 
Monterey  County.  Strong  shock. 

February  I,  i6h.  15111.  Gilroy's  (12  miles 
east  of  last-i\amed  place).  Strong 
shock.  The  two  last-named  shocks 
were  quite  local. 

June.     San  Francisco.     Smart  shock. 

July  15,  loh.  19  m.  San  Francisco.  Smart 
shock. 

December  19,  1211.38111.  San  Francisco. 
A  very  smart  shock  followed  by  one 
still  more  severe.  "  The  first  was  a 
sharp,  sudden  jar,  the  second  undula- 
tory."  No  damage  done. 

1864. 

February  26,  5  h.  45  m.  San  Francisco. 
Smart  shock,  three  distinct  vibrations. 
An  electric  storm  the  day  previous. 


C ^alifom ia  l^arthqnakcs. 


357 


March  5,  Sn.  49m.  San  Francisco,  Santa 
Rosa,  Santa  Cruz,  Stockton,  Petaluma, 
Santa  Clara.  A  shock  of  considerable 
violence  at  all  these  points,  at  the  last 
named  most  violent,  where  the  shock 
continued  about  two  minutes,  causing 
the  church-spires  to  wave  to  and  fro. 

March  10,  14  h.  8  m.  San  Francisco.  A 
light  shock. 

March  22,  13  h.     Stockton.     Smart  shock. 

May  20,  i8h.  I  m.  San  Francisco.  Slight. 
At  Stockton  severe  nine  minutes  later. 
NapaatiSh.  57m.  Severe.  At  Sac- 
ramento at  i8h.  Very  severe. 

June  22,  20  h.  53  m.  San  Francisco.  Smart 
shock.  Three  distinct  movements,  with 
a  low  rumbling  sound.  Shocks  pecu- 
liarly abrupt.  Was  felt  over  a  region 
one  hundred  and  thirty-two  miles  in 
length. 

Jt»ly  5,  20  h.  3  m.  .San  Francisco.  Mod- 
erate. Four  vibrations,  the  longest 
lasting  nineteen  seconds,  the  shortest 
six  seconds,  separated  by  intervals  of 
from  forty  to  seventy- five  seconds. 

July  21,  2  h.  7m.  San  Francisco.  Smart 
shock. 

July  22,  22  h.  40  m.  385.  San  Francisco. 
Felt  also,  at  San  Jose,  Stockton,  and 
Los  Angeles.  Strong  shock.  Two 
movements  from  north,  13°  E.  Pendu- 
lum swung  eighteen  inches. 

August  18,  5h.  i8m.  Grass  Valley,  Ne- 
vada. Very  strong.  Threw  down  the 
wall  of  a  well. 

September  27,  10  h.  32m.  Mission  San 
Juan,  Monterey  County.  Strong  shock. 

October  6,  21  h.  9  in.  San  Francisco. 
Smart  shock. 

October  14,  I  h.  8m.  Mission  San  Juan. 
Two  heavy  shocks. 

October  14,  10  h.  25  m.  Mission  San  Juan. 
One  heavy  shock.  All  these  were  from 
west  to  east. 

December  11,  20  h.  52111.  San  Francisco, 
San  Jose  ;  the  last  place  one  minute 
later,  and  more  severe. 

1865. 

January    9,     7  h.      Santa    Rosa,    Sonoma 

County.     Smart  shock. 
March  7,    23  h.      San  Francisco.       Smart 

shock. 
March  8,  6  h.  20  m.    San  Francisco.    Smart 

shock. 
March  30,   7  h.  28  m.  San  Francisco.    Very 

smart  shock. 
April  15,   oh.  40111.     San  Diego.     Severe 


shock.  Three  movements  in  quick  suc- 
cession, preceded  by  a  rushing  sound. 
April  18,  13!!.  31  m.  San  Francisco,  An- 
gel Island,  Oakland,  San  Juan.  Light 
at  first  three  localities  ;  severe  at  San 
Juan. 

April  27,    15  h.  56m.     San  Francisco. 
May  24,   3  h.  21  m.      San   Francisco,  San 
Juan,  Santa  Cruz.     Smart  shock.     At 
the  first  place  a  single  movement ;  at 
the  second,  two  waves. 
September  22.    Yorka.     Smart  shock.   . 
October    I,   gh.    15  m.       Fort  Humboldt. 

Very  smart  shock. 

October  8,  I2h.  46m.  San  Francisco,  San 
Jose,  Stockton,  Santa  Cruz,  Sacra- 
mento, etc. 

Very  severe  shock.     Regarded  as  the 
most  severe  since  the  annexation  of  the 
Territory.     No  very  serious  damage  was 
done,  and  no  lives  lost.     Many  buildings 
were  fractured,  but  most  of  these  were 
evidently  insecure,   or    built    upon    the 
made   lands   on   the   city's   front.      The 
shock  was   followed  by  a   condition   of 
continuous    vibration,   which  lasted    for 
about  ten  hours.     At  no  time  during  this 
period  did  the  vibratory  movement  cease. 
The  shock  came  from  north  50°  \V. 
October  8,  22  h.  i  m.     Same  places  as  pre- 
ceding.    Light  shock. 
October  9,     loh.  34m.      San  Francisco. 

Another  light  shock. 

October  9,  1 1  h.  32  m.  San  Francisco. 
Light  shock.  After  this  shock  the 
earth  continued  to  vibrate  for  forty- 
eight  hours. 

October  13,  2  h.  5  m.  San  Francisco, 
Oakland,  Santa  Clara,  Angel  Island. 
Smart  shock. 

November  24,  3  h.  45  m.  Walsonville, 
Santa  Cruz  County.  Smart  shock. 

The  connection  between  the  Califor- 
nia earthquakes  and  those  which  occur 
on  the  northern  portion  of  the  Pacific 
coast  of  North  America  is  yet  to  be 
traced.  It  seems  likely,  however,  that 
the  coast  is  not  as  uniformly  affected 
by  these  disturbances  as  is  the  western 
coast  of  South  America.  The  writer 
has  not  succeeded  in  finding  any  ac- 
counts of  Oregon  earthquakes  which 
would  render  a  comparison  with  the 
California  shocks  possible.  At  Van- 
couver's Island  slight  shocks  frequent- 
ly occur,  a  year  rarely  passing  without 
some  disturbance  ;  but  none  of  the 


358 


California  Earthquakes. 


[March, 


shocks  observed  there  have  produced 
any  destructive  effects ;  none  have 
equalled  the  severer  shocks  of  the  Cali- 
fornia area.  Wherever  the  direction 
of  the  shocks  has  been  observed  they 
have  been  found  to  come  from  the  west 
and  pass  away  to  the  east,  having  the 
same  direction  as  most  of  the  severe 
California  shocks  have. 

The  slight  evidences  of  volcanic  ac- 
tivity which  have  been  observed  in  sev- 
eral of  the  group  of  gigantic  volcanoes 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  River 
have  not  been  attended  by  shocks  such 
as  are  usual  on  the  reawakening  of  a 
volcanic  centre  from  a  period  of  re- 
pose. 

Passing  still  farther  to  the  northward, 
we  come  at  once  upon  a  region  of  very  in- 
tense volcanic  activity,  and  where  earth- 
quakes, though  local  in  their  character, 
have  exhibited  the  most  extreme  vio- 
lence. The  Alaskan  seismic  area  dis- 
plays a  more  energetic  manifestation  of 
internal  forces  than  any  other  part  of  the 
American  continents.  Some  of  the  for- 
ty or  fifty  volcanoes,  scattered  on  sea 
or  land  between  Mount  St.  Elias  and 
the  western  extremity  of  the  volcanic 
chain  of  islands  which  unites  our  con- 
tinent with  Asia,  are  almost  constantly 
in  eruption,  and  their  outbreaks  are 
generally  attended  with  violent  earth- 
quake shocks. 

The  first  recorded  shock  in  this  re- 
gion occurred  in  1790.  A  ship  then 
among  the  Aleutian  Islands,  near  the 
Alaskan  peninsula,  received  a  serere 
blow,  which  caused  the  mariners  to 
think  that  she  had  struck.  At  Uralas- 
ka,  in  1802,  there  occurred  a  shock  of 
extreme  violence,  which  thre-v  down 
the  low  huts  of  the  natives,  —  struc- 
tures admirably  adapted  to  reiist  earth- 
quakes.  These  shocks  were  repeated 
-constantly  at  this  point  from  1795  to 
1802,  scarcely  a  month  passing  without 
a  recurrence  of  the  disturbance.  In 
1812  the  shocks  which  occurred  in  the 
island  of  Atkha  were  of  such  extreme 
violence  that  the  natives,  well  accus- 
tomed to  earthquake  action,  believed 
that  they  must  all  perish.  In  1818 
and  1820  local  shocks  of  great  severity 


occurred  among  the  larger  islands  of  the 
Aleutian  archipelago.  In  1836  the  isl- 
ands of  St.  Paul  and  St.  George  re- 
ceived shocks  of  such  violence  that  per- 
sons could  not  keep  their  feet.  Rocks 
detached  themselves  in  numerous  mass- 
es from  the  mountains,  making  immense 
accumulations  of  dtbris  at  their  feet. 
In  1849,  on  the  28th  of  October,  there 
occurred  a  great  shock  on  the  islands 
of  Mednoj  and  Beringof,  which  is  said 
to  have  continued  all  night.  The  sea 
was  in  a  state  of  continual  movement 
during  the  night.  On  the  26th  of  July, 
1856,  there  occurred  in  the  group  of 
islands  just  west  of  the  extremity  of  the 
Alaskan  peninsula  a  most  remarkable 
convulsion.  The  only  accounts  we  have 
come  from  the  captains  of  some  whale- 
ships  then  passing  through  the  Strait 
of  Onnimah  ;  and  one  cannot  but  be- 
lieve their  accounts  much  exaggerated. 
On  the  date  above  mentioned  these 
navigators  .found  several  volcanic  cones 
along  the  strait  in  a  state  of  violent 
eruption.  The  wind  falling,  they  were 
left  close  to  the  shore,  unwilling  spec- 
tators to  a  terrible  scene.  The  accu- 
mulated cloud  of  the  eruption  settled 
down  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  wrap- 
ping the  ships  in  total  darkness,  and 
pouring  upon  them  a  dense  shower  of 
ashes,  which  fell  with  the  rapidity  of 
a  fierce  snow-storm.  The  earthquake 
shocks,  which  they  had  felt  all  the  day, 
became  more  and  more  violent.  After 
a  time,  a  breeze  removed  them  from 
their  position  of  extreme  danger,  but  for 
over  one  hundred  miles  they  found  the 
same  dense  cloud  of  ashes  and  suffocat- 
ing fumes.  While  on  their  way  to  es- 
cape the  dangers  of  the  eruptions  of  the 
existing  volcanoes,  they  encountered 
one  in  course  of  formation.  With  a 
deep  rumbling  sound  the  waters  divid- 
ed, and  an  immense  volcanic  mass  lifted 
itself  suddenly  above  the  level  of  the 
sea.  From  this  mass,  say  these  vera- 
cious whalers,  there  was  poured  forth 
first  an  immense  torrent  of  water,  then 
a  column  of  flame  and  smoke,  and  after- 
wards lava  and  pumice-stone,  the  latter 
being  thrown  to  a  great  height  and  cov- 
ering the  vessels  with  fragments.  Hav- 


1 870.] 


California  Earthquakes. 


359 


ing  attained  the  height  of  its  eruption, 
the  new  -  made  volcano  sank  suddenly 
again  into  the  sea,  dragging  the  waters 
into  the  gulf  with  the  violence  of  the 
maelstrom.  In  their  flight  from  these 
terrible  scenes,  the  mariners  saw  this 
uplifting  of  the  crater  and  its  submer- 
gence repeated  several  times,  and 

r  heard  the  continual  roar  of  this  strug- 

•  gle  of  the  elements. 

It  is  probably  a  fortunate  thing  that 
the  inhospitable  and  unproductive  char- 
acter of  the  Alaskan  region  will  prevent 
any  extensive  settlements  of  civilized 
man  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible  convul- 
sions which  are  there  so  frequently  oc- 
curring. 

The  fear  has  often  been  expressed 
that  we  may  see  in  California  the  same 
deplorable  results  of  earthquake  ac- 
tion which  have  so  often  been  beheld 
in  the  South  American  continuation 
of  this  Pacific  shore-line.  The  list 
of  the  shocks  which  occurred  during 
the  fifteen  years  which  elapsed  between 
1850  and  1868  certainly  seems  to  show 
that  this  region  has  beneath  it,  or  be- 
neath the  surface  of  the  sea  which  lies 
near  it,  all  the  conditions  necessary 
to  the  production  of  frequent  earth- 
quakes ;  and  the  character  of  the  con- 
vulsion which  occurred  in  1812,  as  well 
as  one  or  two  of  those  of  recent  date, 
shows  beyond  all  question  that  these 
forces  may  act  with  such  violence  as  to 
prove  very  destructive.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  recurrence  of  such  a 
.shock  as  ruined  the  churches  at  Santa 
Barbara,  and  that  at  the  Mission  San 
Juan  Capistrano,  would  produce  terri- 
ble results  upon  life  and  property  in 
even  the  present  thinly-peopled  condi- 
tion of  the  country  traversed  by  that 
shock.  While  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
there  is  something  to  fear  from  seismic 
forces  in  our  Pacific  region,  it  cannot 
legitimately  be  concluded,  from  the  his- 
tory of  that  region,  that  the  risk  is 
greater  than  that  which  is  incurred  by 
the  inhabitants  of  the  banks  of  the 
Mississippi  or  the  shores  of  Massa- 
chusetts Bay.  The  year  of  the  Santa 
Barbara  earthquake  brought  an  even 
more  intense  convulsion  to  the  region 


along  the  banks  of  the  great  river ;  and 
'the  records  of  Massachusetts  show  at 
least  one  shock  —  that  of  1755  —  which 
in  violence  was  probably  not  much  ex- 
ceeded by  any  Californian  earthquake. 
The  repeated  warnings  of  the  existence 
of  this  destroying  force  beneath  their 
feet  has  led  the  people  of  the  Califor- 
nian cities  to  build  with  somewhat 
greater  care  than  they  might  otherwise 
have  done.  And  when  experience  has 
taught  them  the  simple  lessons  which 
it  is  necessary  to  practise  in  order  to 
obviate  a  large  portion  of  the  dangers 
occurring  from  these  convulsions,  there 
is  no  reason  why  this  region,  despite 
the  frequent  light  shocks  to  which  it  is 
subject,  may  not  enjoy  as  happy  immu- 
nity from  their  worst  effects  as  any  por- 
tion of  the  continent  now  occupied  by 
our  people. 

To  the  student  of  earthquake  phe- 
nomena, the  Californian  earthquakes 
have  an  interest  disproportionate  to 
the  magnitude  of  the  results  produced 
by  them.  There  seems  little  doubt 
that  this  portion  of  the  Pacific  coast 
sympathizes  with  the  earthquakes  which 
occur  in  the  Sandwich  Islands.  On 
several  occasions  earthquake  shocks  at 
San  Francisco  have  occurred  on  the 
same  day  that  shocks  have  been  felt 
or  volcanic  eruptions  taken  place  in 
those  islands,  more  than  twenty-five 
hundred  miles  away.  This  is  a  very 
great  distance  for  shocks  of  ordinary 
violence  to  cover. 

In  the  number  of  slight  shocks  which 
are  constantly  occurring  this  region 
coincides  in  character  with  the  western 
part  of  South  America  ;  it  differs  from 
it  in  having  at  least  a  comparative  im- 
munity from  severer  shocks.  There 
are  portions  of  the  great  chain  of  the 
Cordilleras  of  North  and  South  Ameri- 
ca of  the  earthquake  character  of  which 
we  are  quite  ignorant.  Enough  is 
known,  however,  to  warrant  the  asser- 
tion that  this  great  chain,  extending 
from  Behring  Strait  to  Cape  Horn,  is, 
on  the  seaward  side  at  least,  singularly 
liable  to  earthquake  movements.  Al- 
though older  than  the  Himalaya  Moun- 
tains, this  great  chain  of  Andes  and 


:6o 


Is  Marriage  Holy? 


[March, 


Rocky  Mountains  seems  to  be  the  seat 
of  far  more  energetic  formative  ac- 
tion. The  almost  continual  trembling 
of  some  portion  of  the  chain,  the  not 
infrequent  indications  of  elevation  of 
the  coast-line  after  a  severe  shock, 


seem  to  show  that  the  forces  which 
lift  up  mountains  are  still  at  work  be- 
neath this  chain.  May  it  not  be  that 
they  yet  will  give  to  our  continents  the 
highest  as  well  as  the  longest  moun- 
tain-axis of  the  earth  ? 


IS     MARRIAGE     HOLY? 


MARRIAGE,  in  its  obvious  im- 
port, is  a  civic  tie,  enforced  by 
the  magistrate  in  the  interest  of  public 
order.  I,  for  example,  A  B,  am  a 
married  man,  entitled  therefore  to  cer- 
tain civic  rights,  such  as  the  right  to 
found  a  family,  or  call  my  children  my 
own ;  and  exposed,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  certain  civic  pains,  in  case  of  my 
conjugal  unworthiness,  such  as  the 
breaking  up  of  my  family,  or  the  sepa- 
ration of  my  wife  and  children  from  my 
care  and  authority,  followed  by  the 
alienation  of  a  portion  of  my  worldly 
goods  to  their  exclusive  benefit. 

Now  let  us  suppose  for  a  moment 
that  my  conjugal  peace  has  been  inter- 
rupted, but  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house.  That  is  to  say,  suppose  that 
my  wife,  no  matter  how  instigated  — 
whether  by  outward  constraint  or  by 
inward  guile  —  should  be  led  to  the 
overt  disregard  of  her  marriage  vow. 
I  have  a  clear  remedy  by  the  law  of 
course  ;  that  is,  I  am  entitled,  not  in- 
deed to  treat  her  with  the  least  inhu- 
manity or  personal  indignity,  but  to 
be  relieved  of  the  burden  of  her  main- 
tenance and  association,  and  of  all  cov- 
enanted obligation  to  her  in  case  of  my 
ever  being  disposed  to  contract  mar- 
riage anew. 

What  now  will  be  my  action  in  the 
premises  ?  Can  there  be  any  reason- 
able doubt  on  the  subject  ?  Ah  yes,  a 
very  grave  doubt  indeed.  For  mar- 
riage is  not  merely  a  civic,  it  is  also  a 
religious  tie.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  very 
stringently  enforced  by  the  magistrate 


in  the  interest  of  the  family,  that  is,  of 
established  convention  or  decency.  But 
it  is  very  much  more  stringently  en- 
forced by  the  priest  also,  in  the  interest 
of  our  private  manhood  or  character. 
Thus  we  find  ourselves  compelled  to 
view  marriage  both  as  a  secular  tie  in- 
stituted in  the  material  interest  of  man- 
kind, or  with  a  view  to  protect  each 
from  all ;  and  as  a  religious  tie  institut- 
ed in  its  spiritual  interest,  or  with  a 
view  to  protect  all  from  each.  As  a  mar- 
ried man,  accordingly,  I  am  subject  to 
this  concurrent  jurisdictisn,  —  of  human 
authority  on  the  one  hand,  represent- 
ed by  law  ;  of  divine  authority  on  the 
other,  represented  by  conscience.  No 
practical  conflict  announces  itself  be- 
tween these  authorities,  so  long  as  my 
wife  and  I  live  together  in  reciprocal 
amity.  But  the  moment  my  civic  obli- 
gation to  my  wife  ceases  by  her  mis- 
conduct, the  religious  bond,  which  had 
been  hitherto  comparatively  inert,  or 
seemed  indeed  tacitly  subservient  to 
the  civil  contract,  exerts  a  command- 
ing sway ;  so  that  whereas  yesterday, 
perhaps,  I  was  ready  to  condemn  this 
law  of  marriage  for  uniting  me  with  a 
vicious  person,  I  am  to-day  disposed  to 
justify  it  as  holy,  pure,  and  good.  By 
what  spiritual  alchemy  is  this  change 
wrought  ?  The  answer  is  not  difficult, 
and  is  well  worth  our  study. 

The  difference  between  statutory- 
law  on  the  one  hand,  which  has  re- 
spect to  man  as  a  citizen,  and  what  we 
call  "  moral  law,"  or  conscience,  on  the 
other,  which  has  respect  to  him  as  a 


1 870.] 


Is  Marriage  Holy? 


361 


man,  is  mainly  a  difference  of  scope ; 
the  scope  of  the  former  being  to  equip 
its  subject  in  all  conventional  righteous- 
ness, of  the  latter  to  show  him  what  a 
very  sorry  figure  he  cuts  as  so  equipped. 
The  intention  of  the  law  is  to  regulate 
my  outward  standing,  or  the  esteem 
in  which  I  am  held  by  the  community. 
The  intention  of  conscience  is  to  regu- 
late my  inward  standing,  or  the  esteem 
in  which  I  am  held  by  myself.  Law  is, 
for  the  most  part,  positive  or  mandato- 
ry. It  prescribes  certain  duties  which 
I  am  to  do  as  the  condition  of  my  civic 
protection.  Conscience  is,  for  the  most 
part,  negative  or  prohibitory  in  its  op- 
eration. It  sets  before  me  certain  evils 
to  be  undone  or  repented  of.  Thus 
law  aims  to  exalt  its  subject,  or  make 
him  conventionally  righteous ;  while 
conscience  aims  to  humiliate  him,  or 
make  him  ashamed  of  any  righteous- 
ness which  implies  his  superiority  to 
other  men.  The  animus  of  law  is  to 
guarantee  the  rights  of  the  individual 
against  public  encroachment.  It  pro- 
tects me  from  overt  injustice  on  the 
part  of  all  other  men.  The  animus  of 
conscience,  on  the  other  hand,  is  to 
guarantee  the  public  against  all  private 
encroachment.  It  protects  the  inter- 
est of  all  other  men  from  the  invasion 
of  any  secret  lust  or  cupidity  on  my 
part,  whereby  the  common  weal  might 
suffer  damage.  The  law  hedges  me 
about  with  personal  sanctity  to  my  own 
imagination,  and  forbids  the  public 
wantonly  to  violate  my  self-respect; 
and  it  is  only  so  far  forth  that  I  rever- 
ence the  law.  If  it  did  otherwise,  —  if 
it  in  any  way  exposed  me  to  the  cupid- 
ity of  my  kind,  —  I  should  of  course  re- 
volt from  its  allegiance.  Conscience, 
on  the  other  hand,  desecrates  me  per- 
sonally to  my  own  imagination,  by  hedg- 
ing all  other  men  about  with  a  superior 
personal  sanctity,  and  binding  me  under 
pain  of  spiritual  death  to  respect  that 
sanctity.  And  it  is  only  in  this  aspect 
that  I  venerate  conscience.  If  its  aim 
were  manifestly  to  justify  me  as  against 
other  men,  or  exalt  me  above  the 
neighbor,  I  should  revolt  from  its  alle- 
giance. In  a  word,  the  end  of  the  law 


is  myself,  \*  an  individual  righteous- 
ness ;  while  that  of  conscience  is  juy 
neighbor,  or  a  universal  righteousness  ; 
the  aim  of  the  former  being  at  most  to 
guarantee  just  relations  between  man 
and  man,  and  of  the  latter  to  promote 
among  men  a  spirit  of  mercy  or  mutual 
forgiveness. 

This  profound  difference  in  the  scope 
respectively  of  law  and  conscience  (or 
law  human  and  divine)  perfectly  ac- 
counts for  the  change  operated  in  my 
breast  between  yesterday  and  to-day. 
A  new  relation  has  come  about  between 
my  wife  and  myself,  giving  me  a  mani- 
fest legal  advantage  of  her  ;  and  I  no 
sooner  perceive  this  advantage  and 
dispose  myself  to  pursue  it,  than  the 
hitherto  slumbering  voice  of  conscience 
arouses  itself,  and  bids  me  at  all  events 
pause  before  I  determine  on  vindictive 
action.  "Take  time,"  it  says;  "give 
the  question  consideration,  at  least. 
This  poor  wife  of  yours,  whose  con- 
duct deserves,  of  course,  the  deepest 
legal  reprobation,  is  yet  by  that  fact  en- 
titled to  every  good  man's  compassion. 
Look  to  it,  therefore,  that  you  deal 
not  out  to  her  judgment  untempered 
by  mercy,  under  penalty  of  forfeiting 
yourself  a  merciful  regard  when  your 
own  day  of  trouble  comes."  The  read- 
er will  see,  then,  that  my  action  in  the 
case  supposed  between  me  and  my  wife 
will  probably  be  determined  by  the 
degree  in  which  I  shall  have  previously 
harmonized  these  conflicting  interests 
of  law  and  conscience,  or  justice  and 
mercy,  in  my  habitual  conduct.  That 
is  to  say,  if  I  have  habitually  allowed 
both  motives  really  to  concur  in  my 
education,  my  action  will  be  one  way, 
and  if  I  have  habitually  allowed  the 
lower  or  obvious  interest  to  rule  the 
higher  and  hidden  one,  my  action  will 
be  directly  opposite.  In  point  of  fact, 
then,  what  will  it  be?  Will  I  accept 
the  rehabilitation  to  which  the  law  in- 
vites me,  at  the  expense  of  my  guilty 
wife  ;  or  will  I  persistently  reject  it  ? 
The  reader  perceives  that  I  study  to 
keep  the  question  in  the  first  person, 
or  take  counsel  of  my  own  heart  exclu- 
sively ;  for  my  purpose  is  not  to  dog- 


362 


Is  Marriage  Holy? 


[March, 


matize  in  the  least,  or  lay  down  any 
new  law  of  action  for  men,  but  only  to 
illustrate  by  my  proper  culture  a  law 
which  is  as  old  as  God  almighty,  and 
which  yet  will  be  always  as  fresh  as  any 
newest-born  babe.  I  repeat,  then,  how 
shall  I,  A  B,  specifically  act  in  the 
premises  ?  What  practical  obligation 
does  my  conscience  impose  upon  me 
with  reference  to  the  legal  wrong  I 
have  sustained  ?  In  short,  what  atti- 
tude of  mind  does  a  perception  of  the 
inward  holiness  or  religious  sanctity 
of  marriage  enjoin  upon  those  who 
suffer  from  any  of  the  offences  included 
in  the  violation  of  the  outward  bond,  — 
a  vindictive  attitude  or  a  forgiving  one  ? 
I  cannot  hesitate  to  reply  at  once, 
The  latter  attitude  alone.  All  my  cul- 
ture —  that  is  to  say,  every  instinct  of 
humanity  in  me  —  teaches  me  that 
whenever  any  conflict  arises  between 
law  and  conscience,  or  the  interests  re- 
spectively of  my  selfish  and  my  social 
life,  harmony  is  to  be  had  only  by  subor- 
dinating the  former  interest  to  the  lat- 
ter. Thus,  in  the  case  supposed,  I  am 
bound  by  my  culture,  or  the  allegiance 
I  owe  primarily  to  humanity,  and  only 
secondarily  to  myself,  to  absolve  my 
erring  wife  in  the  forum  of  conscience  of 
the  guilt  she  has  contracted  in  the  forum 
of  law.  Of  course  I  cannot  disguise  from 
myself  the  odiousness  of  her  conduct. 
That  is  palpable,  and  will  not  be  dis- 
sembled. Our  conjugal  unity  has  been 
grossly  outraged  by  her  act,  and  noth- 
ing that  I  can  do  will  avail  to  make  the 
outrage  unfelt.  No,  my  sole  debate 
with  myself  is,  whether  I  shall  make 
my  private  grief  a  matter  of  public  con- 
cern, and  so  condemn  my  wife  to  open 
and  notorious  shame.  And  this  is  what, 
debate  being  had,  I  cannot  conscien- 
tiously afford  to  do.  For  the  voice  of 
conscience,  I  repeat,  whenever  con- 
fronted by  that  of  law,  claims  a  su- 
preme authority ;  and  its  fundamental 
axiom  is,  that,  in  all  cases  of  conflict 
between  myself  and  another,  I  give  that 
other  a  preference  in  my  regard,  or  at 
all  events  treat  with  him  on  equal 
terms  ;  so  that  any  pretension  on  my 
part  to  construe  my  legal  right  of  prop- 


erty in  another  as  an  absolute  right, 
or  a  right  underived  at  every  or  any 
moment  from  that  other's  free  consent 
or  living  concurrence,  is  an  outrage 
to  conscience,  and  entails  its  just  rep- 
robation. Thus,  to  keep  to  the  case 
supposed,  when  the  civil  magistrate 
says  to  me,  "Your  wife  has  violated 
the  conjugal  bond,  and  so  exposed  her- 
self to  condign  punishment  at  my 
hands,"  I  shut  my  ears  to  his  invita- 
tion. I  dare  not  listen  to  its  solicita- 
tions. The  awful  voice  of  God  within 
forbids  me  to  do  so,  compels  me  rather 
to  say  to  him,  Get  thee  behind  we,  Sa- 
tan f  In  other  words,  my  conscience 
tells  me,  in  letters  of  living  light,  that  I 
am  here  by  its  supreme  appointment 
expressly  to  interpose  between  my 
faithless  wife  and  the  yawning  death  of 
infamy  which  is  ready  to  ingulf  her. 
The  marriage  covenant  comprehends 
us  both  alike  in  its  indissoluble  bonds, 
and  cannot  be  legally  set  aside  but  by 
our  joint  action.  If  then  I,  on  my  side, 
refuse  any  vindictive  response  to  the 
provocation  I  have  received,  the  law 
has  no  right  to  complain.  And  a  hu- 
man soul,  perhaps,  —  who  knows  ?  — 
has  been  rescued  from  spiritual  blight ; 
for  I  should  be  extremely  sorry  to  com- 
pliment my  own  magnanimity  at  the 
expense  of  the  divine. 

But  if  in  its  legal  aspect  marriage  is 
indissoluble  save  by  the  joint  action  or 
concurrence  of  the  parties  to  it,  in  its 
religious  or  spiritual  aspect  it  cannot 
even  be  violated  without  such  concur- 
rence. I  am  very  sure,  for  example, 
that  my  wife's  affection  would  hardly 
have  wandered  from  me,  if  I  had  been 
worthy  of  her  affection.  She  thought 
me  full  of  worth  when  she  married  me, 
and  how  little  pains  have  I  ever  taken 
perhaps  to  foster  that  conviction  !  Love 
is  not  voluntary,  but  spontaneous.  That 
is  to  say,  I  cannot  compel  myself  to 
love  ;  I  cannot  even  compel  myself  not 
to  love  ;  for  I  cannot  help  loving  what- 
soever is  worthy  to  be  loved.  Of  course, 
the  worth  of  the  object,  in  every  case, 
will  be  determined  to  my  own  eyes  by 
my  own  previous  character ;  but  that 
does  not  affect  the  truth,  that  love  will 


Is  Marriage  Holy? 


363 


unerringly  obey  its  proper  object.  Who 
can  say,  then,  that  my  behavior  in  this 
crisis  may  not  reveal  me  to  the  heart 
of  my  wife  in  a  new  character,  and  fill 
her  with  remorse  and  anguish  that  she 
has  so  grossly  wronged  me  ?  But  how- 
ever this  may  be,  it  remains  wholly  in- 
disputable to  my  own  mind  that,  while 
my  wife  is  alone-  guilty  before  the  law  for 
the  dishonor  done  to  the  letter  of  mar- 
riage, we  have  been  both  alike  guilty 
of  bringing  a  much  deeper  discredit 
upon  it  in  spirit,  inasmuch  as  we  have 
been  content  all  along  to  allow  the 
ritual  covenant  practically  to  exhaust 
and  supersede,  to  our  imagination,  the 
real  or  living  one.  This  is  the  only 
vital  profanation  of  which  marriage  is 
susceptible,  that  a  man  and  woman 
should  consent  to  stand  in  a  purely 
obligatory  relation  to  each  other,  where 
human  authority  alone  sanctions  their 
intercourse,  and  not  the  supreme  hom- 
age of  affection  they  owe  to  infinite 
goodness  and  truth  ;  and  seeing  this 
to  be  true,  I  cannot  deal  with  my  wife 
but  in  the  way  I  proposed  She  and  I 
are  both  very  infirm  persons,  not  only 
by  nature  and  education,  but  still  more 
by  the  fact  of  our  position  in  the  midst 
of  a  hostile  civilization,  envenomed  by 
all  manner  of  selfishness  and  rapacity; 
and  we  have  neither  of  us  the  least 
•equitable  right,  therefore,  to  each  oth- 
er's absolute  allegiance,  but  only  to  each 
other's  unqualified  concession  and  mer- 
cy, any  law  or  custom  or  convention 
whatsoever  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing. I  see,  in  fact,  that  whatever 
legal  defilement  towards  me  my  wife 
may  have  contracted,  I  should  inevi- 
tably contract,  myself,  a  far  deeper  be- 
cause spiritual  defilement  towards  God, 
by  holding  her  to  my  permanent  out- 
ward allegiance,  when  her  heart  refuses 
to  ratify  my  claim.  Thus  as  between 
me  and  my  misguided  wife,  I  dare  not 
cast  the  first  stone  at  her ;  for  while  I 
perceive  well  enough  that  she  stands 
truly  condemned  by  my  natural  mind, 
or  human  law,  1  at  the  same  time  per- 
ceive that  I  myself  must  outrage  my 
higher  or  cultivated  human  instincts, 
and  so  incur  a  far  more  poignant  re- 


buke of  conscience,  by  consenting  to 
press  that  condemnation  home. 

The  sum  of  the  matter,  then,  in  my 
estimation,  is,  that  marriage  is  not  only 
holy,  but  holy  in  a  far  deeper  sense 
than  men  commonly  imagine.  By 
most  persons  the  sanctity  of  marriage 
is  thought  to  be  a  merely  instituted 
thing,  depending  upon  some  arbitrary 
divine  decree.  Others,  more  rational, 
deem  it  to  inhere  in  the  uses  which 
marriage  subserves  to  the  family  tie. 
And  this  is  true,  but  it  is  only  a  part 
of  the  truth.  'For  the  family  tie  itself 
is  not  a  finality.  It  is  only  the  rude 
acorn  out  of  which  that  great  tree  is 
predestined  to  spring,  which  we  call 
society,  and  which  will  one  day  melt 
all  the  warring  families  of  the  eartli  in- 
to the  impartial  unity  of  its  embrace. 
Thus  the  true  sanctity  of  marriage  in- 
heres at  bottom  in  its  social  uses.  It 
is  the  sole  nursery  of  the  social  senti- 
ment in  the  human  bosom.  This  in- 
dissoluble marriage  of  man  and  wo- 
man, which  constitutes  the  family  bond, 
steadfastly  symbolizes  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  race,  long  before  the  intel- 
lect is  quickened  to  discern  or  even  to 
guess  at  the  spiritual  truth  itself,  the 
essential  unity  of  mankind ;  or  that 
complete  fusion  of  the  public  and  pri- 
vate interest,  of  the  cosmical  and 
domestic  element,  in  consciousness, 
which  is  eventually  to  constitute  human 
society,  and  cover  the  earth  with  the 
dew  and  fragrance  of  heaven.  I  beg 
to  be  distinctly  understood.  I  say  that 
marriage,  though  it  seems  to  be  fast 
disowning  the  merely  ritual  or  sym- 
bolic sanctity  which  has  always  at- 
tached to  it  as  the  guaranty  of  the 
family  bond,  is  yet  putting  on  a  much 
deeper  and  more  real  because  spiritual 
sanctity,  that,  namely,  which  belongs  to 
it  as  the  sole  actual  source  and  focus 
of  the  social  sentiment.  Let  us  pause 
here  one  moment. 

What  is  the  social  unit  ?  What  the 
simplest  expression  to  which  society 
is  reducible  ?  What,  in  short,  is  the 
original  germ-cell  which  lies  at  the 
base  of  all  that  we  call  society?  Is  it 
the  individual  man,  or  is  it  the  fam- 


364 


Is  Marriage  Holy? 


[March, 


ily?  Clearly  the  latter  alone.  The 
individual  man  is  only  the  inorganic 
protoplasm,  so  to  speak,  which  goes  to 
subsequent  cell-formation  in  the  family, 
the  tribe,  the  city,  the  nation.  The 
family  itself  is  the  primary  organized 
cell  out  of  which  society  flourishes. 
For  society,  it  must  be  remembered, 
is  exclusively  a  generic  or  race  phe- 
nomenon in  humanity.  It  organizes 
all  mankind  in  indissoluble  unity,  or 
gives  the  race  the  personality  of  a  man. 
Hence  it  exacts  as  a  foundation,  not 
the  individual  man  or  woman,  who  of 
course  are  unprolific,  but  man  and  wo- 
man married,  that  is,  united  in  the  fam- 
ily bond,  or  with  a  view  to  prolifica- 
tion.  And  what  chance  of  unity  would 
exist  in  the  family,  if  its  offspring 
had  not  been  legitimated  by  the  pre- 
vious marriage  of  the  parents ;  that  is, 
if  the  father  and  mother  were  not  equal- 
ly entitled  by  law  to  the  love  and  rever- 
ence of  the  children  ?  Not  unity,  but 
the  most  frightful  of  all  discords,  name- 
ly, domestic  discord,  would  then  be  the 
rule  of  our  tenderest  human  intimacy  ; 
in  fact,  brother  would  so  dominate  sis- 
ter, that  the  weaker  sex  would  sink 
into  the  squalid  and  helpless  servant 
of  the  stronger,  until  at  last  every  ves- 
tige and  tradition  of  that  divine  charm 
of  privacy  which  now  sanctifies  woman 
to  man's  imagination,  and  quickens  all 
his  spiritual  culture,  had  hopelessly  dis- 
appeared. This  is  what  woman  always 
represents  to  the  imagination  of  man,  a 
diviner  self  than  his  own  ;  a  more  pri- 
vate, a  more  sacred  and  intimate  self 
than  that  wherewith  nature  endows 
him.  And  this  is  the  source  of  that 
passionate  self-surrender  he  makes  in 
marrying  ;  of  that  passionate  divorce 
he  organizes  between  himself  and  his 
baser  nature,  when  he  would  call  the 
woman  he  loves  by  the  sacred  name  of 
wife,  or  make  her  invincibly  his  own. 
Thus,  if  marriage  constitute  the  nor- 
mal type  of  the  sexual  relations  in  hu- 
manity, we  may  say  that  the  sentiment 
of  sex  in  man  is  a  strictly  social  and 
not  a  mere  sensual  or  selfish  sentiment, 
and  marriage  consequently  becomes 
the  very  cradle  of  society.  The  dis- 


tinctively generic  or  race  element  in 
humanity,  unlike  that  of  animality,  is 
moral,  not  physical;  is  freedom,  not 
servitude  ;  is  rationality,  not  caprice. 
And  society  consequently,  regarded  as 
exhibiting  the  human  conscience  in 
universal  form,  or  expressing  the  race 
interest  in  humanity,  has  to  do  with 
man  only  as  a  moral  or  rational  being, 
that  is  to  say,  as  he  is  under  law  to  his 
father  and  mother,  brother  and  sister, 
friend  and  neighbor.  Now  the  family 
alone,  in  the  absence  of  society,  pro- 
vides man  with  this  related,  or  moral 
and  rational,  existence ;  so  that  mar- 
riage, as  alone  guaranteeing  the  family 
integrity,  may  be  said  to  guarantee  im- 
plicitly the  integrity  of  the  human  race 
as  well. 

I  am  by  no  means  satisfied  that  I 
have  done  any  too  ample  justice  to  my 
subject ;  but  I  think  I  have  at  least 
made  it  clear  to  the  reader  that  the 
sanctity  of  marriage  inheres  eminently 
in  its  social,  and  by  no  means  in  its 
selfish,  uses ;  in  other  words,  that  its 
purpose  is  to  educate  us  out  of  our  ani- 
mal beginnings  into  a  definitely  human 
consciousness  at  last.  And  if  this  be 
so,  I  am  sure  we  have  small  cause  for 
exultation,  when  we  look  around  us 
and  contemplate  the  awful  horrors 
which  beset  the  institution  in  its  pres- 
ent almost  exclusively  selfish  adminis- 
tration. Taking  the  newspapers  for 
our  guide,  we  should  say  that  marriage 
as  a  legal  bond  had  sunk  so  low  in 
men's  esteem  as  to  have  become  the 
appanage  of  the  baser  classes  exclu- 
sively ;  that  no  one  any  longer  really 
identifies  himself  with  the  outer  cove- 
nant but  some  sordid  ruffian,  steeped 
in  debauchery,  whose  lust  of  blood 
finds  an  easy  victim  in  his  unprotected 
wife,  or  some  fancied  paramour  of  his 
wife.  The  only  original  inequality 
known  to  the  human  race  is  that  of  the 
sexes,  and  marriage  in  annulling  this 
forever  sanctifies  weakness  to  the  re- 
gard of  the  strong,  or  makes  true  man- 
hood to  consist  no  longer  in  force,  but 
in  gentleness.  But  who,  according  to 
our  newspapers,  are  the  men  that  are 
now  most  forward  to  vindicate  in  their 


8;o.] 


Is  Marriage  Holy? 


365 


precious  persons  the  honor  of  mar- 
riage ?  Are  they  not  for  the  most  part 
men,  notoriously,  of  profligate  antece- 
dents, who  are  much  more  disposed  to 
live  upon  society,  as  things  go,  than  to 
live  for  it  ?  And  what  a  stunning  farce 
it  is  that  heaven  and  earth  should  be 
convulsed,  every  other  day,  to  render 
to  such  caitiffs  as  these  what  they  are 
pleased  to  consider  justice !  What 
good  man,  what  man  who  ever  felt 
a  breath  of  true  reverence  for  mar- 
riage in  his  soul,  does  not  abhor  to 
think  of  its  hallowed  name  being  pros- 
tituted to  such  vile  issues  as  these  ? 
It  revolts  all  one's  instincts  of  God's 
goodness  to  suppose  that  any  essential 
discrepancy  can  exist  between  the  in- 
terests of  man  and  man  :  as  that  I,  for 
example,  can  ever  be  really  harmed  by 
any  other  person's  entire  freedom  to 
do  as  he  pleases,  or  really  profited  by 
his  partial  restraint.  For  every  man 
who  thinks  knows  that  absolutely  no 
conflict  of  interests  exists  among  men, 
which  does  not  grow  out  of  some  mere- 
ly instituted  or  conventional  inequality 
to  which  they  are  subject,  and  which 
would  not  instantly  disappear  by  voiding 
such  inequality,  or  releasing  the  parties 
from  each  other's  thraldom.  And  we 
may  as  well,  therefore,  make  up  our 
minds  to  it  at  once  —  for  we  shall  be 
obliged  to  do  so  sooner  or  later  —  that 
any  law  which  makes  itself  the  partisan 
of  men's  divided,  and  not  exclusively 
of  their  associated,  interests  may  call 
itself  divine  if  it  pleases,  but  it  has  no 
real  claim  whatever  to  the  conscien- 
tious reverence  of  mankind.  It  may 
put  on  what  solemn  airs,  and  array  it- 
self in  what  tinsel  majesty  it  will,  no 
one  is  the  least  deceived  by  it,  or  will 
ever  entertain  anything  but  an  inter- 
ested regard  for  it.  Men  will  make 
use  of  it  of  course  to  promote  their 
selfish  or  merely  prudential  ends ;  but 
every  upright  man  will  scorn  to  endue 
himself  in  its  righteousness.  Nothing, 
I  am  persuaded,  but  the  active  influence 
and  operation  of  such  a  law,  professing 
to  adjudicate  between  man  and  man, 
and  not,  as  it  ought  to  do,  exclusively 
between  every  individual  man  on  the 


one  hand,  and  our  infirm  traditional 
civilization  on  the  other,  accounts  for 
the  beastly  lasciviousness,  the  loath- 
some adulteries,  and  bloody  revenges 
which  disfigure  our  existing  manners. 
For  no  man  is  wiser  than  the  commu- 
nity of  men  of  which  he  is  an  atom  ; 
and  if  the  community  tolerate  a  law 
which  distinguishes  between  the  inter- 
ests of  husband  and  wife,  or  makes 
either  primarily  responsible  to  .  the 
other,  and  not  both  alike  exclusively 
responsible  to  society,  then  we  may 
depend  upon  it,  every  man  of  simply 
defective  culture,  much  more  every 
man  in  whose  breast  the  social  senti- 
ment has  been  precluded  by  a  vicious 
life,  will  be  sure  to  take  this  inhuman 
communism  for  his  own  rule  of  ac- 
tion and  see  in  the  law,  whenever  his 
bad  occasion  arises,  not  the  enemy, 
but  the  accomplice  of  his  implacable 
lusts. 

Does  any  of  my  readers  doubt  these 
things  ?  Is  there  any  intelligent  read- 
er of  this  magazine  who  can  persuade 
himself  that  the  interests  of  society, 
in  any  just  sense  of  that  much-abused 
word,  were  involved,  for  example,  in 
any  conceivable  issue  to  the  most  re- 
cent conspicuous  divorce  suit  in  New 
York?  It  is  of  absolutely  no  moment, 
in  fact,  to  our  social  well-being,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  a  very  great  prejudice  to 
it,  that  any  particular  person  should  be 
convicted  at  any  time,  or  acquitted  at 
any  time,  upon  a  charge  of  lying,  theft, 
adultery,  or  murder  ;  and  our  judiciary, 
regarded  as  the  voucher  of  society,  or 
of  a  plenary  divine  righteousness  in 
the  earth,  acts,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with 
sheer  impertinence  in  wasting  its 
strength  in  these  frivolous  perquisi- 
tions. For  what  you  want,  supremely, 
to  do  with  every  man,  is  to  qualify  him 
at  last  for  human  society;  and  how  can 
you  do  this,  save  in  so  far  as  you  gradu- 
ally exempt  him  from  all  allegiance  to 
outward  law,  or  a  law  with  exclusively 
outward  sanctions,  —  those  of  hope  and 
fear,  —  and  accustom  him  instead  to  the 
law  of  his  own  nature,  which  acknowl- 
edges only  the  inward  sanctions,  posi- 
tive and  negative,  of  his  own  unforced 


366 


Is  Marriage  Holy  ? 


[March, 


self-respect  and  unaffected  self -con- 
tempt ?  Pray  tell  me  then,  my  reader, 
what  business  it  is  of  yours  or  mine, 
that  any  man's  wife  in  the  community, 
or  any  woman's  husband,  has  either 
veritably  or  conjecturally  committed 
adultery,  and  should  be  legally  con- 
victed or  legally  absolved  of  that  un- 
righteousness. What  social  right  has 
any  man  or  woman  to  thrust  the  evi- 
dence of  a  transaction  so  essentially 
private,  personal,  and  irremediable  up- 
on the  light  of  day  ?  "  To  assist  them," 
it  maybe  said,  "in  obtaining  justice." 
Yes,  indeed,  the  demands  of  justice  are 
absolute  ;  but  when  did  it  ever  become 
just  that  one  person  should  be  rendered 
simply  infamous  to  promote  the  welfare 
of  another?  On  the  contrary,  it  would 
seem  almost  invariably  that  what  the 
applicant  in  these  cases  craves  is,  not 
justice,  but  revenge  pure  and  simple. 
In  fact,  I  can  see  no  reason,  in  my  own 
observation,  to  doubt  that  Christ's  judg- 
ment, recorded  in  the  eighth  chapter 
of  John's  Gospel,  is  conclusive  on  all 
this  class  of  cases  ;  and  this  judgment 
implies  that  they  who  thus  invoke 
the  public  resentment  of  their  private 
griefs  are  seldom  so  sincerely  averse 
to  the  offence  itself  as  they  are  to  be- 
ing themselves  passively  and  not  ac- 
tively related  to  it.  For  when  we  real- 
ly hate  evil  itself,  and  not  merely  the 
personal  inconveniences  it  entails, 
nothing  is  so  instinctive  to  us  as  com- 
passion for  its  victims.  I  cannot  im- 
agine, for  example,  that  any  man  or 
woman  whose  own  bosom  is  the  abode 
of  chaste  love,  could  ever  be  tempted 
by  any  selfish  reward  to  fasten  a  stigma 
of  unchastity  upon  anybody  else.  The 
existence  of  a  sentiment  so  pure  in 
one's  own  bosom  is  inconsistent  with  a 
defamatory  or  condemnatory  spirit  to- 
wards another  person  ;  must  infallibly 
dispose  one  to  put  the  mildest  interpre- 
tation upon  any  apparent  criminality 
in  another,  to  mitigate  rather  than 
heighten  every  evidence  of  misconduct 
which  to  a  baser  mind  would  afford  a 
presumption  of  guilt. 

But  let  my  reader  settle  this  point  as 
he  may,  I  insist  upon  it  that  the  law,  re- 


garded as  the  earthly  palladium  of  divine 
justice,  is  fast  forfeiting  its  ancient  re- 
nown, by  too  assiduously  ministering 
to  these  cupidities  of  a  frivolous  and 
malignant  self-love.  Society,,  I  repeat, 
has  no  manner  of  interest  in  seeing  any 
of  her  children  justified  or  made  right- 
eous at  the  cost  of  any  other's  perma- 
nent defilement.  What  alone  society  • 
demands  —  and  this  it  imperatively  de- '  ] 
mands  —  is,  that  lying,  theft,  adultery,  £. 
and  murder  be  effectually  done  away 
with,  cease  any  longer  to  characterize 
human  intercourse.  A  true  society,  or 
living  fellowship  among  men,  is  incom- 
patible With  these  hostile  and  clandes- 
tine relations.  And  exactly  what  the 
law,  regarded  as  the  carnal  symbol 
of  such  society  or  fellowship,  logical- 
ly covenants  to  do,  is  no  longer  to  con- 
tent itself  with  exalting  one  man  by 
the  abasement  of  another,  but  to 
scourge  without  mercy  every  instituted 
decency  upon  earth,  which,  usurping 
the  hallowed  name  of  society,  and  reap- 
ing all  its  revenues  from  such  usurpa- 
tion, not  only  permits,  but  actually 
thrives  by,  the  grossest  inhumanity  of 
man  to  man. 

I  beg  my  reader  will  not  misunder- 
stand me.  What  I  say  is,  in  effect, 
this.  The  duty  of  the  judge  who  tried 
the  recent  case  in  New  York  was  doubt- 
less to  enfe.ce  the  letter  of  the  law,  so 
far  as  it  had  been  violated  by  either 
party  to  the  prejudice  of  the  other. 
But  this  was  a  subordinate  duty.  An 
infinitely  more  binding  duty  lay  upon 
him  to  vindicate  the  spirit  of  the  law, 
which  was  all  the  while  so  foully  out- 
raged and  betrayed  by  the  very  trial 
itself,  whatever  might  be  its  literal 
issues.  The  spirit  of  a  law  which  on 
its  literal  side  restrains  men  from  evil- 
doing  is  obviously  a  spirit  of  the  di- 
vinest  justice  among  men,  or,  what  is 
the  same  thing,  of  the  heartiest  mutual 
love  and  forbearance.  And  how  openly 
crucified,  mocked,  and  put  to  shame 
was  this  divine  spirit,  when  the  letter 
of  its  righteousness  was  perverted  to 
the  ends  of  the  basest  selfishness,  or 
even  made  to  echo  the  foulest  spiritual 
hate  and  malignity !  The  husband  in 


87o.] 


A-  Marriage  Holy  ? 


367 


this  case,  like  every  man  similarly 
tempted,  came  before  the  august  tri- 
bunal of  the  law  with  a  bosom  of  the 
deadliest  animosity  towards  the  person 
of  his  wife.  He  appealed  to  the  tra- 
ditional sanctity  which  the  law  enjoys 
in  men's  regard,  not  with  any  view  to 
honor  its  peaceful  and  loving  spirit, 
but  only  to  avail  himself  of  the  power 
which  its  pitiless  letter  gave  him,  to 
crush  his  offending  and  helpless  wife 
out  of  men's  kindly  sympathy  and  re- 
membrance ;  thus  displaying  a  spiritual 
turpitude  beside  which  any  probable 
amount  of  literal  evil-doing  seems  to 
me  almost  white  and  clean  ;  for  at  the 
worst  these  things  never  have  the  ef- 
frontery to  demand  a  legal  justifica- 
tion. And  yet  the  judge  who  tried 
the  cause,  who  sat  there  only  to  avouch 
the  honor  of  the  law,  had  not  a  word 
to  say  in  behalf  of  its  prostituted 
majesty,  not  a  word  in  rebuke  of 
the  flagrant  hypocrisy  which  appealed 
to  its  majesty  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  glut  a  base  personal  lust  of 
vengeance  ! 

Of  course  no  one  can  harbor  any 
personal  ill-will  towards  the  complain- 
ant in  the  case.  On  the  contrary,  he  is 
entitled  to  every  man's  unfeigned  com- 
.lion.  He  is  himself  the  victim 
of  a  vicious  system,  of  an  unenlight- 
ened public  conscience,  and  has  done 
nothing  more  than  illustrate  its  habit- 
ual venom  ;  nothing  more  than  almost 
every  one  else  would  do  under  like 
provocation,  who  believes  as  he  does 
in  our  existing  civilization  as  a  finality 
of  God?s  providence  upon  the  earth, 
and  cultivates  the  rapacious,  libidinous, 
and  vindictive  temper  it  breeds  in  all 
its  froward  children.  No ;  I  refer  to 
his  case  only  because  it  furnishes  a 
fair  exemplification  of  the  unsuspected 
moral  dry-rot  among  us  which  con- 
ceals itself  under  the  sanctions  of  re- 
ligion and  police,  and  yet  degrades  our 
law-courts  on  occasion  into  foci  of 
obscene  effluence  unmatched  by  any 
brothels  in  the  land.  And  I  have  ob- 
viously no  interest  either  in  these  ex- 
amples themselves,  save  as  they  enforce 
my  general  argument,  which  is  that  no 


possible  discredit  could  ever  befall  the 
administration  of  justice  among  us,  if 
onlv  our  magistrates  would  compre- 
hend the  spirit  of  their  great  office, 
which  is  eminently  a  social  and  not  a 
selfish  spirit  ;  that  is  to  say,  which  is 
never  a  spirit  of  petty  condemnation 
towards  this,  that,  or  the  other  man, 
but  of  the  freest,  frankest  justification 
of  all  mankind.  I  have  not  the  least 
intention,  of  course,  to  hint  that  the  law 
has  not  always  been  stanch  at  bottom 
to  the  interests  of  human  society,  as 
society  has  been  hitherto  constituted. 
All  I  want  to  say  is,  that  society  is 
getting  to  mean,  now,  something  very 
different  from  what  it  has  ever  before 
meant.  It  has  all  along  meant  an  in- 
stituted or  conventional  order  among 
men,  and  this  order  was  to  be  main- 
tained at  whatever  cost  to  the  indi- 
vidual man ;  if  need  be,  at  the  cost 
of  his  utmost  physical  and  moral  deg- 
radation. People  no  longer  put  this 
extravagant  estimate  upon  our  civic 
organization.  Our  existing  civilization 
seems  now  very  dear  at  that  costly 
price.  Society,  in  short,  is  beginning  to 
claim  interests  essentially  repugnant  to 
those  of  any  established  order.  It  ut- 
terly refuses  to  be  identified  with  any 
mere  institutions,  however  convention- 
ally sacred,  and  claims  to  be  a  plenary 
divine  righteousness  in  our  very  nature. 
The  critical  moment  of  destiny  seems 
to  be  approaching,  the  day  of  justice 
and  judgment  for  which  the  world  has 
been  so  long  agonizing  in  prayer,  a  day 
big  with  wrath  against  every  interest 
of  man  which  is  organized  upon  the 
principle  of  his  inequality  with  his 
brother,  and  full  of  peace  to  every  in- 
terest established  upon  their  essential 
fellowship.  Every  day  an  increasing 
number  of  persons  reject  our  cruel  civil- 
ization as  a  finality  of  God's  providence 
upon  earth.  Every  day  burns  the  con- 
viction deeper  in  men's  bosoms,  that 
there  is  no  life  of  man  on  earth  so 
poor  and  abject,  whose  purification  an  i 
sanctification  are  not  an  infinitely  near- 
er and  dearer  object  to  the  heart  of 
( ;od  than  the  welfare  ef  any  Paris,  any 
London,  any  New  York  extant.  And 


;68 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic. 


[March, 


this  rising  preponderance  of  the  human 
sentiment  in  consciousness  over  the 
personal  one  is  precisely  what  ac- 
counts for  the  growing  disrespect  into 
which  our  legal  administration  is  fall- 


ing, and  precisely  what  it  must  try  to 
mould  itself  upon,  if  it  would  recover 
again  the  lost  ground  to  which  its  fidel- 
ity to  the  old  ideas  is  constantly  sub- 
jecting it. 


HOPES  OF  A  SPANISH  REPUBLIC. 


MADRID,  January,  1870. 

THE  Revolution  of  September  has 
not  made  the  progress  that  its 
sanguine  friends  had  hoped.  The  vic- 
tory was  so  prompt  and  perfect,  from 
the  moment  that  Admiral  Topete  or- 
dered his  band  to  strike  up  the  hymn 
of  Riego  on  the  deck  of  the  Zaragoza, 
in  the  bay  of  Cadiz,  to  the  time  when 
the  special  train  from  San  Sebastian 
to  Bayonne  crossed  the  French  fron- 
tier with  Madame  de  Bourbon  and 
other  light  baggage,  that  the  world 
looked  naturally  for  very  rapid  and 
sweeping  work  in  the  open  path  of  re- 
form. The  world  ought  to  have  known 
better.  There  were  too  many  generals 
at  the  bridge  of  Alcolea  to  warrant  any 
one  in  expecting  the  political  millenni- 
um to  follow  immediately  upon  the  flight 
of  the  dishonored  dynasty.  We  must  do 
the  generals  the  justice  to  say  that  they 
left  no  one  long  in  doubt  as  to  their  in- 
tentions. Prim  had  not  been  a  week 
in  Madrid,  when  he  wrote  to  the  editor 
of  the  "  Gaulois,"  announcing  the  pur- 
pose of  himself  and  his  companions  to 
establish  in  Spain  a  constitutional  mon- 
archy. The  fulfilment  of  this  promise 
has  been  thus  far  pursued  with  reasona- 
ble activity  and  steadiness.  The  Pro- 
visional Government  elected  monarchi- 
cal Cortes  and  framed  a  monarchical 
Constitution.  They  duly  crushed  the 
Republican  risings  in  Cadiz  and  Cata- 
lonia, and  promptly  judged  and  shot 
such  impatient  patriots  as  they  could 
find.  They  have  unofficially  offered 
the  crown  of  the  Spains  to  all  the  un- 
employed princes  within  reach  of  their 
diplomacy.  It  is  hard  to  say  what 


more  they  could  have  done  to  establish 
their  monarchy. 

Yet  the  monarchy  is  no  more  consol- 
idated than  it  was  when  the  triumvirs 
laid  their  bald  heads  together  at  Alco- 
lea and  agreed  to  find  another  king  for 
Spain.  The  reforms  they  have  incor- 
porated into  the  Constitution  have  not 
been  enough  to  conciliate  the  popular 
spirit,  naturally  distrustful  of  half- 
measures.  The  government  has  been 
forced,  partly  by  its  own  fault  and 
partly  by  the  fatality  of  events,  into 
an  attitude  of  tyranny  and  repression 
which  recalls  the  worst  days  of  the 
banished  race.  The  fine  words  of  the 
Revolution  have  proved  too  fine  for 
daily  use. 

The  fullest  individual  rights  are 
guaranteed  by  the  Constitution.  But 
at  the  first  civil  uproar  the  servile 
Cortes  gave  them  up  to  the  discretion 
of  the  government.  Law  was  to  be 
established  as  the  sole  rule  and  crite- 
rion of  action.  But  the  most  arbitrary 
and  cruel  sentences  are  written  on 
drum-heads  still  vibrating  with  the  roll 
of  battle.  The  death-penalty  was  to  be 
abolished.  But  the  shadow  of  the  gal- 
lows and  the  smoke  of  the  fusillade  are 
spread  over  half  of  Spain.  The  army 
was  to  be  reduced,  and  the  govern- 
ment has  just  asked  the  Cortes  for 
eighty  thousand  men.  The  colonies 
were  to  be  emancipated ;  and  Porto 
Rico  stands  in  the  Cortes  vainly  beg- 
ging for  reforms,  while  Cuba  seems 
bent  upon  destroying  with  her  own 
hands  the  hateful  wealth  and  beauty 
which  so  long  have  lured  and  rewarded 
her  tyrants. 


i  S/o.] 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic. 


369 


Among  the  plans  and  promises  of 
the  Revolution  was  the  abolition  of 
slavery ;  a  few  rounded  periods  in 
condemnation  of  the  system,  from  the 
ready  pen  of  the  Minister  of  Ultramar, 
have  recently  appeared  in  the  Ga- 
zette, and  a  consultative  committee 
has  been  appointed,  but  nothing  re- 
T  ported.  Liberty  of  thought  and  speech 
was  to  be  guaranteed;  but  fourteen 
.  journals  were  suppressed  during  the 
autumn  months,  and  all  the  clubs  in 
Spain  closed  for  several  weeks.  The 
freedom  of  the  municipality  was  a  fa- 
vorite and  most  attractive  idea,  uni- 
versally accepted,  —  an  automonic  state 
within  the  state.  But  great  numbers 
of  ayiintamiaitosi  elected  by  universal 
suffrage,  have  been  turned  out  of  their 
town  halls,  and  their  places  filled  by 
swift  servitors  of  the  captain-general  of 
the  district. 

There  was  pressing  need  and  much 
talk  of  financial  reform.  But  the  taxes 
are  greater  than  ever  ;  the  debt  is  in- 
creased, and  the  deficit  wider  day  by 
day.  If  a  nation  can  ever  be  bank- 
rupt, Spain  is  rapidly  approaching 
bankruptcy. 

Unless  the  situation  changes  for  the 
better,  the  Revolution  of  September 
will  pass  into  history  merely  as  a  mu- 
tiny. 

The  state  of  things  which  now  exists 
is  intolerable  in  its  uncertainty,  and  in 
the  possibility  which  it  offers  of  sud- 
den and  unforeseen  solutions.  With 
the  tardy  restoration  of  individual  guar- 
anties, the  political  life  of  the  people 
has  begun  anew.  The  Republicans, 
as  usual,  form  the  only  party  which 
appeals  to  a  frank  and  public  propagan- 
da. The  other  factions,  having  little 
or  no  support  in  the  body  of  the  peo- 
ple, resort  to  their  traditional  tactics 
of  ruse  and  combination.  The  reaction 
has  never  been  so  busy  as  to-day. 
Emissaries  of  the  Bourbons  are  flit- 
ting constantly  from  Paris  to  Madrid. 
The  old  partisans  of  Isabel  II.,  who 
have  failed  to  receive  the  rewards  of 
treason  from  the  new  government,  are 
returning  to  their  first  allegiance.  A 
leading  journal  of  Madrid  supports  the 

VOL.  xxv.  —  xo.  149.  24 


Prince  of  Asturias  for  the  throne,  with 
a  Montpensier  regency.  This  is  a  bait 
thrown  out  to  the  Union  Liberals,  who 
are  gradually  drifting  away  from  the 
late  coalition.  Don  Carlos  is  watching 
on  the  border  for  another  demonstra- 
tion in  his  favor,  his  young  wife's 
diamonds  bartered  for  powder  and 
lead.  All  the  ravening  birds  of  the 
reaction  are  hovering  over  the  agoniz- 
ing quarry  of  the  commonwealth,  wait- 
ing for  the  hour  to  strike. 

Of  course,  it  is  not  reasonable  to  ex- 
pect that  evils  bred  of  centuries  of 
misrule  can  be  extirpated  at  once. 
But  there  is  a  very  serious  question 
whether,  under  the  system  adopted  by 
the  leading  men  of  Spain,  they  can 
ever  be  reformed. 

In  all  nations,  the  engine  which  is 
most  dangerous  to  liberty,  most  de- 
structive of  national  prosperity,  is  the 
standing  army.  If  it  were  composed 
of  men  and  officers  exempt  from  hu- 
man faults  and  vices,  inaccessible  to 
temptation,  and  incapable  of  wrong,  it 
would  be  at  best  a  collection  of  sting- 
less  drones,  consumers  that  produce 
nothing,  men  in  the  vigor  of  youth 
condemned  to  barren  idleness.  But 
the  army  spirit  of  Spain  is  probably 
the  worst  in  the  world.  In  other  coun- 
tries the  army  is  not  much  worse  than 
useless.  It  is  distinguished  by  its  me- 
chanical, automatic  obedience  to  the 
law.  It  is  the  boast  of  the  army  of 
France,  for  instance,  that  it  never 
makes  nor  prevents  revolutions.  It 
carried  out  the  coup  d^ctat  of  Decem- 
ber, but  it  was  not  in  the  conspiracy 
that  planned  it.  The  army  received 
orders  regularly  issued  by  the  Minister 
of  War,  and  executed  them.  In  1848 
the  army  exchanged  fraternal  salutes 
with  the  victorious  volunteers  ;  but 
took  no  part  in  or  against  the  cincuie, 
except  when  bidden.  But  the  Spanish 
army,  from  general  to  corporal,  is  pen- 
etrated with  the  poison  of  conspiracy. 
With  the  exception  of  the  engineers, 
who  still  preserve  some  spirit  of  disci- 
pline, and  who  call  themselves  with 
proud  humility  "  The  Lambs,"  there  is 
not  a  regiment  in  the  service  that  can- 


370 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic. 


[March, 


not  be  bought  if  properly  approached 
by  the  proper  men.  The  common  sol- 
diers are  honest  enough.  If  turned 
loose  to-morrow,  they  would  go  joyful- 
ly to  their  homes  and  to  profitable 
work.  There  are  many  officers  who 
are  the  soul  of  honor.  There  are  many 
who  would  willingly  die  rather  than 
betray  their  commands.  There  are 
many  who  have  died  in  recent  years, 
because  they  would  not  be  delivered 
after  they  had  been  sold.  But  they 
were  considered  mad. 

This  corruption  of  the  army  is  not 
confined  to  any  special  grade.  Of 
course,  it  is  easier  to  buy  one  man  than 
many,  so  that  colonels  are  oftener  ap- 
proached than  their  regiments.  But  in 
one  of  General  Prim's  unsuccessful 
insurrections,  it  was  the  sergeants  of 
the  artillery  barracks  who  pronounced, 
and  cut  the  throats  of  their  officers. 

It  is  from  causes  such  as  this  that 
the  Spanish  army  has  grown  to  be  the 
most  anomalous  military  establishment 
in  the  world.  Every  successive  minis- 
ter has  used  it  for  the  purposes  of  his 
own  personal  ambition,  and  has  left  in 
it  a  swarm  of  superfluous  officers,  who 
owe  their  grades  to  personal  or  politi- 
cal services,  more  or  less  illegal.  Last 
year  the  Spanish  army  contained  eight 
soldiers  to  one  officer.  Now,  with  the 
enormous  number  of  promotions  the 
present  liberal  government  has  squan- 
dered among  the  supporters  of  General 
Prim,  the  officers  have  risen  to  the 
proportion  of  one  to  seven.  Some  two 
dozen  promotions  to  the  grade  of  gen- 
eral were  gazetted  after  the  suppression 
of  the  late  Republican  insurrection. 

This  is  an  evil  which  goes  on  con- 
tinually increasing.  Every  officer  who 
is  passed  over  becomes  a  beggar  or  a 
conspirator.  The  fortunate  ones  may 
feel  a  slight  impulse  of  gratitude  while 
their  crosses  are  new  and  their  epau- 
lettes untarnished.  But  not  to  adva»ce 
is  to  decline,  is  the  soldier's  motto 
everywhere ;  and  if  advancement  lags, 
they  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  opposi- 
tion charmer,  charm  he  never  so  gross- 
ly. The  government  cannot  complain. 
The  line  of  precedents  is  unbroken. 


There  is  scarcely  a  general  in  Spain 
but  owes  his  successive  grades  to  suc- 
cessive treasons. 

The  government  finds  it  impossible 
to  keep  its  promises  of  the  reduction  of 
the  army  and  the  abolition  of  the  con- 
scription. The  policy  of  repression  it 
has  so  unfortunately  adopted  renders 
necessary  the  maintenance  of  consid- 
erable garrisons  in  the  principal  towns, 
as  long  as  the  question  of  the  monarchy 
is  undecided.  The  re-enforcement  of 
thirty-five  thousand  men  sent  to  sus- 
tain the  barbarous  and  useless  conflict 
in  Cuba  has  so  weakened  the  regular 
regiments  of  the  Peninsula,  that  the 
sparse  recruits  obtained  by  volunteering 
are  utterly  inadequate  to  the  demand. 
So  that  there  hangs  now  over  every 
peasant  family  in  Spain  that  shadow  of 
blind  terror,  —  the  conscription;  and 
every  father  is  learning  to  curse  the  gov- 
ernment that  promised  him  peace  and 
liberty,  and  threatens  to  steal  his  boy. 

When  the  government  has  obtained 
its  army  of  two  hundred  thousand  men, 
—  for,  counting  the  Gendarmerie,  the 
Carabineers,  and  the  Cuban  army,  it 
will  amount  to  that,  —  it  can  be  used 
for  nothing  but  diplomatic  wars  or  in- 
ternal oppression,  and  the  people  of 
Spain  have  had  quite  enough  of  both. 

With  the  provision  of  union  between 
Church  and  State  which  has  been  in- 
corporated in  the  new  Constitution, 
the  government  has  loaded  itself  with 
needless  embarrassments.  Instead  of 
following  the  plain  indication  of  popu- 
lar sentiment,  which  demanded  a  free 
church  in  a  free  state,  the  coalition, 
anxious  to  conciliate  the  reaction,  es- 
tablished the  Catholic  Church  as  the 
religion  of  the  state,  assuming  the  ex- 
penses and  the  government  of  that  com- 
plex and  cumbrous  system.  In  vain 
were  all  the  arguments  of  the  best  jurists 
and  most  sensible  men  in  the  Cortes ; 
in  vain  the  living  thunders  of  an  oratory 
such  as  the  world  has  not  known  else- 
where in  modern  times.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  the  wild  harangue  of  Suner 
y  Capdevila,  who  blindly  took  God  to 
task  for  the  errors  of  his  pretended 
ministers,  the  liberal  speakers  who  op- 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic. 


37' 


posed  the  unhallowed  union  of  Church 
and  State  treated  the  question  with 
the  greatest  decency  and  discretion. 
Not  only  did  they  refrain  from  at- 
tacking religion,  they  respected  also 
the  Church.  After  the  Jesuit  Man- 
terola  had  concluded  an  elaborate  ar- 
gument, which  might  have  been  made 
by  Torquemada,  so  bitter  and  wicked 
and  relentless  was  it  in  its  bigotry, 
Castelar  rose,  and  in  that  marvellous 
improvisation  which  held  the  Cortes 
enchained  for  three  hours,  and  renewed 
the  bright  ideals  of  antique  oratory 
which  our  times  had  come  to  treat  as 
fables,  he  did  not  utter  a  word  which 
could  have  wounded  the  susceptibilities 
of  any  liberal-minded  Catholic. 

The  embarrassments  and  troubles 
resulting  from  this  anomalous  marriage 
of  an  absolute  church  with  a  demo- 
cratic government  have  become  evi- 
dent sooner  even  than  any  one  antici- 
pated. A  large  number  of  bishops, 
and  among  these  the  most  prominent, 
are  in  open  contumacy.  They  treat 
the  orders  of  the  Minister  of  Grace  and 
Justice  with  loud  and  obstreperous  con- 
tempt. They  fomented  and  assisted  as 
far  as  possible  the  Carlist  risings  of  last 
summer.  A  considerable  number  have 
left  the  kingdom,  in  defiance  of  the 
order  of  the  Ministry.  The  engage- 
ment which  the  government  assumed  to 
pay  them  their  salaries  is  the  cause  of 
much  of  this  insolence.  The  treasury 
is  empty,  and  the  clergy  think  they 
should  at  least  have  the  privilege  of 
despising  the  government  while  wait- 
ing for  their  pay. 

It  is  easy  to  see  what  the  state  has 
lost,  it  is  hard  to  see  what  it  has 
gained,  by  this  ill-considered  league 
with  the  church. 

The  centralized  administration  of  the 
government,  which  took  its  rise  in  the 
early  days  of  the  Bourbon  domination, 
and  has  been  growing  steadily  worse 
ever  since,  is  fatal  to  the  development 
of  a  healthy  political  life.  A  vast 
horde  of  office-holders  is  scattered  over 
the  kingdom,  whose  only  object  is  to 
please  their  patrons  at  Madrid.  The 
capital  is  necessarily  filled  with  a 


time-serving  population.  Madrid,  like 
Washington,  is  a  capital  and  nothing 
else.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  any 
vigorous  vitality  of  principle  should 
exist  in  such  a  town.  But  the  serious 
evil  is,  that  all  Spain  is  made  tributary 
to  the  petty  policy  of  personal  interests 
which  rules,  for  the  time  being,  at  the 
capital.  The  government  being  omni- 
present in  the  provinces,  public  works 
of  the  plainest  utility  are  made  subordi- 
nate to  the  demands  of  party.  When 
a  leading  man  in  a  distant  region  grows 
clamorous  as  to  the  wants  of  his  prov- 
ince, he  is  quietly  brought  to  Madrid 
and  provided  for.  The  elections,  so 
far,  have  been  mere  mockeries  of  uni- 
versal suffrage.  The  numbers  of  Re- 
publican deputies  and  town  councils  is 
truly  wonderful,  in  view  of  the  constant 
government  interference. 

The  ill  effects  of  this  corrupt  and 
centralized  administration  is  seen  in 
nothing  more  clearly  than  in  the  bad 
state  of  the  finances.  Enormous  taxes 
are  yearly  imposed  ;  with  great  inequal- 
ity and  injustice  of  distribution,  it  is 
true,  but  sufficient  in  quantity  to  answer 
all  the  demands  of  the  state.  But,  in- 
stead of  collecting  them,  the  revenue 
officers  seem  to  consider  them  legiti- 
mate capital  for  investment  and  specu- 
lation. The  people,  knowing  this,  are 
worse  than  indifferent,  they  are  abso- 
lutely hostile,  to  the  collection  of  the  im- 
posts. There  is  a  continual  selfish  strife 
between  them  and  the  tax-gatherers,  — 
the  one  to  avoid  paying,  the  other  to  fill 
their  own  pockets.  Hence  results  the 
constant  deficit,  the  chronic  marasmus, 
of  the  treasury.  The  nation  is  in  a  finan- 
cial phthisis.  It  is  not  nourished  by 
its  revenues. 

Tkese  evils,  and  the  bad  traditions 
of  centuries  of  misgovernment,  have 
brought  the  masses  of  the  Spanish 
people  to  the  condition  of  political  5n- 
differentism,  which  Buckle  doubtless  re- 
ferred to  when  he  called  Spain  a  "  tor- 
pid mass."  This  is  a  condition  most 
favorable  to  the  easy  operation  of  those 
schemes  of  cabinet  intrigue  and  garri- 
son conspiracy  which  have  been  for  so 
many  years  the  favorite  machinery  of 


372 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic. 


[March, 


Spanish  politicians.  But  it  is  a  state 
of  things  incompatible  with  that  robust 
public  activity  to  which  the  spirit  of 
the  age  now  invites  all  civilized  peo- 
ples. In  the  opinion  of  all  those  who 
believe,  as  we  do,  in  the  political  pro- 
gress of  the  world,  it  is  a  situation  which 
should  not  and  cannot  endure.  It  is, 
therefore,  the  pressing  duty  of  the  hour 
for  the  statesmen  of  Spain  to  decide 
upon  the  best  means  of  reforming  it. 

Most  Americans  will  agree  with  those 
thoughtful  liberals  of  the  Peninsula, 
who  hold  that  this  reformation  is  im- 
possible through  the  monarchy. 

A  king,  brought  in  by  the  existing 
coalition,  would  be  worse  than  power- 
less to  abolish  these  old  abuses.  He 
would  need  them  all  to  consolidate  his 
rule  on  the  old  iniquitous  foundations 
of  force  and  selfishness.  He  would 
not  dare  dismiss  the  army  nor  alienate 
its  officers.  He  would  flatter  and  buy 
as  of  old.  He  would  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  greedy  and  imperious  priesthood, 
in  spite  of  all  possible  good  intentions. 
He  could  not  deprive  himself  of  the 
support  these  logical  partisans  of  di- 
vine right  could  give  him  in  every  city 
and  hamlet  of  the  kingdom.  There 
would  be  under  his  reign  no  chance  for 
decentralization.  How  could  he  be  ex- 
pected to  strip  himself,  in  the  newness 
and  uncertainty  of  his  tenure  of  power,  of 
this  enormous  influence  and  patronage  ? 

There  is  not  enough  virtue  or  in- 
tegrity of  purpose  in  any  of  the  old 
parties  of  Spain  to  take  charge  of  the 
monarch  and  lead  him  on  in  the  path 
of  patriotic  reform.  They  would  be 
chiefly  busied,  as  they  are  now,  in 
fighting  for  the  spoils  and  watching 
each  other.  The  Moderados  are  worn 
out  and  superannuated.  The  Union 
Liberal  is  a  tattered  harlequin's  coat,  — 
nothing  left  of  the  original  stuff.  The 
Progresistas  have  done  good  and  glori- 
ous work  in  the  past ;  their  leader,  Prim, 
has  often  deserved  well  of  the  common- 
wealth ;  but  the  party  has  fallen  into 
complete  decadence,  under  the  baleful 
personality  of  its  captain.  He  has  ab- 
sorbed, not  only  his  own  party,  but  also 
the  so-called  Democratic,  fusing  the 


two  into  one,  which,  in  these  last  weeks, 
has  begun  to  be  called  the  Radical  par- 
ty. The  Duke  of  Seville,  wittiest  of 
the  Bourbons  since  Henry  IV.,  and  an 
ardent  Republican,  by  the  way,  said  the 
other  day :  "  The  point  where  all  these 
parties  agree  is,  '  the  people  is  an  ass  ; 
let  us  jump  on  and  ride':  the  point 
where  they  differ  is  the  color  of  the 
saddle." 

So  powerful  has  this  mutual  jealousy 
already  become,  that  the  members  of 
the  Liberal  Union  have  withdrawn 
from  the  Cabinet,  at  the  first  mention 
of  the  name  of  the  Duke  of  Genoa; 
unwilling  to  remain  in  the  government 
to  assist  in  the  enthronement  of  a  king 
not  brought  forward  by  themselves.  It 
needs  little  sagacity  to  foresee  the 
swarm  of  secret  intrigues  and  cabals 
that  would  spring  into  life  from  the 
moment  when  the  new  and  strange 
monarch  took  up  his  abode  in  that 
marble  fortress  of  Philip  V.  The  old 
story  would  be  at  once  renewed,  with 
daily  variations,  of  barrack-plots,  scan- 
dals of  the  back  stairs,  and  treasons  of 
the  Camarilla.  The  questions  of  na- 
tional policy  would  at  once  sink  into 
the  background,  and  ministers  of  state 
would  again  be  seen  waiting  in  the  an- 
techambers of  grooms  and  confessors. 

That  these  abuses  and  this  apathetic 
condition  of  the  public  conscience  could 
not  coexist  with  the  republic  is  unde- 
niable. The  very  name  is  a  declara- 
tion of  war  against  the  permanent  army, 
the  state  church,  the  centralized  sys- 
tem of  administration.  It  is  for  this 
very  reason  that  so  many  doubt  if  it 
be  possible  to  found  the  republic  in 
Spain.  The  system  in  possession  is 
so  formidable,  that  to  most  observers  it 
has  seemed  impregnable.  The  only 
question  asked  in  Spain  and  in  the 
world  is,  not  whether  the  republic  is 
needed  there,  but  whether  it  is  possi- 
ble. All  liberal  people  agree  that,  if  it 
could  be  attained,  it  would  be  a  great 
and  beneficent  thing. 

Some  eighty  deputies  and  several 
hundred  thousand  voting  men  in  Spain 
want  the  republic  to-day.  They  are 
willing  to  work  and  suffer  for  it,  and 


Spanish  Republic. 


373 


many  have  shown  that  they  counted  it 
a  light  matter  to  die  for  it.  A  large 
number  of  journals  preach  the  repub- 
lic every  day  to  a  vast  and  constantly 
widening  circle  of  readers.  The  Repub- 
licans, recently  freed  from  the  crush- 
ing pressure  of  the  temporary  dictator- 
ship, have  gone  so  actively  to  work, 
that  they  seem  the  only  men  in  Spain 
who  are  interested  in  the  situation. 
The  Republican  minority  in  the  Cortes 
is  so  far  superior  to  any  equal  num- 
ber of  the  majority,  in  earnestness 
and  energy,  that  when  they  retired 
for  a  few  weeks  from  the  Chamber, 
on  the  suspension  of  individual  guar- 
anties, the  Chamber  seemed  struck 
suddenly  by  the  hand  of  death.  The 
benches  of  the  government  deputies 
were  deserted,  the  galleries  were 
empty.  It  was  impossible  to  find  a 
quorum  present  on  any  clay  for  the 
voting  of  necessary  laws.  But  on  the 
clay  the  Republicans  returned  every 
member  was  in  his  seat,  and  the  list- 
less Madrilenos  waited  for  hours  in 
the  street  to  get  standing-room  in 
the  galleries.  Their  bitterest  enemies 
seemed  glad  to  see  them  back.  There 
was  an  irresistible  attraction  in  their 
warm  and  frank  enthusiasm. 

To  this  eager  and  earnest  propagan- 
da the  Monarchists  seem  ready  to  op- 
pose nothing  but  the  old-school  politics 
of  enigma  and  cabal.  They  content 
themselves  with  saying  the  repub- 
lic is  impossible.  They  never  com- 
bat its  principles.  After  a  masterly 
exposition  of  the  advantages  of  the 
republic  and  the  defects  of  the  mon- 
archy to  supply  the  pressing  needs  of 
Spain,  a  minister  of  the  government 
rises  and  says  the  people  of  Spain  do 
not  want  a  republic,  it  will  be  years 
before  a  republic  can  be  established 
in  Spain.  If  driven  into  an  argument, 
they  usually  say  no  more  than  that,  if 
the  republic  came,  it  would  not  stay, 
and  then  they  point  to  Greece  and 
Rome  and  other  transitory  republics. 
It  is  this  feebleness  of  response  which 
is  more  convincing  than  the  vigor  of 
the  attack.  They  say  a  majority  of 
Spaniards  are  not  Republicans.  This 


is  probably  true.  A  majority  of  Span- 
iards are  indifferent,  and  vote  with  the 
government  for  the  time  being.  But 
the  republic  is  making  a  most  ener- 
getic and  serious  propaganda.  It  ap- 
pears, after  wild  and  useless  revolt  and 
bloodshed,  to  have  settled  down  to  a 
quiet  and  legal  contest  in  the  field  of 
polemic  discussion.  It  is  making  con- 
verts every  day,  and,  by  the  dynamic 
power  that  lies  in  a  live  principle,  every 
man  is  worth  as  much  again  as  a  tepid 
advocate  of  the  monarchy. 

One  reason  of  the  enormous  advan- 
tage which  the  Republican  orators  pos- 
sess in  debate  is,  that  the  partisans  of 
the  monarchy  are  placed  in  a  false  po- 
sition. They  dare  not  say  in  public 
what  they  say  in  private,  —  that  Span- 
iards are  too  ignorant  and  too  violent 
for  a  republic.  They  shrink  instinc- 
tively from  thus  libelling  their  country 
and  indirectly  glorifying  the  institution 
they  oppose.  This  is  a  disadvantage 
which  weighs  heavily  upon  the  reac- 
tionists all  over  the  world.  In  the  old 
days,  when  the  dumb  people  was  taxed 
and  worked  at  pleasure,  the  support- 
ers of  tyranny  could  afford  to  argue. 
Even  the  wise  Ouesnay  and  the  virtu- 
ous Turgot,  sustaining  the  social  hie- 
rarchy of  the  days  before  1789,  could 
call  the  laboring  classes  non-producers, 
and  say  that  a  bare  subsistence  was  all 
a  workingman  had  any  right  to  expect. 
But  it  is  an  unconscious  admission  of 
the  general  growth  of  intelligence  in 
the  proletariat,  that  no  man  dares  say 
such  things  to-day.  Gracefully  or  awk- 
wardly, the  working  classes  are  always 
flattered  by  politicians.  And  if  a  states- 
man says  civil  things  to  the  people, 
logic  will  carry  him  into  the  republic. 

It  is  hard  to  deny  that,  if  the  chronic 
evils  which  have  so  long  afflicted  the 
life  of  Spain  were  once  thoroughly 
eradicated,  there  are  special  aptitudes 
in  the  Peninsula  for  a  federal  repub- 
lic. The  federation  is  ready  made. 
There  is  a  collection  of  states,  with 
sufficiently  distinct  traditions  and  cir- 
cumstances to  justify  a  full  internal 
autonomy,  and  enough  common  inter- 
ests to  unite  them  under  a  federal  ad- 


374 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Republic. 


[March, 


ministration.  The  Spaniards  are  not 
unfitted  by  character  for  the  republican 
system.  They  have  a  certain  natural 
personal  dignity  which  assimilates  them 
to  the  strongly  individualized  North- 
ern races,  and  they  possess  in  a  re- 
markable degree  the  Latin  instinct  of 
association.  They  are  the  result  of 
three  great  immigrations,  —  the  Celtic, 
the  Roman,  and  the  Gothic.  The  re- 
public would  utilize  the  best  traits  of 
all  these  races. 

They  ought  to  be  an  easy  people  to 
govern.  They  are  sober,  frugal,  indus- 
trious, and  placable.  They  can  make 
their  dinner  of  a  crust  of  bread  and  a 
bunch  of  grapes.  Their  favorite  luxu- 
ries are  fresh  air  and  sunshine  ;  their 
commonest  dissipation  is  a  glass  of 
sweetened  water  and  a  guitar.  It  is 
not  reasonable  to  say  that,  if  the  power 
was  given  them,  they  would  use  it 
worse  than  the  epauletted  bandits  who 
have  held  it  for  a  century  past. 

Comparisons  drawn  from  the  repub- 
lics that  have  flourished  and  fallen  are 
not  altogether  just.  The  condition  of 
the  world  has  greatly  changed.  We 
are  nearing  the  close  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  whole  world,  bound  to- 
gether in  the  solidarity  of  aspiration 
and  interests  by  a  vast  publicity,  by 
telegraphs  and  railways,  is  moving  for- 
ward along  all  the  line  of  nations  to 
larger  and  ampler  liberty.  No  junta 
of  prominent  gentlemen  can  come  to- 
gether and  amiably  arrange  a  pro- 
gramme for  a  nation,  in  opposition  to 
this  universal  tendency.  It' is  too  much 
for  any  one  to  prophesy  what  will  be 
the  final  result  of  this  great  movement. 
But  it  cannot  well  be  cheeked.  The 
people  have  the  right  to  govern  them- 
selves, even  if  they  do  it  ill.  If  the 
republics  of  the  present  and  future  are 
to  be  transient,  it  is  sure  that  mon- 
archies can  make  no  claim  to  perma- 
nence ;  and  the  republics  of  the  past 
have  always  been  marked  by  prodi- 
gious developments  of  genius  and  ac- 
tivity. 

It  would  be  idle  to  ignore  the  great 
and  serious  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
the  establishment  of  the  republjc  in 


Spain.  First  and  gravest  is  the  op- 
position of  all  the  men  who  have  so 
long  made  merchandise  of  the  govern- 
ment the  hysterical  denunciators  of  the 
alarmed  church,  the  sullen  hostility  of 
the  leading  army  officers,  the  selfish 
fears  of  the  legion  of  office-holders. 
Then  there  is  the  apprehension  of 
feuds  and  dissensions  in  the  Repub- 
lican ranks.  The  people  who  have 
come  so  newly  into  possession  of  a 
political  existence  are  not  as  steady 
and  wise  as  those  who  have  been  vot- 
ing a  century  or  so.  Always  impatient 
and  often  suspicious,  they  are  too  apt 
to  turn  to-day  on  the  idols  of  yesterday 
and  rend  them.  They  are  most  fortu- 
nate in  the  possession  of  such  lead- 
ers as  the  inspired  Castelar,  the  able 
and  blameless  Figueras,  Pi  y  Margall, 
Garcia  Lopez,  and  others.  But  there 
is  already  a  secret  and  smouldering 
hostility  against  these  irreproachable 
statesmen,  because  they  did  not  take 
their  muskets  and  go  out  in  the  mad 
and  fatal  insurrection  of  October. 
There  is  an  absurd  and  fantastic  point 
of  honor  prevalent  in  Spain,  which 
seems  to  influence  the  government  and 
the  opposition  in  an  almost  equal  de- 
gree. It  compels  an  aggrieved  party 
to  respond  to  a  real  or  imagined  injury 
by  some  means  outside  of  the  law. 
Thus,  when  the  Secretary  of  Tarra- 
gona was  trampled  to  death  by  a  mob, 
the  government,  instead  of  punishing 
the  perpetrators,  disarmed  the  militia 
of  that  and  several  adjacent  towns. 
The  militia  of  Barcelona  illegally  pro- 
tested. They  were,  for  this  offence, 
illegally  disarmed.  They  flew  to  the 
barricades,  refused  to  parley,  and  the 
insurrection  burst  out  over  half  of 
Spain.  There  was  not  a  step  taken  by 
either  side  that  was  not  glaringly  in 
conflict  with  the  law  of  the  land.  Yet 
all  this  seems  perfectly  natural  to  the 
average  Spaniard ;  and  we  suppose  if 
the  government  had  availed  itself,  in 
the  circumstances,  of  the  ample  pro- 
visions of  the  law,  it  would  have  fallen 
into  contempt  among  its  partisans, 
much  as  a  gentleman  in  Arkansas 
would  suffer  among  his  high  -  toned 


cs  of  a  SpanisJt  •  Republic. 


375 


friends,  if  he  should  prosecute  a  tres- 
passer instead  of  shooting  him.  This 
destructive  fantasy  the  best  Republi- 
cans are  laboring  to  eradicate  from  their 
party,  while  they  inculcate  the  most  re- 
ligious obedience  to  the  law.  The  Re- 
publican deputies  say,  in  their  mani- 
ȣ  the  24th  of  November,  a  paper 
full  of  the  purest  and  most  faultless 
democracy :  — 

'•  Let  us  continue  in  the  committees, 
at  the  polls,  in  the  clubs,  and  every- 
where, the  education  of  the  people. 
Let  us  show  them  that  they  have  no 
right  to  be  oppressors,  because  they 
have  been  oppressed  ;  that  they  have 
no  right  to  be  tyrants,  because  they 
have  been  slaves  ;  that  their  advent  is 
the  ruin  of  kings  and  executioners ; 
that  the  terror  preached  in  the  name 
of  the  people  can  only  serve  the  peo- 
ple's enemies ;  that  a  drop  of  blood 
blots  the  immortal  splendor  of  our 
ideas  ;  and  that  the  triumph  of  the 
people  is  the  triumph  of  justice,  of 
equal  right  for  all." 

If,  as  we  admit,  the  establishment 
of  the  republic  will  be  attended  with 
very  serious  embarrassments,  it  seems, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  the  foundation 
of  any  permanent  dynasty  in  the  pres- 
ent situation  is  little  short  of  impossi- 
ble. The  year  and  a  half  that  has 
elapsed  since  the  cry  of  "  Espana  con 
Houra^  resounded  in  the  harbor  of 
Cadiz  has  been  wellnigh  fatal  to  mon- 
archy in  Spain.  The  people  have  been 
long  accustomed  to  revolutions ;  it  is 
dangerous  to  let  them  learn  they  can 
do  without  kings.  If  the  Duke  of 
Montpensier  had  been  at  Alcolea,  the 
army  would  have  acclaimed  him  king 
within  an  hour  after  the  fall  of  Nova- 
liches.  Even  later,  with  moderate 
haste,  he  could  have  joined  the  army 
and  made  his  terms  with  Prim,  Ser- 
rano, and  Topete,  parting  the  vest- 
ments of  the  state  among  them,  and 
entering  Madrid  in  the  blaze  of  en- 
thusiasm that  surrounded  the  liberating 
triumvirs.  But  soon  the  conflict  of 
interests  began.  The  Republican  party 
was  born  struggling,  and  received  its 
double  baptism  of  blood.  The  sorely 


perplexed  Provisional  Government  took 
refuge  in  procrastination,  and  the  in- 
terregnum came  in  officially.  For  a 
year  the  proudest  nation  on  earth  has 
been  begging  a  king  in  half  the  royal 
antechambers  and  nurseries  of  Eu- 
rope. A  Spanish  satirist  has  drawn  a 
caricature  of  a  circle  of  princely  youths 
standing  before  a  vacant  throne  over 
which  hangs  the  sword  of  Damocles. 
His  Excellency  Mr.  Oldzaga  begs  them 
to  be  seated.  But  the  shv  strangers 
excuse  themselves.  "  It  is  very  pretty, 
but  we  don't  like  the  upholstery."  The 
citizen  Benito  Juarez  has  taught  even 
the  unteachable. 

If  it  were  simply  the  coyness  of 
princes  that  was  to  be  overcome,  the 
matter  would  not  be  so  grave.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  General  Prim's  'gov- 
ernment can  at  any  time  command  a 
formal  majority  in  the  present  Cortes 
for  any  one  whom  he  may  designate  ; 
and  princes  can  always  be  found  who 
would  not  require  much  violence  to 
seat  them  on  the  throne  of  St.  Ferdi- 
nand. There  is  always  Montpensier, 
infinitely  better  than  any  one  else  yet 
named.  But  the  truth  is,  that  a  pro- 
found impression  is  becoming  manifest 
in  Spain  that  a  king  is  not  needed  ; 
that,  in  fact,  there  is  something  gro- 
tesque in  the  idea  of  a  great  nation 
deliberately  making  itself  a  king,  as  a 
girl  makes  herself  a  baby  of  a  rag 
and  a  ribbon.  A  dynasty  is  a  thing  of 
mystery  and  tradition,  glorious  and 
venerable,  not  for  itself,  but  for  its 
associations  and  its  final  connection 
with  a  shadowy  and  worshipful  past. 
It  requires  a  robust  faith  to  accept  it 
in  our  levelling  days  with  all  these 
adjuncts  ;  but  it  is  too  absurd  to 
think  of  two  or  three  middle-aged  gen- 
tlemen concocting  in  cold  blood  this 
tiling  of  myth  and  glamour,  under  the 
cruel  eyes  of  the  nineteenth  century  .' 

Monarchy  is  dying  in  Spain,  —  which 
is  as  if  one  should  say  that  Islamism 
was  dying  in  Mecca.  Nowhere  in  the 
world  has  monarchy  sustained  so  great 
a  role,  and  nowhere  has  it  played  out 
its  part  so  completely  to  the  falling  of 
the  curtain.  The  old  race  of  kings, 


376 


Hopes  of  a  Spanish  Repiiblic. 


[March, 


Gothic,  Asturian,  and  Castilian,  made 
a  great  nation,  in  the  slow  accretion  of 
centuries,  out  of  strange  and  wavering 
provinces.  In  those  ages  of  the  con- 
querors it  was  natural  that  full  worship 
and  authority  should  be  concentrated 
upon  the  person  of  the  king  and  leader. 
It  was  a  hard,  sterile,  and  destructive 
policy  that  formed  the  modern  king- 
dom of  Spain.  Its  fierce  religious 
bigotry  drove  out  the  Moors,  and  thus 
annihilated  all  scientific  and  progres- 
sive agriculture.  The  banks  of  the 
Guadalquiver  avenge  every  year  with 
fever  and  pestilence  the  wrongs  of  that 
industrious  race  who  could  turn  those 
marshy  flats  into  an  Oriental  garden. 
The  same  spirit  expelled  the  Jews,  and 
deprived  the  Spanish  nation  of  the 
glory  of  the  names  of  Disraeli,  Spinoza, 
and  Manin,  descendants  of  those  quick- 
witted exiles. 

A  worse  spirit  entered  the  monarchy 
with  Charles  V.  and  his  family.  He 
brought  into  the  Spains  the  shadow 
of  the  Germanic  tyranny,  where  the 
temporal  and  spiritual  powers  were 
more  firmly  welded  together  into  an 
absolute  despotism  over  body  and  soul. 
The  mind  of  Spain  was  paralyzed  by 
the  steady  contemplation  of  two  awful 
and  unquestionable  divinities,  —  the 
god  of  this  world,  the  king  for  the 
time  being,  and  the  God  of  the  priests, 
as  like  the  earthly  one  as  possible. 

Then  came  the  princes  of  that  family 
whose  mission  seems  to  be  to  carry  to 
their  uttermost  result  the  inherent 
faults  of  kingship,  and  so  destroy  the 
prestige  of  thrones.  Philip  V.,  first 
of  the  Spanish  Bourbons,  came  down 
from  the  Court  of  Louis  XIV.  with  all 
the  pride  and  luxury  and  meanness  of 
h  Roi  Soleil,  fully  permeated  with  that 
absurd  maxim  of  royal  fatuity,  "En 
France,  la  nation  ne  fait  pas  corps. 
DEtat.  —  c'cst  le  Roi!"  This  was. 
the  family  that  finished  monarchy  in 
Spain,  by  making  everything  subsid- 
iary to  the  vulgar  splendor  of  the 
court.  It  made  way  with  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies  in  vast  palaces  and  pleas- 
ure-grounds. It  corrupted  and  ruined 
half  the  aristocracy  in  the  senseless 


follies  and  orgies  of  the  capital.  Yet 
it  was  not  a  cheerful  or  jolly  court. 
The  kings  were  rickety,  hypochon- 
driac, epileptic,  subject  to  frightful  at- 
tacks of  gloom  and  bilious  piety.  The 
Church  naturally  profited  by  this  to  ex- 
tend its  material  and  spiritual  domains. 
It  revelled  in  mortmains  and  inquisi- 
tions. 

We  must  do  the  Bourbons  the  justice 
to  say  that,  when  they  go  seriously  to 
work  to  destroy  a  throne,  they  do  it 
very  thoroughly  and  with  reasonable 
promptness.  The  Fourteenth  and  Fif- 
teenth Louis  managed  in  their  two 
reigns  to  overturn  the  monarchy  of 
Clovis.  The  Spanish  Bourbons,  in  a 
century,  besides  the  small  thrones  they 
have  ruined  in  Italy,  have  utterly  de- 
stroyed the  prestige  of  the  crown  in 
Spain.  That  the  phantom  of  divine 
right  has  utterly  vanished  from  this 
country,  where  it  was  once  a  living  re- 
ality, seems  too  evident  for  discussion. 
This  appears  in  the  daily  utterances 
of  the  press,  in  the  common  speech  of 
men,  in  the  open  debates  of  the  Cortes. 
In  the  land  where  once  the  king's  name 
was  not  mentioned  but  with  uncovered 
head  and  a  reverent  Que  Dios  guarde  / 
where  liberty  and  property  only  existed 
by  his  gracious  sufferance,  the  Minister 
of  Finance  talks  of  prosecuting  the 
queen  for  overdrawing  her  bank  ac- 
count and  stealing  the  jewels  of  the 
Crown.  The  loyal  faith  and  worship, 
which  from  the  Visigoths  to  the  Bour- 
bons was  twelve  centuries  in  growing, 
has  disappeared  in  a  lifetime,  driven 
away  by  the  analytical  spirit  of  the  age, 
aided  by  the  journalism  of  the  period 
and  the  eccentricities  of  Dona  Isabel. 

The  absolute  monarchy  is  clearly 
impossible  ;  the  constitutional  mon- 
archy is  a  compromise  with  tradition 
unworthy  of  the  time,  and  useless  in 
the  attitude  of  free  choice  where  Spain 
now  stands.  No  decision  will  bring 
immediate  peace  and  prosperity  to  a 
country  so  long  and  systematically  mis- 
ruled. But  the  only  logical  solution, 
and  the  one  which  offers  most  possi- 
bilities of  safety  and  permanence,  is 
the  Republic. 


8;o.] 


Captain  Bens  Choice. 


377 


CAPTAIN     BEN'S     CHOICE. 


AN  old  red  house  on  a  rocky  shore, 
with  a  fisherman's  blue  boat  rock- 
ing on  the  bay,  and  two  white  sails 
glistening  far  away  over  the  water. 
Above,  the  blue,  shining  sky  ;  and  be- 
low, the  blue,  shining  sea. 

"It  seems  clever  to  have  a  pleasant 
day,"  said  Mrs.  Davids,  sighing. 

Mrs.  Davids  said  everything  with  a 
sigh,  and  now  she  wiped  her  eyes  also 
on  her  calico  apron.  She  was  a  wo- 
man with  a  complexion  like  faded  sea- 
weed, who  seemed  always  pitying  her- 
self. 

"  I  tell  them,"  said  she,  "  I  have  had 
real  hard  luck.  My  husband  is  buried 
away  off  in  California,  and  my  son  died 
in  the  army,  and  he  is  buried  away 
uown  South.  Neither  one  of  them  is 
buried  together." 

Then  she  sighed  again.  Twice,  this 
time. 

"  And  so,"  she  continued,  taking  out 
a  pinch  of  bayberry  snuff,  "  I  am  left 
alone  in  the  world.  Alone,  I  say! 
why,  I  've  got  a  daughter,  but  she  is 
away  out  West.  She  is  married  to  an 
engineerman.  And  I  Ve  got  two  grand- 
children." 

Mrs.  Davids  took  the  pinch  of  bay- 
berry  and  shook  her  head,  looking  as 
though  that  was  the  "  hardest  luck " 
of  all. 

"  Well,  everybody  has  to  have  their 
pesters,  and  you  '11  have  to  have  yours," 
rejoined  Miss  Persis  Tame,  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff — the  real  Maccaboy  — 
twice  as  large,  with  twice  as  fierce  an 
action.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
bury  children,  nor  to  lose  a  husband; 
I  s'pose  I  don't;  but  I  know  what  it 
is  to  be  jammed  round  the  world  and 
not  have  a  ruff  to  stick  my  head  under. 
I  wish  I  had  all  the  money  I  ever 
spent  travelling,  —  and  that 's  twelve 
dollars,"  she  continued,  regretfully. 

"  Why  in  the  world  don't  you  marry 
and  have  a  home  of  your  own  ?  "  sighed 
Mrs.  Davids. 

"  Well,  I  don't  expect  to  marry.     I 


don't  know  as  I  do  at  my  time  of  life,"' 
responded  the  spinster.  "  I  rather  guess 
my  day  for  chances  is  gone  by." 

"  You  ain't  such  a  dreadful  sight  old- 
er than  I  am,  though,"  replied  Mrs. 
Davids,  reflectively. 

"  Not  so  old  by  two  full  years,"  re-', 
turned  Miss  Tame,  taking  another 
smart  pinch  of  snuff,  as  though  it 
touched  the  empty  spot  in  her  heart 
and  did  it  good.  "  But  you  ain't  look- 
ing out  for  opportunities  yet,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Mrs.  Davids  sighed  evasively.  "  We 
can't  tell  what  is  before  us.  There  is 
more  than  one  man  in  want  of  a  wife." 

As  though  to  point  her  words,  Cap- 
tain Ben  Lundy  came  in  sight  on  the 
beach,  his  head  a  long  way  forward 
and  his  shambling  feet  trying  in  vain 
to  keep  up. 

"  Thirteen  months  and  a  half  since 
Lyddy  was  buried,"  continued  Mrs. 
Davids,  accepting  this  application  to 
her  words,  "  and  there  is  Captain  Ben 
taking  up  with  just  what  housekeeper 
he  can  get,  and  no  housekeeper  at  all. 
It  would  be  an  excellent  home  for  you, 
Persis.  Captain  Ben  always  had  the 
name  of  making  a  kind  husband." 

She  sighed  again,  whether  from  re- 
gret for  the  bereaved  man,  or  for  the 
multitude  of  women  bereft  of  such  a 
husband. 

By  this  time  Captain  Ben's  head  was 
at  the  door. 

"  Morning ! "  said  he,  while  his  feet 
were  coming  up.  "Quite  an  accident 
down  here  below  the  lighthouse  last 
night.  Schooner  ran  ashore  in  the 
blow  and  broke  all  up  into  kindling- 
wood  in  less  than  no  time.  Captain 
Tisclale  's  been  out  looking  for  dead 
bodies  ever  since  daylight." 

"  I  knowed  it !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Davids. 
"  I  heard  a  rushing  sound  some  time 
about  the  break  of  day  that  waked  me 
out  of  a  sound  sleep,  and  I  knowed  then 
there  was  a  spirit  leaving  its  body.  I 
heard  it  the  night  Davids  went,  or  I 


378 


Captain  Beits  Choice. 


[March, 


expect  I  did.     It  must  have  been  very 
nearly  at  that  time." 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  was  n't  a  spirit,  last 
night,"  said  Captain  Ben ;  "  for  as  I 
was  going  on  to  say,  after  searching 
back  and  forth,  Captain  Tisdale  came 
upon  the  folks,  a  man  and  a  boy,  rolled 
up  in  their  wet  blankets  asleep  behind 
the  life-boat  house.  He  said  he  felt  like 
he  could  shake  them  for  staying  out  in 
the  wet.  Wrecks  always  make  for  the 
lighthouse,  so  he  s'posed  those  ones 
were  drowned  to  death,  sure  enough." 

"  O,  then  it  could  n't  have  been 
them  I  was  warned  of!"  returned  Mrs. 
Davids,  looking  as  though  she  regret- 
ted it.  "  It  was  right  over  my  head, 
and  I  waked  up  just  as  the  thing  was 
rushing  past.  You  have  n't  heard, 
have  you,"  she  continued,  "  whether  or 
no  there  was  any  other  damage  done 
by  the  gale  ?  " 

"  I  don:t  know  whether  you  would 
call  it  damage  exactly,"  returned  Cap- 
tain Ben  ;  "  but  Loizah  Mullers  got  so 
scared  she  left  me  and  went  home. 
She  said  she  could  n't  stay  and  run 
the  chance  of  another  of  our  coast 
blows,  and  off  she  trapsed." 

Mrs.  Davids  sighed  like  November. 
"  So  you  have  some  hard  luck,  as  well 
as  myself.  I  don't  suppose  you  can 
get  a  housekeeper  to  keep  her  long," 
said  she,  dismally. 

"Abel  Grimes  tells  me  it  is  enough 
sight  easier  getting  wives  than  house- 
keepers, and  I  'm  some  of  a  mind  to 
try  that  tack,"  replied  Captain  Ben, 
smiling  grimly. 

Mrs.  Davids  put  up  her  hand  to  feel 
of  her  back  hair,  and  smoothed  down  her 
apron  ;  while  Miss  Persis  Tame  blushed 
like  a  withered  rose,  and  turned  her 
eyes  modestly  out  of  the  window. 

';  I  am  so.  But  the  difficulty  is,  who 
will  it  be  ?  There  are  so  many  to 
select  from  it  is  fairly  bothersome," 
continued  Captain  Ben,  winking  fast 
and  looking  as  though  he  was  made  of 
dry  corn-cobs  and  hay. 

Miss  Pursis  Tame  turned  about 
abruptly.  "  The  land  alive  !  "  she  ejac- 
ulated with  such  sudden  emphasis  that 
the  dishes  shook  on  their  shelves  and 


Captain  Ben  in  his  chair.  "  It  makes 
me  mad  as  a  March  hare  to  hear  men 
go  on  as  though  all  they'd  got  to  do 
was  to  throw  down  their  handkerchers 
to  a  woman,  and,  no  matter  who,  she  'd 
spring  and  run  to  pick  it  up.  It  is 
always  '  Who  will  I  marry  ?  '  and  not 
'  Who  will  marry  me  ? '  " 

"  Why,  there  is  twice  the  number  of 
widders  that  there  is  of  widderers  here 
at  the  P'int.  That  was  what  was  in 
my  mind,"  said  Captain  Ben,  in  a  tone 
of  meek  apology.  "  There  is  the  Wid- 
ow Keens,  she  that  was  Azubah  Much- 
more.  I  don't  know  but  what  she 
would  do  ;  Lyddy  used  to  think  every- 
thing of  her,  and  she  is  a  first-rate  of  a 
housekeeper." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Davids, 
dubiously.  "  But  she  is  troubled  a 
sight  with  the  head  complaint ;  I  sup- 
pose you  know  she  is.  That  is  against 
her." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Miss  Tame.  "  The 
Muchmores  all  have  weak  heads.  And, 
too,  the  Widow  Keens,  she  's  had  a  fall 
lately.  She  was  up  in  a  chair  cleaning 
her  top  buttery  shelf,  and  somehow  one 
of  the  chair  legs  give  way,  —  it  was 
loose  or  something,  I  expect,  —  and 
down  she  went  her  whole  heft.  She 
keeps  about,  but  she  goes  with  two 
staves." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  that  is  so,"  said 
Captain  Ben,  his  honest  soul  warming 
with  sudden  sympathy.  "  The  widucr 
has  seen  a  sight  of  trouble." 

"Yes,  she  has  lived  through  a  <rood 
deal,  that  woman  has.  I  could  n't  live 
through  so  much,  'pears  to  me  ;  but  we 
don't  know  what  we  can  live  through," 
rejoined  Miss  Tame. 

Captain  Ben  did  not  reply,  but  his 
ready  feet  began  to  move  to  and  fro 
restlessly ;  for  his  heart,  more  ready 
yet,  had  already  gone  out  toward  the 
unfortunate  widow. 

"It  is  so  bad  for  a  woman  to  be 
alone,"  said  he  to  himself,  shambling 
along  the  shingly  beach  a  moment 
after.  "  Nobody  to  mend  her  chairs 
or  split  up  her  kindlings  or  do  a  chore 
for  her ;  and  she  lame  into  the  bar- 
gain !  It  is  too  bad." 


1 870.] 


Captain  Bens  Choice. 


"  He  has  steered  straight  for  the  Wid- 
ow Keens's,  as  sure  as  A  is  apple-dump- 
ling," remarked  Miss  Persis,  peering 
after  him  from  the  window. 

"Well,  I  must  admit  I  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  Captain  Ben's  being 
en-a-mored  after  such  a  sickly  piece  of 
business.  But  men  never  know  what 
they  want.  Won't  you  just  hand  me 
that  gum-camphyer  bottle,  now  you  are 
up?  It  is  on  that  chest  of  drawers 
behind  you." 

"No  more  they  don't,"  returned 
Miss  Tame,  with  a  plaintive  cadence, 
taking  a  sniff  from  the  camphor-bottle 
on  the  way.  "  However,  I  don't  be- 
grutch  him  to  her,  —  I  don't  know  as 
I  do.  It  will  make  her  a  good  hum, 
though,  if  she  concludes  to  make  ar- 
rangements." 

Meantime,  Captain  Ben  Lundy's  head 
was  wellnigh  at  Mrs.  Keens's  door,  for 
it  was  situated  only  around  the  first 
sand-hill.  She  lived  in  a  little  bit  of  a 
house  that  looked  as  though  it  had 
been  knocked  together  for  a  crockery- 
crate  in  the  first  place,  with  two  win- 
dows and  a  rude  door  thrown  in  as 
afterthoughts.  In  the  rear  of  this  house 
was  another  tiny  building,  something 
like  a  grown-up  hen-coop ;  and  this 
was  where  Mrs.  Keens  carried  on  the 
business  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  de- 
ceased husband,  along  with  five  small 
children,  and  one  not  so  small.  But, 
worse  than  that,  one  who  was  "  not 
altogether  there,"  as  the  English  say. 

She  was  about  this  business  now, 
dressed  in  a  primitive  sort  of  bloomer, 
with  a  wash-tub  and  clothes-wringer 
before  her,  and  an  army  of  bathing- 
suits  of  every  kind  and  color  flapping 
wildly  in  the  fresh  sea  air  at  one  side. 

From  a  little  farther  on,  mingling 
with  the  sound  of  the  beating  surf, 
came  the  merry  voices  of  bathers,  — 
boarders  at  the  great  hotels  on  the  hill. 

"  Here  you  be  !  Hard  at  it !  "  said 
Captain  Ben,  puffing  around  the  corner 
like  a  portable  west-wind.  "  I  've  under- 
stood you  've  had  a  hurt.  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"O  no!  Nothing  to  mention,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Keens,  turning  about  a 
face  bright  and  cheerful  as  the  full 


moon ;  and  throwing,  as  by  accident, 
a  red  bathing-suit  over  the  two  broom- 
sticks that  leaned  against  her  tub. 

Unlike  Mrs.  Davids,  Mrs.  Keens 
neither  pitied  herself  nor  would  allow 
anybody  else  to  do  so. 

lk  Sho  !"  remarked  Captain  Ben,  feel- 
ing defrauded.  He  had  counted  on 
sacrificing  himself  to  his  symj 
but  he  did  n't  give  up  yet.  "  You  must 
see  some  pretty  tough  times  'pears  to 
me  with  such  a  parcel  of  little  ones, 
and  only  yourself  to  look  to,"  said  he, 
proceeding  awkwardly  enough  to  hang 
the  pile  of  wrung-out  clothes  upon  an 
empty  line. 

u  I  don't  complain,"  returned  the 
widow,  bravely.  "  My  children  are  not 
t cv some ;  and  Jack,  why  you  would  be 
surprised  to  see  how  many  things  Jack 
can  do,  for  all  he  is  n't  quite  right." 

As  she  spoke  thus  with  affectionate 
pride,  Jack  came  up  wheeling  a  roughly 
made  cart  filled  with  wet  bathing-clothes 
from  the  beach.  He  looked  up  at  sound 
of  his  mother's  voice  with  something  of 
the  dumb  tenderness  of  an  intelligent 
dog.  "Jack  helps,  Jack  good  boy," 
said  he,  nodding  with  a  huppy  smile. 

"  Yes,  Jack  helps.  We  don't  com- 
plain," repeated  the  mother. 

"It  would  come  handy,  though,  to 
have  a  man  around  to  see  to  things 
and  kind  o'  provide,  would  n't  it, 
though  ?  "  persisted  Captain  Ben. 

"  Some  might  think  so,'1  replied  Mrs. 
Keens,  stopping  her  wringer  to  reflect 
a  little.  a  But  I  have  n't  any  wish  to 
change  my  situation,"  she  added,  de- 
cidedly, going  on  again  with  her  work. 

"  Sure  on  't  ?  "  persisted  the  Captain. 

"  Certain,"  replied  the  widow. 

Captain  Ben  sighed.  u  I  thought 
ma'  be  you  was  having  a  hard  row  to 
hoe,  and  I  thoughts  like  enough  — " 

What  he  never  said,  excepting  by  .1 
beseeching  glance  at  the  cheerful  wid- 
ow, for  just  then  an  interruption  came 
from  some  people  after  bathing-suits. 

So  Captain  lien  moved  oft"  with  a 
dismal  countenance.  But  before  he 
had  gone  far  it  suddenly  brightened. 
"  It  might  not  be  for  the  best,''  quoth 
he  to  himself.  "  Like  enough  not.  I 


380 


Captain  Beiis  Choice. 


[March, 


was  very  careful  not  to  commit  myself, 
and  I  am  very  glad  I  did  n't."  He 
smiled  as  he  reflected  on  his  judicious 
wariness.  "  But,  however,"  he  contin- 
ued, "  I  might  as  well  finish  up  this 
business  now.  There  is  Rachel  Doo- 
little.  Who  knows  but  she  'd  make  a 
likely  wife  ?  Lyddy  sot  a  good  deal 
by  her.  She  never  had  a  quilting  or  a 
sewing  bee  but  what  nothing  would  do 
but  she  must  give  Rachel  Doolittle  an 
invite.  Yes  ;  I  wonder  I  never  decided 
on  her  before.  She  will  be  glad  of  a 
home  sure  enough,  for  she  haves  to 
live  around,  as  it  were,  upon  her 
brothers." 

Captain  Ben's  feet  quickened  them- 
selves at  these  thoughts,  and  had  al- 
most overtaken  his  head,  when  behold  ! 
at  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road  there 
stood  Miss  Rachel  Doolittle,  picking 
barberries  from  a  wayside  bush.-  "  My 
sakes  !  If  she  ain't  right  here,  like 
Rachel  in  the  Bible!"  ejaculated  Cap- 
tain Ben,  taking  heart  at  the  omen. 

Miss  Doolittle  looked  up  from  under 
her  tied-down  brown  hat  in  surprise  at 
such  a  salutation.  But  her  surprise  was 
increased  by  Captain  Ben's  next  remark. 

"  It  just  came  into  my  mind,"  said 
he,  "  that  you  was  the  right  one  to  take 
Lyddy's  place.  You  two  used  to  be 
such  great  knit-ups  that  it  will  seem 
'most  like  having  Lyddy  back  again. 
No,"  he  continued,  after  a  little  reflec- 
tion, "  I  don't  know  of  anybody  I  had 
rather  see  sitting  in  Lyddy's  chair  and 
wearing  Lyddy's  things  than  yourself." 

"Dear  me,  Captain  Lundy,  I  could 
n't  think  of  it.  Paul's  folks  expect  me 
to  stay  with  them  while  the  boarder- 
season  lasts,  and  I  've  as  good  as  prom- 
ised Jacob's  wife  I  '11  spend  the  winter 
with  her." 

"  Ain't  that  a  hard  life  you  are  laying 
out  for  yourself?  And  then  bum  by 
you  will  get  old  or  sick  ma'  be,  and  who 
is  going  to  want  you  around  then  ? 
Every  woman  needs  a  husband  of  her 
own  to  take  care  of  her." 

"  I  'm  able  to  take  care  of  myself  as 
yet,  thanks  to  goodness  !  And  I  am 
not  afraid  my  brothers  will  see  me  suf- 
fer in  case  of  sickness,"  returned  Miss 


Doolittle,  her  cheeks  flaming  up  like  a 
sumach  in  October. 

"  But  had  n't  you  better  take  a  little 
time  to  think  it  over  ?  Ma'  be  it  come 
sudden  to  you,"  pleaded  Captain  Ben. 

"  No,  I  thank  you.  Some  things 
don't  need  thinking  over,"  answered 
Miss  Doolittle,  plucking  at  the  barber- 
ries more  diligently  than  ever. 

"  I  wish  Lyddy  was  here.  She  would 
convince  you  you  are  standing  in  your 
own  light,"  returned  Lyddy's  widower 
in  a  perplexed  tone. 

"  I  don't  need  one  to  come  from  the 
dead  to  show  me  my  own  mind,"  re- 
torted Miss  Doolittle,  firmly. 

"  Well,  like  enough  you  are  right," 
said  Captain  Ben,  mildly,  putting  a  few 
stems  of  barberries  in  her  pail ;  "  ma' 
be  't  would  n't  be  best.  I  don't  want  to 
be  rash." 

And  with  that  he  moved  off,  on  the 
whole  congratulating  himself  he  had 
not  decided  to  marry  Miss  Doolittle. 

"  I  thought,  after  she  commenced  her 
miserable  gift  of  the  gab,  that  Lyddy 
used  to  be  free  to  admit  she  had  a 
fiery  tongue,  for  all  they  were  such 
friends.  And  I  'm  all  for  peace  myself. 
I  guess,  on  the  whole,  ma'  be  she  ain't 
the  one  for  me,  perhaps,  and  it  is  as 
well  to  look  further.  Why !  what  in 
the  world  !  Well,  there  !  what  have  I 
been  thinking  of?  There  is  Mrs.  Da- 
vids, as  neat  as  a  new  cent,  and  the  mas- 
ter hand  to  save.  She  is  always  taking 
on ;  and  she  will  be  glad  enough  to 
have  somebody  to  look  out  for  her,  — 
why,  sure  enough  !  And  there  I  was 
right  at  her  house  this  very  day,  and 
never  once  thought  of  her !  What  an 
old  dunce  !  " 

But,  fortunately,  this  not  being  a  sin 
of  £w;/mission,  it  could  easily  be  recti- 
fied ;  and  directly  Captain  Ben  had 
turned  about  and  was  trotting  again 
toward  the  red  house  on  the  beach. 

"  Pound  for  pound  of  the  best  white 
sugar,"  he  heard  Miss  Tame  say  as  he 
neared  the  door. 

"White  sugar !"  repeated  Mrs.  Da- 
vids, her  usual  sigh  drawn  out  into  a 
little  groan.  "  White  sugar  for  cravi- 
berries  !  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a 


8;o.] 


Captain  P>ciis  Choice. 


381 


thing  ?  I  've  always  considered  I  did 
well  when  I  had  plenty  of  brown." 

"  Poor  creeter  !  "  thought  Captain 
Ben.  "  How  she  will  enjoy  getting 
into  my  pantry.  Lyddy  never  com- 
plained that  she  didn't  have  enough 
of  everything  to  do  with" 

And  in  the  full  ardor  of  his  intended 
benevolence,  he  went  right  in  and 
opened  the  subject  at  once.  But,  to 
his  astonishment,  Mrs.  Davids  refused 
him.  She  sighed,  but  she  refused  him. 

"  I  've  seen  trouble  enough  a'ready, 
without  my  rushing  into  more  with 
my  eyes  wide  open,"  sighed  she. 

"Trouble?  Why,  that  is  just 
what  I  was  meaning  to  save  you  !  " 
exclaimed  the  bewildered  widower. 
"  Pump  right  in  the  house,  and  stove 
e'enamost  new.  And  Lyddy  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  .want  for  a  spoon- 
ful of  sugar  or  a  pound  of  flour.  And 
such  a  handy  buttery  and  sink  !  Lyddy 
used  to  say  she  felt  the  worst  about 
leaving  her  buttery  of  anything." 

"  Should  thought  she  would,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Davids,  forgetting  to  sigh. 
"However,  I  can't  say  that  I  feel  any 
hankering  after  marrying  a  buttery. 
I  've  got  buttery-room  enough  here, 
without  the  trouble  of  getting  set  up  in 
a  new  place." 

"  Just  as  you  say,"  returned  the  re- 
jected. "  I  ain't  sure  as  you  'd  be  ex- 
actly the  one.  I  was  a  thinking  of 
looking  for  somebody  a  little  younger." 

"  Well,  here  is  Persis  Tame.  Why 
don't  you  bespeak  her  ?  She  is  young- 
er, and  she  is  in  need  of  a  good  home. 
I  can  recommend  her,  too,  as  the  first- 
rate  of  a  cook,"  remarked  Mrs.  Davids, 
benevolently. 

Miss  Tame  had  been  sitting  a  little 
apart  by  the  open  window,  smiling  to 
herself. 

But  now  she  turned  about  at  once. 
"  II m  !  "  said  she,  with  contempt.  "  I 
should  rather  live  under  an  umbrella 
tied  to  a  stake,  than  marry  for  a  hum." 

So  Captain  Ben  went  home  without 
engaging  either  wife  or  housekeeper. 

And  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  Captain 
Jacob  Doolittle's  old  one  -  eyed  horse 
eating  the  apples  Loizah  Mullers  had 


strung  and  festooned  from  nails  against 
the  house,  to  dry. 

The  next  thing  he  saw  was,  that, 
having  left  a  window  open,  the  hens 
had  flown  in  and  gone  to  house- 
keeping on  their  own  account.  But 
they  were  not,  like  Mrs.  Davids,  as 
neat  as  a  new  cent,  and  not,  also,  such 
master  hands  to  save. 

"  Shoo  !  shoo  !  Get  out.  Go  'long 
there  with  you  !  "  cried  Captain  Ben, 
waving  the  dish-cloth  and  the  poker. 
"  I  declare  for  't !  I  most  had  n't  ought 
to  have  left  that  bread  out  on  the  table. 
They  've  made  a  pretty  mess  of  it,  and 
it  is  every  spec  there  is  in  the  house, 
too.  Well,  I  must  make  a  do  of  pota- 
toes for  supper,  with  a  bit  of  pie  and  a 
mouthful  of  cake." 

Accordingly  he  went  to  work  build- 
ing a  fire  that  wouldn't  burn.  Then, 
forgetting  the  simple  matter  of  clampers, 
the  potatoes  would  n't  bake.  The  tea- 
kettle boiled  over  and  cracked  the 
stove,  and  after  that  boiled  dry  and 
cracked  itself.  Finally  the  potatoes 
fell  to  baking  with  so  much  ardor  they 
overdid  it  and  burnt  up.  And,  last  of 
all,  the  cake  -jar  and  pie  -  cupboard 
proved  to  be  entirely  empty.  Loizah 
had  left  on  the  eve  of  baking-day. 

"  The  old  cat !  Well,  I  'd  just  as 
soon  live  on  slapjacks  a  spell,"  said 
Captain  Ben,  when  he  made  this  dis- 
covery. 

But  even  slapjacks  palled  on  his  pal- 
ate, especially  when  he  had  them  al- 
ways to  cook  for  himself. 

"  'T  ain't  no  way  to  live,  this  ain't," 
said  he  at  last.  "  I  'm  a  good  mind  to 
marry  as  ever  I  had  to  eat." 

So  he  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  out. 
The  first  person  he  met  was  Miss 
I*ersis  Tame,  who  turned  her  back  and 
fell  to  picking  thoroughwort  blossoms 
as  he  came  up. 

"  Look  a  here,"  said  he,  stopping 
short,  "  I  'm  dreadful  put  to  't.  I  can't 
get  ne'er  a  wife  nor  ne'er  a  housekeep- 
er, and  I  am  e'enamost  starved  to  death. 
I  wish  you  'would  consent  to  marry 
with  me,  if  you  feel  as  if  you  could 
bring  your  mind  to  it.  I  am  sure  it 
would  have  been  Lyddy's  wish." 


382 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[March, 


Miss  Tame  smelt  of  the  thorough- 
wort  blossoms. 

"It  comes  pretty  sudden  on  me," 
she  replied.  "  I  had  n't  given  the  sub- 
ject any  thought.  But  you  are  to  be 
pitied  in  your  situation." 

"  Yes.  And  I  'm  dreadful  lonesome. 
I  've  always  been  used  to  having  Lyd- 
dy  to  talk  over  things  with,  and  I  miss 
her  a  sight.  And  I  don't  know  any- 
body that  has  her  ways  more  than  you 
have.  You  are  a  good  deal  such  a 
built  woman,  and  you  have  the  same 
hitch  to  your  shoulders  when  you  walk. 
You  've  got  something  the  same  look 
to  your  eyes,  too ;  I  noticed  it  last 
Sunday  in  meeting- time,"  continued 
the  widower,  anxiously. 

"  I  do  feel  for  you.  A  man  alone  is 
in  a  deplorable  situation,"  replied  Miss 
Tame.  "  I  'm  sure  I  'd  do  anything  in 
my  power  to  help  you."' 


"Well,  marry  with  me  then.  That 
is  what  I  want.  We  could  be  real 
comfortable  together.  I  '11  go  for  the 
license  this  minute,  and  we  '11  be  mar- 
ried right  away,"  returned  the  impa- 
tient suitor.  "  Yoil  go  up  to  Elder 
Crane's,  and  I  '11  meet  you  there  as 
soon  as  I  can  fetch  around." 

Then  he  hurried  away,  "  without  giv- 
ing me  a  chance  to  say  '  no,'  "  said 
"she  that  was"  Persis  Tame,  after- 
ward. "  So  I  had  to  marry  with  him, 
as  you  might  say.  But  I  've  never 
see'n  cause  to  regret  it.  I  've  got  a 
first-rate  of  a  hum,  and  Captain  Ben 
makes  a  first-rate  of  a  husband.  And 
no  hain't  he,  I  hope,  found  cause  to 
regret  it,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of 
wifely  pride  ;  "  though  I  do  expect  he 
might  have  had  his  pick  among  all  the 
single  women  at  the  Point ;  but  out  of 
them  all  he  chose  me." 


REVIEWS    AND    LITERARY   NOTICES. 


Across  America  and  Asia.  Notes  of  a  Five 
Years'  Journey  around  the  World,  and 
of  Residence  in  Arizona,  Japan,  and 
China.  By  RAPHAEL  PUMPELLY.  New 
York  :  Leypoldt  and  Holt. 

Ix  the  autumn  of  1860  Mr.  Pumpelly 
left  civilized  lands  for  Arizona,  as  he  tells 
us,  on  the  front  seat  of  a  laboring  and 
heavy-laden  stage-coach,  his  next  compan- 
ion a  Missouri  ruffian,  armed  with  bowie- 
knife  and  revolver.  The  journey  begun 
under  these  rather  depressing  auspices  was 
not  destined  to  be  enlivened  by  cheering 
or  reassuring  circumstances.  In  passing 
through  Northeastern  Texas,  the  passengers 
were  awakened  one  morning  by  a  party  of 
"  regulators,"  in  quest  of  a  man  who  had 
just  committed  a  murder  at  a  town  a  few 
miles  in  the  rear.  "  He  is  a  tall  fellow, 
with  blue  eyes  and  a  red  beard,"  said  the 
spokesman  of  this  band.  "  So,  if  you  have 
got  him  in  there,  stranger,  you  need  n't  tote 
him  any  farther,  for  the  branch  of  a  mesquit- 
tree  is  strong  enough  for  his  nesk."  Mr. 
Pumpelly,  possessing  all  the  attributes 


enumerated,  naturally  did  not  regard  the 
situation  as  amusing  or  consoling.  After 
sixteen  days  and  nights  of  continuous  bump- 
ing and  jolting,  Mr.  Pumpelly  became  de- 
lirious from  want  of  sleep,  and  finally  lapsed 
into  unconsciousness.  Being  awakened  by 
a  pistol-shot,  he  found  himself  on  the  floor 
of  a  crowded  room,  where  two  or  three 
dozen  ruffians  were  quarrelling  over  their 
cards. 

These  little  incidents  were  a  foretaste  of 
what  was  to  come,  and  illustrate,  as  by 
the  merest  hint,  the  state  of  social  anarchy 
by  which  our  Southwestern  frontier  was 
disgraced  ten  years  ago.  Mr.  Pumpelly 
visited  Arizona  at  a  time  when  the  restraint 
exercised  by  the  community  over  the  indi- 
vidual was  even  more  than  ordinarily  re- 
laxed, on  account  of  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Rebellion,  the  withdrawal  of  troops,  and 
the  consequent  unchecked  incursions  of  the 
Indians.  The  state  of  things  which  he 
describes  is  a  state  of  absolute  and  fero- 
cious anarchy.  Every  man's  revolver  was 
against  every  other  man.  The  Apaches, 
turning  out  in  large  numbers,  butchered 


and  Literary  Notices. 


the  whites  wherever  they  could  find  them, 
even  skulking  in  the  bushes  near  the  mines, 
and  shooting  the  workmen  by  the  light  of 
the  tun  i  he  Mexican  peons,  or 

workmen,  frequently  arose  and  massacred 
their  American  superintendents,  carrying 

uch  ore  as  they  found  means  of 
transporting.  But  the  lowest  depths  of 
crime  seem  to  have  been  reserved  for  the 
Americans  themselves  to  sound.  One  des- 
perado, met  by  Mr.  Pumpelly,  kept  a  string 
of  eighteen  pairs  of  ears  taken  from  his 
victims,  which  he  appears  to  have  gloried 
in  as  an  Apache  would  glory  in  a  bundle 
of  scalps.  He  boasted  that  he  would  in- 
crease the  number  to  twenty-five  ;  but 
he  had  attained  this  goal  of  his 
ambition  the  hand  of  Nemesis  overtook 
him  ;  he  was  seized  by  his  enraged  neigh- 
bors and  hung  over  a  slow  fire. 

Tt  is  pleasant  to  turn  from  this  dismal  pic- 
ture <>f  frontier  lawlessness  to  the  ancient 
civili/ations  of  Kastern  Asia.  From  San 
Fraiu-isco  Mr.  Pumpelly  proceeded  to  Ja- 
pan, as  mining  engineer  in  the  service  of 
the  Japanese  government.  At  that  time  the 

;i  was    carrying    out,   with  apparent 

,  the  recently  adopted  policy  of 
admitting  foreigners  into  the  empire,  and 
of  appropriating  European  ideas  and  in- 
ventions. All  that  Mr.  Pumpelly  tells  us 
of  tins  remarkable  country  is  no  less  in- 
tercsting  than  provoking  to  our  curiosity. 
\istence  of  the  primeval  patriarchal 
feudalism  in  politics  and  a  wide-spread  feti- 
chis-.n  in  religion,  with  a  notable  progress 
in  civilization,  both  moral  and  material, 
offers  a  new  problem  to  the  scientific  stu- 
dent of  history  ;  and  the  causes  which  have 
preserved  into  modern  times  the  prehis- 
toric structure  of  society,  both  in  this  em- 
pire and  its  neighbor  China,  will,  when 
thoroughly  understood,  go  far  toward  help- 
ing us  to  an  adequate  theory  of  social 

is.  After  a  pleasant  year  in  Japan, 
the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution  which 
has  since  overturned  the  authority  of  the 
Taikoon  obliged  Mr.  Pumpelly  to  leave 
the  country.  The  three  succeeding  years 
were  spent  in  investigating  the  condition 
of  China,  and  in  the  homeward  journey 
across  Tartary  and  Siberia  to  European 
Russia. 

Mr.  Pumpelly  was  enabled  during  his 
stay  in  China  to  acquire  unusually  good 
data  for  forming  an  opinion  on  the  per- 
plexing problem  of  Chinese  emigration. 
After  centuries  of  isolation,  that  vast  pop- 
ulation is  beginning  to  relieve  itself  by 


flowing  over  im<>  th  •  islands  of  the  Pacific, 
into  Australia,  and  into  California.  Should 
this  emigration  continue  with  as  much 
rapidity  as  that  which  has  filled  our 
Eastern  cities  with  Germans  and  Irishmen, 
we  may  expect  to  see  ten  millions  of  Chi- 
nese settled  in  our  coantry  within  twenty 
years.  According  to  Mr.  Pumpelly,  there- 
is  much  to  be  gained  from  this  immense 
and  sudden  immigration,  and  but  little  to 
be  feared,  provided  our  legislation  is  guided 
by  sound  knowledge  of  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  Chinese  people.  Mr.  Pum- 
pclly's  opinion  of  the  Chinese  is  removed 
alike  from  the  ignorant  laudation  and  the 
indiscriminate  censure  which  have  been  so 
freely  indulged  in  by  theorizers  on  history 
and  adventurers  in  politics,  that  the  whole 
question  has  been  made  a  very  puzzling 
one  to  most  persons. 

Mr.  Pumpelly's  narrative  is  interesting 
and  instructive  throughout,  though  many 
persons  unfamiliar  with  scientific  details 
will  perhaps  now  and  then  skip  a  few  pages 
relating  to  mining  operations  and  to  geo- 
logical matters.  He  makes  no  attempt  at 
eloquence  or  fine  writing,  but  his  book  is 
often  eloquent,  and  is  characterized  by  that 
best  kind  of  fine  writing,  which  consists  in 
presenting  concrete  details  picturesquely 
and  forcibly,  with  entire  simplicity  of  state- 
ment. 


The  Primeval  World  of  Hebrew  Tradi- 
tion. By  FREDERICK  HENRY  HEDGE. 
Roberts  Brothers  :  Boston.  1870. 

IT  is  superfluous  to  praise  Dr.  Hedge, 
and  we  have  not  the  space  to  enter  upon 
a  detailed  criticism  of  his  new  book,  which 
does  not,  in  point  either  of  sentiment,  of 
thought,  or  of  style,  fall  behind  any  of  its 
predecessors.  The  great  merit  of  Dr. 
Hedge,  as  a  religious  writer,  is  that  he  so 
well  reflects  the  best  mental  culture  of  the 
time.  He  is  very  careful  never  to  break 
absolutely  with  the  chain  of  sacred  tradi- 
tion ;  on  the  contrary,  he  treats  the  tradi- 
tional faiths  of  the  world  with  tender  and 
scrupulous  reverence.  But  he  interprets 
them  by  so  much  larger  a  light  of  reason 
than  is  usually  brought  to  bear  upon  them, 
that  the  reader  can  hardly  escape  feeling  his 
intellect  greatly  stimulated,  if  not  altogether 
satisfied.  We  suppose,  in  fact,  that  it  is 
Dr.  Hedge's  characteristic  aim  as  a  writer, 
to  quicken  the  mind  of  his  readers  in  the 
direction  of  all  sane  inquiry,  rather  than  to 


384 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[March. 


offer  them  a  fixed  solution  of  our  current 
intellectual  problems.  This  accounts  for 
what  we  may  call  the  tentative  air  of  his 
books,  or  the  habitually  sceptical  attitude 
he  maintains  towards  the  dogmatism  of 
faith  and  the  dogmatism  of  science,  both 
alike. 

His  present  work  is  composed  of  twelve 
chapters,  not  obviously  erudite,  and  yet 
instinct  with  learned  culture,  in  which  he 
deals  gracefully  and  reverently  with  many 
of  the  most  striking  and  urgent  problems 
suggested  by  the  Hebrew  cosmology,  such 
as  "  Creation,"  "  Man  an  Image  of  God," 
"  Man  in  Paradise,"  "  The  Deluge,"  etc. 
And  whosoever,  in  the  absence  of  ability  or 
opportunity  to  pursue  investigations  like 
these  for  himself,  should  yet  desire  to  know 
what  fruits  they  bring  to  cultivated  and 
devout  thought,  may  safely  be  commended 
to  Dr.  Hedge's  beautiful  and  dispassionate 
•essays. 


The  Pope  and   the   Council.      By   JANUS. 
Boston  :    Roberts  Brothers. 

WE  cordially  reeommend  this  book  to  all 
our  readers  who  would  understand  the  re- 
lation which  the  Papacy  sustains  to  modern 
thought,  and  the  designs  which  have  ani- 
mated it  in  summoning  the  GEcumenical 
Council.  The  book  is  anonymous,  but  it 
is  understood  to  represent  a  party  in  the 
Church  who  are  tired  of  its  reactionary  ten- 
dencies, and  who  seek,  with  the  aids  of  a 
copious  erudition  and  a  great  force  of 
reasoning,  to  arouse  the  faithful  to  a  dis- 
cernment of  the  downfall  which  the  Jesuit 
influence  is  preparing  for  the  Church  by 
thus  reducing  it  to  rational  and  spiritual 
idiocy.  Protestants  chuckle  with  undis- 
sembled  joy  at  the  tokens  of  decrepitude 
in  the  Romish  hierarchy,  and  would  dislike 
nothing  more  than  to  see  the  CEcumenical 
Council  seriously  pondering  the  anomaly 
and  contradiction  which  the  Papacy  pre- 
sents to  the  life  of  society,  or  the  march  of 
God's  providence  upon  earth,  and  doing  its 
best  to  soften  them.  But  what  is  thus  a 
delight  to  the  Protestant  is  very  grievous 
to  the  devout  but  enlightened  Catholic ; 
and  it  is  well  worth  one's  while  to  read  this 
book,  if  only  to  see  how  a  zealous  belief  in 
the  Church  may  coexist  with  an  intelligent 
contempt  for  the  childish  superstitions  into 
which  it  is  now  plunging.  It  is  really  very 
curious  that  a  book  of  this  searching  char- 


acter should  have  come  out  of  the  Church 
itself,  and  should  express  the  views  of  a  con- 
siderable party  in  the  Church.  "  To  us,"  say 
the  writers,  "the  Catholic  Church  and  the 
Papacy  are  by  no  means  convertible  terms  ; 
and  therefore,  while  in  outward  communion 
with  them,  we  are  inwardly  separated  by  a 
great  gulf  from  those  whose  ideal  of  the 
Church  is  a  universal  empire  spiritually,  — 
and  where  it  is  possible  physically,  —  ruled 
by  a  single  monarch,  an  empire  of  force 
and  oppression,  where  the  spiritual  author- 
ity is  aided  by  the  secular  arm  in  summarily 
suppressing  every  movement  it  dislikes." 
"  We  are  of  opinion,  first,  that  the  Catholic 
Church,  far  from  assuming  a  hostile  and 
suspicious  attitude  towards  the  principles 
of  political,  intellectual,  and  religious  free- 
dom and  independence  of  judgment,  in  so 
far  as  they  are  capable  of  a  Christian  inter- 
pretation, or  rather  are  directly  derived 
from  the  letter  and  spirit  of  the  gospel, 
ought,  on  the  contrary,  to  be  in  positive 
accord  with  them,  and  to  exercise  a  con- 
stant purifying  and  ennobling  influence  on 
their  development ;  secondly,  that  a  great 
and  searching  reformation  of  the  Church  is 
necessary  and  inevitable,  however  long  it 
may  be  evaded." 

The  book  is  divided  into  three  chapters, 
canvassing  severally  the  three  points  to 
which  the  Council  will  devote  its  attention, 
and  which  it  is  designed  that  it  shall  con- 
firm, namely,  the  denunciatory  propositions 
of  the  Syllabus,  and  the  two  new  articles 
of  faith  to  be  imposed  upon  the  Church : 
I.  The  assumption  of  the  body  of  the  Virgin 
into  heaven;  2.  The  infallibility  of  the  Pope. 
On  the  dogmatic  pretensions  of  the  Sylla- 
bus the  writers  have  comparatively  little  to 
say,  except  to  show  that  the  intention  is  to 
crush  out  all  intellectual  freedom  and  free- 
dom of  conscience  in  the  Church,  by  re- 
course, if  possible,  to  the  secular  power  ; 
and  on  the  bodily  assumption  of  the  Virgin, 
they  are  contemptuously  brief.  The  main 
strain  of  the  book  accordingly  goes  to  an 
exposure  of  the  falsity  wrapped  up  in  the 
second  new  dogma,  that  of  papal  infallibil- 
ity ;  and  no  one  can  read  the  mass  of  well- 
ordered  historic  information  brought  to 
bear  upon  this  topic,  without  sheer  amaze- 
ment at  the  infatuation  which  seems  to  be 
driving  the  leaders  of  the  Church  to  eccle- 
siastical suicide.  The  authors  of  the  book 
are  evidently  men  of  great  weight,  and  what 
they  say  must  eventually  command  atten- 
tion from  the  Church. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A  Magazine  of  Literature*  Science,  Art, 
and  Politics. 


VOL.    XXV.— APRIL,    1870.  — NO.    CL. 


JOSEPH    AND    HIS    FRIEND. 


CHATTER    \\. 

THE  train  moved  slowly  along 
through  the  straggling  and  shab- 
by suburbs,  increasing  its  speed  as  the 
city  melted  gradually  into  the  country ; 
and  Joseph,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  fix 
his  mind  upon  one  of  the  volumes  he 
had  procured  for  his  slender  library  at 
home,  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and 
took  note  of  his  fellow-travellers.  Since 
he  began  to  approach  the  usual  destiny 
of  men,  they  had  a  new  interest  for 
him.  Hitherto  he  had  looked  upon 
strange  faces  very  much  as  on  a  strange 
language,  without  a  thought  of  inter- 
preting them ;  but  now  their  hiero- 
glyphics seemed  to  suggest  a  meaning. 
The  figures  around  him  were  so  many 
sitting,  silent  histories,  so  many  locked- 
up  records  of  struggle,  loss,  gain,  and 
all  the  other  forces  which  give  shape 
and  color  to  human  life.  Most  of  them 
\vere  strangers  to  each  other,  and  as 
reticent  (in  their  railway  convention- 
ality) as  himself;  yet,  he  reflected,  the 
whole  range  of  passion,  pleasure,  and 
suffering  was  probably  illustrated  in 
that  collection  of  existences.  His  own 


troublesome  individuality  grew  fainte/, 
so  much  of  it  seemed  to  be  merged  in 
the  common  experience  of  men. 

There  was  the  portly  gentleman  of 
fifty,  still  ruddy  and  full  of  unwasted 
force.  The  keenness  and  coolness  of 
his  eyes,  the  few  firmly  marked  lines 
on  his  face,  and  the  color  and  hardness 
of  his  lips,  proclaimed  to  everybody : 
"  I  am  bold,  shrewd,  successful  in  busi- 
ness, scrupulous  in  the  performance  of 
my  religious  duties  (on  the  Sabbath), 
voting  with  my  party,  and  not  likely  to 
be  fooled  by  any  kind  of  literary  non- 
sense." The  thin,  not  very  well-dressed 
man  beside  him,  with  the  irregular 
features  and  uncertain  expression,  an- 
nounced as  clearly,  to  any  who  could 
read :  "  I  am  weak,  like  others,  but  I 
never  consciously  did  any  harm.  I 
just  manage  to  get  along  in  the  world, 
but  if  I  only  had  a  chance,  I  might 
make  something  better  of  myself/'  The 
fresh,  healthy  fellow,  in  whose  lap  a 
child  was  sleeping,  while  his  wife 
nursed  a  younger  one, — the  man  with 
ample  mouth,  large  nostrils,  and  the 
hands  of  a  mechanic,  —  also  told  his 
story :  "  On  the  whole,  I  find  life  a 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 
of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


VOL.   XXV. — XO.    150. 


386 


Josepli  and  his  Friend. 


[April, 


comfortable  thing.  I  don't  know  much 
about  it,  but  I  take  it  as  it  comes,  and 
never  worry  over  what  I  can't  under- 
stand." 

The  faces  of  the  younger  men,  how- 
ever, were  not  so  easy  to  decipher.  On 
them  life  was  only  beginning  its  plas- 
tic task,  and  it  required  an  older  eye 
to  detect  the  delicate  touches  of  awak- 
ening passions  and  hope?.  But  Jo- 
seph consoled  himself  with  the  thought 
that  his  own  secret  was  as  little  to  be 
discovered  as  any  they  might  have. 
If  they  were  still  ignorant  of  the  sweet 
experience  of  love,  he  was  already  their 
superior  ;  if  they  were  sharers  in  it, 
though  strangers,  they  were  near  to 
him.  Had  he  not  left  the  foot  of  the 
class,  after  all  ? 

All  at  once  his  eye  was  attracted  by 
a  new  face,  three  or  four  seats  from  his 
own.  The  stranger  had  shifted  his 
position,  so  that  he  was  no  longer  seen 
in  profile.  He  was,  apparently,  a  few 
years  older  than  Joseph,  but  still  bright 
with  all  the  charm  of  early  manhood. 
His  fair  complexion  was  bronzed  from 
exposure,  and  his  hands,  graceful  \vith- 
out  being  effeminate,  were  not  those 
of  the  idle  gentleman.  His  hair,  golden 
in  tint,  thrust  its  short  locks  as  it 
pleased  about  a  smooth,  frank  fore- 
head ;  the  eyes  were  dark  gray,  and  the 
mouth,  partly  hidden  by  a  mustache, 
at  once  firm  and  full.  He  was  moder- 
ately handsome,  yet  it  was  not  of  that 
which  Joseph  thought  ;  he  felt  that 
there  was  more  of  developed  character 
and  a  richer  past  history  expressed  in 
those  features  than  in  any  other  face 
there.  He  felt  sure — and  smiled  at 
himself,  notwithstanding,  for  the  im- 
pression —  that  at  least,  some  of  his  own 
doubts  and  difficulties  had  found  their 
solution  in  the  stranger's  nature.  The 
more  he  studied  the  face,  the  more  he 
was  conscious  of  its  attraction,  and  his 
instinct  of  reliance,  though  utterly  with- 
out grounds,  justified  itself  to  his  mind 
in  some  mysterious  way. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  unknown 
felt  his  gaze,  and,  turning  slowly  in  his 
seat,  answered  it.  Joseph  dropped  his 
eyes  in  some  confusion,  but  not  until 


he  had  caught  the  full,  warm,  intense 
expression  of  those  that  met  them. 
He  fancied  that  he  read  in  them,  in 
that  momentary  flash,  what  he  had  nev- 
er before  found  in  the  eyes  of  stran- 
gers, —  a  simple,  human  interest,  above 
curiosity  and  above  mistrust.  The  usu- 
al reply  to  such  a  gaze  is  an  uncon- 
scious defiance :  the  unknown  nature- 
is  on  its  guard :  but  the  look  which 
seems  to  answer,  "  We  are  men,  let  us 
know  each  other  ! "  is,  alas  !  too  rare 
in  this  world. 

While  Joseph  was  fighting  the  irre- 
sistible temptation  to  look  again,  there 
was  a  sudden  thud  of  the  car-wheels. 
Many  of  the  passengers  started  from 
their  seats,  only  to  be  thrown  into 
them  again  by  a  quick  succession  of 
violent  jolts.  Joseph  saw  the  stranger 
springing  towards  the  bell-rope  ;  then 
he  and  all  others  seemed  to  be  whirl- 
ing over  each  other  ;  there  was  a  crash, 
a  horrible  grinding  and  splintering 
sound,  and  the  end  of  all  was  a  shock, 
in  which  his  consciousness  left  him 
before  he  could  guess  its  violence. 

After  a  while,  out  of  some  blank, 
haunted  by  a  single  lost,  wandering 
sense  of  existence,  he  began  to  awaken 
slowly  to  life.  Flames  were  still  dan- 
cing in  his  eyeballs,  and  waters  and 
whirlwinds  roaring  in  his  ears  ;  but  it 
was  only  a  passive  sensation,  without 
the  will  to  know  more.  Then  he  felt 
himself  partly  lifted  and  his  head  sup- 
ported, and  presently  a  soft  warmth 
fell  upon  the  region  of  his  heart.  There 
were  noises  all  about  him,  but  he  did 
not  listen  to  them  ;  his  effort  to  regain 
his  consciousness  fixed  itself  on  that 
point  alone,  and  grew  stronger  as  the 
warmth  calmed  the  confusion  of  his 
nerves. 

"  Dip  this  in  water !  "  said  a  voice, 
and  the  hand  (as  he  now  knew  it  to  be) 
was  removed  from  his  heart. 

Something  cold  came  over  his  fore- 
head, and  at  the  same  time  warm  drops 
fell  upon  his  cheek. 

"  Look  out  for  yourself :  your  head 
is  cut !  "  exclaimed  another  voice. 

"  Only  a  scratch.  Take  the  handker- 
chief out  of  my  pocket  and  tie  it  up ; 


1 870.] 


Josepli  and  his  Friend. 


but  first  ask  yon  gentleman  for  his 
flask  !  " 

Joseph  opened  his  eyes,  knew  the 
face  that  bent  over  his,  and  then  closed 
them  again.  Gentle  and  strong  hands 
raised  him,  a  flask  was  set  to  his  lips, 
and  he  drank  mechanically,  but  a  full 
sense  of  life  followed  the  draught.  He 
looked  wistfully  in  the  stranger's  face. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  latter ; 
"  I  must  feel  your  bones  before  you  try 
to  move.  Arms  and  legs  all  right,  — 
impossible  to  tell  about  the  ribs. 
There  !  now  put  your  arm  around  my 
neck,  and  lean  on  me  as  much  as  you 
like,  while  I  lift  you." 

Joseph  did  as  he  was  bidden,  but  he 
was  still  we:ik  and  giddy,  and  after  a 
few  steps,  they  both  sat  down  together 
upon  a  bank.  The  splintered  car  lay 
near  them,  upside  down ;  the  passen- 
gers had  been  extricated  from  it,  and 
were  now  busy  in  aiding  the  few  who 
were  injured.  The  train  had  stopped 
and  was  waiting  on  the  track  above. 
Some  were  very  pale  and  grave,  feeling 
that  Death  had  touched  without  taking 
them  ;  but  the  greater  part  were  con- 
:  only  about  the  delay  to  the 
train. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ? "  asked  Jo- 
seph :  "  where  was  I  ?  how  did  you  find 
me?" 

"The  usual  story, — a  broken  rail," 
said  the  stranger.  "  I  had  just  caught 
the  rope  when  the  car  went  over,  and 
was  swung  off  my  feet  so  luckily  that  I 
somehow  escaped  the  hardest  shock. 
I  don't  think  I  lost  my  senses  for  a 
moment.  When  we  came  to  the  bot- 
tom you  were  lying  just  before  me ;  I 
thought  you  dead  until  I  felt  your 
heart.  It  is  a  severe  shock,  but  I  hope 
nothing  more." 

"  1  >ut  you,  —  are  you  not  badly  hurt  ?  " 

The  stranger  pushed  up  the  handker- 
chief which  was  tied  around  his  head, 
felt  his  temple,  and  said:  "It  must 
have  been  one  of  the  splinters  ;  I  knew 
nothing  about  it.  But  there  is  no  harm 
in  a  little  blood-letting,  except  "  —  he 
added,  smiling  —  "except  the  spots  on 
your  face." 

By  this  time  the  other  injured  pas- 


sengers had  been  conveyed  to  the 
train  ;  the  whistle  sounded  a.  warning, 
of  departure. 

"  I  think  we  can  get  up  the  embank- 
ment now,"  said  the  stranger.  "You 
must  let  me  take  care  of  you  still:  I 
am  travelling  alone." 

When  they  were  seated  side  by  sider 
and  Joseph  leaned  his  head  back  on 
the  supporting  arm,  while  the  train 
moved  away  with  them,  he  felt  that  a 
new  power,  a  new  support,  had  come 
to  his  life.  The  face  upon  which  he 
looked  was  no  longer  strange ;  the 
hand  which  had  rested  on  his  heart 
was  warm  with  kindred  blood.  Invol- 
untarily he  extended  his  own;  it  was 
taken,  and  held,  and  the  dark -gray, 
courageous  eyes  turned  to  him  with  a 
silent  assurance  which  he  felt  needed 
no  words. 

"  It  is  a  rough  introduction,"  he  then 
said :  "  my  name  is  Philip  Held.  I 
was  on  my  way  to  Oakland  Station,  but 
if  you  are  going  farther  —  " 

"  Why,  that  is  my  station  also ! " 
Joseph  exclaimed,  giving  his  name  in 
return. 

"  Then  we  should  have  probably  met, 
sooner  or  later,  in  any  case.  I  am 
bound  for  the  forge  and  furnace  at 
Coventry,  which  is  for  sale.  If  the 
company  who  employ  me  decide  to  buy 
it,  —  according  to  the  report  I  shall 
make,  —  the  works  will  be  placed  in  my 
charge." 

"It  is  but  six  miles  from  my  farm," 
said  Joseph,  "  and  the  road  up  the  val- 
ley is  the  most  beautiful  in  our  neigh- 
borhood. I  hope  you  can  make  a  fa- 
vorable report." 

"  It  is  only  too  much  to  my  own  in- 
terest to  do  so.  I  have  been  mining 
and  geologizing  in  Nevada  and  the 
Rocky  Mountains  for  three  or  four 
years,  and  long  for  a  quiet,  ordered 
life.  It  is  a  good  omen  that  I  have 
found  a  neighbor  in  advance  of  my 
settlement.  I  have  often  ridden  fifty 
miles  to  meet  a  friend  who  cared  for 
something  else  than  horse-racing  or 
montc ;  and  your  six  miles,  —  it  is  but  a 
step ! " 

"How  much  you  have  seen!"  said 


388 


JoscpJi  and  his  Friend. 


[April, 


Joseph.  "I  know  very  little  of  the 
world.  It  must  be  easy  for  you  to 
take  your  own  place  in  life." 

A  shade  passed  over  Philip  Held's 
face.  "  It  is  only  easy  to  a  certain 
class  of  men,"  he  replied,  —  "a  class 
to  which  I  should  not  care  to  belong. 
I  begin  to  think  that  nothing  is  very 
valuable,  the  right  to  which  a  man 
don't  earn, — except  human  love,  and 
that  seems  to  come  by  the  grace  of 
God." 

"  I  am  younger  than  you  are,  —  not 
yet  twenty- three,"  Joseph  remarked. 
"You  will  find  that  I  am  very  igno- 
rant." 

"And  I  am  twenty-eight,  and  just 
beginning  to  get  my  eyes  open,  like  a 
nine-days'  kitten.  If  I  had  been  frank 
enough  to  confess  my  ignorance,  five 
years  ago,  as  you  do  now,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  me.  But  don't  let 
us  measure  ourselves  or  our  experi- 
ence against  each  other.  That  is  one 
good  thing  we  learn  in  Rocky  Moun- 
tain life ;  there  is  no  high  or  low, 
knowledge  or  ignorance,  except  what 
applies  to  the  needs  of  men  who  come 
together.  So  there  are  needs  which 
most  men  have,  and  go  all  their  lives 
hungering  for,  because  they  expect 
them  to  be  supplied  in  a  particular 
form.  There  is  something,"  Philip  con- 
cluded, "deeper  than  that  in  human 
nature." 

Joseph  longed  to  open  his  heart  to 
this  man,  every  one  of  whose  words 
struck  home  to  something  in  himself. 
But  the  lassitude  which  the  shock  left 
behind  gradually  overcame  him.  He 
suffered  his  head  to  be  drawn  upon 
Philip  Held's  shoulder,  and  slept  until 
the  train  reached  Oakland  Station. 
When  the  two  got  upon  the  platform, 
they  found  Dennis  waiting  for  Joseph, 
with  a  light  country  vehicle.  The  news 
of  the  accident  had  reached  the  station, 
and  his  dismay  was  great  when  he  saw 
the  two  bloody  faces.  A  physician  had 
already  been  summoned  from  the 
neighboring  village,  but  they  had  little 
need  of  his  services.  A  prescription 
of  quiet  and  sedatives  for  Joseph,  and  a 
strip  of  plaster  for  his  companion,  were 


speedily  furnished,  and  they  set  out  to- 
gether for  the  Asten  place. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  Rachel 
Miller's  agitation  when  the  party  ar- 
rived ;  or  the  parting  of  the  two  men 
who  had  been  so  swiftly  brought  near 
to  each  other  ;  or  Philip  Held's  far- 
ther journey  to  the  forge  that  evening. 
He  resisted  all  entreaty  to  remain  at 
the  farm  until  morning,  on  the  ground 
of  an  appointment  made  with  the  pres- 
ent proprietor  of  the  forge.  After  his 
departure  Joseph  was  sent  to  bed, 
where  he  remained  for  a  day  or  two, 
very  sore  and  a  little  feverish.  He 
had  plenty  of  time  for  thought,  —  not 
precisely  of  the  kind  which  his  aunt 
suspected,  for  out  of  pure,  honest  in- 
terest in  his  welfare,  she  took  a  step 
which  proved  to  be  of  doubtful  ben- 
efit. If  he  had  not  been  so  innocent, 

—  if  he  had  not  been  quite  as  uncon- 
scious of  his  inner  nature  as   he  was 
over -conscious   of   his    external    self, 

—  he   would   have   perceived   that   his 
thoughts  dwelt  much  more  on  Philip 
Held   than    on    Julia    Blessing.      His 
mind   seemed   to  run  through  a  swift, 
involuntary  chain   of  reasoning,  to  ac- 
count to  himself  for  his  feeling  towards 
her,  and   her   inevitable   share   in   his 
future  ;   but  towards    Philip   his   heart 
sprang  with  an  instinct  beyond  his  con- 
trol.    It  was  impossible  to  imagine  that 
the  latter,  also,  would  not  be  shot,  like 
a  bright  thread,  through  the  web  of  his 
coming  days. 

On  the  third  morning,  when  he  had 
exchanged  the  bed  for  an  arm-chair,  a 
letter  from  the  city  was  brought  to  him. 
"  Dearest  Joseph,"  it  ran,  "  what  a 
fright  and  anxiety  we  have  had ! 
When  pa  brought  the  paper  home,  last 
night,  and  I  read  the  report  of  the  ac- 
cident, where  it  said,  1J.  Astcn,  se- 
vere contusions,'  my  heart  stopped 
beating  for  a  minute,  and  I  can  only 
write  now  (as  you  see)  with  a  trembling 
hand.  My  first  thought  was  to  go  di- 
rectly to  you  ;  but  ma  said  we  had 
better  wait  for  intelligence.  Unless  our 
engagement  were  generally  known,  it 
would  give  rise  to  remarks,  —  in  short, 
I  need  not  repeat  to  you  all  the  worldly 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


389 


reasons  with  which  she  opposed  me; 
but,  oh,  how  I  longed  for  the  right  to 
be  at  your  side,  and  assure  myself 
that  the  dreadful,  dreadful  danger  has 
passed !  Pa  was  quite  shaken  with 
the  news  :  he  felt  hardly  able  to  go 
to  the  Custom -House  this  morning. 
But  lie  sides  with  ma  about  my  going, 
and  now,  when  my  time  as  a  daughter 
with  them  is  growing  so  short,  I  dare 
not  disobey.  I  know  you  will  under- 
stand my  position,  yet,  dear  and  true 
as  you  are,  you  cannot  guess  the  anxie- 
ty with  which  I  await  a  line  from  your 
hand,  the  hand  that  was  so  nearly  taken 
from  me  forever  !  " 

Joseph  read  the  letter  twice  and  was 
about  to  commence  it  for  the  third 
time,  when  a  visitor  was  announced. 
He  had  barely  time  to  thrust  the  scent- 
ed sheet  into  his  pocket ;  and  the 
bright  eyes  and  flushed  face  with  which 
he  met  the  Rev.  Mr.  Chaffinch  con- 
vinced both  that  gentleman  and  his 
aunt,  as  she  ushered  the  latter  into  the 
room,  that  the  visit  was  accepted  as  an 
honor  and  a  joy. 

On  Mr.  Chaffinch's  face  the  air  of 
authority  which  he  had  been  led  to  be- 
lieve belonged  to  his  calling  had  not 
quite  succeeded  in  impressing  itself; 
but  melancholy,  the  next  best  thing, 
was  strongly  marked.  His  dark  com- 
plexion and  his  white  cravat  intensified 
each  other ;  and  his  eyes,  so  long  up- 
lifted above  the  concerns  of  this  world, 
had  ceased  to  vary  their  expression 
materially  for  the  sake  of  any  human 
interest.  All  this  had  been  expected 
of  him,  and  he  had  simply  done  his 
best  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the 
flock  over  whom  he  was  placed.  Any 
of  the  latter  might  have  easily  been 
shrewd  enough  to  guess,  in  advance, 
very  nearly  what  the  pastor  would  say, 
upon  a  given  occasion  ;  but  each  and 
all  of  them  would  have  been  both  dis- 
appointed and  disturbed  if  he  had  not 
said  it. 

After  appropriate  and  sympathetic 
inquiries  concerning  Joseph's  bodily 
condition,  he  proceeded  to  probe  him 
spiritually. 

"It  was  a  merciful  preservation.     I 


hope  you  feel  that  it  is  a  solemn  thing 
to  look  Death  in  the  face." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  death,"  Joseph 
replied. 

"  You  mean  the  physical  pang,  lint 
death  includes  what  comes  after  it, — 
judgment.  That  is  a  very  awful 
thought." 

"  It  may  be  to  evil  men  ;  but  I  have 
done  nothing  to  make  me  fear  it." 

"  You  have  never  made  an  open  pro- 
fession of  faith  ;  yet  it  may  be  that 
grace  has  reached  you,"  said  Mr.  Chaf- 
finch. "  Have  you  found  your  Sav- 
iour ?  " 

"  I  believe  in  him  with  all  my  soul !  " 
Joseph  exclaimed ;  "  but  you  mean 
something  else  by  'finding'  him.  I 
will  be  candid  with  you,  Mr.  Chaffinch. 
The  last  sermon  I  heard  you  preach,  a 
month  ago,  was  upon  the  nullity  of  all 
good  works,  all  Christian  deeds ;  you 
called  them  *  rags,  dust,  and  ashes,'  and 
declared  that  man  is  saved  by  faith 
alone.  I  have  faith,  but  I  can't  accept 
a  doctrine  which  denies  merit  to  works  ; 
and  you,  unless  I  accept  it,  will  you 
admit  that  I  have  *  found'  Christ  ?  " 

"  There  is  but  One  Truth  !  "  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Chaffinch,  very  severely. 

"  Yes,"  Joseph  answered,  reverently, 
"  and  that  is  only  perfectly  known  to 
God." 

The  clergyman  was  more  deeply  an- 
noyed than  he  cared  to  exhibit.  His 
experience  had  been  confined  chiefly  to 
the  encouragement  of  ignorant  souls, 
willing  to  accept  his  message,  if  they 
could  only  be  made  to  comprehend  it, 
or  to  the  conflict  with  downright  doubt 
and  denial.  A  nature  so  seemingly 
open  to  the  influences  of  the  Spirit,  yet 
inflexibly  closed  to  certain  points  of 
doctrine,  was  something  of  a  problem 
to  him.  He  belonged  to  a  class  now 
happily  becoming  scarce,  who,  having 
been  taught  to  pace  a  reasoned  theo- 
logical round,  can  only  efficiently  meet 
those  antagonists  who  voluntarily  come 
inside  of  their  own  ring. 

His  habit  of  control,  however,  ena- 
bled him  to  say,  with  a  moderately 
friendly  manner,  as  he  took  leave : 
"We  will  talk  again  when  you  are 


390 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[April, 


stronger.  It  is  my  duty  to  give  spirit- 
ual help  to  those  who  seek  it." 

To  Rachel  Miller  he  said  :  "  I  can- 
not say  that  he  is  dark.  His  mind  is 
cloudy,  but  we  find  that  the  vanities  of 
youth  often  obscure  the  true  light  for  a 
time." 

Joseph  leaned  back  in  his  arm-chair, 
ctosed  his  eyes,  and  meditated  earnest- 
ly for  half  an  hour.  Rachel  Miller, 
uncertain  whether  to  be  hopeful  or  dis- 
couraged by  Mr.  Chaffinch's  words, 
stole  into  the  room,  but  went  about  on 
tiptoe,  supposing  him  to  be  asleep. 
Joseph  was  fully  conscious  of  all  her 
movements,  and  at  last  startled  her  by 
the  sudden  question  :  — 

"  Aunt,  why  do  you  suppose  I  went 
to  the  city  ?  " 

"  Goodness,  Joseph  !  I  thought  you 
were  sound  asleep.  I  suppose  to  see 
about  the  fall  prices  for  grain  and  cat- 
tle." 

"  No,  aunt,"  said  he,  speaking  with 
determination,  though  the  foolish  blood 
ran  rosily  over  his  face,  "  I  went  to  get 
a  wife  !  " 

She  stood  pale  and  speechless,  star- 
ing at  him.  But  for  the  rosy  sign  on 
his  cheeks  and  temples  she  could  not 
have  believed  his  words. 

"  Miss  Blessing  ? "  she  finally  ut- 
tered, almost  in  a  whisper. 

Joseph  nodded  his  head.  She  dropped 
into  the  nearest  chair,  drew  two  or  three 
long  breaths,  and  in  an  indescribable 
tone  ejaculated,  "  Well !  " 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  surprised," 
said  he  ;  "  because  it  is  almost  a  sur- 
prise to  myself.  But  you  and  she 
seemed  to  fall  so  easily  into  each  oth- 
er's ways,  that  I  hope  —  " 

"  Why,  you  're  hardly  acquainted 
with  her  !  "  Rachel  exclaimed.  "  It  is 
so  hasty  !  And  you  are  so  young  !  " 

"  No  younger  than  father  was  when 
he  married  mother  ;  and  I  have  learned 
to  know  her  well  in  a  short  time.  Is  n't 
it  so  with  you,  too,  aunt?  —  you  cer- 
tainly liked  her?" 

"  I  '11  not  deny  that,  nor  say  the  re- 
verse now  :  but  a  farmer's  wife  should 
be  a  farmer's  daughter." 

"  But  suppose,  aunt,  that  the  farmer 


don't  happen  to  love  any  farmer's 
daughter,  and  does  love  a  bright,  amia- 
ble, very  intelligent  girl,  who  is  delight- 
ed with  country  life,  eager  and  willing 
to  learn,  and  very  fond  of  the  farmer's 
aunt  (who  can  teach  her  everything)  ?  " 

"  Still,  it  seems  to  me  a  risk."  said 
Rachel ;  but  she  was  evidently  relent- 
ing. 

"  There  is  none  to  you,"  he  answered, 
"and  I  am  not  afraid  of  mine.  You 
will  be  with  us,  for  Julia  could  n't  do 
without  you,  if  she  wished.  If  she  were 
a  farmer's  daughter,  with  different  ideas 
of  housekeeping,  it  might  bring  trouble 
to  both  of  us.  But  now  you  will  have 
the  management  in  your  own  hands 
until  you  have  taught  Julia,  and  after- 
wards she  will  carry  it  on  in  your 
way." 

She  did  not  reply  ;  but  Joseph  could 
see  that  she  was  becoming  reconciled 
to  the  prospect.  After  a  while  she 
came  across  the  room,  leaned  over  him, 
kissed  him  upon  the  forehead,  and  then 
silently  went  away. 

CHAPTER  X. 

ONLY  two  months  intervened  until 
the  time  appointed  for  the  marriage, 
and  the  days  rolled  swiftly  away.  A 
few  lines  came  to  Joseph  from  Philip 
Held,  announcing  that  he  was  satisfied 
with  the  forge  and  furnace,  and  the 
sale  would  doubtless  be  consummated 
in  a  short  time.  He  did  not,  however, 
expect  to  take  charge  of  the  works 
before  March,  and  therefore  gave  Jo- 
seph his  address  in  the  city,  with  the 
hope  that  the  latter  would  either  visit 
or  write  to  him. 

On  the  Sunday  after  the  accident 
Elwood  Withers  came  to  the  farm.  He 
seemed  to  have  grown  older,  in  the 
short  time  which  had  elapsed  since 
they  had  last  met ;  after  his  first  hearty 
rejoicing  over  Joseph's  escape  and  re- 
covery, he  relapsed  into  a  silent  but 
not  unfriendly  mood.  The  two  young 
men  climbed  the  long  hill  behind  the 
house  and  seated  themselves  under  a 
noble  pin-oak  on  the  height,  whence 
there  was  a  lovely  view  of  the  valley 
for  many  miles  to  the  southward. 


1 870.] 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


391 


They  talked  mechanically,  for  a  while, 
of  the  season,  and  the  crops,  and  the 
other  usual  subjects  which  farmers  nev- 
er get  to  the  end  of  discussing;  but 
both  felt  the  impendence  of  more  im- 
portant themes,  and,  nevertheless,  were 
slow  to  approach  them.  At  last  El- 
wood  said  :  '•  Your  fate  is  settled  by 
this  time,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"It  is  arranged,  at  least,"  Joseph 
replied.  "  But  I  can't  yet  make  clear 
to  myself  that  I  shall  be  a  married  man 
in  two  months  from  now." 

"  Does  the  time  seem  long  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  Joseph  innocently  answered  ; 
"  it  is  very  short." 

Elwood  turned  away  his  head  to  con- 
ceal a  melancholy  smile  ;  it  was  a  few 
minutes  before  he  spoke  again. 

"Joseph,"  he  then  said,  "are  you 
sure,  quite  sure,  you  love  her  ?  " 

"  I  am  to  marry  her." 

"  I  meant  nothing  unfriendly,"  El- 
wood  remarked,  in  a  gentle  tone.  "  My 
thought  was  this,  —  if  you  should  ever 
find  a  still  stronger  love  growing  upon 
you,  —  something  that  would  make  the 
warmth  you  feel  now  seem  like  ice 
compared  to  it,  —  how  would  you  be 
able  to  fight  it  ?  I  asked  the  question 
of  myself  for  you.  I  don't  think  I  'm 
much  different  from  most  soft-hearted 
men,  —  except  that  I  keep  the  softness 
so  well  stowed  away  that  few  persons 
know  of  it, — but  if  I  were  in  your 
place,  within  two  months  of  marriage 
to  the  girl  I  love,  I  should  be  misera- 
ble !  " 

Joseph  turned  towards  him  with 
\vide,  astonished  eyes. 

"Miserable  from  hope  and  fear," 
Ehvood  went  on  ;  "  I  should  be  afraid 
of  fever,  fire,  murder,  thunderbolts 
Every  hour  of  the  day  I  should  drea^ 
lest  something  might  come  between 
us  ;  I  should  prowl  around  her  house 
day  after  day,  to  be  sure  that  she  was 
-alive  !  I  should  lengthen  out  the  time 
into  years  ;  and  all  because  I  'm  a 
great,  disappointed,  soft-hearted  fool !  " 

The  sad,  yearning  expression  of  his 
eyes  touched  Joseph  to  the  heart.  ;-  El- 
wood,"  he  said,  "  I  see  that  it  is  not  in 
my  power  to  comfort  you  ;  if  I  give 


you  pain  unknowingly,  tell  me  how  to 
avoid  it !  I  meant  to  ask  you  to  stand 
beside  me  when  I  am  married  ;  but  now 
you  must  consider  your  own  feelings 
in  answering,  not  mine.  Lucy  is  not 
likely  to  be  there." 

"  That  would  make  no  difference," 
Elwood  answered.  "  Do  you  suppose 
it  is  a  pain  for  me  to  see  her,  because 
she  seems  lost  to  me  ?  No ;  I  'm  al- 
ways a  little  encouraged  when  I  have 
a  chance  to  measure  myself  with  her, 
and  to  guess  —  sometimes  this  and 
sometimes  that  —  what  it  is  that  she 
needs  to  find  in  me.  Force  of  will  is 
of  no  use ;  as  to  faithfulness,  —  why, 
what  it 's  worth  can't  be  shown  unless 
something  turns  up  to  try  it.  But  you 
had  better  not  ask  me  to  be  your 
groomsman.  Neither  Miss  Blessing 
nor  her  sister  would  be  overly  pleased." 

"Why  so?"  Joseph  asked;  "Julia 
and  you  are  quite  well  acquainted, 
and  she  was  always  friendly  towards 
you." 

Elwood  was  silent  and  embarrassed. 
Then,  reflecting  that  silence,  at  that 
moment,  might  express  even  more  than 
speech,  he  said :  "  I  've  got  the  notion 
in  my  head ;  maybe  it 's  foolish,  but 
there  it  is.  I  talked  a  good  deal  with 
Miss  Blessing,  it's  true,  and  yet  I 
don't  feel  the  least  bit  acquainted. 
Her  manner  to  me  was  very  friend- 
ly, and  yet  I  don't  think  she  likes 
me." 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Joseph,  forcing 
a  laugh,  though  he  was  much  annoyed, 
"  I  never  gave  you  credit  for  such  a 
lively  imagination.  Why  not  be  can- 
did, and  admit  that  the  dislike  is  on 
your  side  ?  I  am  sorry  for  it,  since 
Julia  will  so  soon  be  in  the  house  there 
as  my  wife.  There  is  no  one  else 
whom  I  can  ask,  unless  it  were  Philip 
Held  —  " 

"  Held  !  To  be  sure,  he  took  care 
of  you.  I  was  at  Coventry  the  day 
after,  and  saw  something  of  him." 
With  these  words,  Elwood  turned  to- 
wards Joseph  and  looked  him  squarely 
in  the  face.  "  He  '11  have  charge  there 
in  a  few  months,  I  hear,"  he  then  said, 
"and  I  reckon  it  as  a  piece  of  good 


392 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[April, 


luck  for  you.  I  've  found  that  there 
are  men,  all,  maybe,  as  honest  and  out- 
spoken as  they  need  be  ;  yet  two  of 
'em  will  talk  at  different  marks  and 
never  fully  understand  each  other,  and 
other  two  will  naturally  talk  right 
straight  at  the  same  mark  and  never 
miss.  Now,  Held  is  the  sort  that  can 
hit  the  thing  in  the  mind  of  the  man 
they  're  talking  to ;  it 's  a  gift  that 
comes  o'  being  knocked  about  the 
world  among  all  classes  of  people. 
What  we  learn  here,  always  among  the 
same  folks,  is  n't  a  circumstance." 

"  Then  you  think  I  might  ask  him  ?  " 
said  Joseph,  not  fully  comprehending 
all  that  Elwood  meant  to  express. 

"  He  's  one  of  those  men  that  you  're 
safe  in  asking  to  do  anything.  Make 
him  spokesman  of  a  committee  to  wait 
on  the  President,  arbitrator  in  a  crooked 
lawsuit,  overseer  of  a  railroad  gang, 
leader  in  a  prayer-meeting  (if  he  'd  con- 
sent), or  whatever  else  you  choose,  and 
he  '11  do  the  business  as  if  he  was  used 
to  it !  It 's  enough  for  you  that  I  don't 
know  the  town  ways,  and  he  does  ;  it 's 
considered  worse,  I  've  heard,  to  make 
a  blunder  in  society  than  to  commit  a 
real  sin." 

He  rose,  and  they  loitered  down  the 
hill  together.  The  subject  was  quietly 
dropped,  but  the  minds  of  both  were 
none  the  less  busy.  They  felt  the 
stir  and  pressure  of  new  experiences, 
which  had  come  to  one  through  dis- 
appointment and  to  the  other  through 
success.  Not  three  months  had  passed 
since  they  rode  together  through  the 
twilight  to  Warriner's,  and  already  life 
was  opening  to  them,  —  but  how  dif- 
ferently! Joseph  endeavored  to  make 
the  most  kindly  allowance  for  his 
friend's  mood,  and  to  persuade  himself 
that  his  feelings  were  unchanged.  El- 
wood,  however,  knew  that  a  shadow 
had  fallen  between  them.  It  was  noth- 
ing beside  the  cloud  of  his  greater 
trouble  ;  he  also  knew  the  cost  of  his 
own  justification  to  Joseph,  and  prayed 
that  it  might  never  come. 

That  evening,  on  taking  leave,  he 
said :  "I  don't  know  whether  you 
meant  to  have  the  news  of  your  en- 


gagement circulated ;  •  but  I  guess 
Anna  Warriner  has  heard,  and  that 
amounts  to  —  " 

"To  telling  it  to  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood, does  n't  it  ? "  Joseph  answered. 
"Then  the  mischief  is  already  done, 
if  it  is  a  mischief.  It  is  well,  therefore, 
that  the  day  is  set :  the  neighborhood 
will  have  little  time  for  gossip." 

He  smiled  so  frankly  and  cheerfully, 
that  Elwood  seized  his  hand,  and  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  said :  "  Don't  re- 
member anything  against  me,  Joseph. 
I  've  always  been  honestly  your  friend, 
and  mean  to  stay  so." 

He  Avent  that  evening  to  a  home- 
stead where  he  knew  he  should  find 
Lucy  Henderson.  She  looked  pale  and 
fatigued,  he  thought ;  possibly  his  pres- 
ence had  become  a  restraint.  If  so, 
she  must  bear  his  unkindness  :  it  was 
the  only  sacrifice  he  could  not  make, 
for  he  felt  sure  that  his  intercourse 
with  her  must  either  terminate  in  hate 
or  love.  The  one  thing  of  which  he 
was  certain  was,  that  there  could  be 
no  calm,  complacent  friendship  between 
them. 

It  was  not  long  before  one  of  the 
family  asked  him  whether  he  had 
heard  the  news ;  it  seemed  that  they 
had  already  discussed  it,  and  his  ar- 
rival revived  the  flow  of  expression. 
In  spite  of  his  determination,  he  found 
it  impossible  to  watch  Lucy  while  he 
said,  as  simply  as  possible,  that  Jo- 
seph Asten  seemed  very  happy  over 
the  prospect  of  the  marriage ;  that  he 
was  old  enough  to  take  a  wife  ;  and  if 
Miss  Blessing  could  adapt  herself  to 
country  habits,  they  might  get  on  very 
well  together.  But  later  in  the  even- 
ing he  took  a  chance  of  saying  to 
her  :  "  In  spite  of  what  I  said,  Lucy, 
I  don't  feel  quite  easy  about  Joseph's 
marriage.  What  do  you  think  of 
it?" 

She  smiled  faintly,  as  she  replied : 
"Some  say  that  people  are  attracted 
by  mutual  unlikeness.  This  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  case  of  the  kind  ;  but  they 
are  free  choosers  of  their  own  fates." 

"Is  there  no  possible  way  of  per- 
suading him  —  them  —  to  delay  ? " 


1870.] 


Joseph  and  Jiis  Friend. 


393 


"  No  ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  unusual 
energy ;  "  none  whatever !  " 

Elwood  sighed,  and  yet  felt  relieved. 

Joseph  lost  no  time  in  writing  to 
Philip  Held,  announcing  his  approach- 
ing marriage,  and  begging  him  —  with 
many  apologies  for  asking  such  a  mark 
of  confidence  on  so  short  an  acquaint- 
ance —  to  act  the  part  of  nearest  friend, 
if  there  were  no  other  private  reasons 
to  prevent  him.  ' 

Four  or  five  days  later  the  following 
answer  arrived :  — 

Mv  DEAR  ASTKN:  —  Do  you  re- 
member that  curious  whirling,  falling 
sensation,  when  the  car  pitched  over 
the  edge  of  the  embankment  ?  I  felt  a 
return  of  it  on  reading  your  letter ;  for 
you  have  surprised  me  beyond  meas- 
ure. Not  by  your  request,  for  that  is 
just  what  I  should  have  expected  of 
you  ;  and  as  well  now,  as  if  we  had 
known  each  other  for  twenty  years  ;  so 
the  apology  is  the  only  thing  objection- 
able— But  I  am  tangling  my  sen- 
tences; I  want  to  say  how  heartily  I 
return  the  feeling  which  prompted  you 
to  ask  me,  and  yet  how  embarrassed  I 
am  that  I  cannot  unconditionally  say, 
"Yes,  with  all  my  heart !  "  My  great, 
astounding  surprise  is,  to  find  you 
about  to  be  married  to  Miss  Julia 
Blessing,  —  a  young  lady  whom  I  once 
knew.  And  the  embarrassment  is  this  : 
I  knew  her  under  circumstances  (in 
which  she  was  not  personally  con- 
cerned, however)  which  might  possi- 
bly render  my  presence  now,  as  your 
groomsman,  unwelcome  to  the  family : 
at  least,  it  is  my  duty — and  yours,  if 
you  still  desire  me  to  stand  beside  you 
—  to  let  Miss  Blessing  and  her  fam- 
ily decide  the  question.  The  circum- 
stances to  which  I  refer  concern  them 
rather  than  myself.  I  think  your  best 
plan  will  be  simply  to  inform  them  of 
your  request  and  my  reply,  and  add 
that  I  am  entirely  ready  to  accept  what- 
ever course  they  may  prefer. 

Pray  don't  consider  that  I  have 
treated  your  first  letter  to  me  ungra- 
ciously. I  am  more  grieved  than  you 
can  imagine  that  it  happens  so.  You 


will  probably  come  to  the  city  a  day  be- 
fore the  wedding,  and  I  insist  that  you 
shall  share  my  bachelor  quarters,  in 
any  case. 

Always  your  friend, 

PHILIP  HKLD.    ! 

This  letter  threw  Joseph  into  a  new 
perplexity.  Philip  a  former  acquaint- 
ance of  the  Blessings  !  Formerly,  but 
not  now  ;  and  what  could  those  mysteri- 
ous "circumstances  "  have  been,  which 
had  so  seriously  interrupted  their  inter- 
course ?  It  was  quite  useless  to  con- 
jecture; but  he  could  not  resist  the 
feeling  that  another  shadow  hung  over 
the  aspects  of  his  future.  Perhaps  he 
had  exaggerated  Elwood's  unaccount- 
able dislike  to  Julia,  which  had  only 
been  implied,  not  spoken ;  but  here 
was  a  positive  estrangement  on  the 
part  of  the  man  who  was  so  sudden- 
ly near  and  dear  to  him.  He  never 
thought  of  suspecting  Philip  of  blame  ; 
the  candor  and  cheery  warmth  of  the 
letter  rejoiced  his  heart.  There  was 
evidently  nothing  better  to  do  than  to 
follow  the  advice  contained  in  it,  and 
leave  the  question  to  the  decision  of 
Julia  and  her  parents. 

Her  reply  did  not  come  by  the  re- 
turn mail,  nor  until  nearly  a  week  after- 
wards ;  during  which  time  he  tor- 
mented himself  by  imagining  the  wild- 
est reasons  for  her  silence.  When 
the  letter  at  last  arrived,  he  had  some 
difficulty  in  comprehending  its  im- 
port. 

"Dearest  Joseph,"  she  said,  "you 
must  really  forgive  me  this  long  trial 
of  your  patience.  Your  letter  was  so 
unexpected,  —  I  mean  its  contents, — 
and  it  seems  as  if  ma  and  pa  and  Clem- 
entina would  never  agree  what  was  best 
to  be  done.  For  that  matter,  I  cannot 
say  that  they  agree  now  ;  we  had  -no 
idea  that  you  were  an  intimate  friend 
of  Mr.  Held,  (I  can't  think  how  ever 
you  should  have  become  acquainted !) 
and  it  seemed  to  break  open  old 
wounds, —  none  of  mine,  fortunately, 
for  I  have  none.  As  Mr.  Held  leaves 
the  question  in  our  hands,  there  is,  you 
will  understand,  all  the  more  necessity 


394 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[April, 


that  we  should  be  careful.  Ma  thinks 
he  has  said  nothing  to  you  about  the 
unfortunate  occurrence,  or  you  would 
have  expressed  an  opinion.  You  never 
can  know  how  happy  your  fidelity  makes 
rne  ;  but  I  felt  that,  the  first  moment 
we  met. 

"  Ma  says  that  at  very  private  (what 
pa  calls  informal)  weddings,  there  need 
not  be  bridesmaids  or  groomsmen. 
Miss  Morrisey  was  married  that  way, 
not  long  ago  ;  it  is  true  that  she  is  not 
of  our  circle,  nor  strictly  a  first  family 
(this  is  ma's  view,  not  mine,  for  I  un- 
derstand the  hollowness  of  society) ; 
but  we  could  very  well  do  the  same. 
Pa  would  be  satisfied  with  a  reception 
afterwards  ;  he  wants  to  ask  the  Col- 
lector, and  the  Surveyor,  and  the  Ap- 
praiser. Clementina  won't  say  any- 
thing now,  but  I  know  what  she  thinks, 
and  so  does  ma ;  however,  Mr.  Held 
has  so  dropped  out  of  city  life  that  it 
is  not  important.  I  suppose  every- 
thing must  be  dim  in  his  memory  now ; 
you  do  not  write  to  me  much  that  he 
related.  How  strange  that  he  should 
be  your  friend  !  They  say  my  dress  is 
lovely,  but  I  am  sure  I  should  like  a 
plain  muslin  just  as  well.  I  shall  only 
breathe  freely  when  I  get  back  to  the 
quiet  of  the  country,  (and  your  —  our 
charming  home,  and  dear,  good  Aunt 
Rachel !)  and  away  from  all  these  con- 
ventional forms.  Ma  says  if  there  is 
one  groomsman,  there  ought  to  be  two  ; 
either  very  simple,  or  according  to  cus- 
tom. In  a  matter  so  delicate,  perhaps 
Mr.  Held  would  be  as  competent  to 
decide  as  we  are  ;  at  least,  /am  quite 
willing  to  leave  it  to  his  judgment.  But 
how  trifling  is  all  this  discussion,  com- 
pared with  the  importance  of  the  day 
to  us  !  It  is  now  drawing  very  near, 
but  I  have  no  misgivings,  for  I  confide 
in  you  wholly  and  forever  !  " 

After  reading  the  letter  with  as  much 
coolness  as  was  then  possible  to  him, 
Joseph  inferred  three  things :  that  his 
acquaintance  with  Philip  Held  was  not 
entirely  agreeable  to  the  Blessing  fam- 
ily ;  that  they  would  prefer  the  simplest 
style  of  a  wedding,  and  this  was  in 
consonance  with  his  own  tastes  ;  and 


that  Julia  clung  to  him  as  a  deliverer 
from  conditions  with  which  her  nature 
had  little  sympathy.  Her  incoherence, 
he  fancied,  arose  from  an  agitation 
which  he  could  very  well  understand, 
and  his  answer  was  intended  to  soothe 
and  encourage  her.  It  was  difficult  to 
let  Philip  know  that  his  services  would 
not  be  required,  without  implying  the 
existence  of  an  unfriendly  feeling  to- 
wards him ;  and  Joseph,  therefore,  all 
the  more  readily  accepted  his  invita- 
tion. He  was  assured  that  the  myste- 
rious difficulty  did  not  concern  Julia; 
even  if  it  were  so,  he  was  not  called 
upon  to  do  violence,  without  cause,  to 
so  welcome  a  friendship. 

The  September  days  sped  by,  not 
with  the  lingering,  passionate  uncer- 
tainty of  which  Elwood  Withers  spoke, 
but  almost  too  swiftly.  In  the  hurry 
of  preparation,  Joseph  had  scarcely 
time  to  look  beyond  the  coming  event 
and  estimate  its  consequences.  He 
was  too  ignorant  of  himself  to  doubt : 
his  conscience  was  too  pure  and  per- 
fect to  admit  the  possibility  of  changing 
the  course  of  his  destiny.  Whatever 
the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood  might 
have  been,  he  heard  nothing  of  it  that 
was  not  agreeable.  His  aunt  was  en- 
tirely reconciled  to  a  wife  who  would 
not  immediately,  and  probably  not  for 
a  long  time,  interfere  with  her  author- 
ity ;  and  the  shadows  raised  by  the  t\vo 
men  whom  he  loved  best  seemed,  at 
last,  to  be  accidentally  thrown  from 
clouds  beyond  the  horizon  of  his  life. 
This  was  the  thought  to  which  he 
clung,  in  spite  of  a  vague,  utterly  form- 
less apprehension,  which  lie  felt  lurking 
somewhere  in  the  very  bottom  of  his 
heart. 

Philip  met  him  on  his  arrival  in  the 
city,  and  after  taking  him  to  his  pleas- 
ant quarters,  in  a  house  looking  on 
one  of  the  leafy  squares,  good-natured- 
ly sent  him  to  the  Blessing  mansion, 
with  a  warning  to  return  before  the 
evening  was  quite  spent.  The  family 
was  in  a  flutter  of  preparation,  and 
though  he  was  cordially  welcomed,  he 
felt  that,  to  all  except  Julia,  he  was 
subordinate  in  interest  to  the  men  who 


1870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


395 


came  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  bring- 
ing bouquets,  and  silver  spoons  wjth 
cards  attached,  and  pasteboard  boxes 
containing  frosted  cakes.  Even  Julia's 
society  he  was  only  allowed  to  enjoy 
by  scanty  instalments ;  she  was  per- 
petually summoned  by  her  mother,  or 
Clementina,  to  consult  about  some  in- 
describable figment  of  dress.  Mr.  Bless- 
ing was  occupied  in  the  basement,  with 
the  inspection  of  various  hampers.  He 
came  to  the  drawing-room  to  greet  Jo- 
seph, whom  he  shook  by  both  hands, 
with  such  incoherent  phrases  that  Julia 
presently  interposed.  "  You  must  not 
forget,  pa,"  she  said,  "  that  the  man  is 
waiting:  Joseph  will  excuse  you,  I 
know."  She  followed  him  to  the  base- 
ment, and  he  returned  no  more. 

Joseph  left  early  in  the  evening, 
cheered  by  Julia's  words  :  "  We  can't 
complain  of  all  this  confusion,  when 
it 's  for  our  sakes  ;  but  we  '11  be  happier 
when  it 's  over,  won't  we?  " 

He  gave  her  an  affirmative  kiss,  and 
returned  to  Philip's  room.  That  gentle- 
man was  comfortably  disposed  in  an 
arm-chair,  with  a  book  and  a  cigar. 
"Ah!''  he  exclaimed,  "you  find  that 
a  house  is  more  agreeable  any  evening 
than  that  before  the  wedding  ?" 

"There  is  one  compensation,"  said 
Joseph;  "it  gives  me  two  or  three 
hours  with  you." 

"  Then  take  that  other  arm-chair, 
and  tell  me  how  this  came  to  pass. 
You  see,  I  have  the  curiosity  of  a  neigh- 
bor, already." 

He  listened  earnestly  while  Joseph 
related  the  story  of  his  love,  occasion- 
ally asking  a  question  or  making  a 
suggestive  .remark,  but  so  gently  that 
it  seemed  to  come  as  an  assistance. 
When  all  had  been  told,  he  rose  and 
commenced  walking  slowly  up  and 
down  the  room.  Joseph  longed  to  ask, 
in  turn,  for  an  explanation  of  the  cir- 
cumstances mentioned  in  Philip's  let- 
ter ;  but  a  doubt  checked  his  tongue. 

As  if  in  response  to  his  thought, 
Philip  stopped  before  him  and  said: 


"  I  owe  -you  my  story,  and  you  shall 
have  it  after  a  while,  when  I  can  tell 
you  more.  I  was  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty  when  I  knew  the  Blessings,  and 
I  don't  attach  the  slightest  importance, 
now,  to  anything  that  happened.  Even 
if  I  did,  Miss  Julia  had  no  share  in  it. 
I  remember  her  distinctly ;  she  was 
then  about  my  age,  or  a  year  or  two 
older;  but  hers  is  a  face  that  would 
not  change  in  a  long  while." 

Joseph  stared  at  his  friend  in  silence. 
He  recalled  the  latter's  age,  and  was 
startled  by  the  involuntary  arithmetic 
which  revealed  Julia's  to  him.  It  was 
unexpected,  unwelcome,  yet  inevitable. 

"  Her  father  had  been  lucky  in  some 
of  his  'operations,'"  Philip  continued, 
"  but  I  don't  think  he  kept  it  long.  I 
hardly  wonder  that  she  should  come 
to  prefer  a  quiet  country  life  to  such 
ups  and  downs  as  the  family  has  known. 
Generally,  a  woman  don't  adapt  herself 
so  readily  to  a  change  of  surroundings 
as  a  man :  where  there  is  love,  how- 
ever, everything  is  possible." 

"  There  is !  there  is  !  "  Joseph  ex- 
claimed, certifying  the  fact  to  himself 
as  much  as  to  his  friend.  He  rose  and 
stood  beside  him. 

Philip  looked  at  him  with  grave,  ten- 
der eyes. 

"  What  can  I  do  ? "  he  said. 

"What  should  you  do?"  Joseph 
asked. 

"  This  !  "  Philip  exclaimed,  laying 
his  hands  on  Joseph's  shoulders, — 
"  this,  Joseph  !  I  can  be  nearer  than  a 
brother.  I  know  that  I  am  in  your 
heart  as  you  are  in  mine.  There  is  no 
faith  between  us  that  need  be  limited, 
there  is  no  truth  too  secret  to  be 
veiled.  A  man's  perfect  friendship  is 
rarer  than  a  woman's  love,  and  most 
hearts  are  content  with  one  or  the 
other  :  not  so  with  yours  and  mine  !  I 
read  it  in  your  eyes,  when  you  opened 
them  on  my  knee  :  I  see  it  in  your 
face  now.  Don't  speak  :  let  us  clasp 
hands." 

But  Joseph  could  not  speak. 


396 


TJie  EnglisJt,  Governess 


[April, 


THE   ENGLISH   GOVERNESS   AT   THE   SIAMESE   COURT. 


IN  1825  a  royal  prince  of  Siam  (his 
birthright  wrested  from  him,  and 
his  life  imperilled)  took  refuge  in  a 
Buddhist  monastery  and  assumed  the 
yellow  garb  of  a  priest.  His  father, 
commonly  known  as  Phen  den-Klang, 
first  or  supreme  king  of  Siam,  had 
just  died,  leaving  this  prince,  Chowfa 
Mongkut,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  law- 
ful heir  to  the  crown ;  for  he  was 
the  eldest  son  of  the  acknowledged 
queen,  and  therefore  by  courtesy  and 
honored  custom,  if  not  by  absolute 
right,  the  legitimate  successor  to  the 
throne  of  the  Phra-batts.*  But  he  had 
an  elder  half-brother,  who,  through  the 
intrigues  of  his  mother,  had  already 
obtained  control  of  the  royal  treasury, 
and  now,  with  the  connivance,  if  not 
by  authority,  of  the  Senabawdee,  the 
Grand  Council  of  the  kingdom,  pro- 
claimed himself  king,  under  the  title 
of  Phra-chow-Phra-sat-thong.  He  had 
the  grace,  however,  to  promise  his 
plundered  brother  —  such  royal  prom- 
ises being  a  cheap  form  of  propitiation 
in  Siam  —  to  hold  the  reins  of  gov- 
ernment only  until  Chowfa  Mongkut 
should  be  of  years  and  strength  and 
skill  to  manage  them.  But,  once  firmly 
seated  on  the  throne,  the  usurper  saw 
in  his  patient  but  proud  and  astute 
kinsman  only  a  hindrance  and  a  peril 
in  the  path  of  his  own  cruder  and 
fiercer  aspirations.  Hence  the  fore- 
warning and  the  flight,  the  cloister  and 
the  yellow  robes.  And  so  the  usurper 
continued  to  reign,  unch?.llenged  by  any 
claim  from  the  king  that  should  be,  un- 
til March,  1851,  when,  a  mortal  illness 
having  overtaken  him,  he  convoked  the 
Grand  Council  of  princes  and  nobles 
around  his  couch,  and  proposed  his  fa- 
vorite son  as  his  successor.  Then  the 
safe  asses  of  the  court  kicked  the  dy- 
ing lion  with  seven  words  of  senten- 
tious scorn,  —  "  The  crown  has  already 
its  rightful  owner";  whereupon  Phra- 
*  The  Golden-footed. 


chow  -  Phra  -  sat  -  thong  literally  cursed 
himself  to  death  ;  for  it  was  almost  in 
the  convulsion  of  his  chagrin  and  rage 
that  he  came  to  his  end,  on  the  3d  of 
April. 

In  Siam  there  is  no  such  personage 
as  an  heir  apparent  to  the  throne,  in 
the  definite  meaning  and  positive  value 
which  attaches  to  that -phrase  in  Eu- 
rope, —  no  prince  with  an  absolute  and 
exclusive  title,  by  birth,  adoption,  or 
nomination,  to  succeed  to  the  crown. 
And  while  it  is  true  that  the  eldest  liv- 
ing son  of  a  Siamese  sovereign  by  his 
queen  or  queen  consort  is  recognized 
by  all  custom,  ancient  and  modern,  as 
the  probable  successor  to  the  high  seat 
of  his  royal  sire,  he  cannot  be  said  to 
have  a  clear  and  indefeasible  right  to  it, 
because  the  question  of  his  accession 
has  yet  to  be  decided  by  the  electing 
voice  of  the  Senabawdee,  the  Grand 
Council  of  the  realm,  in  whose  judg- 
ment he  may  be  ineligible,  by  reason 
of  certain  physical,  mental,  or  moral 
disabilities,  —  as  extreme  youth,  effemi- 
nacy, imbecility,  intemperance,  profli- 
gacy. Nevertheless,  the  election  is 
popularly  expected  to  result  in  the 
choice  of  the  eldest  son  of  the  queen, 
though  an  interregnum  or  a  regency  is 
a  contingency  by  no  means  unusual. 

It  was  in  view  of  this  jurisdiction  of 
the  Senabawdee,  exercised  in  defer- 
ence to  a  just  and  honored  custom,  that 
the  voice  of  the  oracle  fell  upon  the  ear 
of  the  dying  monarch  with  a  disappoint- 
ing and  offensive  significance ;  for  he 
well  knew  who  was  meant  by  the 
"  rightful  owner  "  of  the  crown.  Hard- 
ly had  he  breathed  his  last  when,  in 
spite  of  the  busy  intrigues  of  his  eldest 
son  (whom  we  find  described  in  the 
Bangkok  Recorder  of  July  26,  1866, 
as  "most  honorable  and  promising"), 
in  spite  of  the  bitter  vexation  of 
his  lordship  Chow  -  Phya  Sri  Surry 
Wongse,  so  soon  to  be  premier,  the 
prince  Chowfa  Mongkut  doffed  his  sa- 


at  the  Siamese  Court. 


397 


cerdotal  robes,  emerged  from  his  clois- 
ter, and  was  crowned,  with  the  title 
of  Somedtch-l'hra  Paramendr  Maha 
Mongkut.* 

For  twenty-five  years  had  the  true 
heir  to  the  throne  of  the  Phra-batts, 
patiently  biding  his  time,  lain  perdu 
in  his  monastery,  diligently  devoting 
himself  to  the  study  of  Sanskrit,  Bali, 
theology,  history,  geology,  chemistry, 
and  especially  astronomy.  He  was  a 
familiar  visitor  at  the  houses  of  the 
American  missionaries,  two  of  whom 
(Dr.  House  and  Mr.  Mattoon)  were, 
throughout  his  reign  and  life,  gratefully 
revered  by  him  for  that  pleasant  and 
profitable  converse  which  helped  to 
unlock  to  him  the  secrets  of  European 
vigor  and  advancement,  and  to  make 
straight  and  easy  the  paths  of  knowl- 
edge he  had  started  upon.  Not  even 
the  essential  arrogance  of  his  Siamese 
nature  could  prevent  him  from  accept- 
ing cordially  the  happy  influences  these 
good  and  true  men  inspired  ;  and  doubt- 
less he  would  have  gone  more  than 
half-way  to  meet  them,  but  for  the  dazzle 
of  the  golden  throne  in  the  distance, 
which  arrested  him  midway  between 
Christianity  and  Buddhism,  between 
truth  and  delusion,  between  light  and 
darkness,  between  life  and  death. 

In  the  Oriental  tongues  this  progres- 
sive king  was  eminently  proficient ; 
and  toward  priests,  preachers,  and 
teachers,  of  all  creeds,  sects,  and  sci- 
ences, an  enlightened  exemplar  of  tol- 
erance. It  was  likewise  his  peculiar 
vanity  to  pass  for  an  accomplished 
English  scholar,  and  to  this  end  he 
maintained  in  his  palace  at  Bangkok 
a  private  printing  establishment,  with 
fonts  of  English  type,  which,  as  may 
be  perceived  presently,  he  was  at  no 
loss  to  keep  in  "copy."  Perhaps  it 
was  the  printing-office  which  suggest- 
ed, quite  naturally,  an  English  govern- 
ess for  the  elite  of  his  wives  and  concu- 
,ind  their  offspring,  —  in  number 
amply  adequate  to  the  constitution  of  a 
royal  school,  and  in  material  most  at- 
tractively fresh  and  romantic.  Happy 
thought !  Wherefore,  behold  me,  just 

*  Duke,  and  royal  bearer  of  the  great  crosvn. 


after  sunset  on  a  pleasant  day  in  April, 
1862,  on  the  threshold  of  the  outer 
court  of  the  Grand  Palace,  accompa- 
nied by  my  own  brave  little  boy,  and 
escorted  by  a  compatriot. 

A  flood  of  light  sweeping  through 
the  spacious  Hall  of  Audience  displayed 
a  throng  of  noblemen  in  waiting.  None 
turned  a  glance,  or  seemingly  a  thought, 
on  us,  and,  my  child  being  tired  and  hun- 
gry, I  urged  Captain  B to  present 

us  without  delay.  At  once  we  mounted 
the  marble  steps,  and  entered  the  bril- 
liant hall  unannounced.  Ranged  on  the 
carpet  were  many  prostrate,  mute,  and 
motionless  forms,  over  whose  heads  to 
step  was  a  temptation  as  drolly  natural 
as  it  was  dangerous.  His  Majesty 
spied  us  quickly,  and  advanced  abrupt- 
ly, petulantly  screaming,  "  Who  ?  who  ? 
who  ?  " 

Captain  B (who,  by  the  by,  is  a 

titled  nobleman  of  Siam)  introduced 
me  as  the  English  governess,  engaged 
for  the  royal  family.  The  king  shook 
hands  with  us,  and  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  march  up  and  down  in  quick 
step,  putting  one  foot  before  the  other 
with  mathematical  precision,  as  if  un- 
der drill.  "  Forewarned,  forearmed," 
my  friend  whispered  that  I  should  pre- 
pare myself  for  a  sharp  cross-question- 
ing as  to  my  age,  my  husband,  children, 
and  other  strictly  personal  concerns. 
Suddenly  his  Majesty,  having  cogitated 
sufficiently  in  his  peculiar  manner,  with 
one  long  final  stride  halted  in  front  of 
us,  and,  pointing  straight  at  me  with 
his  forefinger,  asked,  "  How  old  shall 
you  be  ?  " 

Scarcely  able  to  repress  a  smile  at  a 
proceeding  so  absurd,  and  with  my 
sex's  distaste  for  so  serious  a  question, 
I  demurely  replied,  "  One  hundred  and 
fifty  years  old." 

Had  I  made  myself  much  younger, 
he  might  have  ridiculed  or  assailed 
me ;  but  now  he  stood  surprised  and 
embarrassed  for  a  few  moments,  then 
resumed  his  quick  march,  and  at  last, 
beginning  to  perceive  the  jest,  coughed, 
laughed,  coughed  again,  and  then  in  a 
high,  sharp  key  asked,  "  In  what  year 
were  you  borned  ?  " 


398 


The  English  Governess 


[April, 


Instantly  I  "struck"  a  mental  bal- 
ance, and  answered,  as  gravely  as  I 
could,  "  In  1788." 

At  this  point  the  expression  of  his 
Majesty's  face  was  indescribably  comi- 
cal. Captain  B slipped  behind  a  pil- 
lar to  laugh  ;  but  the  king  only  coughed, 
with  a  significant  emphasis  that  star- 
tled me,  and  addressed  a  few  words  to 
his  prostrate  courtiers,  who  smiled  at 
the  carpet,  —  all  except  the  prime  min- 
ister, who  turned  to  look  at  me.  But 
his  Majesty  was  not  to  be  baffled  so  : 
again  he  marched  with  vigor,  and  then 
returned  to  the  attack  with  clan. 

"  How  many  years  shall  you  be  mar- 
ried ?  " 

"  For  several  years,  your  Majesty." 

He  fell  into  a  brown  study;  then 
suddenly  rushed  at  me,  and  demanded 
triumphantly  :  — 

"  Ha  !  How  many  grandchildren  shall 
you  now  have  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  How  many  ? 
How  many  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " 

Of  course  we  all  laughed  with  him  ; 
but  the  general  hilarity  admitted  of  a 
variety  of  constructions. 

Then  suddenly  he  seized  my  hand, 
and  dragged  me,  nolens  volens,  my  lit- 
tle Louis  holding  fast  by  my  skirt, 
through  several  sombre  passages  along 
which  crouched  duennas,  shrivelled  and 
grotesque,  and  many  youthful  women, 
covering  their  faces,  as  if  blinded  by 
the  splendor  of  the  passing  Majesty. 
At  length  he  stopped  before  one  of  the 
many-curtained  recesses,  and,  drawing 
aside  the  hangings,  disclosed  a  lovely, 
childlike  form.  He  stooped  and  took 
her  hand  (she  naively  hiding  her  face), 
and  placing  it  in  mine,  said  :  "This  is 
my  wife,  the  Lady  T.  She  desires  to 
be  educated  in  English.  She  is  as  re- 
nowned for  her  talents  as  for  her  beau- 
ty, and  it  is  our  pleasure  to  make  her  a 
good  English  scholar.  You  shall  edu- 
cate her  for  me." 

I  replied  that  the  office  would  give 
me  much  pleasure  ;  for  nothing  could 
be  more  eloquently  winning  than  the 
modest,  timid  bearing  of  that  tender 
young  creature  in  the  presence  of  her 
lord.  She  laughed  low  and  pleasantly 
as  he  translated  ray  sympathetic  words 


to  her,  and  seemed  so  enraptured  with 
the  graciousness  of  his  act  that  I  took. 
my  leave  of  her  with  a  sentiment  of 
profound  pity. 

He  led  me  back  by  the  way  we  had 
come  :  and  now  we  met  many  children, 
who  put  my  patient  boy  to  much  child- 
ish torture  for  the  gratification  of  their 
startled  curiosity. 

"  I  have  sixty-seven  children,"  said 
his  Majesty,  when  we  had  returned  to 
the  Audience  Hall.  "  You  shall  edu- 
cate them  ;  and  as  many  of  my  wives, 
likewise,  as  may  wish  to  learn  English. 
And  I  have  much  correspondence  in 
which  you  must  assist  me.  And,  more- 
over, I  have  much  difficulty  for  reading 
and  translating  French  letters  ;  for 
French  are  fond  of  using  gloomily  de- 
ceiving terms.  You  must  undertake  ; 
and  you  shall  make  all  their  murky  sen- 
tences and  gloomily  deceiving  proposi- 
tions clear  to  me.  And,  furthermore,  I 
have  by  every  mail  many  foreign  letters 
whose  writing  is  not  easily  read  by  me. 
You  shall  copy  on  round  hand,  for  my 
readily  perusal  thereof." 

Nil  desperandum  ;  but  I  began  by 
despairing  of  my  ability  to  accomplish 
tasks  so  multifarious.  I  simply  bowed, 
however,  and  so  dismissed  myself  for 
that  evening. 

When  next  I  "  interviewed "  the 
king,  I  was  accompanied  by  the  pre- 
mier's sister,  a  fair  and  pleasant  woman, 
whose  whole  stock  of  English  was, 
"  Good  morning,  sir  "  ;  and  with  this 
somewhat  irrelevant  greeting,  a  dozen 
times  in  an  hour,  though  the  hour  were 
night,  she  relieved  her  pent-up  feelings, 
and  gave  expression  to  her  sympathy 
and  regard  for  me.  We  found  his  Maj- 
esty in  a  less  genial  mood  than  at  my 
first  reception.  He  approached  us 
coughing  loudly  and  repeatedly,  a  suf- 
ficiently ominous  fashion  of  announcing 
himself,  which  greatly  discouraged  my 
darling  boy,  who  clung  to  me  anxiously. 
He  was  followed  by  a  numerous  "  tail " 
of  women  and  children,  who  presently 
prostrated  themselves  around  him. 
Shaking  hands  with  me  coldly,  but 
remarking  upon  the  beauty  of  the 
child's  hair,  half  buried  in  the  folds  of 


8;o.] 


at  tJic  Siamese  Court. 


399 


my  dress,  he  turned  to  the  premier's 
sister,  and  conversed  at  some  length 
with  her,  she  apparently  acquiescing  in 
all  that  he  had  to  say.  He  then  ap- 
proached me,  and  said,  in  a  loud  and 
domineering  tone,  — 

"  It  is  our  pleasure  that  you  shall  re- 
side within  this  palace  with  our  fam- 
ily." 

I  replied  that  it  would  be  quite  im- 
possible for  me  to  do  so  ;  that,  being 
as  yet  unable  to  speak  the  language, 
and  the  gates  being  shut  every  even- 
ing, I  should  feel  like  an  unhappy  pris- 
oner in  the  palace. 

'•  Where  do  you  go  every  evening  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

<t    anywhere,   your   Majesty.      I 
am  a  stranger  here." 

"  Then  why  you  shall  object  to  the 
gates  being  shut  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  clearly  know,"  I  replied, 
with  a  secret  shudder  at  the  idea  of 
sleeping  within  those  walls  ;  "  but  I 
am  afraid  I  could  not  do  it.  I  beg 
your  Majestv  will  remember  that  in 
your  gracious  letter  you  promised  me 
idence  adjoining  the  royal  pal- 
ace,' not  within  it." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  me,  his  face 
growing  almost  purple  with  rage.  "  I 
do  not  know  I  have  promised.  I  do 
not  know  former  condition.  I  do  not 
know  anything  but  you  are  our  ser- 
vant ;  and  it  is  our  pleasure  that  you 
must  live  in  this  palace,  and  you  shall 
obey'''  Those  last  three  words  he  fairly 
screamed. 

I  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  for 
some  time  knew  not  how  to  reply. 
At  length  I  ventured  to  say  :  "  I  am 
prepared  to  obey  all  your  Majesty's 
commands,  within  the  obligation  of  my 
duty  to  your  family  ;  but  beyond  that  I 
can  promise  no  obedience." 

"  You  shall  live  in  palace,"  he  roared, 
—  "you  shall  live  in  palace.  I  will  give 
woman  slaves  to  wait  on  you.  You 
shall  commence  royal  school  in  this 
pavilion  on  Thursday  next.  That  is 
the  best  day  for  such  undertaking,  in 
the  estimation  of  our  astrologers." 

With  that,  he  addressed,  in  a  frantic 
manner,  commands,  unintelligible  to 


me,  to  some  of  the  old  women  about  the 
pavilion.  My  boy  began  to  cry  ;  tears 
filled  my  own  eyes  ;  and  the  premier's 
sister,  so  kind  but  an  hour  before,  cast 
fierce  glances  at  us  both.  I  turned 
and  led  my  child  toward  the  oval 
brass  door.  We  heard  voices  behind 
us  crying,  "Mam!  Mam!"  I  turned 
again,  and  saw  the  king  beckoning  and 
calling  to  me.  I  bowed  to  him  pro- 
foundly, but  passed  on  through  the 
brass  door.  The  prime  minister's  sis- 
ter rushed  after  us  in  a  distraction  of 
excitement,  tugging  at  my  cloak,  shak- 
ing her  finger  in  my  face,  and  cry- 
ing, "  My  di  !  my  di !  "  *  All  the  way 
back,  in  the  boat,  and  on  the  street, 
to  the  very  door  of  my  apartments, 
instead  of  her  jocund  "  Good  morning, 
sir,"  I  had  nothing  but  my  di. 

But  kings  who  are  not  mad  have 
their  sober  second  thoughts  like  other 
rational  people.  His  Golden  -  footed 
Majesty  presently  repented  him  of  his 
arbitrary  "  cantankerousness,"  and  in 
due  time  my  ultimatum  was  accepted. 

About  a  year  later,  when  I  had  been 
permanently  installed  in  my  double  office 
of  teacher  and  scribe,  I  was  one  day 
busy  with  a  letter  from  his  Majesty  to 
the  Earl  of  Clarendon,  and  finding  that 
any  attempt  at  partial  correction  would 
but  render  his  meaning  more  ambigu- 
ous, and  impair  the  striking  originality 
of  his  style,  I  had  abandoned  the  effort, 
and  set  about  copying  it  with  literal 
exactness,  only  venturing  to  alter  here 
and  there  a  word,  such  as  "  I  hasten 
with  ivilful  pleasure  to  write  in  reply 
to  your  Lordship's  well-wishing  letter" 
etc.  Whilst  I  was  thus  evolving  from 
the  depths  of  my  inner  consciousness  a 
satisfactory  solution  to  this  conundrum 
in  King's  English,  his  Majesty's  private 
secretary  lolled  in  the  sunniest  corner 
of  the  room,  stretching  his  dusky  limbs 
and  heavily  nodding,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
ease  -  taking.  Poor  Phra  -  Alack  !  I 
never  knew  him  to  be  otherwise  than 
sleepy,  and  his  sleep  was  always  stolen. 
For  his  Majesty  was  the  most  capri- 
cious of  kings  as  to  his  working  moods, 
—  busy  when  the  average  man  should 

*  Bad,  bad  1 


400 


The  EnglisJi  Governess 


[April, 


be  sleeping,  sleeping  while  letters, 
papers,  despatches,  messengers,  mail- 
boats  waited.  More  than  once  had 
we  been  aroused  at  dead  of  night  by 
noisy  female  slaves,  and  dragged  in 
hot  haste  and  consternation  to  the  Hall 
of  Audience,  only  to  find  that  his  Maj- 
esty was,  not  at  his  last  gasp,  as  we  had 
feared,  but  simply  bothered  to  find 
in  Webster's  Dictionary  some  word 
that  was  to  be  found  nowhere  but  in 
his  own  fertile  brain  ;  or  perhaps  in 
excited  chase  of  the  classical  term  for 
some  trifle  he  was  on  the  point  of  or- 
dering from  London,  —  and  that  word 
was  sure  to  be  a  stranger  to  my  brain. 

Before  my  arrival  in  Bangkok  it  had 
been  his  riot  uncommon  practice  to 
send  for  a  missionary  at  midnight,  have 
him  beguiled  or  abducted  from  his 
bed,  and  conveyed  by  boat  to  the  pal- 
ace, some  miles  up  the  river,  to  in- 
quire if  it  would  not  be  more  elegant 
to  write  murky  instead  of  obscure,  or 
gloomily  dark  rather  than  not  clearly 
apparent.  And  if  the  wretched  man 
should  venture  to  declare  his  honest 
preference  for  the  ordinary  over  the  ex- 
traordinary form  of  expression,  he  was 
forthwith  dismissed  with  irony,  arro- 
gance, or  even  insult,  and  without  a 
word  of  apology  for  the  rude  invasion 
of  his  rest. 

One  night,  a  little  after  twelve  o'clock, 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  going  to  bed 
like  any  plain  citizen  of  regular  habits, 
his  Majesty  fell  to  thinking  how  most 
accurately  to  render  into  English  the 
troublesome  Siamese  word  phi,  which 
admits  of  a  variety  of  interpretations.* 
After  puzzling  over  it  for  more  than  an 
hour,  getting  himself  possessed  with 
the  word  as  with  the  devil  it  stands  for, 
and  all  to  no  purpose,  he  ordered  one  of 
his  lesser  state  barges  to  be  manned  and 
despatched  with  all  speed  for  the  Brit- 
ish consul.  That  functionary,  inspired 
with  lively  alarm  by  so  startling  a  sum- 
mons, dressed  himself  with  unceremo- 
nious celerity,  and  hurried  to  the  palace, 
conjecturing  on  the  way  all  imagina- 
ble possibilities  of  politics  and  diploma- 
cy, revolution  or  invasion.  To  his  vex- 

*  Ghost,  spirit,  soul,  devil,  evil  angel.    - 


ation,  not  less  than  his  surprise,  he 
found  the  king  seated  in  dishabille, 
with  a  Siamese  -  P^nglish  vocabulary, 
mentally  divided  between  "  deuce  "  and 
"  devil,"  in  the  choice  of  an  equivalent. 
His  preposterous  Majesty  gravely  laid 
the  case  before  the  consul,  who,  though 
inwardly  chafing  at  what  he  termed 
"  the  confounded  coolness  "  of  the  sit- 
uation, had  no  choice  but  to  decide 
with  grace,  and  go  back  to  bed  with 
philosophy. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Phra- Alack  ex- 
perienced an  access  of  gratitude  for  the 
privilege  of  napping  for  two  hours  in  a 
snuggery  of  sunshine. 

"Mam-Kha,"*  he  murmured  drowsi- 
ly, "I  hope  that  in  the  Chat-Nahf  I 
shall  be  a  freed  man." 

"  I  hope  so  sincerely,  Phra-Alack," 
said  I.  "I  hope  you  '11  be  an  English- 
man or  an  American,  for  then  you  '11  be 
sure  to  be  independent." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  pity  the  poor 
old  man,  —  stiff  with  continual  stooping 
to  his  task,  and  so  subdued! — liable 
not  only  to  be  called  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  or  night,  but  to  be  threatened, 
cuffed,  kicked,  beaten  on  the  head,  { 
every  way  abused  and  insulted,  and  the 
next  moment  to  be  taken  into  favor, 
confidence,  bosom-friendship,  even  as 
his  Majesty's  mood  might  veer. 

Alack  for  Phra-Alack!  though  usual- 
ly he  bore  with  equal  patience  his 
greater  and  his  lesser  ills,  there  were 
occasions  that  sharply  tried  his  meek- 
ness, when  his  weak  and  goaded  na- 
ture revolted,  and  he  rushed  to  a  snug 
little  home  of  his  own,  about  forty  yards 
from  the  Grand  Palace,  there  to  snatch 
a  respite  of  rest  and  refreshment  in  the 
society  of  his  young  and  lately  wedded 
wife.  Then  the  king  would  awake  and 
send  for  him,  whereupon  he  would  be 
suddenly  ill,  or  not  at  home,  strate- 
gically hiding  himself  under  a  moun- 
tain of  bedclothes,  and  detailing  Mrs. 
Phra-Alack  to  reconnoitre  and  report. 
He  had  tried  this  primitive  trick  so  of- 
ten that  its  very  staleness  infuriated  the 

*  Kha,  your  slave. 
•    t  The  next  state  of  existence. 
V  \  The  gravest  indignity  a  Siamese  can  suffer. 


at  the  Siamese  Court. 


401 


\vho  invariably  sent  officers  to 
seize  his  trembling  accomplice  and  lock- 
her  up  in  a  dismal  cell,  as  a  hostage  for 
the  scribe's  appearance.  At  dusk  the 
poor  fellow  would  emerge,  contrite  and 
terrified,  and  prostrate  himself  at  the 
gate  of  the  palace.  Then  his  Majesty 
(who,  having  spies  posted  in  every  quar- 
ter of  the  town,  knew  as  well  as  Phra- 
Ak'ick  himself  what  the  illness  or  the 
absence  signified)  leisurely  strolled  forth, 
and,  finding  the  patient  on  the  thresh- 
old, flew  always  into  a  genuine  rage, 
and  prescribed  "  decapitation  on  the 
spot,"  and  "  sixty  lashes  on  the  bare 
back,"  both  in  the  same  breath.  And 
while  the  attendants  flew  right  and  left, 
—  one  for  the  blade,  another  for  the 
thong,  —  the  king,  still  raging,  seized 
whatever  came  most  handy,  and  bela- 
bored his  bosom-friend  on  the  head  and 
shoulders.  Having  thus  summarily  re- 
lieved his  mind,  he  despatched  the 
royal  secretary  for  his  ink-horn  and 
papyrus,  and  began  inditing  letters, 
orders,  appointments,  before  scymitar 
or  lash  (which  were  ever  tenderly  slow 
on  these  occasions)  had  made  its  ap- 
pearance. Perhaps  in  the  very  thick 
of  his  dictating  he  would  remember  the 
connubial  accomplice,  and  order  his 
people  to  "release  her,  and  let  her 
go." 

Slavery  in  Siam  is  the  lot  of  men  of 
a  much  finer  intellectual  type  than  any 
••who  have  been  its  victims  in  modern 
times,  in  societies  farther  west.  Phra- 
Aluck  had  been  his  Majesty's  slave 
•when  they  were  boys  together.  To- 
gether they  had  played,  studied,  and 
entered  the  priesthood.  At  once  bond- 
man, comrade,  classmate,  and  confi- 
dant, he  was  the  very  man  to  fill  the 
office  of  private  secretary  to  his  royal 
crony.  Virgil  made  a  slave  of  his  a 
poet,  and  Horace  was  the  son  of  an 
emancipated  slave.  The  Roman  leech 
and  chirurgeon  were  often  slaves  ;  so, 
too,  the  preceptor  and  the  pedagogue, 
the  reader  and  the  player,  the  clerk  and 
the  amanuensis,  the  singer,  the  dancer, 
the  wrestler,  and  the  buffoon,  the  ar- 
chitect, the  smith,  the  weaver,  and 
.the  shoemaker  ;  even  the  armiger  or 

VOL.  xxv.  —  xo.  150.  26 


squire  was  a  slave.     Educated   slaves 
exercised   their    talents    and    pi 
their  callings   for  the   emolument    of 
their  masters  ;  and  thus  it  is  to-day  in 
Siam.     Mntato   nomine,   dc   tc 
narratur,  Phra-Aluck. 

The  king's  taste  for  English  compo- 
sition had,  by  much  exercise,  developed 
itself  into  a  passion.  In  the  pursuit 
of  it  he  was  indefatigable,  rambling, 
and  petulant.  He  had  "Webster  Un- 
abridged" on  the  brain, — an  exasper- 
ating form  of  king's  evil.  The  little 
dingy  slips  that  emanated  freely  from 
the  palace  press  were  as  indiscriminate 
as  they  were  quaint.  No  topic  was 
too  sublime  or  too  ignoble  for  them. 
All  was  "copy"  that  came  to  those 
cases,  —  from  the  glory  of  the  heave:.'/ 
bodies  to  the  nuisance  of  the  busy- 
bodies,  who  scolded  his  Majesty  through 
the  columns  of  the  Bangkok  Recorder. 

I  have  before  me  as  I  write  a  circu- 
lar from  his  pen,  and  in  the  type  of  his 
private  press,  which,  being  without  cap- 
tion or  signature,  may  be  supposed  to 
be  addressed  "  to  all  whom  it  may 
concern."  The  American  missiona- 
ries had  vexed  his  exact  scholarship  by 
their  peculiar  mode  of  representing  in 
English  letters  the  name  of  a  native 
city  (Prippri,  or  in  Sanskrit  Bajrepurfr. 
Whence  this  droll  circular,  which  be- 
gins with  a  dogmatic  line  :  — 

"  None  should  write  the  name  of  city 
of  Prippri  thus  —  P'et  cha  poory." 

Then  comes  a  scholarly  demonstra- 
tion of  the  derivation  of  the  name  from 
a  compound  Sanskrit  word,  signifying 
"  Diamond  City."  And  the  document 
concludes  with  a  characteristic  explo- 
sion of  impatience,  at  once  critical, 
royal,  and  sacerdotal:  "Ah!  what  the 
Romanization  of  American  system 
that  P'etch'  abwry  will  be  !  Will 
whole  human  learned  world  become 
the  pupil  of  their  corrupted  Siamese 
teachers  ?  It  is  very  far  from  correct- 
ness, why  they  did  not  look  in  journal 
of  Royal  Asiatic  Society,  where  sever- 
al words  of  Sanskrit  and  Pali  were 
published  continually  ?  Their  Siamese 
priestly  teachers  considered  all  Euro- 
peans as  very  heathen  ;  to  them  far 


402 


The  English  Governess 


[April, 


from  sacred  tongue  and  were  glad  to 
have  American  heathens  to  become 
their  scholars  or  pupils  ;  they  thought 
they  have  taught  sacred  language  to 
the  part  of  heathen  ;  in  fact,  they  them- 
selves are  very  far  from  sacred  lan- 
guage, being  sunk  deeply  in  corruption 
of  sacred  and  learned  language,  for 
tongue  of  their  former  Laos  and  Cam- 
bodian teachers,  and  very  far  from 
knowledge  of  Hindoostanee,  Singha- 
lese, and  Royal  Asiatic  Society's  knowl- 
edge in  Sanskrit,  as  they  are  considered 
by  such  the  Siamese  teachers,  as  hea- 
then ;  called  by  them  Mit  ch'a  thi  thi, 
&c.,  &c.,  i.  e.  wrongly  seer  or  spectator, 
&c.,  &c." 

In  another  slip,  which  is  manifestly 
an  outburst  of  the  royal  petulance,  his 
Majesty  demands,  in  a  "  displayed " 
paragraph  :  — 

"Why  name  of  Mr.  Knox  [Thomas 
George  Knox,  Esq.,  British  Consul] 
was  not  published  thus-:  Missa  Nok  or 
Nawk.  If  name  -of  Chaw  Phya  Bhu- 
dharabhay  is  to  be  thus :  P'raya  P'oo 
fa  ra  P'ie  ;  and  why  the  London  was 
not  published  thus  :  Lundun  or  Lan- 
dan,  if  Bejrepuri  is  to  be  published 
P'etch'  abury." 

In  the  same  slip  with  the  philological 
protest  the  following  remarkable  para- 
graphs appear : — 

"  What  has  been  published  in  No.  25 
of  Bangkok  Recorder  thus  :  — 

"  The  king  of  Siam,  on  reading  from 
some  European  paper  that  the  Pope  had 
lately  suffered  the  loss  of  some  precious 
jewels,  in  consequence  of  a  thief  having  got 
possession  of  his  Holiness'  keys,  exclaimed, 
'  What  a  man  !  professing  to  keep  the  keys 
of  Heaven,  and  cannot  even  keep  his  own 
keys  ! ' " 

"The  king  on  perusal  thereof  denied 
that  it  is  false.  He  knows  nothing  about 
his  Holiness  the  Pope's  sustaining  loss 
of  gems,  &c.,and  has  said  nothing  about 
religious  faith." 

This  is  curious,  in  that  it  exposes 
the  king's  unworthy  fear  of  the  French 
priesthood  in  Siam.  The  fact  is  that  he 
did  make  the  rather  smart  remark,  in 
precisely  these  words  :  "  Ah  !  what  a 
man !  professing  to  keep  the  keys  of 


Heaven,  and  not  able  to  guard  those  of 
his  own  bureau ! "  and  he  was  quite 
proud  of  his  hit.  But  when  it  appeared 
in  the  Recorder,  he  thought  it  prudent 
to  bar  it  with  a  formal  denial.  Hence 
the  politic  little  item,  which  he  sent  to 
all  the  foreigners  in  Bangkok,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  French  priests. 

His  Majesty's  mode  of  dealing  with 
newspaper  strictures  (not  always  just) 
and  suggestions  (not  always  pertinent) 
aimed  at  his  administration  of  public 
affairs,  or  the  constitution  and  disci- 
pline of  his  household,  was  character- 
istic. He  snubbed  them  with  senten- 
tious arrogance,  leavened  with  sarcasm. 

When  the  Recorder  recommended 
to  the  king  the  expediency  of  dispers- 
ing his  Solomonic  harem,  and  abolish- 
ing polygamy  in  the  royal  family,  his 
Majesty  retorted  with  a  verbal  message 
to  the  editor,  to  the  purport  that  "  when 
the  Recorder  shall  have  dissuaded 
princes  and  noblemen  from  offering 
their  daughters  to  the  king  as  concu- 
bines, the  king  will  cease  tq  receive 
contributions  of  women  in  that  capa- 
city." 

In  August,  1865,  an  angry  alterca- 
tion occurred  in  the  Royal  Court  of 
Equity  (sometimes  styled  the  Interna- 
tional Court)  between  a  French  priest 
and  Phya  Wiset,  a  Siamese  nobleman, 
of  venerable  years,  but  positive  spirit 
and  energy.  The  priest  gave  Phya 
Wiset  the  lie,  and  Phya  Wiset  gave  it 
back  to  the  priest,  whereupon  the  priest 
became  noisy.  Afterward  he  reported 
the  affair  to  his  consul  at  Bangkok, 
with  the  embellishing  statement  that 
not  only  himself,  but  his  religion  had 
been  grossly  insulted.  The  consul, 
one  Monsieur  Aubaret,  a  peppery  and 
pugnacious  Frenchman,  immediately 
made  a  demand  upon  his  Majesty  for 
the  removal  of  Phya  Wiset  from  office. 

This  despatch  was  sent  late  in  the 
evening  by  the  hand  of  Monsieur  La- 
marche,  commanding  the  troops  at  the 
royal  palace  ;  and  that  officer  had  the 
consul's  order  to  present  it  summarily. 
Lamarche  managed  to  procure  admit- 
tance to  the  penetralia,  and  presented 
the  note  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 


8;o.] 


at  the  Siamese  Court. 


403 


in  violation  of  reason  and  courtesy  as 
well  as  of  rules,  excusing  himself  on 
the  ground  that  the  despatch  was  im- 
portant and  his  orders  peremptory. 
PI  is  Majesty  then  read  the  despatch, 
and  remarked  that  the  matter  should 
be  disposed  of  "to-morrow."  La- 
marche  replied,  very  presumptuously, 
that  the  affair  required  no  investiga- 
tion, as  lie  had  heard  the  offensive  lan- 
guage of  Phya  Wiset,  and  that  person 
must  be  deposed  without  ceremony. 
Whereupon  his  Majesty  ordered  the 
offensive  foreigner  to  leave  the  palace. 

Lamarche  repaired  forthwith  to  the 
consul,  and  reported  that  the  king 
had  spoken  disrespectfully,  not  only  of 
his  Imperial  Majesty's  consul,  but  of 
the  Emperor  himself,  besides  outra- 
geously insulting  a  French  messenger. 
Then  the  fire-eating  functionary  ad- 
dressed another  despatch  to  his  Maj- 
esty, the  purport  of  which  was,  that  in 
expelling  Lamarche  from  the  palace, 
the  king  of  Siam  had  been  guilty  of  a 
political  misdemeanor,  and  had  rudely 
disturbed  the  friendly  relations  existing 
between  France  and  Siam  ;  that  he 
should  leave  Bangkok  for  Paris,  and  in 
six  weeks  lay  his  grievance  before  the 
Emperor ;  but  should  first  proceed  to 
Saigon,  and  engage  the  French  admiral 
there  to  attend  to  any  emergency  that 
might  arise  in  Bangkok. 

His  Majesty,  who  knew  how  to  con- 
front the  uproar  of  vulgarity  and  folly 
with  the  repose  of  wisdom  and  dignity, 
sent  his  own  cousin,  the  Prince  Mom 
Rachoday,  Chief  Judge  of  the  Royal 
Court  of  Equity,  to  M.  Aubaret,  to 
disabuse  his  mind,  and  impart  to  him 
all  the  truth  of  the  case.  But  the 
"furious  Frank"  seized  the  imposing 
magnate  by  the  hair,  drove  him  from 
his  door,  and  flung  his  betel-box  after 
him, —  a  reckless  impulse  of  outrage 
as  monstrous  as  the  most  ingenious 
and  deliberate  brutality  could  have 
devised.  Rudely  to  seize  a  Siamese 
by  the  hair  is  an  indignity  as  grave  as 
to  spit  in  the  face  of  a  European  ;  and 
the  betel-box,  beside  being  a  royal 
present,  was  an  essential  part  of  the 
insignia  of  the  prince's  judicial  office. 


On  a  later  occasion  this  same  Auba- 
ret seized  the  opportunity  a  royal  pro- 
cession afforde'd  to  provoke  the 
to  an  ill-timed  discussion  of  politi 
and  to  prefer  an  intemperate  complaint 
against  the  Kalahome,  or  Prime  Min- 
ister. This  characteristic  flourish  of 
ill  temper  and  bad  manners,  from  the 
representative  of  the  politest  of  nations, 
naturally  excited  lively  indignation  and  ', 
disgust  among  all  respectable  dwellers,  ^ 
native  or  foreign,  near  the  court,  and 
a  serious  disturbance  was  imminent. 
But  a  single  dose  of  the  King's  English 
sufficed  to  soothe  the  spasmodic  official, 
and  reduce  him  to  "  a  sense  of  his  sit- 
uation." 

"  TO  THE  HON.  THE  MONSIEUR  AUBARET, 
the  Consul  for  II.  I.  M. 

"SiR:— The  verbal  insult  or  bad 
words  without  any  step  more  over  from 
lower  or  lowest  person  is  considered 
very  slight  &  inconsiderable.* 

"The  person  standing  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  ground  or  floor  Cannot 
injure  the  heavenly  bodies  or  any  high- 
ly hanging  Lamp  or  glope  by  ejecting 
his  spit  from  his  mouth  upward  it  will 
only  injure  his  own  face  without  at- 
tempting of  Heavenly  bodies —  &c. 

"  The  Siamese  are  knowing  of  being 
lower  than  heaven  do  not  endeavor  to 
injure  heavenly  bodies  with  their  spit 
from  mouth. 

"  A  person  who  is  known  to  be  pow- 
erless by  every  one  as  they  who  have 
no  arms  or  legs  to  move  oppose  or 
injure  or  deaf  or  blind  &c.  £c.  Cannot 
be  considered  and  said  that  they  are 
our  enemies  even  for  their  madness  in 
vain  —  it  might  be  considered  as  easily 
agitation  or  uneasiness. 

"  Persons  under  strong  desires  with- 
out any  limit  or  acting  under  illimited 
anger  sometimes  cannot  be  believed  at 
once  without  testimony  or  witness  if 
they  stated  against  any  one  verbally 
from  such  the  statements  of  the  most 
desirous  or  persons  most  illimitedly 
angry  hesitation  and  mild  enquiry  is 
very  prudent  from  persons  of  consider- 
able rank." 

No  sigjiature. 


404 


The  English  Governess 


[April, 


Never  were  simplicity  with  shrewd- 
ness, and  unconscious  humor  with  pa- 
hos, and  candor  .-with  irony,  and  polit- 
economy  with  the  sense  of  an 
awful  bore,  more  quaintly  blended  than 
in  the  following  extraordinary  hint, 
written  and  printed  by  his  Majesty, 
and  freely  distributed  for  the  snub- 
bing of  visionary  or  speculative  adven- 
turers :  — 

"  NOTICE. 

"When  the  general  rumor  was  and 
is  spread  out  from  Siam,  circulated 
among  the  foreigners  to  Siam,  chiefly 
Europeans,  Chinese,  £c,  in  three 
points :  — 

"  i.  That  Siam  is  under  quite  Abso- 
lute Monarchy.  Whatever  her  Supreme 
Sovereign  commanded,  allowed  &c,  all 
cannot  be  resisted  by  any  one  of  his 
Subjects. 

"2.  The  Treasury  of  the  Sovereign 
of  Siam*,  was  full  for  money,  like  a 
mountain  of  gold  and  silver;  Her  Sov- 
ereign most  wealthy. 

"3.  The  present  reigning  Monarch 
of  Siam  is  shallow  minded  and  admirer 
of  almost  everything  of  curiosity,  and 
most  admirer  of  European  usages,  cus- 
toms, sciences,  arts  and  literature  &c, 
without  limit.  He  is  fond  of  flattering 
term  and  ambitious  of  honor,  so  that 
there  are  now  many  opportunities  and 
operations  to  be  embraced  for  drawing 
great  money  from  Royal  Treasury  of 
Siam,  &c. 

"The  most  many  foreigners  being 
under  belief  of  such  general  rumour, 
were  endeavoring  to  draw  money  from 
him  in  various  operations,  as  aluring 
him  with  valuable  curiosities  and  ex- 
pectations of  interest,  and  flattering 
him,  to,  be  glad  of  them,  and  deceiving 
him  in  various  ways  ;  almost  on  every 
opportunity  of  Steamer  Coming  to  Siam, 
various  foreigners  partly  known  to  him 
and  acquainted  with  him,  and  generally 
unknown  to  him,  boldly  wrote  to  him 
in  such  the  term  of  various  application 
and  treatment,  so  that  he  can  conclude 
that  the  chief  object  of  all  letters  writ- 
ten to  him,  is  generally  to  draw  money 
from  him,  even  unreasonable.  Several 


instances  and  testimonies  can  be  shown 
for  being  example  on  this  subject  — 
the  foreigners  letters  addressed  to  him, 
come  by  every  one  steamer  of  Siam, 
and  of  foreign  steamers  visiting  Siam  ; 
10  and  12  at  least  and  40  at  highest 
number,  urging  him  in  various  ways ; 
so  he  concluded  that  foreigners  must 
consider  him  only  as  a  mad  king  of  a 
wild  land ! 

"  He  now  states  that  he  cannot  be  so 
mad  more,  as  he  knows  and  observes 
the  consideration  of  the  foreigners  to- 
wards him.  Also  he  now  became  of 
old  age,*  and  was  very  sorry  to  lose 
his  principal  members  of  his  family 
namely,  his  two  Queens,  twice,  and  his 
younger  brother  the  late  Second  King, 
and  his  late  second  son  and  beloved 
daughter,  and  moreover  now  he  fear 
of  sickness  of  his  eldest  son,  he  is 
now  unhappy  and  must  solicit  his 
friends  in  correspondence  and  others 
who  please  to  write  for  the  foresaid 
purpose,  that  they  should  know  suita- 
ble reason  in  writing  to  him,  and  shall 
not  urge  him  as  they  woufd  urge  a 
madman  !  And  the  general  rumours 
forementioned  are  some  exaggerated 
and  some  entirely  false ;  they  shall  not 
believe  such  the  rumours,  deeply  and 
ascertainedly. 

" ROYAL  RESIDENCE  GRAND  PALACE 
BANGKOK  and  July  1867." 

And  now  observe  with  what  gracious 
ease  this  most  astute  and  discriminat- 
ing prince  could  fit  his  tone  to  the  sense 
of  those  who,  familiar  with  his  opinions, 
and  reconciled  to  his  temper  and  his 
ways,  however  peculiar,  could  recipro- 
cate the  catholicity  of  his  sympathies, 
and  appreciate  his  enlightened  efforts 
to  fling  off  that  tenacious  old-man-of- 
the-sea  custom,  and  extricate  himself 
from  the  predicament  of  conflicting  re- 
sponsibilities. To  these,  on  the  Chris- 
tian New  Year's  day  of  1867,  he  ad- 
dressed this  kindly  greeting :  — 

«  S.  P.  P.  M.  MONGKUT  : 

"  Called  in  Siamese  <  Phra-Chomklau 
chao-yuhua,'  In    Magadhi  or  language 
of   Pali    '  Siamikanam    Maha    Rajah,' 
*  He  was  sixty-two  at  this  time. 


1 870.] 


at  the  Siamese  Court. 


405 


In  Latin  '  Rex  Siamensium,'  In  French 
<Le  Roi  de  Siam,'  In  English  'The 
King  of  Siam,'  and  in  Malayan  '  Rajah 
Maha  Pasah'  &c. 

"  Begs  to  present  his  respectful  and 
regardful  compliments  and  congratula- 
tions in  happy  lives  during  immediate- 
ly last  year,  and  wishes  the  continuing 
thereof  during  the  commencing  New 
Year,  and  ensuing  and  succeeding 
many  years,  to  his  foreign  friends,  both 
now  in  Siam  namely,  the  functionary 
and  acting  Consuls  and  consular  offi- 
cers of  various  distinguished  nations  in 
Treaty  Power  with  Siam  and  certain 
foreign  persons  under  our  salary,  in 
service  in  any  manner  here,  and  several 
Gentlemen  and  Ladies  who  are  resi- 
dent in  Siam  in  various  stations  :  name- 
ly, the  Priests,  preachers  of  religion, 
Masters  and  Mistresses  of  Schools, 
Workmen  and  Merchants,  &c,  and  now 
abroad  in  various  foreign  countries  and 
ports,  who  are  our  noble  and  common 
friends,  acquainted  either  by  ever  hav- 
ing had  correspondences  mutually  with 
us  some  time,  at  any  where  and  remain- 
ing in  our  friendly  remembrance  or  mu- 
tual remembrance,  and  whosoever  are 
in  service  to  us  as  our  Consuls,  vice 
consuls  and  consular  assistants,  in  va- 
rious foreign  ports.  Let  them  know 
our  remembrance  and  good  wishes  to- 
ward them  all. 

"Though  we  are  not  Christians,  the 
forenamed  King  was  glad  to  arrive  this 
day  in  his  valued  life,  as  being  the 
22,72oth  day  of  his  age,  during  which 
he  was  aged  sixty-two  years  and  three 
months,  and  being  the  5,7 nth  day  of 
his  reign,  during  which  he  reigned 
upon  his  kingdom  15  years  and  8 
months  up  to  the  current  month. 

"  In  like  manner  he  was  very  glad  to 
sec  &  know  and  hope  for  all  his  Royal 
Family,  kindred  and  friends  of  both 
native  and  foreign,  living  near  and  far 
to  him  had  arrived  to  this  very  remark- 
able anniversary  of  the  commencement 
of  Solar  Year  in  Anno  Christi  1867. 

"In  their  all  being  healthy  and  well 
living  like  himself,  he  begs  to  express 
his  royal  congratulation  and  respect 


and  graceful  regards  to  all  his  kindred 
and  friends  both  native  and  foreign, 
and  hopes  to  receive  such  the  congratu- 
lation and  expression  of  good  wishes 
toward  him  and  members  of  his  family 
in  very  like  manner,  as  he  trusts  that 
the  amity  and  grace  to  one  another 
of  every  of  human  beings  who  are  inno- 
cent, is  a  great  merit,  and  is  righteous 
and  praiseworthy  in  religious  system 
of  all  civil  religion,  and  best  civilized 
laws  and  morality,  &c. 

"  Given  at  the  Royal  Audience  Hall, 
'Anant  Samagome,'  Grand  Palace, 
Bangkok,"  etc.,  etc. 

His  Majesty  usually  passed  his  morn- 
ings in  study  or  in  dictating  or  writing 
English  letters  and  despatches.  His 
breakfast,  though  a  repast  sufficiently 
frugal  for  Oriental  royalty,  was  served 
with  awesome  forms.  In  an  antecham- 
ber adjoining  a  noble  hall,  rich  in 
grotesque  carvings  and  gildings,  a 
throng  of  females  waited,  while  his 
Majesty  sat  at  a  long  table,  near  which 
knelt  twelve  women  before  great  silver 
trays  laden  with  twelve  varieties  of 
viands,  —  soups,  meats,  game,  poultry, 
fish,  vegetables,  cakes,  jellies,  pre- 
serves, sauces,  fruits,  and  teas.  Each 
tray,  in  its  order,  was  passed  by  three 
ladies  to  the  head  wife  or  concubine, 
who  removed  the  silver  covers,  and  at 
least  seemed  to  taste  the  contents  of 
each  dish  ;  and  then,  advancing  on 
her  knees,  she  set  them  on  the  long 
table  before  the  king. 

But  his  Majesty  was  notably  temper- 
ate in  his  diet,  and  by  no  means  a  gas- 
tronome. In  his  long  seclusion  in  a 
Buddhist  cloister  he  had  acquired  hab- 
its of  severe  simplicity  and  frugality, 
as  a  preparation  for  the  exercise  of 
those  powers  of  mental  concentration 
for  which  he  was  remarkable.  At  these 
morning  repasts  it  was  his  custom  to 
detain  me  in  conversation,  relating  to 
some  topic  of  interest  derived  from  his 
studies,  or  in  reading  or  translating. 
He  was  more  systematically  educated, 
and  a  more  capacious  devourer  of  books 
and  news,  than  perhaps  any  man  of 
equal  rank  in  our  day.  But  much 


406 


The  English  Governess 


[April, 


learning  had  made  him  morally  mad  ; 
his  extensive  reading  had  engendered 
in  his  mind  an  extreme  scepticism  con- 
cerning all  existing  religious  systems. 
In  inborn  integrity  and  steadfast  prin- 
ciple he  had  no  faith  whatever.  He 
sincerely  believed  that  every  man  strove 
to  compass  his  own  ends,  per  fas  el  ne- 
fas.  The  mens  sibi  conscia  recti  was 
to  him  an  hallucination,  for  which  he 
entertained  profound  contempt ;  and  he 
honestly  pitied  the  delusion  that  pinned 
its  faith  on  human  truth  and  virtue. 
He  was  a  provoking  melange  of  anti- 
quarian attainments  and  modern  scepti- 
cism. When,  sometimes,  I  ventured  to 
disabuse  his  mind  of  his  darling  scorn 
for  motive  and  responsibility,  I  had 
the  mortification  to  discover  that  I 
had  but  helped  him  to  an  argument 
against  myself:  it  was  simply  "my 
peculiar  interest  to  do  so."  Money, 
money,  money !  that  could  procure  any- 
thing. 

But  aside  from  the  too  manifest  bias 
of  his  early  education  and  experience, 
it  is  due  to  his  memory  to  say  that  his 
practice  was  less  faithless  than  his  pro- 
fession, toward  those  persons  and  prin- 
ciples to  which  he  was  attracted  by  a 
just  regard.  In  many  grave  consider- 
ations he  displayed  soundness  of  un- 
derstanding and  clearness  of  judgment, 
—  a  genuine  nobility  of  mind,  estab- 
lished upon  universal  ethics  and  philo- 
sophic reason,  —  where  his  passions 
were  not  dominant ;  but  when  these 
broke  in,  between  the  man  and  the 
majesty,  they  effectually  barred  his  ad- 
vance in  the  direction  of  true  greatness  ; 
beyond  them  he  could  not  or  would 
not  make  way. 

Ah  !  if  this  man  could  but  have  cast 
off  the  cramping  yoke  of  his  intellec- 
tual egotism,  and  been  loyal  to  the  free 
government  of  his  own  true  heart,  what 
a  demigod  might  he  not  have  been, 
among  the  lower  animals  of  Asiatic 
royalty ! 

When  the  darling  of  his  old  age,  the 
sweet,  bright  little  princess,  Somdetch 
Chowfa  Chandrmondol  (who  was  so 
dear  to  me  by  her  pet  name  of  Fa-ying), 
was  seized  with  cholera  on  the  night 


of  the  1 3th  of  May,  1863,  his  Majesty 
wrote  to  me :  — 

"Mv  DEAR  MAM  : 

"Our  well-beloved  daughter,  your 
favorite  pupil,  is  attacked  with  cholera, 
and  has  earnest  desire  to  see  you,  and 
is  heard  much  to  make  frequent  repe- 
tition of  your  name.  I  beg  that  you 
will  favor  her  wish.  I  fear  her  illness 
is  mortal,  as  there  has  been  three 
deaths  since  morning.  She  is  best 
beloved  of  my  children. 

"  I  am  your  afflicted  friend, 

"S.  P.  P.  MAHA  MONGKUT." 

In  a  moment  I  was  in  my  boat.  I 
entreated,  I  flattered,  I  scolded,  the 
rowers.  How  slow  they  were  !  how 
strong  the  opposing  current !  And 
when  we  did  reach  those  heavy  gates, 
how  slowly  they  moved,  with  what  sus- 
picious caution  they  admitted  me !  I 
was  fierce  with  impatience.  And  when 
at  last  I  stood  panting  at  the  door  of 
my  Fa-ying's  chamber — too  late  !  even 
Dr.  Campbell  (the  surgeon  of  the  Brit- 
ish consulate)  had  come  too  late. 

There  was  no  need  to  prolong  that 
anxious  wail  in  the  ear  of  the  deaf 
child,  "  Phra  -  Arahang !  Phra -Ara- 
hang !  "  *  She  would  not  forget  her 
way ;  she  would  nevermore  lose  her- 
self on  the  road  to  Heaven.  Beyond, 
above  the  Phra  -  Arahang,  she  had 
soared  into  the  eternal,  tender  arms  of 
the  Phra-Jesus,  of  whom  she  was  wont 
to  say  in  her  infantine  wonder  and  ea- 
gerness, Mam  chd,  chan  rdk  Phra- 
Jesns  mdk  ("  Mam  dear,  I  love  your 
holy  Jesus  ") ! 

As  I  stooped  to  imprint  a  parting 
kiss  on  the  little  face  that  had  been  so 
dear  to  me,  her  kindred  and  slaves  ex- 
changed their  appealing  "  Phra-Ara- 
hang "  for  a  sudden  burst  of  heart- 
rending cries. 

An  attendant  hurried  me  to  the  king, 
who,  reading  the  heavy  tidings  in  my 
silence,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  wept  passionately.  Strange  and 
terrible  were  the  tears  of  such  a  man, 

*  One  of  the  most  sacred  of  the  many  titles  of 
Buddha,  repeated  by  the  nearest  relative  in  the  ear 
of  the  dying,  till  life  is  quite  extinct. 


1 870.] 


at  tJic  Siamese  Court. 


407 


•welling  up  from  a  heart  from  which  all 
natural  affections  had  seemed  to  be 
expelled,  to  make  room  for  his  own 
exacting,  engrossing  conceit  of  self. 

Bitterly  he  bewailed  his  darling,  call- 
ing her  by  such  tender,  touching  epi- 
thets as  the  lips  of  loving  Christian 
mothers  use.  What  could  I  say?  What 
.  could  I  do  but  weep  with  him  ;  and 
!  then  steal  quietly  away,  and  leave  the 
king  to  the  father? 

"  The  moreover  very  sad  &  mournful 
Circular  *  from  His  Gracious  Majes- 
ty Somdetch  Phra  Paramendr  Maha 
Mongkut,  the  reigning  Supreme  King 
of  Siam,  intimating  the  recent  death  of 
Her  Celestial  Royal  Highness,  Princess 
Somdetch  Chaufa  Chandrmondol  Sob- 
lion  Haghiawati,  who  was  His  Majes- 
ty's most  affectionate  &  well  beloved 
9th  Royal  daughter  or  i6th  offspring, 
and  the  second  Royal  child  by  His 
Majesty's  late  Queen  consort  Rambery 
lihamarabhiramy  who  deceased  in  the 
year  1 86 1.  Both  mother  and  daughter 
have  been  known  to  many  foreign 
friends  of  His  Majesty. 

"  To  all  the  foreign  friends  of  His 
Majesty,  residing  or  trading  in  Siam, 
or  in  Singapore,  Malacca,  Pinang,  Cey- 
lon, Batavia,  Saigon,  Macao,  Hong- 
kong, &  various  regions  in  China,  Eu- 
rope, America,  &c 

-  Her  Celestial  Royal  Highness,  hav- 
ing been  born  on  the  24th  April  1855, 
grew  up  in  happy  condition  of  her  royal 
valued  life,  under  the  care  of  her  Royal 
parents,  as  well  as  her  elder  and  young- 
er three  full  brothers,  and  on  the  demise 
of  her  royal  mother  on  the  foremen- 
tioned  date,  she  was  almost  always 
with  her  Royal  father  everywhere  day 
&  night.  All  things  which  belonged  to 
her  late  mother  suitable  for  female  use, 
were  transferred  to  her  as  the  most 
lawful  inheritor  of  her  late  royal  moth- 
er ;  She  grew  up  to  the  age  of  8  years 
£  20  days.  On  the  ceremony  of  the 
funeral  service  of  her  elder  late  royal 
half  brother  forenamed,  She  accom- 
panied her  royal  esteemed  father  &  her 
royal  brothers  and  sisters  iti  customary 
service,  cheerfully  during  three  days  of 
*  From  the  pen  of  the  king. 


the  ceremony,  from  the  nth  to  I3th  May. 
On  the  night  of  the  latter  day,  when 
she  was  returning  from  the  royal  funer- 
al place  to  the  royal  residence  in  the 
same  sedan  with  her  Royal  father  at 
10  'clock  P.  M.  she  yet  appeared  happy, 
but  alasj,  on  her  arrival  at  the  royal 
residence,  she  was  attacked  by  most 
violent^£  awful  cholera,  and  sunk  rap- 
idly before  the  arrival  of  the  physicians 
who  were  called  on  that  night  for  treat- 
ment. Her  disease  or  illness  of  cholera 
increased  so  strong  that  it  did  not  give 
way  to  the  treatment  of  any  one,  or 
even  to  the  Chlorodine  administered  to 
her  by  Doctor  James  Campbell  the 
Surgeon  of  the  British  Consulate.  She 
expired  at  4  o'clock  p.  M.  on  the  I4th 
May,  when  her  elder  royal  half  broth- 
er's remains  were  burning  at  the  funer- 
al hall  outside  of  the  royal  palace,  ac- 
cording to  the  determined  time  for  the 
assembling  of  the  great  congregation 
of  the  whole  of  the  royalty  &  nobility, 
and  native  &  foreign  friends,  before 
the  occurrence  of  the  unforeseen  sudden 
misfortune  or  mournful  event 

"  The  sudden  death  of  the  said  most 
affectionate  and  lamented  royal  daugh- 
ter has  caused  greater  regret  and  sor- 
row to  her  Royal  father  than  several 
lasses  sustained  by  him  before,  as  this 
beloved  Royal  amiable  daughter  was 
brought  up  almost  by  the  hands  of  His 
Majesty  himself,  since  she  was  aged 
only  4  to  5  months,  His  Majesty  has 
carried  her  to  and  fro  by  his  hand  and 
on  the  lap  and  placed  her  by  his  side 
in  every  one  of  the  Royal  seats,  where 
ever  he  went ;  whatever  could  be  done 
in  the  way  of  nursing  His  Majesty  has 
done  himself,  by  feeding  her  with  milk 
obtained  from  her  nurse,  and  some- 
times with  the  milk  of  the  cow,  goat 
£c.  poured  in  a  teacup  from  which  His 
Majesty  fed  her  by  means  of  a  spoon, 
so  this  Royal  daughter  was  as  farr.iiiar 
with  her  father  in  her  infancy,  as  with 
her  nurses. 

"  On  her  being  only  aged  six  months, 
his  Majesty  took  this  Princess  with 
him  and  went  to  Ayudia  on  affairs 
there,  after  that  time  when  she  became 
grown  up  His  Majesty  had  the  princess 


408 


TJic  English  Governess 


[April,. 


seated  on  his  lap  when  he  was  in  his 
chair  at  the  breakfast,  dinner  £  supper 
table,  and  fed  her  at  the  same  time  of 
breakfast  &c,  almost  every  day,  except 
when  she  became  sick  of  colds  &c. 
until  the  last  days  of  her  life  she  always 
eat  at  same  table  with  her  father,  where 
ever  His  Majesty  went,  this  princess 
always  accompanied  her  fatherN  upon 
the  same,  sedan,  carriage,  Royal  boat, 
yacht  &c.  and  on  her  being  grown  up 
she  became  more  prudent  than  other 
children  of  the  same  age,  she  paid  very 
affectionate  attention  to  her  affectionate 
and  esteemed  father  in  every  thing 
where  her  ability  allowed ;  she  was 
well  educated  in  the  vernacular  Siam- 
ese literature  which  she  commenced  to 
study  when  she  was  3  years  old,  and 
in  last  year  she  commenced  to  study 
in  the  English  School  where  the  school- 
mistress, Lady  L has  observed  that 

she  was  more  skillful  than  the  other 
royal  Children,  she  pronounced  £  spoke 
English  in  articulate  £  clever  manner 
which  pleased  the  schoolmistress  ex- 
ceedingly so  that  the  schoolmistress 
on  the  loss  of  this  her  beloved  pupil, 
was  in  great  sorrow  and  wept  much. 

" But  alas  !  her  life  was  very 

short.  She  was  only  aged  8  years  &  20 
days,  reckoning  from  her  birth  day  £ 
hour,  she  lived  in  this  world  2942  days 
&  1 8  hours.  But  it  is  known  that  the 
nature  of  human  lives  is  like  the  flames 
of  candles  lighted  in  open  air  without 
any  protection  above  £  every  side,  so 
it  is  certain  that  this  path  ought  to  be 
followed  by  every  one  of  human  beings 
in  a  short  or  long  while  which  cannot 
be  ascertained  by  prediction,  Alas  ! 

"  Dated  Royal  Grand  Palace,  Bang- 
kok, 1 6th  May,  Anno  Christi,  1863." 

The  remoter  provinces  of  Siam  con- 
stitute a  source  of  continual  anxiety 
and  much  expense  to  the  government; 
and  to  his  Majesty  (who,  very  con- 
scious of  power,  was  proud  to  be  able 
to  say  that  the  Malayan  territories  and 
rajahs  —  Cambodia,  with  her  marvellous 
cities,  palaces,  and  temples,  once  the 
stronghold  of  Siam's  most  formidable 
and  implacable  foes,  the  Laos  coun- 


try, with  its  warlike  princes  and  chiefs 
—  were  alike  dependencies  and  tributa- 
ries of  his  crown)  it  was  intolerably 
irritating  to  find  Cambodia  rebellious. 
So  long  as  his  government  could  suc- 
cessfully maintain  its  supremacy  there, 
that  country  formed  a  sort  of  neutral1 
ground  between  his  people  and  the 
Cochin-Chinese  ;  a  geographical  condi- 
tion which  was  not  without  its  political 
advantages.  But  now  the  unscrupu- 
lous French  had  strutted  upon  the 
scene,  and  with  a  flourish  of  diplomacy 
and  a  stroke  of  the  pen  appropriated 
to  themselves  the  fairest  portion  of  that 
most  fertile  province.  His  Majesty, 
though  secretly  longing  for  the  inter- 
vention and  protection  of  England,  was 
deterred  by  his  almost  superstitious 
fear  of  the  French  from  complaining 
openly.  But  whenever  he  was  more 
than  commonly  annoyed  by  the  preten- 
sions and  aggressive  epistles  of  his 
Imperial  Majesty's  consul,  he  sent  for 
me,  —  thinking,  like  all  Orientals,  that, 
being  English,  my  sympathy  for  him, 
and  my  hatred  of  the  French,  were 
jointly  a  foregone  conclusion.  When 
I  \vould  have  assured  him  that  I  was 
utterly  powerless  to  help  him,  he  cut 
me  short  with  a  wise  whisper  to  "con- 
sult Mr.  Thomas  George  Knox  "  ;  and 
when  I  protested  that  that  gentleman 
was  too  honorable  to  engage  in  a  secret 
intrigue  against  a  colleague,  even  for 
the  protection  of  British  interests  in 
Siam,  he  would  rave  at  my  indiffer- 
ence, the  cupidity  of  the  French,  the 
apathy  of  the  English,  and  the  fatuity 
of  all  geographers  in  "setting  down" 
the  form  of  government  in  Siam  as  an 
"  absolute  monarchy." 

"  /  an  absolute  monarch  !  For  I 
have  no  power  over  French.  Siam  is 
like  a  mouse  before  an  elephant !  Am 
I  an  absolute  monarch  ?  What  shall 
you  consider  me  ?  " 

Now  as  I  considered  him  a  partic- 
ularly absolute  and  despotic  king,  that 
was  a  trying  question  ;  so  I  discreetly 
held  my  peace,  fearing  less  to  be 
classed  with  those  obnoxious  savans 
who  compile  geographies  than  to  pro- 
voke him  afresh. 


1 870.] 


at  the  Siamese  Court. 


409 


"  I  have  no  power,"  he  scolded  ;  "  I 
am  not  absolute!  If  I  point  the  end 
of  my  walking-stick  at  a  man  whom, 
being  my  enemy,  I  wish  to  die,  he  does 
not  die,  but  lives  on,  in  spite  of  my 
'absolute  '  will  to  the  contrary.  What 
does  Geographies  mean  ?  How  can  I 
be  an  absolute  monarchy  ?  " 

Such  a  conversation  we  were  having 
one  day  as  he  "  assisted  "  at  the  found- 
ing of  a  temple;  and  while  he  re- 
proached his  fate  that  he  was  powerless 
to  "point  the  end  of  his  walking-stick" 
with  absolute  power  at  the  peppery  and 
presumptuous  Monsieur  Aubaret,  he 
vacantly  flung  gold  and  silver  coins 
among  the  work-women. 

In  another  moment  he  forgot  all 
French  encroachments,  and  the  im- 
becility of  geographers  in  general,  as 
his  glance  chanced  to  fall  upon  a  young 
woman  of  fresh  and  striking  beauty, 
and  delightful  piquancy  of  ways  and 
expression,  who  with  a  clumsy  club 
was  pounding  fragments  of  pottery  — 
urns,  vases,  and  goglets  —  for  the  foun- 
dation of  the  wat.  Very  artless  and 
happy  she  seemed,  and  free  as  she 
was  lovely ;  but  the  instant  she  per- 
ceived she  had  attracted  the  notice  of 
the  king,  she  sank  down  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  earth,  forgetting  or  disre- 
garding the  falling  vessels  that  threat- 
ened to  crush  or  wound  her.  But  the 
king  merely  diverted  himself  with  in- 
quiring her  name  and  parentage,  which 
some  one  answered  for  her,  and  turned 
away. 

Almost  to  the  latest  hour  of  his  life 
his  Majesty  suffered,  in  his  morbid 
egotism,  various  and  keen  annoyance 
by  reason  of  his  sensitiveness  to  the 
opinions  of  foreigners,  the  encroach- 
ments of  foreign  officials,  and  the  strict- 
ures of  the  foreign  press.  He  was 
agitated  by  a  restless  craving  for  their 
sympathy  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  a 
futile  resentment  of  their  criticisms  or 
their  claims  on  the  other. 

An  article  in  a  Singapore  paper  had 
administered  moral  correction  to  his 
Majesty  on  the  strength  of  a  rumor 
that  "  the  king  has  his  eye  upon  an- 
other princess  of  the  highest  rank,  with 


a  view  to  constituting  her  a  queen  con- 
sort." And  the  Bangkok  Recorder 
had  said  :  "  Now,  considering  that  he  is 
full  threescore  and  three  years  of  age, 
that  he  has  already  scores  of  concu- 
bines and  about  fourscore  sons  and 
daughters,  with  several  Chowfas  among 
them,  and  hence  eligible  to  the  highest 
posts  of  honor  in  the  kingdom,  this  ru- 
mor seems  too  monstrous  to  be  credit- 
ed. But  the  truth  is,  there  is  scarcely 
anything  too  monstrous  for  the  royal 
polygamy  of  Siam  to  bring  forth."  By 
the  light  of  this  explanation  the  mean- 
ing of  the  following  extract  from  the 
postscript  of  a  letter  which  the  king 
wrote  in  April,  1866,  will  be  clear  to 
the  reader,  who,  at  the  same  time,  in 
justice  to  me,  will  remember  that  by 
the  death  of  his  Majesty,  on  the  ist 
of  October,  1868,  the  seal  of  secrecy 
was  broken. 

"VERY  PRIVATE  POST  SCRIPT. 

"  There  is  a  newspaper  of  Singapore 
entitled  Daily  News  just  published 
after  last  arrival  of  the  steamer  Chow- 
phya  in  Singapore,  in  which  paper,  a 
correspondence  from  an  Individual  resi- 
dent at  Bangkok  dated  i6th  March 
1866  was  shown,  but  I  have  none  of 

that  paper  in  my  possession 

I  did  not  noticed  its  number  &  date 
to  state  to  you  now,  but  I  trust  such 
the  paper  must  be  in  hand  of  several 
foreigners  in  Bangkok,  may  you  have 
read  it  perhaps  —  other  wise  you  can 
obtain  the  same  from  any  one  or  by  or- 
der to  obtain  from  Singapore  after  pe- 
rusal thereof  you  will  not  be  able  to 
deny  my  statement  forementioned  more 
over  as  general  people  both  native  & 
foreigners  here  seem  to  have  less 
pleasure  on  me  £  my  descendant,  than 
their  pleasure  and  hope  on  other  amia- 
ble family  to  them  until  the  present 
day. 

"  What  was  said  there  in  for  a  prin- 
cess considered  by  the  Speaker  or 
Writer  as  proper  or  suitable  to  be  head 
on  my  harem  (a  room  or  part  for  con- 
finement of  Women  of  Eastern  mon- 
arch *)  there  is  no  least  intention  oc- 

*  A  parenthetical  drollery  inspired  by  the  dictionary. 


410 


The  Advent  Preacher. 


[April, 


curred  to  me  even  once  or  in  my  dream 
indeed !  I  think  if  I  do  so,  I  will  die 
soon  perhaps  ! 

"  This  my  hand  writing  or  content 
hereof  shall  be  kept  secretly. 
"  I  beg  to  remain 

"Your  faithful  &  well-wisher 
"  S.  P.  P.  M.  MONGKUT  R.  S. 

"on  544ith  day  of  reign. 
"  the  writer  here  of  beg  to  place  his 
confidence  on  you  alway." 

As  a  true  friend  to  his  Majesty,  I 
deplore  the  weakness  which  betrayed 
him  into  so  transparent  a  sham  of  vir- 
tuous indignation.  The  "princess  of 
the  highest  rank,"  whom  the  writer  of 
the  article  plainly  meant,  was  the 
Princess  of  Hhiengmai  (or  Chiengmai); 
but  from  lack  of  accurate  information 
he  was  misled  into  confounding  her 
with  the  Princess  Tui  Duany  Prabha, 
his  Majesty's  niece.  The  king  could 
honestly  deny  any  such  intention  on 
his  part  with  regard  to  his  niece  ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  he  well  knew  that  the 
writer  erred  only  as  to  the  individual, 
and  not  as  to  the  main  fact  of  the  case. 

Much  more  agreeable  is  it  —  to  the 
reader,  I  doubt  not,  not  less  than  to 
the  writer  —  to  turn  from  the  king,  in 
the  exercise  of  his  slavish  function  of 
training  honest  words  to  play  the  hypo- 
crite for  ignoble  thoughts,  to  the  gen- 


tleman, the  friend,  the  father,  giving  his 
heart  a  holiday  in  the  relaxations  of 
simple  kindness  and  free  affection  ;  as 
in  the  following  note  :  — 

"  Dated  RANCHAUPURY 
34th  February  1865. 

"  To  LADY  L &  HER  SON  LUISE, 

Bangkok, 

"We  having  very  pleasant  journey 
....  to  be  here  which  is  a  township 
called  as  above  named  by  men  of  repub- 
lick  affairs  in  Siam,  &  called  by  common 
people  as  '  Parkphrieck  '  where  we  have 
our  stay  a  few  days.  &  will  take  our  de- 
parture from  hence  at  dawn  of  next  day. 
We  thinking  of  you  both  regardfully  & 
beg  to  send  here  with  some  wild  aples 
&  barries  which  are  delicate  for  tasting 
&  some  tobacco  which  were  and  are 
principal  product  of  this  region  for  your 
kind  acceptance  hoping  this  wild  pres- 
ent will  be  acceptable  to  you  both. 

"  We  will  be  arrived  at  our  home 
Bangkok  on  early  part  of  March. 

"We  beg  to  remain 
"  Your  faithful 

"  S.  P.  P.  M.  MOXGKUT  R.  S. 
"in  5035111  day  of  reign. 

"  And  your  affectionate  pupils 

YlXG  YUALACKS.     SOMDETCH  CllOWFA 

CHULALONKORN.*  PRABHASSOR.  MA- 
NEABHAAAHORN.  KRITAHINIHAR.  SO- 

M  AW  ATI." 

*  The  present  king. 


THE    ADVENT    PREACHER. 

"T^HE  time  draws  near!" 

-L     The  wayside  mowers  gathering  in  the  hay, 
Surprised  an  unfamiliar  voice  to  hear, 
Looked  up.     A  man,  with  restless  eyes  and  gray, 
Long  beard,  was  standing  just  without  the  fence. 
"  The  time  draws  near  !  "  he  cried.     "  Depart  from  hence  !  " 
"What  time?"  said  they. 
"  What  time  ?    The  end  of  time  ;  God's  judgment-day. 

"You  cut  the  grass, — 

Erelong  you  '11  be  the  harvest  in  your  turn  ; 
The  reaping  angels  through  the  world  will  pass, 
To  gather  souls  to  garner  or  to  burn ; 


1 870.]  Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior.  411 

Before  the  last  load  from  your  fields  you  bear, 
The  Lord  will  come  with  shouting  through  the  air  ! 
Amen  !  Amen ! 
Let  saints  rejoice,  though  sinners  perish  there. 

"  Short  time  to  rest 

Have  the  cold  sleepers  in  yon  burying-ground ; 

You  will  not  see  the  sunlight  in  the  west 

Fade  seven  times,  ere  Gabriel's  trump  shall  sound, 

And  all  the  dead,  both  small  and  great,  shall  rise, 

To  see,  slow  mounting  through  the  shaken  skies, 

A  moon  of  blood  ; 

And  fire  shall  cover  earth  as  with  a  flood. 

"  How  will  they  look, 

Your  lands  and  houses,  through  those  hot,  fierce  flames, 

By  whose  red  light,  from  out  his  open  book, 

The  Lord  will  read  the  blood-recorded  names 

Of  those,  his  Son's  elect,  the  chosen  few, 

Who  've  kept  their  robes  white  ?     Ah,  poor  souls  !  will  you 

Find  your  names  there? 

Put  by  your  useless  toil ;   short  space  have  you  for  prayer ! 

"The  time  draws  near! 

I  've  warned  you  to  repent ;  if  you  delay, 

You  are  my  witnesses  ;  my  skirts  are  clear." 

The  prophet  shook  his  head,  and  went  his  way 

Along  the  road,  and,  as  he  went,  he  cried, 

"  Come  quickly,  Lord  !  Amen !  "     On  every  side, 

From  wood  and  glen, 

The  echoes  made  reply :  "  Amen  !  amen  !  " 


THROUGH   THE  WOODS   TO  LAKE   SUPERIOR. 

AMONG  other  advantages  claimed  weather  has  certainly  forgotten  itself  at 
for  the  Minnesota  climate  is  the  a  most  unfortunate  time  for  us,  since 
obliging  disposition  of  the  rain,  which  Fort  Snelling  and  Minnehaha  were  in 
is  said  to  pay  its  tribute  most  frequent-  our  programme  for  to-day, 
ly  in  the  night.  By  day  it  exercises  a  10  o'clock.  —  The  rain,  after  pouring 
thoughtful  forbearance  towards  the  out-  all  the  morning,  holds  up  just  in  sea- 
door  tasks  of  the  farmer,  and  treats  with  son  to  save  its  reputation.  Our  car- 
respect  even  an  excursion  party  ;  then  riages  are  at  the  door.  We  look  up  at 
with  the  darkness  falls  the  welcome  the  breaking  clouds,  and  boldly  order 
shower.  Not  that  it  can  always  time  the  covers  thrown  back.  Up  the  left 
its  visitations  thus  to  suit  man's  con-  bank  of  the  river  from  St.  Paul,  along 
venience  ;  for  accidents  will  happen  in  the  slope  of  the  receding  hills  (far  off 
the  best-regulated  families.  This  morn-  on  one  of  which  the  very  ground  seems 
ing,  for  example  (August  loth),  the  crawling:  phenomenon  produced  by  a 


412 


Through  tJie   Woods  to  Lake  Siiperior. 


[April, 


little  flock  of  sheep,  —  only  a  few  thou- 
sands, we  are  told),  and  here  we  are  at 
last  descending  the  steep  road  (warily, 
driver  ! )  to  the  ferry  under  the  bluff. 
Opposite  rises,  confronting  us,  a  white- 
breasted,  rock-shouldered,  green-beard- 
ed cliff,  its  thighs  laved  by  the  Missis- 
sippi on  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
muffled  in  the  luxuriant  verdure  of  the 
banks  of  the  Minnesota.  Its  forehead 
"  the  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  has 
on " ;  this  is  the  fort  which  we  are 
going  to  visit. 

The  ferry  is  a  strong  flatboat,  capa- 
ble of  taking  over  four  carriages  at  a 
time  ;  the  ferryman  is  the  Father  of 
Waters  himself.  The  boat  is  set  diag- 
onally in  the  current,  by  means  of  ropes 
and  pulley-blocks  running  on  a  line 
stretched  from  shore  to  shore  ;  and  the 
strong  stream,  putting  shoulder  to  us, 
carries  us  quickly  across.  Then  comes 
the  steep  ascent  by  a  road  winding  up 
the  crooked  arms,  so  to  speak,  and  over 
the  rocky  shoulders,  to  the  broad  green 
back  of  the  fort-crowned  cliff. 

We  pass  the  spot  where  Little  Nix 
and  Walking  Lightning,  Sioux  chiefs, 
were  hung  for  bloody  work  in  the  late 
Indian  outbreak.  Walking  Lightning 
(what  splendor  of  terrors  in  that  name  ! 
you  can  almost  see  the  zigzag  legs  and 
dazzling  tomahawk),  —  Walking  Light- 
ning, I  say,  just  before  the  ground  was 
snatched  from  under  him,  and  there 
was  no  more  walking  for  him  to  do, 
made  a  speech,  which  one  who  heard 
it  describes  to  us  here  and  now,  not 
without  emotion.  "  A  brave  man,  he 
uttered  no  complaint.  Chief  of  a  great 
tribe,  owning  once  the  very  ground  on 
which  his  scaffold  stood,  he  saw  his 
race  disappearing  before  the  white 
man  ;  he  made  one  last  fight  for  the 
old  hunting-grounds  ;  he  had  failed  ; 
now  he  was  ready  to  die." 

Entering  the  fort,  we  find  the  usual 
display  of  glaring  whitewashed  barracks 
and  angular  grass-plats,  and  the  beau- 
tiful ensign  of  our  country  flying  from 
its  tall  flagstaff  over  all.  The  note- 
worthy thing  about  Fort  Snelling  is  its 
situation.  Its  most  attractive  point  is 
the  wooden  tower  on  the  verge  of  the 


cliff,  overlooking  the  confluence  of  the 
two  rivers,  —  the  Minnesota,  with  the 
broad  low  green  island  at  its  mouth, 
and  the  long,  dreamy  vista  of  its 
charming  valley ;  the  Mississippi,  with 
its  precipitous  bluffs,  its  sweeping  flood 
(streaked  with  chips  and  sawdust  from 
the  Minneapolis  mills),  and  the  ferry- 
boat (so  far  below  us)  crossing  the  dark, 
slow  eddies.  The  tower  is  roofed, 
but  its  sides  are  left  open  to  the  sweet 
air  and  surrounding  beauty ;  and  its 
floor  affords,  to  the  officers  and  their 
wives  and  friends,  ample  space  for 
the  cotillon  and  the  waltz,  on  moonlit 
summer  nights. 

From  the  fort  we  keep  the  summit  of 
the  bluff,  or  rather  plateau,  up  the  bank 
of  the  Mississippi,  on  the  edge  of  a  fine 
farming  country,  —  past  yellow  grain- 
fields,  which  the  great  reapers  are  fast 
converting  into  stubble-lands,  —  till  our 
driver,  who  has  the  lead,  reins  up  at  the 
gate  of  what  seems  a  rustic  wayside  inn 
and  picnic-ground.  Entering,  we  pass  a 
brown  arbor  about  which  are  woven,  in 
green  and  white  embroidery,  the  delicate 
vines  of  the  wild  cucumber,  all  in  blos- 
som. Near  by,  seated  on  benches  or 
on  the  ground,  is  a  family  group,  with 
open  baskets  and  a  suggestive  bottle 
or  two,  and  a  well  -  garnished  white 
cloth  spread  on  the  turf.  Farther  on 
is  a  pleasant  grove,  from  the  depths  of 
which  breathes  the  subdued,  thunder- 
ous bass  of  a  waterfall.  We  hasten 
along  well-worn  paths,  guided  at  first 
by  the  roar,  then  by  a  pale  ghost  of 
mist  seen  rising  amid  the  shadowy 
boughs,  until  we  stand  on  the  brink  of 
a  wooded  chasm,  into  which  pours  a 
curved  sheet  of  foam  over  a  broad, 
projecting  ledge.  This  is  Minneha- 
ha. 

We  find  a  goodly  volume  of  water 
(thanks  to  the  morning's  rain  we  thought 
so  ill  of),  and  are  thus  more  fortunate 
than  some  of  our  party  were  last  year, 
who,  visiting  the  spot,  deemed  it  un- 
worthy its  poetic  fame,  there  being 
scarcely  water  enough  to  make  a  fall. 
"  Then  we  could  step  across  the  brink 
above  without  wetting  our  feet,"  says 
Mrs.  F ,  whose  account  seems  to- 


1 870.] 


Through  tlic   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


413 


day  scarcely  credible,  in  the  face  of  the 
plunging,  snowy  cataract. 

Minnehaha  ("Curved  Water,"  not 
"  Laughing  Water,"  if  you  please)  is 
embosomed  in  scenery  which  adds 
greatly  to  its  charms.  The  steep  sides 
of  the  gorge  are  formed  of  broken  and 
mossy  rocks,  clasped  here  and  there 
by  the  crooked  talons  of  overbrooding 
trees.  It  is  enclosed,  at  the  upper 
end,  by  a  curved  wall  of  water-worn, 
beetling  rocks,  over  an  open  space  in 
the  centre  of  which  shoots  the  cascade, 
having  a  perpendicular  fall  of  about  for- 
ty-live feet.  The  wide  brink  beyond,  on 
each  side,  is  overgrown  with  trees  and 
bushes,  and  the  face  of  the  projecting 
ledge  is  tinted  with  mosses  and  fes- 
tooned by  drooping  vines.  Below  the 
fall  the  shattered  and  broken  water 
gushes  away  over  its  stony  bed  in  a 
foaming  and  tumbling  torrent. 

Some  of  our  party  descend  the  side 
of  the  cool,  shadowy  gorge  by  a  rugged 
footpath  along  its  ribs.  Others,  from  a 
coigne  of  vantage  half-way  down,  watch 
the  rest  scattered  about  the  banks  of 
the  stream,  resting  on  the  pretty  foot- 
bridge below,  or  passing  along  the  wet 
shelf  of  rock  which  affords  a  pathway 
beneath  the  jutting  ledge  and  the  veil 
of  the  cascade.  Does  not  the  pres- 
ence of  human  figures  add  to  such  a 
scene  even  more  than  it  takes  away  ? 
The  solemn  spell  that  reigns  over  pri- 
meval solitudes  is  broken ;  but  in  its 
stead  we  have  the  feeling  of  compan- 
ionship in  enjoyment,  and  fresh  hints 
o.f  delight  to  ear  and  eye,  when  we  hear 
the  silvery  laugh  ring  out  above  the 
noise  of  the  waters,  and  watch  the 
bright  bits  of  color  which  gay  costumes 
and  fair  faces  scatter  among  the  brown 
and  green  and  snowy  tints  of  rock  and 
foliage  and  foam. 

We  all  in  turn  pass  under  the  de- 
scending sheet,  and  look  out  upon  pic- 
tures of  the  gorge-sides  through  its 
gusty  fringes.  Some  cross  quite  over 
to  the  opposite  bank,  and  repass  the 
stream  on  the  foot-bridge  below.  Two 
of  us  attempt  to  follow  its  course 
thence  to  the  point  where  it  falls  into 
the  Mississippi,  which  we  judge  to  be 


not  far  off;  but  having  got  pretty  thor- 
oughly drenched  in  making  our  way 
through  bushes  still  dripping  from  the 
morning's  rain,  and  having  come  to  a 
small  mill-pond  in  the  opening  bottom- 
land, where  a  tall  fisherman  on  the  dam 
informs  us  that  he  "  hain't  seen  no 
Mis'sippi,"  we  retrace  our  steps,  and 
rejoin  our  waiting  companions  at  the 
carriages.  Then  to  Minneapolis  and 
dinner,  and  home  by  way  of  St.  An- 
thony and  the  left  bank. 

. l;i£ust  \\tJi.  —  An  excursion  up  the 
Minnesota  valley,  by  invitation  from 
officers  of  the  St.  Paul  and  Sioux  City 
Railroad.  A  beautiful  country  of  flat 
and  rolling  prairie,  with  occasional 
groves  and  woody  undergrowths  inter- 
spersed. The  low  shores  of  the  Min- 
nesota River  present  an  almost  tropi- 
cal luxuriance  of  trees  and  vines. 
Hillsides  gay  with  flowers.  A  region 
of  small  farms,  and  one  of  the  oldest 
settled  portions  of  the  State. 

Eighty-five  miles  from  St.  Paul,  in  a 
southwesterly  direction,  we  reach,  at 
Mankato,  the  end  of  the  railroad,  which 
is  pushing  its  way  forward,  however, 
towards  Sioux  City,  on  the  Missouri. 
We  are  received  by  a  delegation  of 
citizens,  with  a  variety  of  vehicles  for 
conveying  us  where  we  wish  to  go.  "  To 
the  hotel,"  say  some.  "  To  the  prai- 
ries," to  see  the  great  wheat  farms,  still 
five  or  six  miles  away,  is  the  choice  of 
the  most  of  us.  Three  or  four  loaded 
wagons  start  off,  and  after  considerable 
delay  half  a  dozen  more ;  all  (as  we 
suppose)  with  the  prairies  in  view. 
Second  division  of  vehicles  loses  sight 
of  first  division ;  drivers  take  us  out 
two  or  three  miles,  to  banks  of  Blue 
Earth  River  ;  there  we  stop  to  look  at 
railroad  bridge  building,  and  inspect 
lager-beer  brewery  (very  critically,  with 
glasses);  after  which,  a  little  circuit, 
and  lo,  here  we  are  back  at  Mankato  ! 
Where  are  the  prairies,  the  wheat 
lands  ?  Too  late  now  to  drive  out  to 
them,  we  are  told.  Are  we  victims  of 
a  blunder  ?  No,  of  a  neat  little  strata- 
gem. Mankato  meant  well  by  us,  and 
honestly  placed  the  teams  at  our  dis- 
posal;  but  the  proprietor  of  those  of 


414 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Siiperior. 


[April, 


the  second  division,  being  himself  lead- 
ing driver  thereof,  and  a  merciful  man 
withal,  bethinketh  him  that  it  is  trying 
weather  for  horseflesh  (it  is  indeed  sul- 
try), and  so,  after  the  slight  diversion 
of  the  beer  and  the  bridge,  we  are 
whisked  back,  ignorant  and  deceived, 
to  the  village. 

Nor  is  Mankato  the  liveliest  place  in 
the  world  for  a  crowd  of  disappointed 
visitors  waiting  for  absent  friends  and 
dinner.  A  pleasantly  situated  valley 
town,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Minne- 
sota, its  streets  have  a  tediously  wood- 
en and  commonplace  look  to  eyes  pre- 
pared to  gaze  on  great  prairies  and 
waving  grain-fields.  Our  coming  cre- 
ates a  sort  of  holiday  in  the  village ; 
and  only  a  few  fire-crackers  let  off  in 
the  street  before  the  hotel,  and  now 
and  then  a  pistol-shot  round  the  corner, 
are  wanting  to  make  it  seem  an  old- 
fashioned  rural  Fourth  of  July,  of  supe- 
rior dulness.  The  bar-room  is  well 
patronized  ;  indeed,  too  well,  if  we  may 
judge  of  the  efforts  a  most  dignified 
citizen  (not  of  Mankato)  is  making  to 
maintain  an  upright  position  in  his 
chair.  He  seems  aware  that  he  has 
already  given  and  accepted,  too  many 
invitations  to  stand  —  or  lean,  as  the 
case  may  be  —  with  friends  at  the  bar; 
and  he  has  just  moral  strength  enough 
to  decline  joining  them  when  they  go 
up  at  last  under  a  mild  pretence  of 
beer.  "  No  !  "  he  declares  emphati- 
cally, with  a  heavy  lurching  nod,  and 
a  downward  inflection.  "  No,"  with  a 
circumflex,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
his  resolution  beginning  to  waver,  like 
his  voice.  "  I  won't  take  any  beer" 
with  renewed  firmness.  But  he  adds 
immediately,  staggering  to  his  feet, 
with  a  compromise  designed  to  bridge 
over  the  difference  between  refusal  and 
compliance,  "  I  won't  take  anything 
but  a  square  drink  of  whiskey,  by 

!  "     And  he  takes  it,  without  feel-' 

ing  that  he  has  jeopardized  his  reputa- 
tion for  consistency. 

Mankato  has  stirring  reminiscences 
of  the  late  Indian  atrocities,  and 
shows  with  satisfaction  the  public 
square  in  which  on  one  occasion  thirty- 


eight  Sioux  braves  were  hung  in  a  row, 
amid  a  fence  of  bristling  bayonets,  to 
the  great  edification  of  a  community 
outraged  by  their  unchristian  method 
of  carrying  on  war.  Lithographic  prints 
of  the  tragic  scene  are  generously  of- 
fered us,  as  interesting  mementos  of 
our  visit ;  and  respectable  citizens  take 
pleasure  in  displaying  gold -headed, 
canes  made  of  wood  from  the  scaffold. 
I  do  not  carry  away  one  of  the  prints  ; 
nor  do  I  regard  the  canes  as  very  sa- 
cred relics.  Neither  do  I  here,  or  else- 
where in  the  State,  attempt  to  reason 
with  our  good  friends  touching  the  vio- 
lence of  feeling.  I  find  almost  universal- 
ly entertained  against  the  red  man.  I 
do  not  cherish  any  very  sentimental 
notions  regarding  the  "  noble  savage," 
of  whose  squalor  and  treachery  and  ill 
deeds  I  have  seen  and  know  enough. 
I  have  witnessed  his  feeble  attempts 
at  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  after  the 
white  man's  fashion,  on  Indian  reser- 
vations ;  I  have  heard  him  in  his  wood- 
en meeting-house  sing  dissonant  psalms 
through  his  nose  ;  and  I  do  not  declare 
him  capable  of  being  either  civilized 
or  Christianized.  He  had  his  place  in 
the  wild  forests  and  in  the  unploughed 
prairies,  —  hunter,  fisher,  warrior,— 
with  his  squaw,  his  medicine-man,  and 
his  manitou,  in  the  America  of  the 
past ;  and  I  would  he  might  have  been 
left  in  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  that 
free  life.  But  the  Maker  of  this  conti- 
nent had,  it  seems,  a  better  use  for  it ; 
and  in  the  America  of  the  future  I  see 
not  anywhere  an  inch  of  room  for  our 
lank-cheeked,  straight-haired  brother. 
Let  him  pass.  Yet  it  is  well  to  con- 
sider that  he  did  but  act  after  his 
kind,  in  trespassing  against  us,  even 
as  does  the  white  settler  who  occupies 
his  land,  the  trader  or  agent  who 
cheats  him,  and  the  Christian  commu- 
nity that  hangs  him.  And  for  our  own 
sakes,  if  not  for  his,  let  us,  O  excel- 
lent friends  !  cease  to  view  him  through 
that  mist  of  blood  that  hideth  mercy 
even  from  the  eyes  of  the  gentle- 
hearted. 

After  dinner,  a  smart  young  trades- 
man, who  has  his  buggy  at  the  tavern 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


415 


door,  proposes  to  take  me  to  ride ;  and 
I  am  shown  the  pleasant  sights  of  the 
town  in  general,  .and  the  paces  of  his 
mare  in  particular.  The  roads  are  not 
quite  so  smooth  as  billiard-tables  ;  and 
I  modestly  inquire,  after  a  little  un- 
pleasant jolting,  if  we  are  not  travelling 
unnecessarily  fast.  "  O,  this  is  noth- 
ing to  what  she  can  do  !  "  says  he,  and 
gives  the  nag  a  touch.  But  my  young 
tradesman,  though  well  grounded  in 
arithmetic,  as  appears  from  a  clear 
statement  of  the  profits  derived  from 
his  business,  is  not  nearly  so  well 
versed  in  natural  philosophy;  and  when, 
as  we  are  passing  the  new  Normal 
Schoolhouse  (a  very  fine  building,  by 
the  way,  suggesting  youthful  studies), 
I  venture  to  hint  that,  should  our 
vehicle  have  its  centre  of  gravity  at 
any  moment  thrown  beyond  its  base, 
it  would  be  subject  to  the  laws  that 
govern  leaning  bodies,  and  very  proba- 
bly upset,  I  get  from  him  only  a  smile 
for  myself,  and  another  crack  of  the 
whip  for  the  mare.  When,  moreover, 
even  in  very  plain  language,  I  remind 
him  that  the  momentum  of  objects  mov- 
ing about  a  circle  tends  to  throw  them 
off  in  a  straight  line,  he  seems  wonder- 
fully dull  to  the  fact,  and  to  use  less  pre- 
caution than  his  beast;  for  does  not 
she,  in  turning  a  sharp  corner,  instinc- 
tively lean  her  whole  body  towards  it,  in 
a  manner  to  convert  the  attraction  of 
gravitation  into  a  centripetal  force  coun- 
terbalancing the  centrifugal  ?  But  he 
must  have  a  still  more  forcible  illustra- 
tion of  the  law,  and  he  gets  it  at  the 
next  corner,  when,  fortunately  for  my 
neck  and  his  education,  he  happens  to 
be  on  the  outside ;  we  are  turning 
swiftly  ;  he  does  not  lean  as  I  and  the 
mare  do  ;  and,  presto  !  all  of  a  sudden, 
there  is  no  driver  on  the  seat  beside 
me,  but  he  is  flying  off  at  a  tangent, — 
in  short,  tumbling  down,  reins  in  hand, 
between  the  wheels.  Luckily,  one  leg 
lodges  in  the  buggy,  and  I  find  it  of  signal 
assistance,  when  I  "  seize  the  descend- 
ing man,"  and  drag  him  by  his  skirts, 
muddied  and  bruised,  with  torn  rai- 
ment and  a  very  white  face,  back  into 
the  vehicle,  still  in  rapid  motion.  Af- 


ter which  trifling  incident  he  appears 
disgusted  with  experiments  in  natural 
philosophy  ;  and  I  am  willingly  driven 
to  the  depot. 

Returning  St.  Paul-ward  by  the  train, 
a  young  Bostonian  proposes  to  me  a 
new  sensation  in  the  way  of  locomo- 
tion,—  as  if  I  had  not  had  enough  of 
that  sort  of  thing  for  one  day.  Ever 
since  we  left  Philadelphia,  riding  on  - 
the  locomotive  has  been  a  favorite  pas-  i 
time  with  our  party  ;  ladies  and  gentle- 
men mounting  the  black  steed  togeth- 
er, and  enjoying  in  that  advanced  posi- 
tion novel  and  surprising  views  of 
scenery,  and  the  sense  of  speed  and 
adventure,  to  be  had  in  no  other  part 
of  the  train.  And  my  young  friend 
once,  finding  the  places  in  the  locomo- 
tive cab  occupied,  did  rashly  mount  the 
top,  —  a  place  of  peril  and  anguish  as  it 
proved,  the  road  being  rough,  the  speed 
great,  and  the  locomotive  -light,  so 
that,  to  avoid  being  shaken  off,  he  was 
obliged  to  flatten  himself  on  the  round- 
ed roof,  and  hold  on  for  dear  life  with 
tooth  and  nail.  The  only  upright  ob- 
ject within  reach  was  the  steam-whis- 
tle ;  but  it  uttered  a  howl  and  shot  a 
deluge  of  hot  steam  over  his  head  when 
he  touched  the  lever  of  the  valve,  and 
burned  his  hand  when  he  grasped  the 
whistle  itself.  At  the  end  of  his  fear- 
ful ride,  which  seemed  interminable,  — 
for  he  durst  not  relax  the  grip  of  fingers 
and  chin  on  the  roof-edge,  in  order  to 
get  clown,  until  the  next  watering-place 
was  reached,  —  the  fun  of  the  thing 
was  shown  by  the  toes  of  his  boots  and 
the  knees  of  his  trousers  worn  through. 

What  he  now  proposes  is  a  seat  on 
the  cow-catcher.  I  accept,  and  we 
mount  that  formidable  plough.  An 
enterprising  reporter  from  St.  Paul 
begs  leave  to  accompany  us,  which  we 
grant,  not  without  a  grimly  humorous 
surmise  that,  in  his  heroic  devotion  to 
the  interests  of  his  sheet,  he  thus  free- 
ly risks  his  own  neck  and  limbs  for  the 
chance  of  seeing  ours  become  the  sub- 
ject of  an  item. 

I  take  a  position  between  my  two 
companions,  with  the  point  of  the  tre- 
mendous wedge  betwixt  my  knees  and 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


[April, 


my  feet  on  its  slant  sides ;  attitude 
erect,  arms  folded,  monarch  of  all  I 
survey.  The  bell  rings  behind  us,  and 
we  move.  Presently  the  locomotive 
begins  to  rock  and  jounce,  and  I  find 
it  advisable  to  unlock  my  complacent 
arms  and  place  my  hands  on  the  cold 
iron  for  support,  sacrificing  dignity  to 
security.  Thunder  —  skip  !  —  and  now 
I  am  bent  forwards,  bracing  myself  with 
might  and  main  against  the  rising  tem- 
pest. Swifter,  swifter,  swifter;  and 
with  hats  strained  over  our  foreheads, 
hair  flying  behind,  and  chins  thrust  out 
before,  cleaving  the  air  which  smites  us 
almost  with  the  force  of  a  solid  body, 
holding  on  ludicrously  the  while  with 
hands  and  feet,  we  are  in  a  position  to 
have  very  surprising  photographs  of 
ourselves  taken  for  such  friends  as  have 
known  us  only  in  the  serious  walks  of 
life. 

Now  we  are  tossed  through  whizzing 
space  on  the  iron  horn  of  a  ponderous, 
mad,  howling  monster,  that  would  seem 
hardly  to  touch  the  ground  but  for  this 
constant  clanging  and  jolting.  Pres- 
ently this  fancy  changes  to  the  dizzy 
delusion  that  we  are  not  moving  at  all, 
and  that  it  is  the  world  speeding  under 
us,  like  the  iron-banded  wheel  of  some 
stupendous  machinery. 

Meanwhile,  something  strikes  our 
faces  stingingly  like  fine  shot ;  and 
once  I  am  hit  in  the  breast  by  what 
seems  a  bullet.  This  is  only  a  butter- 
fly, in  its  quiet  afternoon  sail  in  the 
summer  air  hit  by  our  rushing  thunder- 
bolt. The  shot  are  hovering  swarms 
of  flies. 

Up  starts  a  flock  of  quails  from  the 
track  before  us.  They  attempt  to  fly 
away,  but  appear  to  be  flying  sidewise 
and  backwards  towards  us,  —  such  is 
the  impotence  of  slight  wings  over- 
taken by  the  fury  of  speed.  It  were 
not  pleasant  to  be  struck  in  the  face 
by  one  of  these  feathered  missiles  ! 
The  most  escape,  but  two  or  three, 
sucked  in  as  it  were  by  the  whirlwind, 
dash  their  breasts  against  the  locomo- 
tive, and  drop  down.  Suddenly  the 
whistle  shrieks  alarm  ;  there  is  a  drove 
of  cattle  on  the  track !  We  remember 


that  the  use  of  the  cow-catcher  is  to 
pick  up  such  estrays  ;  —  what  if  it  pick 
them  up  with  us  on  its  snout,  going  on 
a  "  down  grade  "  at  the  rate  of  fifty 
miles  an  hour  ?  "  We  should  never 
know  what  beef-ell  us  !  "  screams  one, 
in  the  ears  of  his  companions,  —  for 
thus  small  follies  lead  to  greater,  and 
from  recklessness  in  riding  comes  reck- 
lessness in  punning.  We  prepare  to 
retreat  from  our  post  of  peril,  back  over 
the  sides  of  the  locomotive,  when  our 
speed  slackens,  —  the  brakemen  are 
screwing  us  down ;  and  there  is  an  ex- 
citing race,  the  cattle  galloping  along 
the  track  before  us,  until  we  can  almost 
take  the  hindmost  by  the  tails.  At 
last  they  plunge  down  the  embankment, 
and  we  pass  on.  It  is  such  obstacles 
as  these,  especially  on  the  unfencecl 
prairie  pastures,  and  the  chance  there 
always  is  of  running  off  the  track, 
or  running  into  something  on  it,  that 
makes  the  cow-catcher  a  dangerous 
seat  ;  and  to  the  travelling  family-man 
(it  is  n't  so  much  matter  about  bache- 
lors) I  would  not  over-warmly  recom- 
mend it ;  although,  as  a  friend  on  the 
train  remarks,  when  afterwards  we  are 
charged  with  temerity,  "  It  makes  little 
difference  which  end  of  a  streak  of 
lightning  you  ride  on,  as  far  as  danger 
is  concerned-''^ 

Returning  to  St.  Paul,  we  fall  in  with 
travellers  who  have  fearful  tales  to  tell 
of  the  route  through  the  woods  to  Lake 
Superior,  the  next  thing  in  our  pro- 
gramme ;  —  coaches  mired  and  upset, 
limbs  dislocated,  passengers  forced  to 
walk  over  the  worst  parts  of  the  road, 
with  mud  to  their  knees,  belated  in  the 
forest,  and  devoured  by  mosquitoes. 
"  Ladies  in  your  party  ?  it  is  madness  ! 
you  will  never  get  them  through ! " 
We  meet  others  who,  after  attempting 
the  passage  from  the  other  side,  aban- 
doned it,  and  returned  down  the  lake, 
reaching  St.  Paul  after  a  long  detour 
by  water  and  by  rail.  There  is  only 
the  old  Military  Road,  as  it  is  called, 
cut  through  the  wilderness  for  govern- 
ment purposes  twenty  }rears  ago,  and 
traversed  now  by  a  tri-weekly  stage. 
The  wet  season  has  converted  it  into 


T8;o.] 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


417 


one  interminable  slough,  or  mud  canal ; 
and  it  is  too  closely  shut  in  by  over- 
shadowing  trees  to  be  dried  much  by 
the  sun  in  the  brief  intervals  betwixt 
the  constantly  recurring  rains. 

We  rely,  however,  upon  the  experi- 
ence and  forethought  of  our  friends  of 
the  Lake  Superior  and  Mississippi 
Railroad,  whose  management  of  our 
excursion  thus  far  inspires  unbounded 
faith  in  their  future  plans  for  us.  From 
St.  Paul  to  Fond  du  Lac  we  shall  be 
travelling  over  their  own  ground  ;  mak- 
ing the  first  fifty  miles  of  the  journey 
on  rails  newly  laid,  and  the  rest  in 
wagons,  already  provided  and  sent  on 
ahead  with  our  camp  equipage. 

Thursday  morning,  i2//i.  —  We  are 
off.  From  the  depot  below  the  town 
our  train  speeds  away,  winding  in 
among  the  broken  bluffs,  rising  to 
higher  and  higher  ground,  —  over  bush 
prairies  and  oak  barrens,  —  to  White 
Bear  Lake  (St.  Paul's  favorite  picnic 
spot),  ten  miles  away. 

Here  preparations  have  been  made 
for  opening  an  Indian  mound  for  us. 
A  short  walk  from  the  station  through 
pleasant,  echoing  woods  brings  us  to 
one  of  those  beautiful  sheets  of  water 
which  mottle  Minnesota  all  over,  and 
give  it  the  appropriate  name  of  the 
Lake  State.  White  Bear  is  six  miles  in 
length,  winding  among  wooded  shores 
and  islands.  There  are  'inviting  sail- 
boats on  the  beach,  which  almost  make 
me,  an  old  water-bird,  forget  the  object 
of  our  visit,  until  I  am  reminded  of  it 
by  the  shouts  of  my  companions  climb- 
ing the  mound. 

It  is  in  the  woods  by  the  lake  shore, 
—  a  broad,  conical  heap  of  earth,  itself 
overgrown  by  forest  trees.  To  save 
time  for  us,  an  opening  at  the  top  has 
been  made  by  a  gang  of  laborers  from 
the  railroad  embankments  ;  but,  alas  ! 
although  a  pit  ten  or  twelve  feet  in 
depth  has  been  dug,  nothing  has  been 
cast  out  but  the  black  surface  soil  of 
the  country,  clear  of  even  a  pebble,  and 
it  is  not  deemed  expedient  to  wait  for 
further  excavations.  So  we  stand  there 
a  little  while,  between  the  whisper  of 
the  woods  and  the  murmur  of  waves 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  150.  27 


upon  the  shore,  which  tell  us  nothing 
of  the  secret,  long  buried  in  that  tomb 
of  the  past;  then  return  to  the  waiting 
train. 

On  the  way  back,  question  is  raised 
as  to  the  origin  of  the  name  of  "  White 
Bear  Lake  "  ;  and  one  relates  a  legend, 
how,  when  all  this  country  was  covered 
by  the  sea,  a  white  bear  floated  down 
from  his  boreal  home  on  an  enormous 
iceberg  which  stranded  here,  on  the  sub- 
sidence of  the  waters.  The  iceberg, 
sinking  into  the  earth,  made  the  bed  of 
the  lake,  and  afterwards  melting,  filled 
it  ;  while  the  bear  roamed  its  shores. 
It  is  strongly  suspected,  however,  that 
the  story  is  an  invention  of  the  teller, 
and  is,  like  many  another  legend,  the 
offspring,  not  the  parent,  of  the  name. 

The  next  station  is  Forest  Lake, 
where  there  is  a  still  more  extensive 
body  of  water  and  a  beautiful  town 
site  on  its  banks.  The  railroad  has 
been  fortunate  in  its  choice  of  sites  for 
way-stations,  as  we  observe  all  along 
the  route.  Few  obstacles  stood  in  the 
way  of  such  a  choice.  Flanked,  a 
greater  part  of  the  way,  by  its  own  mag- 
nificent land  grant  of  more  than  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half  of  acres,  it  had,  more- 
over, from  the  first,  the  co-operation  of 
a  land  company,  securing  in  its  inter- 
est such  desirable  tracts  as  lay  beyond 
its  domain.  We  pass  through  a  rolling 
country  of  oak.  openings,  and  occasional 
native  meadows,  once  the  beds  of  lakes, 
converted  by  time  and  vegetable  decay 
into  grass-lands  of  exceeding  fertility. 
A  few  scanty  settlements  lie  scattered 
along  or  near  this  part  of  the  route. 

At  Rushseba,  fifty  miles  from  St. 
Paul,  we  come  to  an  end  of  the  com- 
pleted track,  and,  we  might  almost  say, 
of  civilization.  Northward  hence,  the 
wilderness  !  Here  we  find  an  unfin- 
ished depot  building,  in  a  little  clearing 
of  the  woods ;  Rush  Creek,  flowing 
eastward  towards  the  St.  Croix  River, 
which  divides,  not  far  off,  Minnesota 
from  Wisconsin  ;  a  lounging  Indian  or 
two  ;  a  white  woman  with  four  children, 
one  in  arms,  standing  near  a  wood-pile  ; 
and,  what  is  of  most  importance  to  us, 
our  wagon-train  in  waiting. 


418 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


[April, 


While  caterers  are  preparing  dinner 
for  our  party,  increased,  by  accessions 
from  St.  Paul,  to  more  than  fifty  souls 
(or  perhaps  I  should  say  stomachs), 
and  while  a  photographer  is  getting  his 
apparatus  ready  for  a  group,  I  make 
acquaintance  with  the  woman  at  the 
wood-pile.  She  lives,  she  tells  me, 
three  miles  hence,  on  Rush  Lake, 
where  she  settled  ten  years  ago  with 
her  husband,  both  young  then,  and 
made  a  homestead  in  the  woods.  When 
I  ask  if  she  is  contented  there,  she 
praises  the  country,  —  thirty-five  bush- 
els of  winter  wheat  to  the  acre  1  That 
speaks  well  for  the  soil,  but  does  it 
keep  her  always  from  being  lonesome  ? 
"  Lonesome  ?  "  she  replies  with  a  lu- 
minous smile  ;  "  I  have  my  husband 
and  little  ones  and  enough  to  do,  and 
why  should  I  be  lonesome  ? "  She 
rejoices  greatly  in  the  railroad,  not  be- 
cause it  will  carry  civilization  to  them, 
but  because  it  will  carry  their  grain  to 
market.  Is  she  now  going  on  a  jour- 
ney ?  u  O  no  !  I  am  just  waiting  here. 
My  children  had  never  seen  railroad 
cars,  and  so  I  took  a  little  walk  over 
here  with  them,  for  curiosity." 

After  dinner  (served  on  rough  board 
tables  under  the  depot  roof),  we  form  a 
group,  with  the  woods  and  the  wagons 
in  the  background,  and  an  Indian  in 
the  foreground,  for  the  sake  of  the  con- 
trast, his  hat  on  a  stick,  and  the  black 
icicles  of  his  straight,  lank  hair  drip- 
ping down  his  cheeks,  and  give  the 
photographer  a  few  shots  at  us.  Then 
the  start.  It  is  like  getting  an  army 
in  motion.  We  climb  to  seats  in  the 
strong,  canvas-covered  Concord  coach- 
es, the  tinkling  of  horse-bells  resounds 
pleasantly  in  the  woods,  one  after  an- 
other the  wagons  take  the  road,  and 
we  go  rolling  and  plunging  into  the 
forest. 

A  few  farm-clearings  and  bark-roofed 
log-houses  we  pass,  and  now  and  then 
the  poles  of  a  dismantled  wigwam  ; 
heavily  timbered  tracts  of  hard  wood, 
shining  growths  of  silver-limbed  pop- 
lars and  birches  (many  of  the  latter 
stripped  of  their  bark,  which  has  gone 
to  kindle  the  red  man's  fires,  or  roof 


his  huts,  or  build  his  canoes),  high  cran- 
berries and  raspberries,  and  swamps  of 
rank  wild  grass.  Here  and  there  is  a 
burnt  district ;  and  I  notice  a  forest  of 
tamaracks  all  upturned  by  the  roots, 
and  thrown  into  tangled  heaps,  by  un- 
dermining fires  in  the  peat. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  reach  our 
first  camping-ground,  at  Chengwatana, 
where  there  are  a  few  wooden  houses 
and  huts  of  half-breeds,  besides  a  saw- 
mill, on  the  east  shore  of  Cross  Lake. 
While  our  tents  are  pitching  on  the 
stumpy  shore,  and  our  supper  prepar- 
ing at  the  stage-house,  we  embark  on 
the  lake  in  a  barge  manned  by  laborers 
from  the  railroad,  and  steer  out  into 
the  fiery  eye  of  the  sunset  burning 
in  sky  and  wave. 

The  lake  is  four  miles  in  length  from 
north  to  south.  It  is  quite  narrow, 
however,  and  Snake  River,  flowing 
through  it  from  east  to  west,  forms  a 
watery  cross,  that  gives  the  name. 
The  Chengwatana  dam  has  flooded 
thousands  of  acres  above,  and  drowned 
the  timber ;  and  fires  have  destroyed 
much  that  the  water  spared.  The 
western  shores,  peopled  by  melancholy 
hosts  of  dead  trees,  standing  mournful- 
ly in  the  water,  or  charred  and  dark  on 
the  banks,  lifting  their  blasted  trunks 
and  skeleton  arms  against  the  sky, 
give  to  the  scene,  by  this  light,  a  most 
unearthly  aspect. 

Rowing  up  the  river  we  pass  Indian 
burial  -  places  on  the  north  shore,  — 
rude  wooden  crosses  visible  among  the 
dead  tree-trunks,  —  and  a  deserted  vil- 
lage of  skeleton  wigwams,  whose  bare 
poles  will  be  reclothed  with  skin  of 
birch-bark,  when  the  red  nomads  re- 
turn to  catch  fish  in  these  waters  and 
hunt  deer  and  bear  in  these  woods.  A 
week  ago  there  were  three  hundred 
Ojibways  on  this  camping  -  ground. 
Now  we  see  but  a  few  brown  squaws 
on  the  bank,  and  half  a  dozen  fright- 
ened Indian  children  paddling  away 
from  us  in  a  canoe. 

Chengwatana  should  have  had  the 
railroad  depot,  but  it  made  the  common 
mistake  of  setting  too  high  a  price  on 
what  it  deemed  indispensable  to  the 


8;o.] 


ThroiigJi  tJic   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


419 


company,  which,  accordingly,  stuck  to 
its  own  land,  and  put  the  track  the  other 
side  of  the  lake.  So  grand  an  enter- 
prise uniting  our  greatest  river  with  our 
greatest  lake,  and  forming  one  of  the 
arteries  of  a  new  civilization,  can  well 
afford  to  be  independent  of  a  petty  way- 
station.  It  is  the  railroad  that  makes 
towns,  not  towns  that  make  the  rail- 
road. We  row  over  to  the  solid  stone 
piers  of  the  unfinished  bridge,  and  the 
high  embankment,  and  the  village  of 
board-shanties  about  which  ruddy  Swiss 
laborers  are  washing  their  rough  hands 
and  bearded  faces,  their  day's  work 
done ;  then  return  in  the  twilight  to 
Chengwatana  and  supper. 

Our  tents  are  pitched  on  the  stumpy 
shore.  A  mist  is  rising  from  the  lake. 
Camp-fires  are  early  kindled,  making 
ruddy  halos  in  the  foggy  dark,  and 
lighting  us  to  bed.  A  bundle  of  straw 
and  a  blanket,  —  what  more  does  man 
require  ?  With  the  ground  beneath, 
and  the  sloping  canvas  over  us,  we  are 
well  couched.  There  's  no  danger  of 
robbers  under  one's  bed.  Mosquitoes 
swarm,  covering  the  lake  shore  with 
their  fine,  formidable  hum  ;  but  against 
their  encroachments  smudge-fires  with- 
out the  tents  and  cigar-smoke  within 
arc  found  effectual  ;  then  the  increas- 
ing chill  of  the  night  protects  us. 
There  is  much  talk  about  the  fires ; 
and  presently,  in  a  neighboring  tent, 
resounds  a  lusty  snore,  heard  through- 
out the  camp.  Sweeter  sounds  rise  on 
the  foggy,  firelit  shore,  when  our  col- 
ored attendants  transform  themselves 
into  a  band  of  musicians,  and  they  who 
catered  to  the  palate  cater  more  de- 
lightfully to  the  ear,  striking  up  pleas- 
ant tunes,  to  which  the  strangeness  of 
the  scene  lends  enchantment.  Then 
we  three  in  our  tent,  lying,  looking  up 
at  the  flashes  of  firelight  flickering  in, 
recite  a  pslam  or  two,  and  talk  of  those 
sweet  and  solemn  things  which  are 
eternally  near,  and  which  seem  now  the 
only  real  presences,  looking  serenely 
down  and  making  this,  our  night  en- 
campment, and  the  wilderness  itself,  no 
more  to  us  than  the  scenery  and  inci- 
dent of  a  dream. 


Friday,  I3///.  —  A  cold,  wet  morning. 
A  little  cow-bunting  visits  the  camp, 
hopping  about  on  the  blankets,  close  ta 
our  feet,  and  even  on  our  feet,  in  the 
friendliest  manner,  but  coquettishly  re- 
fusing to  be  caught. 

The  lake  is  both  basin  and  mirror  to 
us,  making  our  toilets.  Some,  how- 
ever, seek  the  little,  dark  washroom  of 
the  stage-house,  and  perform  their  ab- 
lutions there.  Is  not  the  tooth-brush 

a  test  of  civilization  ?     Mr.  F lays 

his  down  on  the  sink,  and  afterwards, 
turning  to  look  for  it,  finds  a  rough 
fellow  endeavoring  to  disentangle  his 
locks  with  it,  having  taken  it  for  the 
public  hair-brush.  He  seems  to  think 
it  ridiculously  small  for  his  purpose  ; 
"  Confound  the  little  fool  of  a  thing  !  " 
and  flinging  it  down  in  disgust,  he 
makes  a  comb  of  his  fingers. 

The  stage-house  table  has  its  limits, 
and  we  breakfast  by  relays.  After 
which  I  take  to  the  road,  walking  on 
alone  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  to  en- 
joy the  solitude  of  the  woods  and  the 
sweetness  of  the  air.  Young  aspens 
twinkle  in  the  early  sunshine.  Upon 
a  thicket  of  dead  birches  a  crop  of 
wild  buckwheat  hangs  its  festoons  of 
blossoming  vines.  Here  a  grove  of 
white  poplars  and  birches  gives  to  the 
woods  the  aspect  of  snow  scenery.. 
Waving  brakes,  raspberry  -  bushes,  al- 
ders, wild  honeysuckles,  wild  sunflowers, 
and  wild  cucumbers  fringe  the  wayside. 
Not  a  bird,  not  a  living  creature,  not 
even  a  tapping  woodpecker  or  caw- 
ing crow,  appears  on  this  lonely  road. 
I  outwalk  the  wagons,  for  they  must 
move  cautiously  through  mud-holes 
which  I  avoid.  After  getting  a  mile  or 
two  the  start  of  them,  I  sit  down  on  a 
log  to  v/ait,  and  hark  for  the  tinkling 
bells  of  the  leading  teams  coming 
through  the  woods. 

Dinner  at  Grindstone,  —  a  log-house 
and  stable  in  a  burnt  clearing  on  Grind- 
stone River.  One  half  our  party  more 
than  fills  the  little  table-room,  and  the 
rest  of  us  receive  our  dinners  on  plates, 
passed  over  many  heads  and  out  at  the 
windows;  making  the  sky  our  dining- 
hall,  and  the  first  barrel-head  or  hen- 


420 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


[April, 


coop,  or  the  ground  itself,  a  table.  Then 
a  dessert  of  berries  in  the  burnt  woods. 
Supper  at  Kettle  River,  thirty  miles 
from  Chengwatana.  A  terrible  day's 
work  for  the  teams.  Never  were  worse 
roads.  We  who  walked  on  before,  at 
any  time  in  the  afternoon,  could  hear 
the  horses  plashing  through  water  far 
off  behind  us,  and  then  see  the  high- 
covered  wagons  come  rolling  and 
pitching  through  the  hub-deep  holes, 
threatening  at  one  moment  to  upset, 
and  at  another  to  keel  over  upon  the 
horses.  On  one  occasion  a  smoking 
driver,  hurled  from  his  seat  by  a  sudden 
lurch,  turned  a  somerset,  and  alighted 
on  his  back  in  the  mud,  without,  how- 
ever, losing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  — 
a  feat  to  be  proud  of.  Riding  was  nei- 
ther so  safe  nor  so  agreeable  as  walk- 
ing. Dripping  wayside  bushes  pulled 
down  by  whiffletrees  and  wheels  were 
constantly  flying  back,  whipping  and 
bespattering  the  wagons.  Neither  man 
nor  beast  did  we  meet  in  all  this  day's 
journey. 

Kettle  River  comes  sweeping  down 
through  the  forest,  between  magnifi- 
cent masses  of  foliage,  combining  the 
varied  forms  and  tints  of  pine,  balsam, 
maple,  iron-wood,  and  tamarack,  and 
rushes  whirling  under  beetling  ledges 
at  the  road-crossing.  Its  glossy  eddies 
shine  with  a  strange  wild  lustre,  in 
the  evening  light.  The  water  is  about 
the  hue  of  maple  sirup,  being  discol- 
ored, like  all  the  streams  in  this  part  of 
the  State,  by  the  roots  of  trees. 

On  the  banks  of  the  river  are  some 
Ojibway  wigwams,  before  one  of  which 
a  squalid  squaw,  of  great  age  and  un- 
speakable hideousness,  is  cutting  up  a 
hedgehog  which  an  Indian  lad  has  just 
killed,  and  throwing  pieces  of  the  meat 
into  a  pot  hung  from  a  pole  over  a 
smoky  fire.  The  hut  is  of  poles,  cov- 
ered by  strips  of  birch-bark  coarsely 
stitched  together :  a  blanket  in  place 
of  a  door.  Looking  in,  we  perceive 
dirty  mats  spread  about  the  household 
fire,  kindled  on  the  ground,  its  smoke 
—  a  part  of  it,  at  least  —  going  out 
through  a  hole  in  the  low  bark  roof. 
O:i  the  mats  sit  a  very  old  Indian  and 


a  young  squaw  with  her  pappoose,  look- 
ing desolate  and  miserable  enough. 
No  romance  of  wild  savage  life  discerni- 
ble here  !  Near  the  wigwam  are  three 
graves.  One  is  that  of  a  child.  It  is 
marked  by  a  wooden  monument, —  a 
sort  of  box,  resembling  a  dog-ken- 
nel. Over  the  other  two  are  built 
little  narrow  pens  of  rough  poles,  per- 
haps eight  feet  long  and  two  feet  high 
and  broad.  I  have  seen  few  more  piti- 
ful sights.  Between  these  rude  attempts 
of  a  wretched  race  to  commemorate 
its  dead  and  the  poet's  In  Mcmo- 
riam  what  infinite  distance  ! 

A  dismal  evening:  with  the  dark- 
ness a  drizzling  rain  begins  to  fall. 
Last  night  we  had  straw ;  but  now  the 
forest  boughs  must  be  our  bed.  We 
cut  young  pines  in  the  woods,  drag 
them  to  camp,  and  there  by  the  light  of 
the  fires  trim  them,  covering  the  ground 
beneath  the  tents  with  odorous  wet 
twigs.  Blankets  and  shawls  are  in  de- 
mand ;  and  many  a  desperate  shift  is 

made  for  pillows.     Mrs.  K has  one 

of  india-rubber,  but  there  is  a  treacher- 
ous leak  in  it,  and  every  ten  minutes 
throughout  the  night  she  must  awake 
and  blow  it  up  afresh.  I  resort  to  my 
valise.  But  it  is  too  high  when  shut, 
so  I  open  it,  and  lay  my  head  in  it. 
There  is  a  storm  in  the  night ;  a  del- 
uging rain  falls,  and  many  a  trickling 
stream  steals  in  through  the  tents  upon 
the  sleepers.  To  save  my  packed  linen 
from  a  soaking,  I  am  obliged  to  shut 
my  pillow,  —  taking  my  head  out,  of 
course  !  In  a  neighboring  tent  a  devot- 
ed husband  sits  up  and  holds  a  spread 
umbrella  over  his  spouse,  who  sleeps 
in  spite  of  thunder.  The  rain  quenches 
the  fires,  the  wind  shakes  the  tents, 
the  welkin  cracks  overhead.  What  a 
scene  it  is  when,  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  I  look  out  from  the  door  of  our 
frail  shelter,  and  see  the  camp,  in  the 
midst  of  roaring  woods,  instantaneously 
illumined  by  quick  cross  -  lightnings 
playing  in  the  forest- tops ! 

In  the  morning,  he  who  is  discovered 
with  rueful  countenance  emptying  wa- 
ter from  his  boots  is  accused  of  having 
set  them  out  to  be  blacked. 


1 870.] 


Through  the  Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


421 


August  1 4th.  —  Weather  cold  and 
drizzling.  Roads  this  day  worse  than 
ever,  though  worse  had  seemed  impos- 
sible. Every  Httle  while  a  wagon  sticks 
in  the  mud.  Now  a  whiffletree  breaks, 
now  a  king-bolt ;  now  a  baggage-wagon 
upsets,  or  a  horse  is  down  ;  and  now 
we  must  wait  for  a  gulf  of  mud  to  be 
bridged  with  logs  and  brush.  At  every 
accident  the  whole  train  comes  to  a 
halt.  We  get  through  only  by  keeping 
together  and  helping  each  other.  The 
shouts  of  the  drivers,  the  calls  for  help, 
the  running  forwards,  the  hurrying 
back,  the  beckoning  signals,  the  prying 
up  of  mired  wheels,  the  replacing  of 
broken  bolts,  make  ever  a  picturesque 
and  animated  scene.  Blueberries  by 
the  wayside  are  abundant,  on  which  we 
regale  ourselves  while  the  wagons  are 
halted. 

Dinner  at  Moose  Lake,  eighteen 
miles  from  Kettle  River.  A  little  rest, 
a  little  drying  of  our  soaked  boots  and 
wet  clothes,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  we  set  off  again  for  Twin 
Lakes,  still  eighteen  miles  farther.  It 
is  dark  when  we  reach  Black  Hoof,  and 
only  two  thirds  of  the  distance  is  made, 
and  we  are  all  weary  enough.  Two 
ladies  quite  unable  to  go  on.  But 
supper  is  ordered  at  Twin  Lakes,  and 
cannot  be  had  here  ;  and  the  Black 
Hoof  landlord,  perhaps  offended  be- 
cause his  house  was  overlooked  in  our 
programme,  sternly  declares,  as  he  sits 
tipped  back  against  the  logs  in  his 
glowing  room  (how  cheery  it  looks  to 
us  out  in  the  rain  !)  that  he  has  not  a 
bed  nor  a  floor  for  one  of  us.  Fortu- 
nately we  are  the  bearers  of  a  message 
and  a  present  to  his  wife.  She  last 
year  anointed  the  swollen,  inflamed 
hands  and  face  of  a  mosquito-bitten 
banker  of  Philadelphia,  who  had  been 
fishing  in  these  woods,  and  cured  his 
hurts ;  in  acknowledgment  of  which 
motherly  kindness  he  has  sent  her  a 
new  gown.  It  is  delivered  with  a  flat- 
tering speech  from  his  partner ;  the 
good  woman  is  delighted;  even  the 
husband's  heart'  is  softened  ;  and  our 
weary  ones  are  taken  in. 

Then,  six  miles  farther  for  the  rest  of 


us  !  We  come  to  abrupt  hills  with  ter- 
rible gullies  in  their  sides.  The  night 
is  dark,  and  it  is  perilous  getting  on  by 
the  light  of  lanterns.  When  we  strike 
a  piece  of  smooth  road,  we  bowl  brisk- 
ly along  the  yielding  sand  ;  while  the 
flashing  gleams  from  the  forward  wag- 
ons, illuminating  the  boughs  and  open- 
ing vistas  of  the  forest-sides,  create  for 
us  behind  a  constant  illusion  of  castles 
and  villas,  which  vanish  ever  as  we  ar- 
rive at  their  gates.  Are  they  prophetic 
glimpses  of  the  time  when  these  arched 
and  pillared  woods  shall  be  transformed 
to  abodes  of  cultivated  man  ? 

It  is  near  midnight,  and  it  is  rainy 
and  very  cold,  when  we  tumble  from 
the  coaches,  weary  and  hungry  and 
chilled,  at  Twin  Lakes.  Two  log-cot- 
tages receive  us,  and  furnish  us  most 
welcome  excellent  suppers  ;  and  we  all 
sleep  under  roofs  this  night,  some  on 
floors,  some  on  hay  in  the  barns,  and  a 
few  in  beds.  Next  morning  (Sunday, 
1 5th)  finds  us  rested  and  hilarious.  I 
look  about  me,  and  am  interested  to 
observe  with  what  cheerfulness  men 
and  women  accustomed  to  the  luxuries 
of  life  accept  the  discomforts  and  en- 
dure the  hardships  of  days  and  nights 
like  these.  Even  he  whose  shrunken 
boots,  his  only  pair,  resist  all  attempts 
at  coaxing  or  coercion,  and,  at  the  end 
of  an  hour's  straining  and  pushing, 
steadily  refuse  to  go  on  the  excruciated 
feet,  yields  with  decency  to  fate,  and 
appears  happy  as  a  king  in  a  pair  of 
stout  brogans  purchased  of  the  hos- 
tler. 

The  lakes  (as  we  see  by  daylight  in 
the  morning)  are  mere  ponds,  one  of 
them  full  of  leeches,  which  we  dip  up 
with  the  water  in  pail  or  basin,  when 
we  go  to  the  shore  to  wash  ourselves. 

The  cottages  boast,  and  justly,  of 
the  butter  and  cream  with  which  they 
treat  their  guests.  The  landlady  of 
one  of  them  tells  me  her  two  cows 
gave  her  one  hundred  and  six  pounds 
of  butter  in  the  month  of  June  last, 
"  and  I  kept  a  stopping-place  besides, 
which  takes  milk  and  cream."  We 
measure  a  spear  of  timothy  pulled  up 
by  chance  in  the  dooryard,  and  find  it 


422 


Through  the   Woods  to  Lake  Superior. 


[April, 


five  and  a  half  feet  in  length  ;  and  clo- 
ver is  thick  at  its  roots.  Winter  wheat, 
she  avers,  is  a  sure  crop,  yielding  from 
twenty  to  twenty-five  bushels  to  the 
acre.  These  are  among  the  many  evi-' 
dences  we  have  met  with  all  along  the 
route,  showing  that  this  vast  forest- 
covered  region  is  one  of  the  richest  of 
the  State.  Its  mighty  growths  of  tim- 
ber possess  an  incalculable  value  for 
the  fuel  and  lumber  with  which  they 
will  supply  rising  cities  on  rivers  and 
lakes,  and  settlements  on  the  great 
prairies  ;  and  the  soil,  shorn  of  its  for- 
ests, will  equal  the  best  in  Minnesota, 
for  pasturage,  root  crops,  and  wheat. 

Three  miles  beyond  Twin  Lakes  we 
branch  off  from  the  old  road  leading  to 
Superior,  and  take  a  new  track  cut 
through  the  woods  to  Fond  du  Lac. 
Our  route  on  this,  the  fourth,  morning 
lies  through  a  region  of  pines,  some  of 
enormous  size.  The  fragrance  of  their 
breath,  the  grandeur  of  the  forest  scen- 
ery, and  even  the  terrible  roots  and 
hills  and  hollows  over  which  we  go 
rocking  and  tilting,  all  combine  to  fill 
old  and  young  with  childlike  exhilara- 
tion. The  country  grows  almost  moun- 
tainous as  we  advance ;  we  cross  high 
ridges,  and  wind  along  the  sides  of 
deep  gorges,  and  at  noon  come  out 
upon  heights  that  overlook  the  gleam- 
ing sinuosities  and  far-winding  valley 
of  the  St.  Louis. 

Where  the  river  rushes  out  from  be- 
tween wooded  bluffs  and  the  valley 
opens,  there  is  Fond  du  Lac,  a  little 
cluster  of  old  wooden  houses,  making 
the  most  westerly  point  of  that  im- 
mense system  of  lake  and  river  and 
canal  navigation  whose  seaward  open- 
ing gate  is  the  mouth  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence, —  an  interesting  fact,  viewed  in 
the  light  of  our  fresh  memories  of  St. 
Anthony,  where  a  few  days  since  we 
stood  at  the  head  of  navigation  on  the 
Mississippi.  One  who  has  made  this 
grand  portage  cannot  help  comparing 
the  two  places.  From  St.  Anthony 
the  river  flows  southward  two  thousand 
two  hundred  miles  to  the  Gulf  of  Mex- 
ico, winding  through  fifteen  degrees  of 
latitude.  A  chip  cast  upon  these  more 


northern  waters  will  float  many  more 
miles,  through  nearly  thirty  degrees  of 
longitude,  before  it  tosses  on  the  waves 
of  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence.  Here, 
too,  we  are  at  the  foot  of  extensive 
falls,  creating  a  rival  water-power,  or- 
dained to  make  lumber  of  these  tre- 
mendous forests,  and  flour  of  the  wheat 
from  limitless  grain-fields.  Neither 
St.  Anthony  nor  Fond  du  Lac  is  ap- 
proachable, however,  by  any  but  small- 
sized  craft;  and  as  the  real  head  of 
navigation  for  Mississippi  steamers  is 
at  St.  Paul,  so  that  of  lake  vessels  is  at 
Duluth,  twenty  miles  hence,  down  the 
St.  Louis. 

We  have  made  this  grand  portage 
laboriously  in  wagons  (for  the  most 
part),  and  we  have  been  three  days  and 
more  about  it.  The  railroad  completed, 
it  will  be  made  comfortably  in  a  few 
hours.  This  terrible  mud-canal  navi- 
gation through  the  wilderness  will  soon 
be  obsolete,  and  a  thing  to  be  wondered 
at  when  the  new  avenue  of  trade  and 
travel  shall  be  established,  with  civ- 
ilization brightly  crystallizing  in  its 
course. 

We  have  kept  within  two  or  three 
miles  of  the  railroad  grade  ever  since 
leaving  Rushseba  ;  and  here  once  more 
it  meets  us,  having  crossed  the  river 
somewhere  above,  and  throwing  up 
now  its  fresh  embankments  on  the  op- 
posite bank.  There,  too,  moored  by 
the  marshy  shore,  lie  two  little  steam- 
ers, which  hospitable  citizens,  friends 
of  the  railroad  and  of  its  builders,  have 
sent  up  for  us  from  Duluth.  We  glee- 
fully set  out  to  cross  to  them,  leaving 
our  wagon-train  on  the  south  bank. 

I  embark  with  half  a  dozen  others  in 
a  skiff,  furnished  with  rudder  and  sail, 
and  assist  in  getting  it  off.  It  is  in 
the  charge  of  a  young  man  from  Du- 
luth, who,  surmising  that  I  have  seen 
a  gaff  before  to-day,  asks,  can  I  man- 
age the  sail?  I  think  I  am  equal  to 
that,  and  it  is  accordingly  hoisted.  I 
have  the  helm  and  sheet,  and  try  the 
starboard  tack,  and  wonder  why  we 
don't  head  up  stream,  and  edge  away 
from  those  villanous  rocks  below  there. 
By  heavens  !  we  are  drifting  straight 


1870.] 


Courage. 


423 


down  upon  them,  spite  of  wind  and 
helm,  swept  by  a  powerful  current  and 
twisted  about  on  the  black  eddies  which 
I  (a  mere  landlubber,  after  all,  used 
only  to  plain  sailing)  did  not  calculate 
upon  sufficiently.  I  port  the  helm  just 
in  time  to  run  inside  the  rocks  ;  con- 
clude that  the  boat  has  no  keel ;  "  down 
sail,"  and  resort  ingloriously  to  the 
oars. 

Crossing  over,  we  are  followed  by  a 
barge,    picturesquely    laden    with    the 


rest  of  our  party,  and  swinging  in  the 
current  from  a  long  line,  at  the  other 
end  of  which  an  insignificant  row-boat 
is  irregularly  pullifig.  We  embark,  some 
on  a  little  tug  which  a  steamer  of  any 
size  could  put  into  its  side-pocket  (if 
steamers  had  side-pockets),  the  rest  on 
a  crank  side-wheeler  of  somewhat  larger 
dimensions ;  and  are  soon  on  our  wind- 
ing way,  among  the  islands  and  curves 
of  the  low  green  shores  of  the  river,  to 
Duluth  and  the  lake. 


COURAGE. 


BECAUSE  I  hold  it  sinful  to  despond, 
And  will  not  let  the  bitterness  of  life 
Blind  me  with  burning  tears,  but  look  beyond 
Its  tumult  and  its  strife  ; 

Because  I  lift  my  head  above  the  mist, 

Where  the  sun  shines  and  the  broad  breezes  blow, 
By  every  ray  and  every  rain-drop  kissed 
That  God's  love  doth  bestow; 

Think  you  I  find  no  bitterness  at  all, 

No  burden  to  be  borne,  like  Christian's  pack? 
Think  you  there  are  no  ready  tears  to  fall 
Because  I  keep  them  back  ? 

Why  should  I  hug  life's  ills  with  cold  reserve, 

To  curse  myself  and  all  who  love  me  ?     Nay ! 
A  thousand  times  more  good  than  I  deserve 
God  gives  me  every  day. 

And  in  each  one  of  these  rebellious  tears, 

Kept  bravely  back,  he  makes  a  rainbow  shine. 
Grateful  I  take  his  slightest  gift,  no  fears, 
Xor  any  doubts,  are  mine. 

Dark  skies  must  clear;  and  when  the  clouds  are  past, 

One  golden  day  redeems  a  weary  year. 
Patient  I  listen,  sure  that  sweet  at  last 
Will  sound  His  voice  of  cheer. 

Then  vex  me  not  with  chiding.     Let  me  be. 

I  must  be  glad  and  grateful  to  the  end. 
I  grudge  you  not  your  cold  and  darkness,  —  me 
The  powers  of  light  befriend. 


424 


A  Liimbcrwoman. 


[April, 


A     LUMBER  WOMAN. 


HAZAEL  was  shut  up  in  the  house. 
This  may  seem  to  you  an  unim- 
portant fact,  but  it  was  not  so  to  me, 
being  Hazael's  wife,  and  it  was  very 
important  to  him,  being  a  man. 

Is  sickness  a  kindly  means  of  disci- 
pline ?  Neither  Lamb  (see  his  "  Essay 
on  Convalescence  ")  nor  Hazael  viewed 
it  as  such;  both  grumbled,  and  one 
wrote  ;  the  likeness  to  the  known  must 
make  clear  to  you  the  unknown;  and 
Hazael  was  no  happier  than  Lamb. 

I  read  to  him  every  word  that  Jere- 
my Taylor  says  on  "  The  Practice  of 
the  Grace  of  Patience  in  Sickness,"  but 
as  fast  as  I  put  him  into  patience  some- 
thing else  put  him  out  of  it.  I  read 
George  Herbert's  "  Content,"  —  at  least 
three  verses  of  it,  and  was  going  on 
with  the  fourth,  — 

"Give  me  the  pliant  mind,  whose  gentle  measure 
Complies  and  suits  with  all  estates  "  ; 

but  he  stopped  me  with, — 
"Dun-dee!" 

This  was  Hazael's  only  and  (he  said) 
strictly  orthodox  oath.  It  was  n't  very 
resigned  in  him,  and  was  so  unsatisfac- 
tory to  me  that  I  "gave  him  up,"  and 
Herbert  too.  Things  wouldn't  have 
been  so  bad  if  his  business  had  been 
all  in  one  place  ;  or  if  he  had  been  a 
doctor,  and  could  have  killed  off  his 
patients  instead  of  having  a  doctor  kill 
him  off;  or  a  jeweller  instead  of  only 
the  jewel  he  was  ;  or,  as  he  more  con- 
cisely and  feelingly  expressed  it,  "  been 
anything  in  the  world  but  what  he  was, 
or  had  anything  in  the  world  but  what 
he  had."  Now  Hazael  was  a  lumber- 
merchant,  and  had  a  bad  cold  ;  so  you 
will  see  this  was  only  his  way  of  look- 
ing at  it.  Perhaps  he  was  excusable  ; 
for  in  all  the  seven  years  I  had  been 
with  him  he  had  never  been  shut  up  in 
the  house  before.  Still,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  he  had  a  "way,"  indeed,  a 
peculiar  way,  of  looking  at  most  things. 

In  seven  years  he  had  made  a  small 
fortune  ;  but  "  he  had  been  a  perfect 


slave  !  and  it  was  only  a  care  to  him  !  " 
He  had  rather  a  large  income  for  two 
people,  which  would  generally  be  re- 
garded as  a  happy  state  of  affairs  ;  but 
"he  was  sure  he  didn't  know  how  to 
invest  it,  and  'blessed  be  nothing'  !  " 
which  change  I  'm  afraid  I  never  very 
heartily  joined  in  desiring. 

Hazael  thought  the  world  was  n't  at 
all  worth  while ;  and  that  everybody 
was  "  dead  set  "  against  him.  For  in- 
stance, when  he  came  to  town  every 
man  had  his  own  drag.  Instead  of  bor- 
rowing one  of  these,  he  had  one  made 
when  he  built  his  house.  It  was  a  lit- 
tle stouter  than  the  others,  and  so  the 
next  man  who  built  a  stone-wall  came 
to  borrow  it ;  and  the  next,  and  the 
next,  till  it  was  worn  out.  Whether 
the  neighbors  had  used  their  old  ones 
for  kindling,  or  the  boys  had  stolen 
them  for  bonfires,  it  is  a  fact  that  when 
Hazael  wanted  one  himself,  two  years 
after,  he  had  to  make  a  new  one. 

The  dragging  work  of  the  town  must 
have  been  dragging  on  for  two  years, 
for  the  new  one  was  as  great  a  favorite 
as  the  old,  and  the  process  was  repeat- 
ed ;  and  thereupon  Hazael  declared  that 
he  supplied  the  town  with  all  the  tools 
it  ever  used,  and  never  had  any  to  use 
himself;  this  instance  is  e  pluribiis 
unum. 

So  we  will  not  wonder  that  the 
abused,  good-natured  man  felt  himself 
aggrieved  when  this  cold  was  added  to 
the  sorrows  of  his  lifetime.  At  this 
crisis  I  had  been  with  Hazael  seven 
years,  as  I  have  said. 

I  was  an  invalid  when  he  took  me,  — 
for  he  took  me  more  than  I,  by  active 
will,  went,  —  and  nothing  seemed  so 
fitting  as  that  I  should  keep  out  in  the 
air  with  him. 

In  the  mill  or  under  the  mill,  perched 
on  piers  or  swinging  on  booms,  while 
he  chose  logs  as  the}-  were  wanted,  — 
Norways  and  pines  for  the  ship-build- 
ers, spruces  for  house-timber,  and  logs. 


1 870.] 


A  Lnmberwoman. 


4^5 


clear  of  knots  for  the  planers  ;  stowed 
away  on  some  teetering  board  of  a 
lumber-pile,  while  he  measured  deal 
for  New  York,  scoots  for  a  fence,  or 
refuse  for  a  pigsty,  —  for  no  one  could 
do  anything  just  right  but  Hazael  (so 
Hazael  thought) ;  up  river,  on  skates  in 
winter,  on  a  big  log  in  summer,  to  the 
Port,  three  miles  away  as  many  times  a 
day,  where  all  the  vessels  were  loaded 
and  all  the  captains  swore,  where  all 
the  storekeepers  got  used  to  me  sitting 
round  on  the  empty  tobacco  -  boxes 
made  into  easy -chairs  ;  where  the 
sailors  all  learned  to  know  me,  and  to 
use  a  quarter  less  tobacco  to  the  half- 
day  when  I  was  about,  which  greatly 
diminished  my  supply  of  stools  ;  and 
whereunto  the  road  was  the  very  worst 
road  in  the  county,  so  Hazael  said;  — 
in  short,  any  and  every  where  that 
Hazael  went  I  was  sure  to  go,  by 
which  means  three  things  were  accom- 
plished : 

I  got  health,  some  knowledge  of  the 
lumber  business,  and  disposed  of  seven 
yc;irs,  which  last  is  a  great  gain  for  a 
(married)  woman. 

So  when  Hazael  was  ill  I  alone  was 
thought  competent  to  bring  reports. 
And  I  did  bring  report  from  his  mill, 
from  his  store,  from  his  vessels,  letters 
from  his  captains  and  commission  mer- 
chants ;  and  it  was  strange  how  every- 
thing was  reported  wrong. 

There  were  too  many  saws  in  the 
gang,  and  they  were  set  wrong,  and 
were  sawing  the  wrong  stuff.  The 
wrong  men  had  left  the  mill,  and  wrong- 
er men  had  come  in  their  places. 

The  wrong  amount  of  lumber  had 
gone  to  the  wrong  vessels  ;  not  even 
the  captains  even  remembered  how 
many  thousand  their  vessels  would 
carry  :  nobody  but  Hazael  ever  knew. 

The  bills  of  lading  had  been  made 
out  to  the  wrong  commission  merchant, 
the  wrong  captain  had  been  paid  for 
freight  he  never  brought.  The  wrong 
goods  had  been  ordered  of  the  wrong 
firm  at  the  wrong  time  of  year  ;  and  a 
wronger  establishment  couldn't  have 
been  found  than  HazaeFs. 

Hazael  was  in  despair,  as  who  would 


not  have  been,  if  a  lumber-merchant 
with  a  cold  ? 

I  did  my  best  to  comfort  him.  I  let 
his  dog  stay  in  my  room.  I  read  him 
John  Brown  and  Montaigne  and  "  Wa- 
ter Babies"  (Jeremy  Taylor  and  Her- 
bert having  failed),  and  magazines  of 
every  nature. 

Hazael  would  not  be  comforted.  I 
brought  him  great  ledgers  that  made 
my  arms  ache ;  packages  of  accounts 
of  sales  and  receipts,  day-books  and 
survey-books ;  turned  my  library  into 
a  counting-room  and  myself  to  an  ac- 
countant ;  neglected  my  books  and  my 
horse,  to  add  up  long  columns  of  hated 
figures  :  still  Hazael  was  fast  growing 
worse  than  Rachel  weeping  for  her 
children.  He  would  not  be  comforted. 

Everything  was  wrong,  both  intrin- 
sically and  as  related  to  him. 

He  never  could  be  made  to  see,  with 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  that  "we  carry 
with  us  the  wonders  we  seek  without 
us  ;  there  is  all  Africa  and  her  prodigies 
in  us." 

By  reporting  so  much  I  became  by 
one  and  the  same  means  so  useful  and 
so  tiresome  to  Hazael,  that  when  I  re- 
ported myself  one  noon  as  having  been 
in  the  counting-room  answering  neglect- 
ed letters,  making  out  neglected  bills, 
and  giving  neglected  directions  gener- 
ally, he  actually  refrained  from  calling 
that  wrong  ;  which  was  a  great  sacri- 
fice for  Hazael. 

I  determined  to  repeat  the  experi- 
ment next  day  ;  so,  after  arranging  him 
for  the  morning,  I  betook  myself  to 
walk  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  and 
to  work  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  and 
you  see  there  is  really  so  little  differ- 
ence in  the  sound  that  the  means  jus- 
tified the  end,  and  went  to  the  count- 
ing-room. 

I  believe  it  was  because  he  had  an 
inherent  fear  of  fire  or  sudden  death 
that  he  had  instructed  me,  and  only 
me,  in  the  mysteries  of  that  safe-lock 
in  the  counting-room.  By  an  effort  of 
memory  I  got  it  unlocked  that  clay,  but 
it  was  a  great  while  after  this  before  I 
was  able  to  perform  the  operation  with 
the  rapidity  and  the  slight  degree  of 


426 


A  Lumbenvouian. 


[April, 


attention  that  would  make  a  philoso- 
pher wonder  if  it  were  purely  mechan- 
ical. 

Before  going  into  the  details  of  this 
business,  I  wish  it  to  be  clearly  under- 
stood here  that  I  was  not  "  woman's 
rights." 

I  have  never  been  inside  of  a  wo- 
man's convention,  nor  argued  on  the 
affirmative  of  the  woman  question  ; 
neither  have  I  felt  that  I  had  any  dis- 
puted claims  to  advance  and  prove. 

Of  course,  I  always  did  as  I  pleased  ; 
I  drove  fast  horses  of  my  own,  and 
have  in  the  course  of  my  life  sent  back 
some  forty  "  women's  horses  "  to  some 
forty  livery-stables ;  I  have  had  my 
own  library  and  locked  my  doors,  and 
refused  to  see  callers  till  four,  when  I 
pleased  (which  was  generally  when  I 
was  n't  sitting  on  the  aforementioned 
booms  and  tobacco-boxes,  waiting  for 
Hazael). 

I  never  wore  a  bonnet  in  my  life  ; 
knew  perfectly  well  how  to  use  a  plane, 
a  level,  a  spokeshave,  and  a  saw  ;  also 
I  always  carried  a  foot-rule  and  a  knife 
as  regularly  as  a  pencil,  a  note-book, 
and  my  thimble ;  also  in  some  way 
Hazael  had  discovered  that  when  he, 
the  husband,  commanded,  Calistel  the 
wife  did  just  as  her  common  sense  bade 
her,  but  I  never  upheld  or  spoke  of 
any  of  these  things,  and  I  was  not  and 
am  not  ''  woman's  rights." 

Why  in  the  world  women  should 
spend  their  valuable  time  and  take 
up  the  columns  of  invaluable  news- 
papers in  arguing  and  deciding  that 
they  should  and  shall  do  as  they  please, 
and  then  never  please  to  do  anything 
that  women  have  n't  done  many  times 
before,  I  do  not  see. 

Why  the  best  of  them  should  hold 
that  business  is  open  to  women,  and 
then  go  about  lecturing  or  devote  them- 
selves to  book-keeping,  which  any  boy 
with  common  (mathematical)  sense 
might  do,  or  to  a  milliner's  shop,  or  to 
taking  a  trip  round  the  world  alone, 
instead  of  going  into  the  hardware,  or 
boot  and  shoe,  or  hat,  cap,  and  fur  busi- 
ness, or  out-of-doors  photography  (or 
in-doors  either) ;  why  lady  agents  and 


doctors  should  be  in  ever-increasing 
demand,  and  the  real  bread-and-butter 
businesses  left  for  slack-brained  women 
to  prove  to  the  male  portion  of  the 
world  that  they  (the  male  portion)  alone 
are  able  to  conduct  "  business  affairs," 
I  cannot  see  clearly,  which  is  a  slight 
(and  unpardonable  ?)  digression,  as  I 
was  only  to  tell  you  what  I  did  see,  — 
and  I  saw  a  great  deal. 

The  day  of  my  trial  was  Friday,  (un- 
lucky chance,  if  I  had  been  supersti- 
tious !)  and  the  last  Friday  in  the  month  ; 
so  I  knew  that  the  next  day  the  mill- 
men  would  all  expect  the  month's 
wages.  Connected  with  Hazael's  estab- 
lishment was  a  store  where  the  married 
men  got  their  family  supplies  and  the 
more  fortunate  single  individuals  their 
pipes  and  tobacco,  and  said  counting- 
room  was  in  said  store  ;  so  I  had  a 
great  many  accounts  to  look  over  and 
balance,  and  no  peace  and  quiet  to  do 
it  in. 

When  I  had  got  my  safe  fairly  un- 
locked, books  out,  and  all  ready  to  go 
to  w®rk,  another  ill  omen  greeted  me. 

In  coming  in,  I  had  with  difficulty 
made  my  way  round  or  over  an  'open 
scuttle,  which  but  for  unseen  guiding 
hands  might  as  well  have  furnished  me 
with  my  death  as  with  a  story,  except 
perhaps  for  the  additional  fact  that  the 
story  was  foreordained. 

The  scuttle  was  three  feet  from  the 
outer  door,  and  the  cellar  eight  feet 
from  the  scuttle. 

The  person  who  came  in  after  me, 
judging  from  the  short  time  I  saw  him, 
was  about  six  feet  and  two  inches  high 
(if  he  had  not  impressed  me  so  much 
like  a  ship-mast  I  should  say  tall),  and 
apparently  all  bones. 

As  he  opened  the  door  he  shouted 
to  the  clerk,  — 

"  I  say,  there  !  " 

What  he  would  have  said  "  there  "  I 
have  no  reliable  means  of  knowing. 

What  he  said  eight  feet  below  there 
I  heard  through  the  open  scuttle  dis- 
tinctly. 

"  D— n  it !  It  ought  to  'a'  kilt  me, 
an'  I  ha'n't  hurt  a  bit !  " 

So  instinctively  do  men  philosophize  ! 


1870.] 


A  Lumberwoman. 


427 


T  am  sure  that  a  woman,  under  the 
circumstances,  would  have  died  wheth- 
er it  "  kilt  "  her  or  not. 

I  felt  at  once  a  loss  of  spirits,  and  I 
think  they  must  have  gone  down  to 
him,  for  ho  came  up  (the  stairs,  not  the 
scuttle)  hilarious,  and  I  had  no  more 
that  day. 

For  the  sake  of  science,  I  asked  him 
what  lie  thought  in  that  quick  descent. 

"  Wondered  if  my  watch  'd  knock  off 
into  the  pork-barrel  and  spile." 

I  almost  wished  that  he  had  broken 
his  arm,  that  Hazael  might  see  that 
there  were  other  things  in  the  world  as 
bad  as  a  cold. 

Notwithstanding  my  disappointment 
and  loss  of  spirits,  I  was  determined  to 
look  over  accounts  that  forenoon  ;  so 
at  day-book  I  went,  comparing  each 
sum  total  with  its  constituent  items,  till 
I  should  have  been  glad  if  I  might  rea- 
sonably hope  never  to  hear  of  molasses, 
saleratus,  pork,  or  any  of  the  necessi- 
ties of  life  again.  Some  of  my  gossip- 
ing neighbors  —  I  will  call  no  names 
—  would  have  given  a  new  dress  to 
see,  as  I  saw  that  day,//^/  how  much 
flour,  eggs,  and  butter  some  of  their 
dear  gossiping  neighbors  had  used  in 
the  last  month  ;  but  we  traders  keep 
these  little  confidences  strictly. 

It  was  dreary  enough  to  remember 
a  library  and  locked  doors  that  day 
and  stand  at  a  desk,  the  only  thing 
besides  the  safe  enclosed  within  those 
four  white,  close  walls.  Visions  of 
Coleridge  and  Lamb,  De  Quincey  and 
Shelley,  came  before  me  like  trium- 
phant friends.  John  Brown  coaxingly 
invited  me  to  "  Spare  Hours,"  as  if  I 
had  any  hope  of  such  !  I  think  I  felt 
more  pity  for  the  "laboring  class  "  that 
clay  than  ever  before  or  since  ;  before 
their  sorrows  were  imaginary  (with 
me),  and  since  pity  has  given  place  to 
sympathy  and  fellow-feeling. 

I  got  through  the  accounts  of  twenty 
men  that  forenoon,  however,  and  went 
home  to  dinner,  glad  to  relieve  Hazael 
by  this  surprise  ;  for  I  knew  they  had 
troubled  him  more  than  I  had  any  rea-. 
son  to  think  they  had  troubled  the 
debtors. 


"Well,  Calistel,  where  have  you 
been?" 

"  Well,  Hazael,  what  do  you  suppose 
I  have  been  doing?" 

"  Whatever  you  pleased,  as  usual." 

Now,  however  logical  a  conclusion 
that  may  have  been  to  draw  from  my 
past  history,  it  wounded  my  feelings 
very  much  to  hear  the  statement  then 
and  there ;  but  men  have  no  intuitions, 
and  how  should  he  know  that  I  had 
once  in  my  life  made  a  sacrifice  ?  One 
must  make  a  great  many  before  the  face 
will  tell  it 

So  I  answered,  "  No,  Hazael,"  with  a 
mixture  of  brag  and  grief. 

"  Been  doing  mission,  then  ?  " 

By  this  Hazael  meant  had  I  been 
visiting  the  poor  and  afflicted,  healing 
hearts  and  converting  souls  ;  he  always 
expressed  it  thus  concisely,  and  always 
persisted  that  I  "  did  mission  "  from 
duty,  not  from  love  of  it. 

"  Yes,  Hazael,  mission  for  you  and 
mission  for  the  mill-men."  Then  I 
told  him  of  the  twenty  accounts  looked 
over,  and  of  the  jarring  the  cellar  had 
had  from  the  man  of  six  feet  and  two 
inches. 

To  this  day  I  'm  afraid  Hazael  looks 
for  the  man  with  six  feet  who  cost  him 
so  much  in  repairing  the  underpinning 
of  that  store  ;  to  this  day  he  thinks  he 
was  an  escaped  curiosity  of  Barn  urn's. 

"  Are  you  going  to  keep  at  it  ? " 
Hazael  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-mor- 
row when  the  men  come  to  be  paid  ?  " 

"  Pay  them,  I  guess." 

"  But  they  '11  cheat  you." 

"  Very  well,  if  they  can." 

"Well,"  and  Hazael  sighed.  (You 
remember  the  occasions  that  are  so 
often  taken,  according  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing, for  sighing.) 

^  You  mean  to  do  it,  Calistel  ?  They- 
're dreadfully  rough  when  I  pay  them  ; 
fifty  of  them,  you  know,  all  at  once." 

Calistel  quite  meant  to  do  it.  In 
the  course  of  the  afternoon  and  next 
day,  the  other  thirty  accounts  were 
cast  and  recast  and  balanced. 

Saturday    came,    and     five     o'clock 


428 


A  Lumberwoman. 


[April, 


came,  and  I  heard  the  mills  stop;  at 
least  I  did  n't  hear  them  go,  and  con- 
cluded they  had  stopped. 

Tramps  and  scuffles  and  double-shuf- 
fles out  on  the  platform  suggested  to 
me  that  the  men  might  possibly  be 
there. 

Up  went  my  shutter,  and  I  called 
through  the  loophole,  "John  Low!" 

John  Low,  having  heard  a  voice  come 
through  that  loophole  on  other  Sat- 
urday nights,  knew  of  what  interest  it 
was  to  him  to  hear  it  this  Saturday 
night ;  therefore  John  Low  stopped  on 
the  half-shuffle  and  came  up. 

John  Low  saw  me  ;  John  Low  stared  ; 
John  Low  turned  round  and  commu- 
nicated to  the  crowd  the  specific  intel- 
ligence, — 

"  By  George,  it 's  her  !  " 

Whereupon  forty-nine  of  the  fifty 
heads  appeared  in  direct  line  with  my 
loophole,  and  there  came  such  a  jam- 
ming and  pushing  and  quarrelling  as 
can  be  seen  only  among  mill-men  on 
pay-night.  Whether  it  was  an  unu- 
sually rough  time  because  it  was  "  her  " 
I  did  not  know,  but  I  was  determined 
that  she  would  make  it  smoother. 

My  shutter  went  down,  my  door 
went  open,  myself  went  out  among 
them.  "  If  you  will  come  up  one  by 
one  as  I  call  you,  I  will  pay  you  all 
to-night.  If  I  see  any  more  of  this 
pushing  and  scuffling,  I  shall  stop  at 
once." 

I  went  in,  I  shut  my  door,  I  pulled 
up  my  shutter. 

"  John  Low  !  " 

Again  John  Low  came  up  ;  this  time 
alone. 

"  The  balance  due  you  is  twelve  dol- 
lars ;  the  month's  wages  thirty-two, 
the  things  taken  up  in  the  store 
twenty." 

John  Low  growled  out  something 
about  an  extravagant  wife,  wrote  his 
name  under  the  squared  account,  and 
left. 

Eight  other  men  went  off  very  qui- 
etly, with  greater  or  less  funds  in  their 
pockets. 

The  tenth  man  came,  heard  my  state- 
ment of  his  finances  and  disputed  it. 


"  I  ha'n't  had  but  half  them  things  !  " 
The  spirit  of  cheat  spread  rapidly,  and 
those  who  had  gone  off  content  before 
came  back  to  "git  a  little  suffin  more 
out  of  her." 

My  shutter  went  down,  my  door 
went  open,  myself  went  out  among 
them. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  dispute  claims 
with  you  ;  you  can  take  your  money  or 
leave  it.  Monday  morning,  if  you  care 
to  come  and  look  over  the  items  of 
account  you  may.  I  have  looked 
them  over  carefully,  and  know  them 
to  be  correct.  Let  me  hear  no  more 
of  this  to-night." 

I  went  in,  I  shut  my  door,  I  pulled 
up  my  shutter,  paid  off  the  rest,  heard 
no  more  grumbling,  and  went  home 
moderately  happy  (for  a  married  wo- 
man whose  husband  was  sick  at  home 
with  a  cold). 

This  was  in  the  fall,  —  November,  I 
think ;  and  before  Hazael  got  out,  it 
was  time  for  the  men  to  go  into  the 
woods. 

Such  an  amount  of  talking  to  be 
done  between  Hazael  and  the  loggers  ! 

I  judge  of  the  number  of  men  I  sent 
to  him  every  day  only  by  the  state  of 
my  carpet  every  night ;  no  amount  of 
force  applied  to  brooms  has  ever  been 
enough  to  get  those  carpets  free  from 
mud.  If  ever  Hazael  has  a  cold  again, 
I  sincerely  hope  it  may  not  be  in  spring 
or  fall. 

If  the  talking  fell  to  Hazael  this  time, 
by  the  same  convulsion  of  nature  the 
work  fell  to  me.  Of  course  there  was 
a  clerk  to  put  everything  up  as  called 
for,  but  how  could  he  undertake  to  do 
that,  and  keep  account  of  everything 
that  went  to  the  woods  in  that  week  of 
fitting  out  teams  ? 

You  would  never  believe  if  I  were 
to  tell  you  the  average  amount  of  food 
that  went  to  every  man. 

"  Wanted  enough  to  last  six  weeks," 
they  said.  Ten  barrels  of  flour,  three 
barrels  of  pork,  and  no  end  of  molasses 
and  spices,  black  pepper  enough  to 
have  set  the  whole  region  round  about 
into  a  fit  of  sneezing  ;  but  first  and 
foremost  beans  and  tea  and  tobacco. 


1870.] 


A  LumberwoMan. 


429 


In  spite  of  this  practical,  sickening 
p.irt  of"  it,  there  was  something  very 
fascinating  in  the  idea  of  being  off  in 
the  woods  and  snow,  away  from  every- 
thing and  everybody  for  ^four  whole 
months  ;  at  least  I  thought  so  till  I  made 
them  a  visit  in  the  course  of  the  win- 
ter. 

But  it  was  not  at  all  fascinating  to 
get  those  teams  ready  to  go ;  yet  the 
week  came  to  an  end,  as  all  weeks  ex- 
cept one,  coming  some  time,  will,  and 
every  day  of  it  found  me  busy  and  left 
me  tired,  but  quite  glad  to  be  doing 
something  active  and  business-like, 
though  the  visions  of  dear  friends  at 
home,  bound  in  leather,  calf,  and  mus- 
lin, according  to  desert,  were  not  less 
constant  and  enticing  than  at  first. 

Hazael  was  pleased  and  relieved  and 
fast  growing  better,  and  he  found  the 
world  so  much  more  worth  while  than 
when  he  had  everything  to  do  himself, 
that  it  was  really  quite  comfortable  liv- 
ing with  him,  comparatively. 

Hazael  was  out  before  November 
was,  and  soon  quite  well  and  strong ; 
but  from  some  reason  he  never  told  me, 
nothing  was  said  about  my  going  back 
to  my  old  place.  Instead  of  being  an 
appurtenance  of  the  establishment,  I 
was  a  part  of  the  thing  itself. 

H.i/ael  taught  me  the  real  art  of 
book-keeping,  and  I  kept  his  books. 
He  taught  me  business-letter  writing, 
which  is  quite  a  science,  if  you  do  it 
well ;  and  I  wrote  his  letters,  keeping 
a  copy  of  every  one.  He  taught  me 
how  to  make  out  drafts,  write  receipts, 
and  half  a  thousand  other  little  things 
that  have  to  be  done  about  a  counting- 
room. 

Hut  with  all  this  I  began  now  to  have 
some  time  for  reading;  so  my  half  of 
the  desk  was  about  equally  filled  with 
essays,  poetry,  and  account-books. 

Here  is  a  page  of  my  note-book 
written  at  that  time. 

••  The  greatest  obstacle  to  being  he- 
roic is  the  doubt  whether  one  may  not 
be  going  to  prove  one's  self  a  fool. 
The  truest  heroism  is  to  resist  the 
doubt,  and  the  profoundest  wisdom  to 


know  when  it  ought  to  be  resisted  and 
when  to  be  obeyed."  —  HAWTHORXK. 

Make  out  a  draft  on  G.  Callum  &  Co., 
payable  to  order  of  Obed  Lingum,  Jr. 
Amt.  $  335.  Due,  Jan'y  7,  promptly. 

"  Music  resembles  poetry  ;  in  each 
Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods  teach,     ,' 
And  which  a  master-hand  alone  can  reach." 

I'o!'i-:'s  Essay  on  Criticism. 

Perhaps  both  resemble  certain  char- 
acters the  world  calls  shallow,  only 
because  the  world  has  nothing  with 
which  to  probe  deep. 

Don't  forget  to  pay  Hazael's  doctor's 
bill  this  month. 

"  But  tliis  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes,  • 

That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call : 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all  !  " 

COLERIDGE'S  Ckristalel. 
"  'T  is  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own." 

ROI-.KKT  HKOWMM;. 

Dean  Small's  lumber  bill,  $42.47 

Joshua  Reynold's  bill,  74.75 

Collect  both  within  three  weeks. 

A.  J.  Wardwell's  store  account,  $  264.87. 

Capt.  Babcock  wants  timber  sent  to 
his  master-builder  next  Saturday,  the 
5th. 

Send  draft  for  last  bill  of  dry  goods. 

"  Hardness  is  a  want  of  minute  at- 
tention to  the  feelings  of  others."  — 
SYDNEY  SMITH'S  definition  of  the  hard- 
ness of  character. 

"  Clay  model,  Life. 
Plaster  cast,  Death. 
Sculptured  marble,  Resurrection." 
THORWALDSEN. 

We  got  through  the  winter  with  little 
excitement,  and  not  a  great  deal  to  do 
except  on  the  days  when  three  or  four 
men  came  out  of  the  woods,  which 
were  generally  Saturdays,  that  they 
might  spend  Sunday  at  home. 

River-driving  came  on,  and  the  beau- 
tiful, restless  spring  days  together,  when 
it  seemed  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  have 
to  think  of  river-driving  or  any  other 
practical  thing  ;  and  I  thought  I  had 
never  seen  such  suggestive  weather  as 
came  that  spring.  Fifteen  days  of  sun 
and  shower  and  gray  cloud,  till  you 


430 


A  Lwnberwoman. 


[April, 


dread  not  so  much  a  stormy  day,  which 
in  itself  considered  might  not  be  un- 
desirable, as  the  change  from  this  to 
that;  and  yet  you  half  want  it. 

There  was  just  enough  of  the  fasci- 
nation of  uncertainty  about  those  days 
to  make  them  seem  delightful  before 
all  others.  They  almost  cheat  one 
into  the  notion  that,  even  after  a  new 
birth,  a  moody  creature  has  some  di- 
vine authority  for  remaining  a  moody 
creature  still,  which  notion,  to  be  sure, 
the  steadier  beauty  of  the  later  months 
would  hardly  justify. 

When  the  storm  came  at  last,  the 
decision  of  it  was  almost  heart-break- 
ing, it  was  so  inexorable,  so  certain 
after  the  puzzling  days  that  would  break 
out,  no  one  knew  where ;  which  of 
course  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  lumber 
story,  only  as  all  changes  of  weather 
affect  the  rivers  on  which  lumbermen 
are  so  dependent. 

With  river-driving  came  on  the  run- 
ning of  the  mill  again,  and  all  the  regu- 
lar summer  business  ;  and  by  the  time 
the  logs  were  all  driven  down,  every- 
thing was  going  on  in  the  usual  me- 
thodical manner. 

First  came  log-driving  affairs  to  be 
settled  ;  for  however  willing  men  may 
be  to  wait  for  the  pay  for  the  winter's 
work  in  the  woods,  they  cannot  rest 
quietly  twenty-four  hours  after  log-driv- 
ing is  over,  till  they  have  their  money. 
They  generally  get  in  sight  a  little  be- 
fore the  last  log. 

So  I  made  up  my  mind  to  a  series  of 
pay-days,  which  began  at  once. 

The  head  man  of  the  river-driving 
crew  had  handed  me  a  paper  stating 
how  many  days  each  man  had  worked, 
and  the  price  agreed  upon  in  payment 
therefor,  which  went  on  somewhat  in 
this  way  :  — 

Duncan  Wall,  17^  days' works  @  $22 

a  month. 
Jerry   Heath,   18   days'  works   ("   $  20 

a  month. 

The  list  was  twenty  names  long, 
perhaps. 

It  was  really  pitiful  to  see,  as  Jerry 
Heath  and  the  rest  came  to  be  paid. 


that  nearly  every  one  held  out  a  cut  or  a 
bruised  hand  ;  some  had  a  finger  or  a 
thumb  gone,  some  half  a  hand  lost  'in 
this  or  other  year's  work  ;  some  came 
limping  in^vith  a  mangled  foot,  "hurt 
in  the  great  jam  on  the  rips,"  perhaps, 
"  or  chopped  off  a  toe  or  two  the  last 
month  of  logging."  This  year'one  boy 
was  drowned,  —  only  eighteen.  He  fell 
in  and  got  frightened,  they  said,  and 
would  n't  swim. 

Scarcely  one  came  that  had  not  some 
bruise  to  show,  and  laugh  or  growl 
over,  according  to  disposition. 

And  the  accounts  they  would  give  of 
the  way  they  had  been  living! 

"  I  say,  Sam,  you  got  any  more  flan- 
nel as  good  as  that  I  bought  jus'  afore 
we  went  in  ?  " 

"  Don't  remember  anything  particu- 
lar about  that ;  we  Ve  got  some  good 
flannel  now,  though." 

"  By  George,  that  was  the  best  stuff 
I  ever  wore.  I  had  two  shirts  made  of 
it ;  one  of  'em  I  put  on  when  I  went  in 
and  never  had  off  again  till  I  come  out, 
and  the  other  one  I  wore  all  through 
log-driving,  till  it 's  jist  rotting  off." 

"  Clean  way  you  have  of  living  up 
there,"  I  heard  the  clerk  suggest. 

Whereupon  a  general  shout  was  set 
up  by  the  rest  of  the  crowd. 

"  By  George  !  we  ha'n't  had  but  two 
towels  in  with  us  this  winter,"  said  one. 

"  Makes  your  face  cold  to  wash  it 
'fore  you  go  out  in  the  morning,"  chimed 
in  another. 

"  You  bet  we  don't  want  no  soap  an' 
water  up  there,"  echoed  a  third. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  they 
were  all  paid,  and  scattered  off  for  the 
summer  ;  some  to  the  mill  and  the  rest 
to  their  farms,  if  they  happened  to  have 
them,  or  to  sea,  or  to  loaf  about  till 
logging  next  year. 

The  hurry  of  the  busy  season  seemed 
to  come  all  at  once  with  us  ;  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  driving  about  to  do, 
which  perhaps  was  all  that  saved  me 
from  wearing  out  with  the  confinement 
the  rest  of  the  day  ;  but  on  the  whole 
I  was  better  than  when  I  was  doing 
nothing.  This  I  mention  here,  not  be- 
cause in  my  conceit  I  think  it  will  be 


1 870.] 


A  Liimbcnvoman. 


431 


of  any  personal  interest  to  you,  but 
because  so  much  is  said  about  women 
being  "  too  delicately  organized  "  to  go 
into  hard  work  ;  this  is  my  testimony. 
I  would  give  it  on  oath  in  court 

There  were  a  great  many  spring 
talks  between  Hazael  and  the  captains 
about  carrying  lumber,  and  the  rates  of 
freight  for  the  coming  season  ;  there 
were  a  great  many  vessels  to  load  as 
the  result  of  them  ;  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  lumber  to  look  after  as  the  re- 
sult of  that. 

All  of  Hazael's  lumber  was  carried 
to  his  vessels  by  rafts.  A  sluice  ran 
from  under  the  mill  down  to  the  river, 
and  by  the  side  of  the  sluice  the  lum- 
ber was  piled  in  long,  high  piles.  One 
man  stood  on  top  of  the  pile  and  sur- 
veyed it  (by  which  I  don't  mean  that 
we  kept  him  there  to  look  at  it,  but 
to  measure  it),  stick  by  stick,  as  two 
other  men  turned  it  off  into  the  sluice 
witli  pickaxes. 

Another  man  was  at  the  other  end 
of  the  sluice  to  take  the  sticks  as  they 
came  down.  This  he  did  with  a  pick- 
axt  that  he  struck  into  the  stick  as  it 
came  rushing  out  of  the  sluice,  and 
d  it  just  where  he  wanted  it ;  he 
had  only  to  guide  it,  it  got  so  much 
motion  in  coming. 

The  rafts  were  made  on  a  wooden 
platform  at  low  tide,  and  slipped  off 
and  taken  to  the  vessels  when  the  tide 
was  full.  It  was  miserable  work  some- 
times tuning  clown  the  crooked  narrow 
river  in  the  dead  of  night,  dark  and 
stormy  perhaps  ;  but  they  must  go 
when  the  tide  was  in,  whether  that  was 
at  morning,  noon,  or  midnight ;  and 
the  men  were  often  six  hours  getting 
down  with  them. 

It  was  the  slowest,  dreariest,  most 
lonesome  work,  they  said,  that  they 
ever  had  to  do  about  the  whole  con- 
cern. 

I  cannot  truthfully  say  that  I  ever 
did  it  myself,  but  this  is  their  report. 

When  the  lumber  got  to  the  vessel 
and  got  in,  some  one  must  make  out 
the  bills  of  lading  ;  that  made  a  ride 
for  me  generally  to  the  Port  to  get  the 
captain  to  sign  them. 


When  that  was  done,  somebody 
must  send  one  of  them  and  the  bill  of 
lumber  to  whichever  commission  mer- 
chant Hazael  had  consigned  it  to. 
First  the  bill  had  to  be  made  out,  which 
the  surveyor  and  I  did  together  ;  then 
it  had  to  be  copied  to  the  account  of 
sales-book  ;  then  sent  off. 

Besides  all  this  regular  business, 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  outside  busi- 
ness in  supplying  all  the  region  round 
with  lumber,  —  the  ship-builders  and 
the  house-builders  and  all  kinds  of 
builders  who  were  building  anything  ; 
and  this  part  of  the  work  was  the 
most  fussy  of  all.  Every  stick  must  be 
of  just  such  a  length,  breadth,  and 
thickness,  as  it  was  wanted  for  a  par- 
ticular purpose. 

Whoever  wanted  the  lumber  usually 
brought  a  paper  with  the  dimensions 
he  wanted  written  on  it.  Then  some 
one  must  go  all  over"  the  millpond 
hunting  up  the  logs  that  would  best 
saw  into  those  sticks. 

I  had  n't  as  much  time  to  sit  round 
on  the  piers  and  booms  as  I  used  to 
have  when  Hazael  did  it,  but  I  did  n't 
so  much  mind  that,  because  I  found 
that  he  took  occasional  trips  on  the 
banks  after  squirrels  now  that  he  had 
some  one  to  help  him  and  more  time ; 
I  found,  too,  that  he  was  getting  into 
the  way  of  stopping  an  hour  or  so  when 
he  went  to  the  Port  to  talk  to  his  fel- 
low-merchants. 

Two  make  lighter  work  than  one, 
and  I  hope  that  the  happy  time  will 
come  some  day  when  wives  and  hus- 
bands will  have  one  interest  in  one 
business  ;  they  may  be  situated  so  that 
they  can  very  often,  as  we  were. 

Don't  think  you  can  do  nothing  in 
your  husband's  business,  unless  he 
happens  to  have  a  fancy  store.  Is  n't  it 
"  ladylike  "  to  go  into  a  hard  business  ? 
Stay  at  home,  then,  and  take  care  of 
your  children,  and  sew  and  make  over 
your  old  dresses  to  save,  and  help  your 
husband  get  through  the  year,  and  be 
as  ladylike  as  you  please.  But  if  there 
is  nothing  in  the  business  itself  that 
your  husband  as  a  gentleman  does  not 
find  defiling,  there  must  be  some  part 


432 


Reviving   Virginia. 


[April, 


of  it  that  you  could  take,  that  would 
not  entirely  forbid  your  being  a  lady. 

Has  n't  the  world  got  up  to  that  yet  ? 
Plow  will  it  get  up,  if  no  one  pushes  it 
along  ? 

Would  it  distress  your  husband  very 
much  to  see  you  work  ? 

My  dear  friend,  I  am  not  talking  to 
you.  I  am  talking  to  some  one  whose 
husband  is  letting  the  growth  of  sense 
push  out  the  refuse  of  chivalry  and  ro- 
mance. 

But  more  than  that,  I  am  talking 
to  some  one  who  has  not  now,  but 
may  some  time  have,  a  husband;  and 
through  all  this  begging  and  beseech- 
ing her  to  be  careful  of  his  romance. 

As  for'Hazael  and  me,  he  is  content, 
and  I  was  a  lady  before,  and  have  n't 
felt  any  decided  change  since. 

I  received  a  salary  for  my  labor  from 


the  business,  which  was  a  company 
business,  and  not  wholly  Hazael's.  I 
will  not  say  how  much  it  was,  but  quite 
enough  to  have  supported  me  comfort- 
ably if  I  had  had  no  other  income, 
which,  having  Hazael,  I  had. 

Two  make  lighter  work  of  a  thing 
than  one,  as  I  said ;  so  we  got  through 
the  summer  with  great  peace  and  com- 
fort, and  through  the  fall  with  bliss. 

Winter  is  on  us  now,  with  its  lighter 
work  (or  I  should  not  have  time  to  tell 
you  about  it),  and  finds  me  hoping  that, 
until  my  hair  is  gray  and  I  retire  from 
business  "  in  a  full  age,"  I  may  not  be 
one  of  the  happy  feminine  band  whose 
watchword  as  they  meet  is,  — 

"  What  do  you  find  to  do  ?  " 

Did  so  much  grow  from  the  single 
fact  that  Hazael  was  shut  up  in  the 
house  ? 


REVIVING    VIRGINIA. 


T)  EAUTIFUL  Virginia,  it  seems,  is 
U  to  become  at  last  what  nature 
meant  it  for,  —  a  Northern  State,  one 
of  the  empire  States  of  the  Union. 
There  was  a  time  when  the  whole  coast, 
from  Florida  to  Canada,  was  called  Vir- 
ginia. The  men  who  afterward  named 
the  northern  half  of  it  New  England 
had  not  the  prophetic  gift;  for  New 
England  never  was  a  new  England. 
The  true  new  England  of  North  Amer- 
ica was  Old  Virginia,  with  its  landed 
aristocracy,  its  ignorant  and  helpless 
laboring  class,  its  established,  intoler- 
ant church. 

Our  pride  in  belonging  to  the  lordly 
human  race  is  apt  to  be  taken  down  a 
little  when  we  discover  how  powerfully 
and  how  long  the  destinies  of  even  the 
most  advanced  nations  have  been  in- 
fluenced by  individuals  strikingly  inferi- 
or. There  was  a  man  living  in  London, 
two  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago,  who 
was,  in  his  person,  a  lumpish  clown, 


with  a  rolling  eye,  a  slobbery  mouth, 
and  a  shambling  gait ;  who  had  the  air 
and  demeanor  of  a  conceited,  ill-grown 
boy ;  who  was  sensual,  profuse,  mean, 
and  cruel ;  who  was  credulous,  whim- 
sical, and  prejudiced ;  whom  almost 
any  impudent  knave  could  govern,  and 
no  worthy  man  influence.  He  was  not 
a  native  of  England.  If  he  had  been 
cast  upon  the  streets  of  London,  poor 
and  friendless,  he  would  have  passed 
his  days,  perhaps,  as  clerk  of  a  poor- 
house  or  beadle  to  a  charity  school. 
The  boys  would  have  laughed  at  him 
as  he  aped  the  dignity  of  the  school- 
master, or  the  paupers  would  have 
pitied  him  as  a  Scotch  body  who  was 
weak  in  his  upper  story,  poor  man. 

But  it  would  be  hard  to  name  a  per- 
son who  has  lived  in  the  British  em- 
pire for  the  last  three  centuries  whose 
residence  there  has  had  consequences 
so  important  and  so  enduring  as  that 
of  James  Stuart  of  Scotland.  What 


Reviving   Virginia. 


433 


struggles  it  cost  all  that  was  noblest 
in  England  to  keep  him  in  check,  and 
get  rid  of  his  mean  posterity  !  We  feel 
him  here  in  America  to  this  day.  One 
of  our  most  beautiful  rivers  bears  his 
name,  and  the  two  capes  that  invite 
the  commerce  of  the  world,  open-armed, 
to  enter  Chesapeake  Bay  are  called  by 
the  names  of  his  sons.  No  one  can 
study  the  map  of  the  United  States 
;'  without  perceiving  that  Chesapeake 
Bay  is  naturally  the  chief  highway 
into  the  heart  of  the  continent  on  the 
Atlantic  side,  and  that  somewhere  on 
its  shores,  or  on  the  banks  of  one  of 
its  tributary  streams,  would  naturally 
have  grown  the  chief  commercial  city 
of  the  New  World.  A  navigable  bay 
nearly  two  hundred  miles  long,  from 
three  to  twenty  miles  wide,  and  deep 
enough  almost  everywhere  to  float  the 
Great  Eastern  ;  with  such  rivers  emp- 
tying into  it  as  the  Potomac,  the  James, 
the  Rappahannock,  and  the  Susquehan- 
na,  from  the  head-waters  of  which  is 
the  shortest  cut  to  the  Ohio  and  the 
great  river  system  of  the  interior  ;  with 
not  merely  a  harbor,  or  a  dozen  har- 
bors, but  with  hundreds  of  square 
miles  of  harbor  ;  and  with  a  country 
behind  these  waters  of  unequalled 
fertility  and  convenience,  — who  would 
not  point  to  this  portion  of  the  map 
and  say,  "There  is  the  natural  seat  of 
empire  !  There  should  be  the  London 
of  America  !  "  And  so  perhaps  it  might 
have  been,  but  for  this  poor  man, 
James  Stuart,  and  another  poor  man, 
a  garrulous,  credulous  Spanish  doctor, 
named  Nicholas  Menardes. 

As  to  Stuart,  he  cut  off  one  of  the 
best  heads  in  his  dominions,  —  that  of 
the  father  of  Virginia,  its  proprietor  and 
colonizer,  who  first  of  all  men  made 
the  remark  just  quoted  with  regard  to 
the  seat  of  empire.  It  was  Ralegh  who 
kept  telling  his  captains  not  to  flounder 
about  among  the  sands  of  the  Carolina 
coast,  and  not  to  go  so  far  north  as  to 
encounter  ice  and  cold,  but  to  fix  his 
projected  city  of  Ralegh  on  the  safe, 
deep  waters  of  the  Chesapeake.  Those 
who  look  into  Ralegh's  generous  at- 
tempts to  colonize  Virginia  will  observe 

VOL.   X-XV.  —  NO.    150.  28 


that  he  was  a  man  who  could  be  taught 
by  his  own  mistakes.  He,  if  any  man, 
would  have  learned  how  to  plant  a 
colony  ;  but  James  Stuart  locked  him 
in  the  Tower,  and  caused  him  to  spend 
the  best  years  of  his  life  in  writing  a 
book  instead  of  founding  (to  use  his 
own  words)  "a  new  England  in 
America."  When,  at  length,  after 
twenty-nine  years  of  failure,  a  little 
band  of  men  were  lodged  in  Virginia 
who  stayed  there,  it  was  the  despotic 
charter  and  unwise  rules  drawn  up,  in 
part,  by  the  king  himself,  that  rendered 
the  first  years  of  the  Colony's  history 
a  catalogue  of  disasters  and  mistakes. 
But  that  was  not  the  worst.  There 
was  a  time  in  the  early  day  of  the 
Colony  (Captain  Newport  coming  home 
every  summer  to  England,  bringing 
pretty  good  news,  and  some  cedar  and 
sassafras,  worth  then  £312  per  ton  in 
London)  when  the  great  body  of  Puri- 
tans, oppressed  by  King  James  and 
Archbishop  Bancroft,  cast  their  eyes 
toward  Virginia  as  a  place  of  refuge.  If 
the  king  had  merely  winked  at  their  de- 
parture and  permitted  the  free  exercise 
of  their  religion,  a  thousand  Puritan 
families  would  have  been  settled  upon 
the  James  while  the  timbers  of  the 
Mayflower  were  still  growing  in  the 
forest.  The  emigration  was  prevented, 
the  Church  of  England  was  established, 
and  Virginia  remained  a  penal  settlement 
until  the  timbers  of  the  Mayflower  were 
rotten,*  —  much  more  than  a  penal  set- 
tlement, it  is  true  ;  for  the  ancestors  of 
Washington  settled  there  when  the 
Colony  was  only  fifty  years  old  ;  but 
still  a  penal  settlement. 

The  Puritans  are  not  altogether 
lovely  in  modern  eyes  ;  but  they  had  in 
them  the  stuff  of  which  empires  are 
made.  They  would  have  sent  those 
eighty  women  packing.  They  might 
have  saved  beautiful  Virginia  from  the 
pollution  of  tobacco.  They  might  have 
rendered  the  Chesapeake  region  the 

*  "1692,  November  i7t&,  Thursday.  —  *,  ship 
lay  at  Leith  going  for  Virginia,  on  board  which  the 
magistrates  had  ordered  fifty  lewd  women  out  of 
the  houses  of  prostitution,  and  30  other  who  walked 
the  streets  after  10  at  night."—  LUTTRELL'S  Brief 
Historical  Relation,  Vol.  II.  p.  617. 


434 

seat  of  empire  in  America,  and  kept  it 
such  forever. 

Tobacco,  however,  might  have  proved 
too  much  even  for  the  Puritans  ;  and 
tobacco  involved  slavery.  A  colony 
must  have  something  to  send  abroad 
which  can  be  converted  into  money. 
New  England,  from  the  beginning,  had 
codfish,  mackerel,  and  whales  ;  and  soon 
had  staves,  boats,  schooners,  and  rum. 
But  Virginia,  after  a  weak  attempt  at 
silk-worms,  having  exhausted  the  sas- 
safras, could  hit  upon  nothing  so  con- 
venient for  bringing  in  a  little  money  as 
tobacco  ;  which  gave  her  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years  of  wealth  and  pride,  paid  for 
by  a  hundred  years  of  decline,  decay, 
and  humiliation,  now  nearly  spent. 
What  other  choice  had  she  ?  Wheat 
was  out  of  the  question,  from  the  scar- 
city of  labor  and  the  length  of  the  voy- 
age. Indian-corn  is  not  relished  in 
Europe  to  this  day.  The  good  fishing- 
grounds  are  far  to  the  north.  The  in- 
domitable Puritans  might  have  found 
or  made  something  that  would  have 
answered  the  purpose,  in  the  absence 
of  the  rage  for  tobacco  ;  but  the  Puri- 
tans were  not  there,  and  all  Europe 
was  beginning  to  smoke  its  pipe. 

Civilized  man  escaped  the  despotism 
of  tobacco  for  nearly  a  century  after 
Columbus  first  saw  the  Bahama  In- 
dians twisting  up  brown  leaves  into  a 
roll,  putting  one  end  into  their  mouths 
and  lighting  the  other.  Tobacco-seed 
was  soon  taken  to  Spain  ;  and  it  was  a 
fashionable  thing,  about  1550,  to  have  a 
few  of  the  dark  green,  luxuriant  tobac- 
co-plants in  the  gardens  of  grandees 
and  princes.  The  weed  was  not  much 
used  in  Europe,  before  one  Doctor 
Menardes  of  Seville  came  home  from 
America,  about  1564,  and  wrote  his 
once  famous  book  entitled  "  Joyful 
News  from  the  New-found  World." 
Curious  readers  may  find  in  some  of 
our  old  libraries  John  Frampton's 
English  translation  of  the  same,  pub- 
lished in  London,  in  1578,  the  very 
year  in  which  Ralegh  began  to  work 
toward  planting  a  colony  in  America. 
In  those  days  men  still  believed  in 
"taking  physic,"  with  childlike  faith; 


Virginia. 


[April 


and  the  joyful  news  which  the  worthy 
Doctor  Menardes  brought  from  the  new- 
found world  was,  that  it  produced  a 
marvellous  variety  of  precious  drugs, 
odorous  gums,  medicinal  oils,  roots, 
and  herbs,  seventy  of  which  he  de- 
scribes. Upon  sarsaparilla,  liquid  am- 
ber, "  Benjamin,"  radix  China,  and. 
indeed,  upon  most  of  his  seventy  top- 
ics, he  discourses  with  brevity  and 
moderation ;  but  when  he  comes  to 
speak  of  "  tabaco  and  his  virtues," 
and  of  sassafras,  —  that  fragrant  root 
just  discovered  by  "  our  Spaniards  "  in 
Florida,  —  he  expands  and  grows  ex- 
travagant. It  was  evidently  Menardes's 
eulogium  upon  sassafras  which,  for 
many  years,  made  it  so  popular  a  medi- 
cine in  Europe  that  it  paid  the  cost  of 
several  important  voyages.  This  harm- 
less root  really  plays  a  part  in  the 
history  of  the  colonization  of  North 
America. 

But  it  was  his  discourse  upon  tobac- 
co that  gave  to  Doctor  Menardes's  work 
its  chief  historical  importance,  its  im- 
mense and  lasting  influence.  Virginia 
was  forty  years,  counting  from  Ralegh's- 
first  attempt  to  colonize,  in  getting  ready 
to  raise  tobacco  ;  and  during  the  whole 
of  that  period  Menardes's  book  was  cir- 
culating in  Spain,  France,  and  England, 
exciting  curiosity  and  wonder  respect- 
ing the  plant,  and  spreading  abroad  the 
most  absurd  notions  of  its  value  and 
power.  The  Indians,  he  says,  used  to- 
bacco in  healing  the  wounds  received 
in  battle,  and  took  a  decoction  of  it  as 
a  medicine  for  the  diseases  to  which 
they  were  subject.  "The  hearbe  ta- 
baco," as  we  learn  from  Frampton's 
translation,  "hath  particular  vertue  to 
heale  griefes  of  the  head,"  when  the 
leaves  are  "layde  hotte  to  the  griefe." 
"  In  griefes  of  the  brest,"too,  "it  work- 
eth  a  marvellous  effect," and  "in  griefes 
of  windes,"  also.  "  In  one  thing,  the 
women  that  dwel  in  the  Indias  doe  cel- 
ebrate this  hearbe,  that  is,  in  the  euill 
breathing  at  y9  mouth  of  children,  when 
they  are  ouerfilled  with  meate,  and  also 
of  olde  people,  anoynting  their  bellies 
with  lampe  oyl,  and  laying  some  of  those 
leaues,  in  ashes  hotte  to  their  bellies. 


1 870.] 


Reviving  Virginia. 


435 


&  also  to  theyr  shoulders,  for  it 
doeth  take  away  the  naughty  breath- 
ing." Toothache,  chilblains,  rheuma- 
tism, '•  griefe  of  the  jointes,"  the  bites  of 
venomous  snakes,  carbuncles,  old  sores, 
new  cuts,  all  were  cured  by  this  won- 
der-working plant. 

But  even  its  healing  virtues  were  not 
so  remarkable  as  its  mysterious  effects 
upon  the  soul.  "  The  Indians,  for  their 
pastime,  doe  take  the  smoke  of  the 
Tabaco,  to  make  themselves  drunke 
withall,  and  to  see  the  visions,  and 
thinges  that  represent  vnto  them  that 
wherein  they  doe  delight:  and  other 
times  they  take  it  to  knowe  their  busi- 
nesse,  and  successe,  because  conforma- 
ble to  that,  which  they  have  scene  be- 
yng  drunke  therewith,  euen  so  they 
iudge  of  their  businesse.  And  as  the 
Deuil  is  a  deceauer,  &  hath  the 
knowledge  of  the  vertue  of  hearbes,  so 
he  did  shew  the  vertue  of  this  Hearb, 
that  by  the  meanes  thereof,  they  might 
see  their  imaginations,  and  visions,  that 
he  hath  represented  to  them,  and  by 
that  meanes  deceiue  them."  It  served 
them,  also,  for  drink,  for  food,  and  for 
res/,  when  they  travelled  in  desert 
places.  "They  take  a  little  ball  of 
leaves,  and  put  it  betweene  the  lower 
lippe  and  the  teeth,  and  goe  chewing  it 
all  the  time  that  they  trauell,  and  that 
which  they  chewe,  they  swallowe  downe, 
and  in  this  sort  they  iourney,  three  or 
foure  dayes,  without  hauing  neede  of 
meate,  or  drinke.  for  they  feele  no  hun- 
ger, drieth,  nor  weakenesse,  nor  their 
trauell  doth  trouble  them." 

Nor  was  it  Indians  alone  who  had 
experienced  the  healing  power  and 
soothing  charm  of  "the  tabaco."  A 
great  lady  in  Portugal  had  been  cured 
of  a  cancer  by  applications  of  the 
leaves ;  and  one  of  " the  cookes  "  of 
Lord  Nicot,  French  ambassador  in  Por- 
tugal, who  had  "almost  cutte  off  his 
thombe  with  a  greate  chopping  knyfe," 
was  speedily  healed  by  the  same  means. 
"  Lord  Xicot"  made  known  the  virtues 
of  tobacco  in  France,  which  was  the 
cause  of  the  French  naming  the  plant 
nicotine. 

Who   could    believe    such    extrava- 


gance ?  Who?  Everybody  in  1580! 
Sir  Walter  Ralegh  read  this  book  of 
Menardes's  before  Ralph  Lane  brought 
him  home  from  Virginia  the  pipes  and 
tobacco  with  which  he  amused  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  set  the  fashion  of  smok- 
ing at  court.  Ralegh,  doubtless,  be- 
lieved the  substance  of  Menardes's 
statements,  and  attached  something  of 
that  virtue  to  the  healing  herbs  em- 
ployed by  savages  which  people  now  do 
who  run  after  an  "  Indian  doctor."  The 
common  pill-advertisements  of  the  pres- 
ent hour  are  believed  by  half  of  the 
human  race,  because  half  the  human 
race  is  as  ignorant  of  the  human  system 
as  the  whole  race  was  in  1580.  The 
volume  ran  through  edition  after  edi- 
tion in  England,  and  was  the  immedi- 
ate cause  of  luring  Virginia  into  the 
culture  of  tobacco  and  the  employment 
of  slaves. 

As  long  as  the  virgin  soil  lasted  near 
the  navigable  waters,  Virginia  throve, 
kept  her  coach  and  six,  gave  royal 
banquets,  had  "  a  hundred  and  twenty  " 
servants  about  the  house  and  stables, 
and  sent  her  sons  to  Eton  and  Oxford, 
But  it  was  a  baseless  prosperity :  no 
towns,  no  manufactures,  no  accumula- 
tions, no  middle  class  ;  nothing  to  fall 
back  upon  when  the  soil  was  worn  out 
and  negroes  rose  in  price.  And  then, 
when  the  tide  of  emigration  set  in,  Vir- 
ginia repelled  the  new  brain  and  blood 
that  would  have  re-created  her.  Emi- 
grants could  find  no  room  between  those 
vast,  encumbered  estates;  and  if  they 
could  have  found  room,  they  would  have 
shrunk  from  contact  and  competition 
with  slaves.  The  reviving  tide  swept 
by,  and  sought  the  dense  wildernesses 
and  treeless  plains  of  the  West.  To 
this  hour  there  are  in  Virginia,  for 
every  cultivated  acre  of  land,  two  acres 
and  a  half  that  have  never  been 
ploughed.  Nearly  twenty -eight  mil- 
lions of  acres  wholly  unimproved  ! 

Readers  who  went  to  the  war  from 
homes  in  Maine,  Vermont,  New  Hamp- 
shire, Minnesota,  Wisconsin,  Michigan, 
and  marched,  weeks  at  a  time,  through 
the  inviting  valleys  of  Virginia,  must 
often  have  felt  how  unnaturally  the 


436 


Reviving   Virginia. 


[April, 


population  of  the  country  has  been  dis- 
tributed. Human  beings  coming  to  a 
new  continent  would  not,  except  for 
some  strong,  overruling  reason,  avoid 
a  fertile  region  and  agreeable  climate 
near  at  hand,  and  deliberately  plant 
themselves  in  districts  remote  and  diffi- 
cult of  access,  where  the  winters  are 
long,  tempestuous,  and  severe,  and  the 
summers  short  and  uncertain.  An 
American  family  going  to  live  in  Eu- 
rope would  not  naturally  choose  Nor- 
way, if  they  could  just  as  well  have  a 
villa  in  the  south  of  France  ;  but  they 
might,  naturally  enough,  hesitate  to 
place  themselves  in  the  power  of  a 
perjured  usurper,  and  so  prefer  honest 
Norway  after  all.  Virginia,  with  its 
Mediterranean  Chesapeake,  is  the 
France  of  our  map ;  and  yet  for  many 
a  year  the  arriving  multitude  and  the 
migrating  Yankee  passed  it  by. 

But  all  that  is  over.  Primogeniture 
and  the  Established  Church  were  abol- 
ished by  Jefferson  and  his  friends  nine- 
ty years  ago ;  the  war  set  free  the 
slaves  ;  the  peace  put  the  great  estates 
into  the  market,  "in  quantities  to  suit 
purchasers "  ;  and  tobacco  is  an  un- 
popular crop.  Half  of  Virginia  is  for 
sale.  All  round  the  Chesapeake  the 
land  is  coming  into  garden  tillage,  and 
the  Northern  cities,  as  we  all  know,  are 
daily  supplied  with  vegetables  and 
fruit  from  the  garden  farms  of  the  Old 
Dominion.  Formerly,  landlords  used 
to  engage  to  supply  their  tables  with 
everything  "the  season  affords";  but 
now  fruits  and  vegetables  have  all  sea- 
sons for  their  own,  and  no  man  can  tell 
what  month  of  the  year  he  is  living  in 
by  what  he  sees  on  his  table.  We 
learn  from  a  late  report  of  Mr.  Horace 
Capron,  Commissioner  of  Agriculture, 
i  that  so  trifling  an  article  as  peanuts  has 
much  importance  in  the  reviving  Vir- 
ginia of  to-day.  "  The  greater  part  of 
Eastern  Virginia,"  he  tells  us,  "  was  by 
turns  occupied  by  both  of  the  contend- 
ing armies  ;  and,  as  every  farmer  raised 
peanuts  enough  for  his  family  and 
some  to  spare,  their  merits  became  ex- 
tensively known  among  the  soldiers  ; 
so  that  when  the  armies  were  disband- 


ed a  knowledge  of  them  was  carried  to 
every  part  of  the  country.  So  rapid 
has  been  its  extension  that  the  crop  of 
each  successive  year  has  been  three- 
fold greater  than  that  of  the  year  pre- 
ceding, and  at  prices  fully  maintained. 
The  crop  of  1868  in  Virginia  is  estimat- 
ed to  have  aggregated  about  three  hun- 
dred thousand  bushels,  the  average 
price  of  which  was  about  $2.75  per 
bushel."  It  was  probably  twice  as 
great  in  1869  ;  for  when  farmers  find 
they  can  get  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars'  worth  of  peanuts,  —  by  no 
means  such  an  unfamiliar  luxury  in 
any  part  of  the  country  as  Mr.  Cap- 
ron seems  to  think,  —  with  easy  work, 
from  an  acre  of  land,  and  only  six- 
ty dollars'  worth  of  tobacco,  by  very 
hard  work,  they  are  likely  to  try  a  few 
more  acres  of  peanuts  the  next  year. 
This  sudden  extension  of  the  peanut 
culture  is  a  curious  illustration  of  the 
incidental  benefits  that  come  some- 
times from  so  desolating  an  evil  as 
civil  war. 

Virginia,  then,  ceases  to  repel.  It 
becomes  an  interesting  question,  wheth- 
er the  population  of  the  country,  hith- 
erto unnaturally  distributed,  hitherto 
repelled  from  the  regions  most  invit- 
ing, will  redistribute  itself  in  a  nat- 
ural manner,  now  that  the  repulsive 
system  has  ceased  to  exist.  In  a  word, 
will  Virginia  resume  that  rank  among 
the  States  of  the  Union,  and  keep 
it,  which  tobacco  and  cheap  negroes 
gave  her  a  hundred  years  ago?  She 
was  first  in  1770.  She  is  sixth  in  1870. 
What  will  she  be  in  1970  ?  We  need 
not  venture  a  prediction.  It  suffices 
now  to  know  that  Virginia  revives, 
progresses,  and  looks  with  growing  con- 
fidence to  the  future.  Whether  first, 
or  second,  or  tenth,  in  a  hundred  years, 
there  are  solid  reasons  for  the  convic- 
tion that  Virginia  will  then  be  a  far 
more  flourishing,  happy,  and  powerful 
Commonwealth  than  she  was  in  what 
some  of  her  citizens  still  regard  as  the 
day  of  her  glory,  the  good  old  time  of 
mismanagement  and  profusion,  when 
such  a  farmer  as  General  Washington 
could  put  down  in  his  Diary  that  he  pos- 


1870.] 


Reviving   Virginia. 


437 


sessed  one  hundred  and  one  cows,  and 
yet  had  to  buy  butter  for  his  table,  and 
when  a  planter  of  good  habits,  working 
three  thousand  acres  and  five  hundred 
slaves,  could  hardly  make  both  ends 
meet. 

The  cheering  sign  at  present  is,  that 
new  men  are  seeking  homes,  and  new 
capital  is  seeking  investment,  in  Vir- 
ginia. Without  an  infusion  of  new 
blood  and  money,  the  progress  of  the 
State  would,  for  a  long  time,  be  slow ; 
because  it  is  not  merely  by  better  farm- 
ing and  more  various  crops  that  a  State 
can  rise  to  imperial  rank.  As  the 
Erie  Canal  made  New  York  the  Em- 
pire State,  so  we  find  that  every  one 
of  the  leading  States  of  the  Union  re- 
ceived the  impulse  toward  greatness 
from  some  one  scheme  of  what  we  style 
"  internal  improvement."  Some  post- 
road,  some  canal,  some  railroad,  the 
improved  navigation  of  some  river,  or 
an  improved  mode  of  navigating  all 
rivers,  gave  the  impulse  of  every 
State  noted  for  the  rapidity  of  its  rise. 
Indeed,  the  whole  history  of  human 
progress  is  summed  up  in  the  one 
word,  Intercommunication.  Isolation 
is  poverty,  barbaric  pride,  lethargy, 
and  death.  The  supreme  effort  of 
the  race  now  is  to  put  every  man  on 
earth  within  easy  reach  of  every  other 
man. 

If  Virginia  is  the  last  of  the  great 
Northern  States  to  create  a  highway 
between  the  Atlantic  Ocean  and  the 
Western  waters,  it  has  not  been  from 
want  of  desire  and  effort.  From  the 
head  of  ship  navigation  on  the  James 
River —  namely,  Richmond  —  to  the 
nearest  navigable  point  of  the  nearest 
navigable  branch  of  the  Ohio,  it  is  only 
three  hundred  and  forty-three  miles. 
It  is  the  shortest  cut  of  all,  —  twelve 
miles  shorter  than  from  Philadelphia  to 
Pittsburg, —  and  yet  it  terminates  at  a 
point  on  the  Ohio  two  hundred  and 
fifty  two  mfles  nearer  Cincinnati  than 
Pittsburg,  and  far  below  the  worst 
shallows  and  sand-bars  of  the  Ohio 
River.  The  mere  shortness  of  the 
distance  early  called  attention  to  this 
as  the  natural  and  proper  pathway  to 


the  Western  country.  The  desirable- 
ness of  avoiding  the  precarious,  tor- 
tuous navigation  of  the  Upper  Ohio 
was  another  strong  point  in  its  favor  ; 
and  it  was  afterwards  ascertained  that 
the  curves  and  grades  along  this  short 
cut  averaged  more  favorably  for  a  high- 
way than  any  other  line  that  can  be 
drawn  between  the  waters  of  the  ocean 
and  those  of  the  river  system  of  the 
West.  These  three  facts  —  shortest  cut, 
easiest  grades,  and  the  two  hundred  and 
fifty  worst  miles  of  the  Ohio  avoided  — 
have  had  their  due  effect  upon  the  more 
enterprising  minds  of  Virginia.  We 
need  not  tell  any  one  acquainted  with 
the  Richmond  of  other  days,  that  the 
object  most  fervently  desired  there,  and 
most  frequently  the  topic  of  conversa- 
tion among  men  of  business,  was  the 
construction  of  a  public  work  that 
should  render  those  three  great  facts 
available  for  the  advancement  of  Vir- 
ginia. If  warm  desire  and  eloquent 
talk  could  tunnel  mountains  and  buy  T 
rails,  Virginia  would  long  ago  have  had 
both  a  canal  and  a  railroad  from  the 
James  to  the  Ohio. 

The  father  of  our  American  system 
of  internal  improvement  was  George 
Washington,  planter,  of  Virginia.  The 
splendor  of  his  fame  as  patriot,  warrior, 
and  statesman  obscures  in  some  de- 
gree the  homelier  merits  of  the  citizen 
and  the  pioneer.  His  public  life,  how- 
ever, was  only  incidental ;  it  was  forced 
upon  him,  not  sought  ;  endured,  not 
enjoyed.  At  the  head-quarters  of  the 
army,  and  still  more  at  the  seat  of  gov- 
ernment, he  led  a  glorious  life,  it  is 
true,  but  a  constrained,  unnatural  one, 
ever  anxious,  to  use  his  own  admirable 
and  touching  words,  "to  collect  his  du- 
ty from  a  just  appreciation  of  every  cir- 
cumstance by  which  it  might  be  affect- 
ed." This  noble  solicitude  made  him 
seem,  to  the  slighter  men  around  him, 
slow  and  over-cautious.  He  who  would 
know  the  man  aright,  the  true  George 
Washington,  must  see  him  on  one  of 
his  own  excellent  horses,  following  up, 
with  a  party  of  hunters  and  half-breeds, 
the  head- waters  of  the  James  or  the 
Potomac,  piercing  the  Alleghanies,  and 


438 


Reviving  Virginia. 


[April, 


roaming  the  wilderness  beyond  in 
search  of  branches  of  the  Ohio,  by 
which  the  commerce  of  the  Western 
rivers  and  lakes  could  find  its  way  to 
the  rivers  of  Virginia.  Here  he  was 
at  home.  Here  his  glance  was  bold 
and  free.  Here  he  appeared,  what  he 
really  was,  a  leader  of  his  generation, 
and  showed  that  his  pre-eminence  in 
Virginia  was  not  due  merely  to  the  ac- 
cident of  his  possessing  a  great  fortune, 
but  to  the  cast  and  breadth  of  his  mind, 
which  was  truly  continental.  He,  first 
of  all  men,  was  fully  possessed  of  that 
American  spirit  which  has  just  brought 
the  two  oceans  within  a  hundred  and 
fifty  hours  of  one  another.  He  was 
the  forerunner  of  De  Witt  Clinton,  as 
of  the  men  who  have  since  created 
Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Cincinnati,  San 
Francisco. 

The  broad  Potomac  which  swept  by 
his  own  front  door  he  had  personally 
traced  to  its  sources  in  the  Alleghanies, 
examined  its  falls  and  obstructions,  and 
sought  out  the  branch  of  the  Ohio 
nearest  Lake  Erie  ;  musing,  meanwhile, 
upon  the  best  modes  of  creating,  out 
of  these  materials,  the  great  national 
highway  between  the  ocean  and  the 
waters  of  the  West.  How  intent  he 
was  upon  this  scheme,  how  clearly  he 
saw  its  advantages,  we  discover  in  the 
length  and  particularity  of  his  corre- 
spondence on  the  subject  with  Jeffer- 
son and  other  Virginia  friends.  For 
that  day,  however,  it  was  too  much  for 
Virginia  to  attempt,  and  Washington 
fixed  upon  the  improvement  of  the 
navigation  of  the  James  as  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  realization  of  his  plan 
then  possible.  A  canal  seven  miles 
long  round  the  falls  at  Richmond  adds 
two  hundred  and  twenty  miles  to  the 
barge  navigation  of  the  river,  and 
makes  a  water  highway  to  the  moun- 
tains. Companies  were  formed  at 
Richmond  for  the  improvement  of  both 
rivers,  and  a  grateful  legislature  pre- 
sented to  General  Washington,  as  the 
originator  of  both  schemes,  fifty  hun- 
dred -  pound  shares  in  the  Potomac 
Company,  and  a  hundred  hundred- 
dollar  shares  in  the  James  River  Com- 


pany. He  declined  both  gifts,  of 
course ;  but  in  his  will  he  distinctly 
claims  to  have  "  suggested  the  vast  ad- 
vantages which  would  derive  from  the 
extension  of  its  inland  navigation  un- 
der legislative  patronage." 

He  not  only  suggested  the  scheme, 
but  he  felt  for  it  the  warm  affection 
which  men  cherish  for  the  children  of 
their  brain.  To  bring  the  commerce 
of  the  Western  country  to  the  ocean  by 
the  shortest  cut  and  easiest  grades,  — 
namely,  across  Virginia  to  the  waters 
of  the  Chesapeake,  —  this  was  Wash- 
ington's conception ;  and  it  was  the 
first  American  scheme  of  the  kind  of 
which  we  have  any  knowledge.  On 
various  errands  in  furtherance  of  the 
general  plan  Washington  crossed  the 
mountains  as  many  as  five  times. 

There  are  readers  of  this  magazine 
who  have  heard  the  late  venerable 
Albert  Gallatin  describe  the  interview 
which,  when  a  young  man,  he  chanced 
to  witness  in  the  heart  of  the  Ailegha- 
nies.  General  Washington  and  a  num- 
ber of  trappers  and  pioneers  had  met 
with  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  the  best 
practicable  gap  in  the  mountains  for  the 
road  between  the  two  water  systems. 
The  idea  of  tunnelling  the  mountains, 
and  lifting  a  canal-boat  two  thousand 
feet  into  the  air,  and  letting  it  softly 
down  on  the  Ohio  slope,  had  not  yet 
entered  the  most  daring  mind.  Wash- 
ington took  for  granted  the  necessity 
of  a  "  carrying  place,"  and  he  desired 
to  discover  the  happy  medium  between 
the  shortest  and  the  easiest.  Old 
woodsman  as  he  was,  he  knew  that  the 
deer  and  the  buffalo  are  the  first  ex- 
plorers of  the  wilderness,  and  that  it  is 
the  hunter  who  first  becomes  acquaint- 
ed with  the  Reports  of  those  four- 
footed  engineers.  So  he  invited  the 
hunters  and  settlers  to  meet  him  at  a 
log  -  hut  in  the  mountains,  a  "  land- 
office  "  consisting  of  one  room  four- 
teen feet  square,  containing  a  bed,  a 
small  pine  table,  and  a  wooden  bench. 
The  General,  upon  his  arrival  with  his 
nephew,  took  his  seat  at  the  table,  and 
the  hunters  crowded  into  the  cabin  and 
stood  around  the  table,  a  few  finding 


///*„-    /  'i 


advantageous  place  upon  the  land 
cut's  bod.  Young  Gallatin  wa.s  in 
the  front  of  the  leather  -  stockinged 
group,  near  the  central  figure.  Ten  in 
hand,  the  Father  of  his  Country  ques- 
tioned each  pioneer  in  turn,  and  re- 
corded the  substance  of  his  replies. 
When  all  had  spoken,  the  young  gen- 
tleman from  Switzerland  fancied  he 
saw  the  path  of  which  the  General  was 
in  search.  Washington  still  hesitating, 
Gallatin.  broke  in  with  rash  and  reck- 
less words  :  '•  O,  it  is  plain  enough  ; 
///<?/  is  evidently  the  most  practicable 
place."  All  the  company  stared,  aston- 
ished at  so  gross  a  breach  of  politeness 
in  a  youth  toward  the  most  illustrious 
of  living  men.  The  General  laid  down 
his  pen,  and  cast  a  reproachful  look  at 
the  culprit ;  but,  resuming  his  inqui- 
ries, he  soon  made  up  his  mind,  and 
turning  to  the  intruder  said,  as  he 
again  put  down  his  pen,  "  You  are  right, 
sir."  Thus  was  established  the  road 
through  the  Alleghanies,  which  has 
been  used  ever  since  as  a  highway,  and 
will  be  used  forever.  "  It  was  always 
so,"  Mr.  Gallatin  would  say,  "with 
General  Washington:  he  was  slow  in 
forming  an  opinion,  and  never  decided 
till  he  knew  he  was  right/'  That  night 
•ieral  slept  upon  the  bed  ;  while 
his  nephew,  the  agent,  and  Gallatin 
lay  upon  the  floor  wrapped  in  buffalo- 
skins. 

Gem-nil  Washington  did  not  live  to 
see  his  project  executed ;  nor  has  it 
yet  been  executed.  Not  a  bushel  of 
corn  from  the  Western  country  reaches 
the  ocean  by  way  of  Virginia  ;  and  if 
a  ton  of  coat  from  the  head-waters  of 
the  Kanawha  occasionally  gets  to  Rich- 
mond, it  is  carried  down  the  Kanawha 
to  the  Ohio  ninety  miles,  down  the 
Ohio  and  Mississippi  to  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico,  and  so  round  by  the  ocean  to 
the  James  River,  —  a  circuit  of  four  thou- 
sand miles.  All  this  swoop  of  travel, 
because  Washington's  scheme  wants 
the  finishing  touch,  the  last  hundred 
miles  or  so  of  easy  road-making ! 

And  yet,  from  the  day  when  the 
General  had  his  conference  with  the 
hunters  to  the  present  hour,  Virginia 


439 


has  been  trying  to  accomplish  it, — 
trying  hard,  too,  and  spending  money 
more  freely  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected. The  old  James  River  Com- 
pany, founded  by  Washington,  made 
that  seven-mile  canal  round  the  falls 
near  Richmond,  and  cleared  the  river 
of  obstructions  as  far  back  as  Bu- 
chanan, in  Botecourt  County,  where 
the  lllue  Ridge  interposes  a  barrier. 
It  was  a  long  stride  toward  the  Ka- 
nawha (the  nearest  navigable  branch 
of  the  Ohio),  and  it  was  a  priceless 
good  to  Virginia.  Then,  in  1823,  a 
second  James  River  Company,  suc- 
ceeding to  the  rights  of  the  first,  im- 
proved all  that  the  first  had  done,  and 
added  several  important  works  of  its 
own.  First,  it  constructed  a  canal 
through  the  mountains,  seven  miles 
and  a  half  long,  which  enabled  boats 
to  get  as  far  west  as  Covington,  which 
is  two  hundred  and  five  miles  from 
Richmond.  Next,  it  made  a  pretty 
good  turnpike  road  from  Covington  to 
the  Ohio,  at  the  point  where  the  Big 
Sandy  enters  it,  a  distance  of  two  hun- 
dred and  eighty  miles.  Lastly,  it  im- 
proved the  navigation  of  the  Kanawha 
by  dams  and  sluices,  so  that  steam- 
boats could  more  easily  ascend  it,  and 
bring  passengers  sixty  miles  nearer 
Covington  before  taking  to  the  road. 
This  was  more  than  a  boon  to  Vir- 
ginia ;  it  was  a  national  good  ;  it  was 
an  approximation  to  Washington's  idea. 
Henry  Clay,  when  he  was  getting  into 
the  vale  of  years,  found  this  way  of 
travelling  to  Washington  much  more 
agreeable  than  a  six  weeks'  horseback 
ride,  with  the  chance  of  drowning  at 
the  swollen  fords  of  so  many  mountain 
streams.  They  still  point  out,  along 
the  line  of  the  Covington  Turnpike,  the 
houses  where  he  and  his  merry  party 
used  to  halt  for  the  night,  and  spend  a 
long  evening  at  whist. 

]>ut  the  age  of  turnpikes  passed.  In 
1835,  when  the  Erie  Canal  was  pouring 
the  wealth  of  the  great  WTest  into  New 
York,  Virginia,  always  believing  that 
she  possessed  the  true  pathway,  pre- 
pared for  a  supreme  effort.  The  James 
River  and  Kanawha  Company  was 


440 


Reviving  Virginia. 


[April, 


chartered,  —  the  State  being  the  chief 
stockholder,  —  and  Virginia  set  about 
constructing  a  canal  between  the  two 
rivers,  the  plan  of  which  included  a 
nine-mile  tunnel  through  the  Alle- 
ghanies  at  an  elevation  of  seventeen 
hundred  feet.  Upon  this  work  Vir- 
ginia has  been  fitfully  toiling  ever 
since.  Eleven  millions  of  dollars  have 
been  spent  upon  it,  and  it  will  cost 
forty  millions  more  to  complete  it.  It 
could  be  finished  in  four  years,  if  the 
forty  millions  were  forthcoming ;  but 
there  is  no  immediate  prospect  of  Vir- 
ginia's having  such  a  sum  at  her  dis- 
posal. 

Did  the  State  overestimate  her  re- 
sources, then  ?  Probably  the  means 
could  have  been  found  for  the  execu- 
tion of  the  project,  if,  in  its  infancy,  a 
new  mode  of  transportation  had  not 
been  introduced,  which  proved  more 
attractive  to  capital.  Within  a  year 
after  the  formation  of  the  Canal  Com- 
pany the  State  began  to  push  a  rail- 
road westward,  —  that  is  to  say,  a  rail- 
road company  was  formed,  and  the 
State,  according  to  its  ancient  custom, 
subscribed  for  three  fifths  of  the  stock. 
Forty-four  years  having  elapsed,  we 
find  that  it  is  the  railroad,  not  the 
canal,  that  will  realize  Washington's 
dream  ;  for  the  railroad  has  overcome 
its  worst  obstacles,  and  is  going  on  to 
speedy  completion.  By  various  com- 
panies, under  different  charters,  the 
State  had  constructed  a  railroad  from 
Richmond  to  the  mountains,  nearly 
two  hundred  miles,  and  expended  three 
millions  and  a  quarter  in  preparing  for 
the  laying  of  the  rails  beyond  the 
mountains,  when  the  war  broke  out, 
compelling  us  all  to  devote  our  ener- 
gies and  our  means  to  the  work  of 
destruction.  The  Alleghanies  had  been 
tunnelled  at  eight  places.  One  tunnel 
a  mile  long,  and  seven  shorter  tunnels, 
had  been  finished,  or  nearly  finished. 
The  heavy  embankments  and  deep 
excavations  requisite  in  the  mountain 
region  were  either  done  or  were  in  an 
advanced  stage  of  forwardness,  and 
trains  were  running  to  a  station  within 
ten  miles  of  Covington.  Then  all  con- 


structive works  were  brought  to  a 
stand-still,  while  we  fought  to  undo  the 
mistakes  of  men  who  died  two  hundred 
years  before  any  of  us  were  born. 

When  the  war  ended,  Virginia  was  so 
torn,  impoverished,  and  desolate,  that 
if  this  road  could  have  been  finished 
by  waving  a  wand  over  the  incomplete 
parts,  she  could  scarcely  have  lifted  an 
arm  for  the  purpose.  In  1866  the  two 
companies  which  had  executed  the 
work  so  far  —  one  the  part  east  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  other  the  part  west 
—  were  consolidated  into  the  Chesa- 
peake and  Ohio  Railroad  Company.  But 
three  fifths  of  the  stock  of  these  com- 
panies had  been  the  property  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  the  Virginia  which  had  sub- 
scribed so  liberally  had  ceased  to  exist. 
There  were  two  Virginias  in  1866,  each 
having  rights  in  these  works,  but  nei- 
ther able  to  complete  them.  Both  leg- 
islatures, however,  comprehended  the 
situation.  Both  knew  that,  unassisted, 
they  could  not  finish  the  road,  and  that 
its  prompt  completion  was  the  su- 
preme interest  of  both.  Hence,  they 
agreed  to  surrender  their  rights  to  the 
new  company,  on  condition  that  it 
should  go  forward  and  perform  the 
work.  In  other  words,  they  said  to 
Wall  Street:  "  Here  you  see  two  hun- 
dred miles  of  war-worn,  battered  rail- 
road-track ;  likewise,  a  dozen  tunnels, 
finished  and  unfinished  ;  also,  a  great 
many  miles  of  embankment  and  exca- 
vation, unharmed  by  war  and  weather  ; 
and  a  large  number  of  bridges,  more 
or  less  sound  :  take  all  this  property, 
on  the  simple  condition  of  converting 
and  completing  it  into  a  substantial 
railroad,  that  shall  connect  the  James 
with  the  Ohio,  and  open  a  new  high- 
way between  the  ocean  and  the  great 
West." 

It  was  a  difficult  task  to  undertake 
in  the  second  year  of  peace,  with  a 
Pacific  Railroad  clamoring  for  money 
in  every  county,  and  the  debt  system 
still  in  debate.  Nevertheless,  Wall 
Street,  after  due  hesitation,  accepted 
the  offer.  The  Empire  State  of  the 
nineteenth  century  joined  hands  with 
the  Empire  State  of  the  eighteenth. 


1 870.] 


Reviving   Virginia. 


441 


It  is  really  a  pleasure  to  read  over  the 
list  of  officers  of  this  Chesapeake  and 
Ohio  Company,  and  observe  how  the 
two  States  are  blended  in  its  counsels : 
President,  C.  P.  Huntington  of  New 
York;  Vice  -  President,  Williams  C. 
Wickham  of  Virginia;  Treasurer  and 
Secretary,  James  J.  Tracy  of  New 
Yofk;  Counsellors,  John  13.  Baldwin 
of  Virginia,  and  James  H.  Storrs  of 
New  York;  Chief  Engineer,  H.  D. 
Whitcomb  of  the  Universe.  Then,  in 
the  board  of  directors  we  find  such 
New-Yorkers  as  William  H.  Aspinwall, 
David  Stewart,  William  B.  Hatch,  A. 
A.  Low,  and  Jonas  G.  Clark ;  and  such 
representative  Virginians  as  John  Ech- 
ols  of  Staunton,  Joseph  R.  Anderson 
of  Richmond,  and  H.  Chester  Parsons 
of  West  Virginia.  Philadelphia  is  rep- 
resented by  Pliny  Fisk.  This  is  as 
it  should  be,  each  State  contributing 
of  its  best;  the  Old  Dominion  giving 
to  the  work  ancient  lineage,  hereditary 
character,  and  a  proportion  of  capital, 
while  the  New  Dominion  offers  gilt- 
edged  names,  business  experience,  and 
millions. 

During  the  four  years  which  have 
passed  since  the  formation  of  the  com- 
pany the  old  track  has  been  placed  and 
kept  in  good  order ;  the  road  has  been 
carried  through  the  mountains  to  Cov- 
ington,  and,  recently,  to  the  White 
Sulphur  Springs.  There  is  now  a 
good  railroad  from  Richmond  to  the 
boundary  line  between  Virginia  and 
West  Virginia,  a  distance  of  two  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven  miles.  Between 
that  point  and  the  head  of  navigation 
on  the  Kanawha  the  distance  is  one 
hundred  and  seventeen  miles.  The 
company  intend,  however,  to  fix  their 
principal  terminus  on  the  Ohio  itself,  at 
or  near  its  junction  with  the  Big  Sandy, 
which  is  two  hundred  miles  west  of 
the  White  Sulphur  Springs.  Upon 
this  last  and  easiest  stretch  much  ex- 
pensive work  has  been  done  ;  all  the 
surveys  have  been  made;  and  it  is 
designed  to  push  on  the  work  more 
rapidly  than  has  been  possible  during 
the  last  four  years.  There  is  less  press- 
ure upon  capital  now  than  there  has 


lately  been,  and  the  hour  is  favorable 
for  inviting  its  co-operation.  Ten  mil- 
lions of  dollars  will  carry  out  the  scheme 
of  Washington,  and  the  work  can  be 
executed  in  time  for  his  birthday  in 
February,  ^872. 

We  feel  more  than  a  sentimental  in- 
terest in  the  completion  of  this  road. 
It  would  be  a  gratification,  of  course, 
merely  to  see  the  dream  of  Washington 
and  the  hope  of  Virginia  realized,  after 
eighty-seven  years  of  effort,  expendi- 
ture, and  disappointment.  It  is  reas- 
suring, also,  to  see  New  York  and 
Virginia  uniting  in  a  public  work  after 
a  period  of  estrangement  and  conten- 
tion. It  would  gratify  every  well-con- 
stituted person  to  know  that  the  best 
portions  of  the  two  Virginias,  made  ac- 
cessible by  this  road,  were  filling  up 
with  a  virtuous  and  energetic  popula- 
tion. But  the  reasons  which  justify  our 
calling  attention  to  the  project  are  of  a 
more  general  and  more  national  char- 
acter. 

The  country  wants  the  power  which 
nature  has  deposited  in  the  wonderful 
valley  of  the  Kanawha.  This  branch 
of  the  Ohio  resembles  the  Mononga- 
hela,  and  is  a  tranquil  stream,  nearly  a 
hundred  miles  long,  flowing  between 
lofty  banks.  Half-way  up  these  lofty 
banks  there  are  seams  of  coal,  from 
three  to  fifteen  feet  in  thickness.  The 
Kanawha  coal  is  of  three  kinds,  bitu- 
minous, cannel,  and  splint ;  and  of  all 
three  the  deposits  are  immense.  In 
speaking  of  coal,  we  always  feel  the 
need  of  a  national  survey  of  the  min- 
eral products  of  the  country  ;  for  when 
a  man  finds  a  piece  of  something  black 
lying  about  his  farm,  he  is  in  danger  of 
being  seized  with  a  mania  that  causes 
him  to  regard  his  farm  as  the  centre 
of  the  finest  coal  deposit  in  the  world. 
The  Kanawha  really  appears  to  merit 
that  description  ;  for  it  not  only  con- 
tains more  coal  than  the  Monongahela, 
but  it  furnishes  some  exceedingly  valu- 
able kinds  which  the  Monongahela  does 
not.  The  cannel  or  candle  coal  (so 
called  because  it  will  give  a  steady, 
candle-like  flame)  is  brought  round  by 
sea  to  the  Atlantic  cities,  where  it  is 


442 


Reviving   Virginia. 


[April, 


sold  at  fifteen  and  twenty  dollars  a  ton. 
It  costs  at  the  Kanawha  mines  two 
dollars  a  ton.  When  the  Chesapeake 
and  Ohio  Road  is  opened  it  can  be 
sold  in  New  York  for  eleven  dollars, 
and  we  can  all  have  a  blazing  lump  of 
it  in  our  grates,  and  do  without  the 
three  hundred  thousand  tons  of  similar 
coal  now  brought  from  England  and 
Nova  Scotia.  Our  gas  can  be  cheaper, 
and  our  workers  in  iron  will  have  a 
new  and  apparently  inexhaustible 
source  of  coal  supply.  The  splint 
coal  of  the  Kanawha  has  a  particular 
value  for  the  smelters  of  iron,  since  it 
is  free  from  sulphur.  Of  this  kind  of 
coal  the  quantity  is  very  great;  "fifty 
thousand  tons  of  coal  to  the  acre,  in  a 
belt  of  country  ten  miles  wide."  The 
same  authority  —  a  respectable  engineer 
—  adds  the  following:  "The  coal  of 
the  Kanawha  is  regularly  stratified,  the 
strata  nearly  horizontal,  and  situated 
above  the  water-level  with  from  four 
to  seven  seams,  one  above  the  other, 
ranging  in  thickness  from  five  to  twelve 
feet  of  the  best  cannel,  splint,  and  bitu- 
minous coals." 

The  country  must  have  this  coal. 
The  river  cities  of  the  West  want  a 
source  of  supply  less  precarious  than 
that  of  the  Monongahela,  communica- 
tion with  which  is  sometimes  suspend- 
ed by  ice  or  by  drouth  when  the  need 
of  coal  is  most  pressing.  The  Atlan- 
tic cities  want  it,  that  one  of  the  neces- 
saries of  life  may  be  cheaper,  and  that 
one  of  the  elements  of  power  may  be 
surer. 

As  in  the  region  of  Monongahela,  so 
also  in  the  valley  of  the  Kanawha,  na- 
ture has  so  placed  iron  and  coal  that 
they  can  be  easily  brought  together ; 
and,  consequently,  we  may  see  rising 
somewhere  in  that  valley  another 
\Vheeling,  another  Pittsburg,  the  iron 
landed  at  the  front  door  and  the  coal 
coming  in  at  the  back.  Nature  having 
repeated  herself  in  the  creation  of 
these  two  most  remarkable  streams, 
man  may  follow  her  example.  If  so, 
the  swarthy  inhabitants  of  the  town 
will  not  lack  food,  for  this  is  one  of 
those  regions  of  the  Ohio  valley  where 


men  point  to  fields  and  say,  "They 
have  yielded  fifty,  sixty,  eighty  suc- 
cessive crops  of  corn  without  manure." 
The  three  States  of  Kentucky,  Ohio, 
and  West  Virginia  meet  at  the  angle 
formed  by  the  junction  of  the  Ohio 
with  the  Big  Sandy  ;  and  that  point  is 
the  centre  of  a  region  which  for  natu- 
ral fertility,  as  well  as  for  the  value  of 
its  mineral  products,  is  probably  un- 
equalled in  North  America. 

There  is  a  weightier  reason  for  the 
opening  of  this  road.  Any  one  who, 
after  moving  about  a  few  weeks  in 
New  England,  comes  upon  one  of  the 
great  lines  that  connect  the  East  with 
the  West,  must  have  been  struck  with 
the  contrast  between  the  quiet,  small, 
toy-like  trains  of  the  local  roads  and 
the  thundering  immensity  of  those  go- 
ing West.  In  travelling  southward, 
too,  we  are  surprised  to  find  the  trains 
dwindling  from  a  dozen  cars  to  three,  and 
even  to  one,  before  we  have  gone  much 
past  Richmond,  and  the  speed  dimin- 
ishing from  thirty  miles  an  hour  sure 
to  fifteen  miles  uncertain.  The  vital 
currents  of  the  human  body  do  not 
more  necessarily  flow  up  and  down 
than  the  tide  of  travel  and  transporta- 
tion in  the  United  States  moves 
east  and  west.  Away  up  in  Northern 
Vermont  near  the  Canada  line  we 
have  seen  twelve  steaming  car-loads 
of  miserable  Mormons  on  their  way 
through  Canada  toward  Utah  ;  and  on 
such  roads  as  the  Erie,  New  York  Cen- 
tral, Pennsylvania  Central,  and  Balti- 
more and  Ohio,  the  number  and  length 
of  the  trains  are  a  constant  wonder. 

To  be  able  to  get  and  send  across 
the  continent  easily,  swiftly,  cheaply, 
safely,  at  any  point  from  the  Isthmus 
of  Darien  to  Quebec,  is  now,  and  will 
ever  be,  the  fundamental  condition  of 
American  development  and  prosperity. 
Roads  running  north  and  south  are 
branches  and  feeders.  Roads  running 
east  and  west  are  trunk. 

Of  late  years  the  West  has  been  con- 
structing railroads  faster  than  the  East, 
on  such  easy  terms  do  those  prairies 
lend  themselves  to  the  transit  of  the 
iron  horse.  We  stick  at  our  five  high- 


8;o.] 


Reviving  Virginia. 


443 


ways  between  the  ocean  and  the  West- 
ern roads,  —  Grand  Trunk,  New  York 
Central,  Erie,  Pennsylvania  Central, 
and  Baltimore  and  Ohio,  —  and  these 
are  not  enough.  If  they  were  all  man- 
aged in  the  best  manner,  by  honest 
men  intelligent  enough  to  know  that 
the  public  interest  and  their  own  inter- 
est are  one  and  the  same,  still  they 
would  be  insufficient.  At  present,  a 
traveller  does  not  have  to  go  west  of 
the  Mississippi  before  he  reaches  re- 
gions where  it  pays  a  farmer  better  to 
thrust  his  magnificent  long  yellow  ears 
of  corn  into  his  stove  and  burn  them 
for  fuel  than  sell  them  at  the  nearest 
station  for  transportation  East.  As 
fast  as  his  capital  allows  he  converts 
his  corn  into  pork,  and  in  that  shape  it 
pays  him  to  send  it  to  us.  But  go  a 
few  hundred  miles  farther  west,  and 
you  find  yourself  beyond  the  line  from 
which  even  a  barrel  of  pork  can  be  sent 
to  the  ocean  at  a  profit  to  the  farmer. 
Wheat  is  more  compact  than  corn,  but 
the  line  is  soon  reached  where  the 
farmer  finds  it  better  to  let  the  rats  de- 
vour it  and  the  rust  destroy  it  than 
sell  it  at  the  railroad  station.  What 
is  the  question  of  to-day  in  Western 
minds?  It  is  this  :  "  How  shall  those 
three  lines  —  the  corn  line,  the  wheat 
line,  the  pork  line  —  be  moved  back  a 
thousand  miles  ?" 

It  can  be  done  only  by  cheaper  trans- 
portation. Reducing  the  cost  of  trans- 
porting a  bushel  of  corn  one  cent  per 
hundred  miles  adds  many  millions  of 
acres  of  corn-land  to  our  sources  of 
supply.  For  many  years  the  favorite 
scheme  in  the  West  for  cheapening 
transportation  was  a  system  of  ship- 
canals  so  connected  that  a  steamship 
could  enter  the  continent  by  the  Hud- 
son River  and  leave  it  by  the  Missis- 
sippi, steaming  all  the  way.  Of  late 
years  the  canal  project  has  apparently 
declined  in  public  favor,  and  a  grand 
railroad  scheme  seems  taking  its  place, 
—  a  four-track  railroad,  as  straight  as  it 
can  be  made,  from  New  York  to  the 
Mississippi  River,  for  freight  only, 
upon  which  trains  shall  start  every  fif- 
teen minutes,  and  run  ten  miles  an  hour. 


The  friends  of  both  these  schemes  rely 
upon  Congress  to  furnish  capital  or 
credit,  which  Congress  will  be  slow  to 
grant.  In  due  time,  however,  both 
these  plans  may  be  executed  ;  because 
within  a  century  we  shall  require  not 
merely  additional  highways  across  the 
continent,  but  every  one  which  nature 
favors  and  man  can  execute.  What 
has  hitherto  been  done  in  the  way  of 
making  the  continent  accessible  is  the 
merest  nothing  to  what  will  be  done  ; 
for  freedom,  ease,  safety,  and  cheapness 
of  intercommunication  is,  we  repeat, 
the  first  necessity  of  this  republic. 

We  have  in  the  Chesapeake  and 
Ohio  Railroad  one  more  outlet  to  the 
productions  of  the  West,  and  one  more 
inlet  to  the  productions  of  the  East. 
It  supersedes  nothing,  is  the  rival  of 
nothing  ;  it  merely  adds  to  our  present 
means  of  communication  that  highway 
which  nature  most  plainly  suggests  to 
the  intelligence  of  man,  and  which  na- 
ture did  suggest  to  the  intelligence  of 
man  before  one  of  the  existing  lines 
had  been  thought  of. 

We  need  on  the  Atlantic  coast  an- 
other great  seaport,  deep  enough  for 
all  vessels,  and  accessible  at  all  sea- 
sons. If  New  York  must  remain  our 
London,  —  which  is  far  from  certain,  — 
there  may  rise  at  a  terminus  of  this 
road,  where  there  is  as  yet  no  more 
than  a  landing-place,  the  Liverpool  of 
the  New  World.  Liverpool  was  of 
small  account  in  the  year  1800.  It  is 
one  of  the  numerous  offspring  of  the 
cotton-gin.  An  advantage  that  seems 
trifling  —  a  few  miles  of  distance  the 
less,  fifty  cents  on  a  bale  of  cotton  or 
ten  cents  on  a  barrel  of  flour  saved, 
three  feet  deeper  water  —  suffices  to 
turn  a  great  current  of  trade  into  a  new 
channel,  and  change  a  seaside  village 
into  a  commercial  mart.  What  has 
occurred  before  may  occur  again.  The 
West  is  associated  in  all  minds  with 
rapid  growth  and  startling  changes; 
but  perhaps  the  East  may  take  its  turn 
and  give  the  world  something  of  the 
kind  to  wonder  at. 

If  the  city  of  New  York  had  a  gov- 
ernment strong,  intelligent,  and  pure, 


444 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[April, 


which  could  comprehend  and  improve 
the  city's  opportunity,  —  a  government 
which  could  raise  a  hundred  millions 
of  dollars  within  the  next  ten  years, 
and  invest  it  wisely  in  making  the  island 
cheaply  and  swiftly  traversable  in  every 
direction,  in  widening  it  by  half  a  dozen 
bridges  or  tunnels,  in  lengthening  it  by 
taking  in  Governor's  Island  and  filling 
up  the  Harlem  River,  —  if  New  York 
had  such  a  government,  or  a  reasonable 
hope  of  it,  then  we  should  say  it  would 
remain  forever  the  chief  seaport  town 
of  the  Western  continent.  But  it  has 
no  such  government  or  reasonable 
hope  of  one.  It  seems  the  helpless 
prey  of  the  spoiler,  who  plunders  and 
blunders  on,  regardless  of  the  avenging 
lamp-post.  The  city  is  crammed  and 
packed  and  heaped  with  people,  be- 
cause a  belt  of  fever  and  ague  twenty 
miles  wide  hems  the  city  in,  and  it 
takes  two  hours  to  get  on  the  healthy 
side  of  that  belt.  So  crowded  and  ob- 


structed are  the  wharves,  so  bad  are 
the  pavements,  that  it  costs  as  much  to 
get  a  bale  of  cotton  across  the  city  from 
river  to  river  as  it  does  to  bring  it  a 
thousand  miles  by  sea  or  five  hundred 
miles  by  land.  What  must  be  the 
condition  of  the  town  when  its  native 
citizens,  whose  estates  and  homes  are 
there,  are  heard  to  express  the  fervent 
wish  that  it  may  sink  into  the  mere 
landing-place  and  dumping-ground  of 
the  continent,  while  some  inland  city, 
like  great  Chicago  or  fair  St.  Louis, 
may  expand  into  the  metropolitan  city 
of  the  Republic  ! 

All  this  favors  the  growth  of  another 
seaport  town,  provided  Nature  has 
done  her  part  toward  the  creation  of 
one,  by  protecting  and  rendering  al- 
ways accessible  a  sufficient  harbor.  On 
the  James  and  near  its  mouth  there  are 
half  a  dozen  places  better  adapted  by 
nature  for  a  great  commercial  city  than 
the  ground  on  which  London  stands. 


THE     LAUSON     TRAGEDY. 


and  Psyche !  The  young 
^ —  man  and  the  young  woman  who 
are  in  love  with  each  other !  The 
couple  which  is  constantly  vanishing 
and  constantly  reappearing;  which  has 
filled  millions  of  various  situations,  and 
yet  is  always  the  same  ;  symbolizing, 
and  one  might  almost  say  embodying, 
the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of 
souls  ;  acting  a  drama  of  endless  repe- 
titions, with  innumerable  spectators  ! 

What  would  the  story-reading  world 
—  yes,  and  what  would  the  great  world 
of  humanity — do  without  these  two 
figures  ?  They  are  more  lasting,  they 
are  more  important,  and  they  are  more 
fascinating  than  even  the  crowned  and 
laurelled  images  of  heroes  and  sages. 
When  men  shall  have  forgotten  Alexan- 
der and  Socrates,  Napoleon  and  Hum- 
boldt,  they  will  still  gather  around  this 


imperishable  group,  the  youth  and  the 
girl  who  are  in  love.  Without  them  our 
kind  would  cease  to  be ;  at  one  time  or 
another  we  are  all  of  us  identified  with 
them  in  spirit ;  thus  both  reason  and 
sympathy  cause  us  to  be  interested  in 
their  million-fold  repeated  story. 

We  have  the  two  before  us.  The 
girl,  dark  and  dark-eyed,  with  Orien- 
tal features,  and  an  expression  which 
one  is  tempted  to  describe  by  some 
such  epithet  as  imperial,  is  Bessie 
Barren,  the  orphan  granddaughter  of 
Squire  Thomas  Lauson  of  Barham,  in 
Massachusetts.  The  youth,  pale,  chest- 
nut-haired, and  gray-eyed,  with  a  tall 
and  large  and  muscular  build,  is  Henry 
Foster,  not  more  than  twenty -seven 
years  old,  yet  already  a  professor  in  the 
scientific  department  of  the  university 
of  Hampstead.  They  are  standing  on 


1870.] 


The  Lauson   Tragedy. 


445 


the  edge  of  a  rocky  precipice,  some 
seventy  feet  in  depth,  from  the  foot  of 
•which  a  long  series  of  grassy  slopes 
descends  into  a  wide,  irregular  valley, 
surrounded  by  hills  that  almost  deserve 
the  name  of  mountains.  In  the  dis- 
tance there  are  villages,  the  nearest 
fully  visible  even  to  its  most  insignifi- 
cant buildings,  others  showing  only  a 
few  white  gleams  through  the  openings 
of  their  elms,  and  others  still  distin- 
guishable by  merely  a  spire. 

There  has  been  talk  such  as  affianced 
couples  indulge  in  ;  we  must  mention 
this  for  the  sake  of  truth,  and  we  must 
omit  it  in  mercy.  "  Lovers,"  declares 
a  critic  who  has  weight  with  us,  "are 
habitually  insipid,  at  least  to  us  mar- 
ried people."  It  was  a  man  who  said 
that ;  no  woman,  it  is  believed,  could 
utter  such  a  condemnation  of  her  own 
heart :  no  woman  ever  quite  loses  her 
interest  in  the  drama  of  love-making. 
But  out  of  regard  to  such  males  as 
have  drowned  their  sentimentality  in 
marriage  we  will,  for  the  present,  pass 
over  the  words  of  tenderness  and  de- 
votion, and  only  listen  when  Professor 
Foster  becomes  philosophical. 

"  What  if  I  should  throw  myself 
down  here  ?  "  said  Bessie  Barren,  after 
a  long  look  over  the  precipice,  mean- 
while holding  fast  to  a  guardian  arm. 

"You  would  commit  suicide,"  was 
the  reply  of  a  man  whom  we  must 
admit  to  have  been  accurately  informed 
concerning  the  nature  of  actions  like 
the  one  specified. 

Slijihtly  disappointed  at  not  hearing 
the  appeal,  "O  my  darling,  don't  think 
of  such  a  thing  !  "  Bessie  remained  si- 
lent a  moment,  wondering  if  she  were 
silly  or  he  cold-hearted.  Did  she  catch 
a  glimmering  of  the  fact  that  men  do 
not  crave  small  sensations  as  women 
do,  and  that  the  man  before  her  was  a 
specially  rational  being  because  he  had 
been  trained  in  the  sublime  logic  of 
the  laws  of  nature  ?  Doubtful :  the  two 
sexes  are  profoundly  unlike  in  mental 
action ;  they  must  study  each  other 
long  before  they  can  fully  understand 
each  other. 

"  I    suppose    I   should  be  dreadfully 


punished  for  it,"  she  went  on,  her 
thoughts  turning  to  the  world  beyond 
death,  that  world  which  trembling  faith 
sees,  and  which  is,  therefore,  visible  to 
woman. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  boldly  admitted  the 
Professor,  who  had  been  educated  in 
Germany. 

In  order  to  learn  something  of  the 
character  of  this  young  man,  we  must 
permit  him  to  jabber  his  nondescript 
ideas  for  a  little,  even  though  we  are 
thereby  stumbled  and  wearied. 

"  Not  sure  ? "  queried  Bessie.  "  How 
do  you  mean  ?  Don't  you  think  suicide 
sinful  ?  Don't  you  think  sin  will  be 
punished  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  eagerness,  dreading 
to  find  her  lover  not  orthodox,  —  a  wo- 
ful  stigma  in  Barham  on  lovers,  and 
indeed  on  all  men  whatever. 

"  Admitting  thus  much,  I  don't  know 
how  far  you  would  be  a  free  agent  in 
the  act,"  lectured  the  philosopher.  "  I 
don't  know  where  free  agency  begins 
or  ends.  Indeed,  I  am  so  puzzled  by 
this  question  as  to  doubt  whether  there 
is  such  a  condition  as  free  agency." 

"  No  such  thing  as  free  agency  ? " 
wondered  Bessie.  "  Then  what  ?  " 

"  See  here.  Out  of  thirty  -  eight 
millions  of  Frenchmen  a  fixed  number 
commit  suicide  every  year.  Every 
year  just  so  many  Frenchmen  out  of 
a  million  kill  themselves.  Does  that 
look  like  free  agency,  or  does  it  look 
like  some  unknown  influence,  some 
general  rule  of  depression,  some  law 
of  nature,  which  affects  Frenchmen,  and 
which  they  cannot  resist?  The  indi- 
vidual seems  to  be  free,  at  every  mo- 
ment of  his  life,  to  do  as  he  chooses. 
But  what  leads  him  to  choose  ?  Born 
instincts,  conditions  of  health,  surround- 
ings, circumstances.  Do  not  the  cir- 
cumstances so  govern  his  choice  that 
he  cannot  choose  differently  ?  More- 
over, is  he  really  an  individual  ?  Or  is 
he  only  a  fraction  of  a  great  unity,  the 
human  race,  and  directed  by  its  cur- 
rent ?  We  speak  of  a  drop  of  water  as 
if  it  were  an  individuality  ;  but  it  can- 
not swim  against  the  stream  to  which 
it  belongs  ;  it  is  not  free.  Is  not  the 


446 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[April, 


individual  man  in  the  same  condition  ? 
There  are  questions  there  which  I  can- 
not answer ;  and  until  I  can  answer 
them  I  cannot  answer  your  question." 

We  have  not  repeated  without  cause 
these  bold  and  crude  speculations.  It 
is  nece-ssary  to  show  that  Foster  was 
what  was  called  in  Barham  a  free- 
thinker, in  order  to  account  for  efforts 
which  were  made  to  thwart  his  mar- 
riage with  Bessie  Barren,  and  for  prej- 
udices which  aided  to  work  a  stern 
drama  into  his  life. 

The  girl  listened  and  pondered.  She 
tried  to  follow  her  lover  over  the  seas 
of  thought  upon  which  he  walked  ;  but 
the  venture  was  beyond  her  powers, 
and  she  returned  to  the  pleasant  firm 
land  of  a  subject  nearer  her  heart. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  me  ? "  she 
asked  in  a  low  tone,  and  with  an  ap- 
pealing smile. 

"  No,"  he  smiled  back.  «  I  must 
own  that  I  was  not.  Bat  I  ought  to 
have  been.  I  do  think  of  you  a  great 
deal." 

"  More  than  I  deserve  ?  "  she  que- 
ried, still  suspicious  that  she  was  not 
sufficiently  prized  to  satisfy  her  longings 
for  affection. 

He  laughed  outright.  "  No,  not 
more  than  you  deserve  ;  not  as  much 
as  you  deserve  ;  you  deserve  a  great 
deal.  How  many  times  are  you  going 
to  ask  me  these  questions  ?  " 

"  Every  day.  A  hundred  times  a 
day.  Shall  you  get  tired  of  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  But  what  does  it 
mean  ?  Do  you  doubt  me  ?  " 

"  No.  But  I  want  to  hear  you  say 
that  you  think  of  me,  over  and  over 
again.  It  gives  me  such  pleasure  to 
hear  you  say  it  !  It  is  such  a  great 
happiness  that  it  seems  as  if  it  were  my 
only  happiness." 

Before  Bessie  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Foster,  and  especially  before  her  en- 
gagement to  him,  there  had  been  a 
time  when  she  had  talked  more  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  male  critic.  But 
now  her  whole  soul  was  absorbed  in 
the  work  of  loving.  She  had  no 
thought  for  any  other  subject ;  none, 
at  least,  while  with  him.  Her  whole 


appearance  and  demeanor  shows  how 
completely  she  is  occupied  by  this  mas- 
ter passion  of  woman.  A  smile  seems 
to  exhale  constantly  from  her  face  ;  if 
it  is  not  visible  on  her  lips,  nor.  indeed, 
anywhere,  still  you  perceive  it  ;  if  it  is 
no  more  to  be  seen  than  the  perfume 
of  a  flower,  still  you  are  conscious  of 
it.  It  is  no  figurative  exaggeration  to 
say  that  there  is  within  her  soul  an  in- 
cessant music,  like  that  of  waltzes,  and 
of  all  sweet,  tender,  joyous  melodies. 
If  you  will  watch  her  carefully,  and  if 
you  have  the  delicate  senses  of  sympa- 
thy, you  also  will  hear  it. 

Are  we  wrong  in  declaring  that  the 
old,  old  story  of  clinging  hearts  is  more 
fascinating  from  age  to  age,  as  human 
thoughts  become  purer  and  human 
feelings  more  delicate  ?  We  believe 
that  love,  like  all  other  things  earthly, 
is  subject  to  the  progresses  of  the  law 
of  evolution,  and  grows  with  the  centu- 
ries to  be  a  more  various  and  exquisite 
source  of  happiness.  This  girl  is  more 
in  love  than  her  grandmother,  who 
made  butter  and  otherwise  wrought 
laboriously  with  her  own  hands,  had 
ever  found  it  possible  to  be.  An  organi- 
zation refined  by  the  manifold  touch 
of  high  civilization,  an  organization 
brought  to  the  keenest  sensitiveness  by 
poetry  and  fiction  and  the  spiritualized 
social  breath  of  our  times,  an  organiza- 
tion in  which  muscle  is  lacking  and 
nerve  overabundant,  she  is  capable  of 
an  affection  which  has  the  wings  of  im- 
agination, which  can  soar  above  the  or- 
dinary plane  of  belief,  which  is  more 
than  was  once  human. 

Consider  for  an  instant  what  an  elab- 
oration of  culture  the  passion  of  love 
may  have  reached  in  this  child.  She 
can  invest  the  man  whom  she  has  ac- 
cepted as  monarch  of  her  soul  with  the 
perfections  of  the  heroes  of  history  and 
of  fiction.  She  can  prophesy  for  him  a 
future  which  a  hundred  years  since  was 
not  realizable  upon  this  continent.  Out 
of  her  own  mind  she  can  draw  shining 
raiment  of  success  for  him  which  shall 
be  visible  across  oceans,  and  crowns  of 
fame  which  shall  not  be  dimmed  by 
centuries.  She  can  love  him  for  super- 


77/6'  La  it  so  Ji   Tragedy. 


447 


human  loveliness  which  she  has  power 
to  impute  to  him,  and  for  victories 
which  she  is  magician  enough  to  strew 
in  anticipation  beneath  his  feet.  It  is 
not  extravagance,  it  is  even  nothing 
but  the  simplest  and  most  obvious 
truth,  to  say  that  there  have  been  pe- 
riods in  the  world's  history,  without 
going  back  to  the  cycles  of  the  troglo- 
dyte and  the  lake-dweller,  when  such 
love  would  have  been  beyond  the  capa- 
bilities of  humanity. 

It  must  be  understood,  by  the  way, 
that  Bessie  was  not  bred  amid  the 
sparse,  hard- worked,  and  scantily  cul- 
tured population  of  Barham,  and  that, 
until  the  death  of  her  parents,  two  years 
before  the  opening  of  this  story,  she 
had  been  a  plant  of  the  stimulating, 
hotbed  life  of  a  city.  Into  this  bucolic 
land  she  had  brought  susceptibilities 
which  do  not  often  exist  there,  and  a 
craving  for  excitements  of  sentiment 
which  does  not  often  find  gratification 
there.  Consequently  the  first  youth 
who  in  any  wise  resembled  the  ideal  of 
manhood  which  she  had  set  up  in  her 
soul  found  her  ready  to  fall  into  his 
grasp,  to  believe  in  him  as  in  a  deity, 
and  to  look  to  him  for  miracles  of  love 
and  happiness. 

Well,  these  two  interesting  idiots,  as 
the  un.sympathi/.ing  observer  might  call 
them,  have  turned  their  backs  on  the 
precipice  and  are  walking  toward  the 
girl's  home.  They  had  not  gone  far 
before  Bessie  uttered  a  speech  which 
excited  Harry's  profound  amazement, 
and  which  will  probably  astonish  every 
young  man  who  has  not  as  yet  made 
his  conquests.  After  looking  at  him 
long  and  steadfastly,  she  said  :  "  How 
is  it  possible  that  you  can  care  for  me  ? 
I  don't  see  what  you  find  in  me  to 
make  me  worthy  of  your  admiration." 

How  often  such  sentiments  have 
been  felt,  and  how  often  also  they  have 
been  spoken,  by  beings  whose  hearts 
have  been  bowed  by  the  humility  of 
strong  affection !  Perhaps  women  are 
less  likely  to  give  them  speech  than 
men  ;  but  it  is  only  because  they  are 
more  trammelled  by  an  education  of 
reserve,  and  by  inborn  delicacy  and 


timidity  ;  it  is  not  because  they  feel 
them  less.  This  girl,  however,  was  so 
frank  in  nature,  and  so  earnest  and 
eager  in  her  feelings,  that  she  could 
not  but  give  forth  the  aroma  of  loving 
meekness  that  was  in  her  soul. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Fos- 
ter, in  his  innocent  surprise.  "  See 
nothing  to  admire  \nyou  /" 

"  O,  you  are  so  much  wiser  than  I, 
and  so  much  nobler !  "  she  replied. 
"It  is  just  because  you  are  good,  be- 
cause you  have  the  best  heart  that  ever 
was,  that  you  care  for  me.  You  found 
me  lonely  and  unhappy,  and  so  you 
pitied  me  and  took  charge  of  me." 

"  O  no  !  "  he  began  ;  but  we  will  not 
repeat  his  protestations  ;  we  will  just 
say  that  he,  too,  was  properly  humble. 

"  Have  you  really  been  lonely  and 
sad  ? "  he  went  on,  curious  to  know 
every  item  of  her  life,  every  beat  of  her 
heart. 

"  Does  that  old  house  look  like  a 
paradise  to  you  ?"  she  asked,  pointing 
to  the  dwelling  of  Squire  Lauson. 

"  It  is  n't  very  old,  and  it  does  n't 
look  very  horrible,"  he  replied,  a  little 
anxious  as  he  thought  of  his  future 
housekeeping.  "  Perhaps  ours  will  not 
be  so  fine  a  one." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that,"  de- 
clared Bessie.  **  Our  house  will  be 
charming,  even  if  it  has  but  one  story, 
and  that  underground.  But  this  one  ! 
You  don't  see  it  with  my  eyes  ;  you 
have  n't  lived  in  it." 

"  Is  it  haunted  ?  "  inquired  Foster, 
of  whom  we  must  say  that  he  did  not 
believe  in  ghosts,  and  in  fact  scorned 
them  with  all  the  scorn  of  a  philoso- 
pher. 

"  Yes,  and  by  people  who  are  not 
yet  buried,  —  people  who  call  them- 
selves alive." 

The  subject  was  a  delicate  one  prob- 
ably, for  Bessie  said  no  more  concern- 
ing it,  and  Foster  considerately  re- 
frained from  further  questions.  There 
was  one  thing  on  which  this  youth 
especially  prided  himself,  and  that  was 
on  being  a  gentleman  in  every  sense 
possible  to  a  republican.  Because  his 
father  had  been  a  judge,  and  his  grand- 


448 


The  Lauson   Tragedy. 


[April, 


father  and  great-grandfather  clergymen, 
he  conceived  that  he  belonged  to  a  patri- 
cian class,  similar  to  that  which  Eng- 
lishmen style  "the  untitled  nobility," 
and  that  he  was  bound  to  exhibit  as 
many  chivalrous  virtues  as  if  his  veins 
throbbed  with  the  blood  of  the  Black 
Prince.  Although  not  combative,  and 
not  naturally  reckless  of  pain  and 
death,  he  would  have  faced  Heenan 
and  Morrissey  together  in  fight,  if  con- 
vinced that  his  duty  as  a  gentleman 
demanded  it.  Similarly  he  felt  himself 
obliged  "to  do  the  handsome  thing"  in 
money  matters  ;  to  accept,  for  instance, 
without  haggling,  such  a  salary  as  was 
usual  in  his  profession  ;  to  be  as  gen- 
erous to  waiters  as  if  he  were  a  million- 
naire.  Furthermore,  he  must  be  mag- 
nanimous to  all  that  great  multitude 
who  were  his  inferiors,  and  particularly 
must  he  be  fastidiously  decorous  and 
tender  in  his  treatment  of  women.  All 
these  things  he  did  or  refrained  from 
doing,  not  only  out  of  good  instincts 
towards  others,  but  out  of  respect  for 
himself. 

On  the  whole,  he  was  a  worthy  and 
even  admirable  specimen  of  the  genus 
young  man.  No  doubt  he  was  con- 
ceited ;  he  often  offended  people  by  his 
bumptiousness  of  opinion  and  hauteur 
of  manner;  he  rather  depressed  the 
human  race  by  the  severity  with  which 
he  classed  this  one  and  that  one  as 
"no  gentleman,"  because  of  slight 
defects  in  etiquette ;  he  considerably 
amused  older  and  wearier  minds  by 
the  confidence  with  which  he  settled 
vexed  questions  of  several  thousand 
years'  standing :  but  with  all  these 
faults,  he  was  a  better  and  wiser  and 
more  agreeable  fellow  than  one  often 
meets  at  his  age ;  he  was  a  youth 
whom  man  could  respect  and  woman 
adore.  T©  noble  souls  it  must  be  agree- 
able, I  think,  to  see  him  at  the  present 
moment,  anxious  to  know  precisely 
what  sorrows  had  clouded  the  life  of 
his  betrothed  in  the  old  house  before 
him,  and  yet  refraining  from  question- 
ing her  on  the  alluring  subject,  "be- 
cause he  was  a  gentleman." 

The  house  itself  kept  its  secret  ad- 


mirably. It  had  not  a  signature  of 
character  about  it ;  it  was  as  non-com- 
mittal as  an  available  candidate  for 
the  Presidency ;  it  exhibited  the  plain, 
unornamental,  unpoetic  reserve  of  a 
Yankee  Puritan.  Whether  it  were  a 
stage  for  comedy  or  tragedy,  whether  it 
were  a  palace  for  happy  souls  or  a 
prison  for  afflicted  ones,  it  gave  not 
even  a  darkling  hint. 

A  sufficiently  spacious  edifice,  but 
low  of  stature  and  with  a  long  slope  of 
back  roof,  it  reminded  one  of  a  stocky 
and  round-shouldered  old  farmer,  like 
those  who  daily  trudged  by  it  to  and 
from  the  market  of  Hampstead,  hawing 
and  geeing  their  fat  cattle  with  lean, 
hard  voices.  A  front  door,  sheltered  by 
a  small  portico,  opened  into  a  hall  which 
led  straight  through  the  building,  with 
a  parlor  and  bedroom  on  one  side,  and 
a  dining-room  and  kitchen  on  the  other. 
In  the  rear  was  a  low  wing  serving  as 
wash-house,  lumber-room,  and  wood- 
shed. The  white  clapboards  and  green 
blinds  were  neither  freshly  painted  nor 
rusty,  but  just  sedately  weather-worn. 
The  grounds,  the  long  woodpiles,  the 
barn  and  its  adjuncts,  were  all  in  that 
state  of  decent  slovenliness  which  pre- 
vails amid  the  more  rustic  farming 
population  of  New  England.  On  the 
whole,  the  place  looked  like  the  abode 
of  one  who  had  made  a  fair  fortune  by 
half  a  century  or  more  of  laborious  and 
economical  though  not  enlightened  ag- 
riculture. 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,"  said  Fos- 
ter, when  the  two  reached  the  gate  of 
the  "  front-yard  "  ;  "I  must  get  back 
to  my  work  in  Hampstead." 

"And  you  won't  come  in  for  a  min- 
ute ? "  pleaded  Bessie. 

"  You  know  that  I  would  be  glad  to 
come  in  and  stay  in  for  ever  and  ever. 
It  seems  now  as  if  life  were  made  for 
nothing  but  talking  to  you.  But  my 
fellow-men  no  doubt  think  differently. 
There  are  such  things  as  lectures,  and 
I  must  prepare  a  few  of  them.  I  really 
have  pressing  work  to  do." 

What  he  furthermore  had  in  his 
mind  was,  "  I  am  bound  as  a  gentle- 
man to  do  it"  ;  but  he  refrained  from 


1 8;o.] 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


449 


saying  that :  he  was  conscious  that  he 
sometimes  said  it  too  much  ;  little  by 
little  he  was  learning  that  he  was 
bumptious,  and  that  he  ought  not 
to  be. 

"And  you  will  come  to-morrow?" 
still  urged  I  Jessie,  grasping  at  the  next 
best  thing  to  to-day. 

"Yes,  I  shall  walk  out.  This  driv- 
ing every  day  won't  answer,  on  a  pro- 
fessor's salary,"  he  added,  swelling 
his  chest  over  this  grand  confession  of 
poverty.  "  Besides,  I  need  the  exer- 
cise." 

"  How  good  of  you  to  walk  so  far 
merely  to  see  me ! "  exclaimed  the 
humble  little  beauty. 

t'ntil  he  came  again  she  brooded 
over  the  joys  of  being  his  betrothed, 
and  over  the  future,  the  far  greater  joy 
of  being  his  wife.  Was  not  this  high 
hope  in  love,  this  confidence  in  the 
promises  of  marriage,  out  of  place  in 
Bessie  ?  She  has  daily  before  her, 
in  the  mutual  sayings  and  doings 
of  her  grandfather  and  his  spouse,  a 
woful  instance  of  the  jarring  way  in 
which  the  chariot-wheels  of  wedlock 
may  run.  Squire  Tom  Lauson  does 
not  get  on  angelically  with  his  second 
wife.  It  is  reported  that  she  finds  ex- 
istence with  him  the  greatest  burden 
that  she  has  ever  yet  borne,  and  that 
she  testifies  to  her  disgust  with  it  in  a 
fashion  which  is  at  times  startlingly 
dramatic.  If  we  arrive  at  the  Lauson 
house  on  the  day  following  the  dia- 
logue which  has  been  reported,  we 
shall  witness  one  of  her  most  effective 
exhibitions. 

It  is  raining  violently  ;  an  old-fash- 
ioned blue-light  Puritan  thunder-storm 
is  raging  over  the  Barham  hills  ;  the 
blinding  flashes  are  instantaneously  fol- 
lowed by  the  deafening  peals  ;  the  air 
is  full  of  sublime  terror  and  danger. 
But  to  Mrs.  Squire  Lawson  the  tem- 
pest is  so  far  from  horrible  that  it  is 
even  welcome,  friendly,  and  alluring, 
cempared  with  her  daily  showers  of 
conjugal  misery.  She  has  just  finished 
one  of  those  frequent  contests  with  her 
husband,  which  her  sickly  petulance 
perpetually  forces  her  to  seek,  and 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  150.  29 


which  nevertheless  drive  her  frantic. 
In  her  wild,  yet  weak  rage  and  misery, 
death  seems  a  desirable  refuge.  Out 
of  the  open  front  door  she  rushes, 
out  into  the  driving  rain  and  blinding 
lightning,  lifts  her  hands  passionately 
toward  Heaven,  and  prays  for  a  flash 
to  strike  her  dead. 

After  twice  shrieking  this  horrible 
supplication,  she  dropped  her  arms 
with  a  gesture  of  sullen  despair,  and 
stalked  slowly,  reeking  wet,  into  the 
house.  In  the  hall,  looking  out  upon 
this  scene  of  demoniacal  possession, 
sat  Bessie  Lauson  and  her  maiden 
aunt,  Miss  Mercy  Lauson,  while  be- 
hind them,  coming  from  an  inner  room, 
appeared  the  burly  figure  of  the  old 
Squire.  As  Mrs.  Lauson  passed  the 
two  women,  they  drew  a  little  aside  with 
a  sort  of  shrinking  which  arose  partly 
from  a  desire  to  avoid  her  dripping  gar- 
ments, and  partly  from  that  awe  with 
which  most  of  us  regard  ungovernable 
passion.  The  Squire,  on  the  contrary, 
met  his  wife  with  a  sarcastic  twinkle  of 
his  grim  gray  eyes,  and  a  scoff  which 
had  the  humor  discoverable  in  the  con- 
trast between  total  indifference  and 
furious  emotion. 

"  Closed  your  camp-meeting  early, 
Mrs.  Lauson,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  can't 
expect  a  streak  of  lightning  for  such  a 
short  service." 

A  tormentor  who  wears  a  smile  in- 
flicts a  double  agony.  Mrs.  Lauson 
wrung  her  hands,  and  broke  out  in  a 
cry  of  rage  and  anguish  :  "  O  Lord, 
let  it  strike  me  !  O  Lord,  let  it  strike 
me  !  " 

Squire  Lauson  took  a  chair,  crossed 
his  thick,  muscular  legs,  glanced  at  his 
wife,  glanced  at  the  levin-seamed  sky, 
and  remarked  with  a  chuckle,  "'  I  'm 
waiting  to  see  this  thing  out." 

"  Father,  I  say  it 's  perfectly  awful," 
remonstrated  Miss  Mercy  Lauson. 
"  Mother,  ain't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self?" 

Miss  Mercy  was  an  old  maid  of  the 
grave,  sad,  sickly  New  England  type. 
She  pronounced  her  reproof  in  a  high, 
thin,  passionless  monotone,  without  a 
gesture  or  a  flash  of  expression,  with- 


450 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[April. 


out  glancing  at  the  persons  whom  she 
addressed,  looking  straight  before  her 
at  the  wall.  She  seemed  to  speak  with- 
out emotion,  and  merely  from  a  stony 
sense  of  duty.  It  was  as  if  a  message 
had  been  delivered  by  the  mouth  of  an 
automaton. 

Both  the  Squire  and  his  wife  made 
some  response,  but  a  prolonged  crash 
of  thunder  drowned  the  feeble  blasphe- 
my of  their  voices,  and  the  moving  of 
their  lips  was  like  a  mockery  of  life,  as 
if  the  lips  of  corpses  had  been  stirred 
by  galvanism.  Then,  as  if  impatient 
of  hearing  both  man  and  God,  Mrs. 
Lauson  clasped  her  hands  over  her 
ears,  and  fled  away  to  some  inner  room 
of  the  shaking  old  house,  seeking  per- 
haps the  little  pity  that  there  is  for  the 
wretched  in  solitude.  The  Squire  re- 
mained seated,  his  gray  and  horny  fin- 
gers drumming  on  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  and  his  faded  lips  murmuring 
some  inaudible  conversation. 

For  the  wretchedness  of  Mrs.  Lau- 
son there  was  partial  cause  in  the  dis- 
position and  ways  of  her  husband. 
Very  odd  was  the  old  Squire  ;  violent- 
ly combative  could  he  be  in  case  of 
provocation  ;  and  to  those  who  resisted 
what  he  called  his  rightful  authority  he 
was  a  tyrant. 

Having  lost  the  wife  whom  he  had 
ruled  for  so  many  years,  and  having  en- 
joyed the  serene  but  lonely  empire  of 
widowhood  for  eighteen  months,  he 
felt  the  need  of  some  one  for  some  pur- 
pose,—  perhaps  to  govern.  Once  re- 
solved on  a  fresh  spouse,  he  set  about 
searching  for  one  in  a  clear-headed  and 
business-like  manner,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  question  of  getting  a  family  horse. 

The  woman  whom  he  finally  received 
into  his  flinty  bosom  was  a  maiden  of 
forty-five,  who  had  known  in  her  youth 
the  uneasy  joys  of  many  flirtations, 
and  who  had  marched  through  various 
successes  (the  triumphs  of  a  small  uni- 
versity town)  to  sit  down  at  last  in  a 
life-long  disappointment.  Regretting 
her  past,  dissatisfied  with  every  present, 
demanding  improbabilities  of  the  future, 
eager  still  to  be  flattered  and  worshipped 
and  obeyed,  she  was  wofully  unfitted  for 


marriage  with  an  old  man  of  plain  hab- 
its and  retired  life,  who  was  quite  as 
egoistic  as  herself  and  far  more  com- 
bative and  domineering.  It  was  soon  a 
horrible  thing  to  remember  the  young 
lovers  who  had  gone  long  ago,  but  who, 
it  seemed  to  her,  still  adored  her,  and  to 
compare  them  with  this  unsympathiz- 
ing  master,  who  gave  her  no  courtship 
nor  tender  reverence,  and  who  spoke 
but  to  demand  submission. 

"In  a  general  way."  says  a  devout 
old  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  "  Divine 
Providence  blesses  second  marriages." 

With  no  experience  of  my  own  in 
this  line,  and  with  not  a  large  observa- 
tion of  the  experience  of  others,  I  am 
nevertheless  inclined  to  admit  that  my 
friend  has  the  right  of  it.  Conceding 
the  fact  that  second  marriages  are  usu- 
ally happy,  one  naturally  asks,  Why  is 
it  ?  Is  it  because  a  man  knows  better 
how  to  select  a  second  wife  ?  or  be- 
cause he  knows  better  how  to  treat 
her  ?  Well  disposed  toward  both  these 
suppositions,  I  attach  the  most  impor- 
tance to  the  latter. 

No  doubt  Benedict  chooses  more 
thoughtfully  when  he  chooses  a  second 
time  ;  no  doubt  he  is  governed  more 
by  judgment  than  in  his  first  courtship, 
and  less  by  blind  impulse  ;  no  doubt 
he  has  learned  some  love-making  wis- 
dom from  experience.  A  woman  who 
will  be  patient  with  him,  a  woman  who 
will  care  well  for  his  household  affairs 
and  for  his  children,  a  woman  who 
will  run  steadily  rather  than  showily  in 
the  domestic  harness,  —  that  is  what  he 
usually  wants  when  he  goes  sparking 
at  forty  or  fifty. 

But  this  is  not  all  and  not  even  the 
half  of  the  explanation.  He  has  ac- 
quired a  knowledge  of  what  woman  is, 
and  a  knowledge  of  what  may  fairly  be 
required  of  her.  He  has  learned  to  put 
himself  in  her  place  ;  to  grant  her  the 
sympathy  which  her  sensitive  heart 
needs  ;  to  estimate  the  sufferings  which 
arise  from  her  variable  health  ;  in  short, 
he  has  learned  to  be  thoughtful  and 
patient  and  merciful.  Moreover,  he  is 
apt  to  select  some  one  who,  like  him- 
self, has  learned  command  of  temper 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


451 


and  moderation  of  expectation  from  the 
lessons  of  life.  As  he  knows  that  a 
glorified  wife  is  impossible  here  below, 
so  she  makes  no  strenuous  demand  for 
an  angel  husband. 

But  Squire  Thomas  Lauson  had  mar- 
ried an  old  maid  who  had  not  yet  given 
up  the  struggle  to  be  a  girl,  and  who, 
in  consequence  of  a  long  and  silly 
bellehood,  could  not  put  up  with  any 
form  of  existence  which  was  not  a  con- 
tinual courtship.  Furthermore,  he  him- 
self was  not  a  persimmon  ;  he  had  not 
gathered  sweetness  from  the  years 
which  frosted  his  brow.  An  interest- 
ingly obdurate  block  of  the  Puritan  gran- 
ite of  New  England,  he  was  almost  as 
self-opinionated,  domineering,  pugna- 
cious, and  sarcastic  as  he  had  been 
at  fifteen.  He  still  had  overmuch  of 
the  unripe  spirit  which  plagues  little 
boys,  scoffs  at  girls,  stones  frogs, 
drowns  kittens,  and  mutters  domestic 
defiances.  If  Mrs.  Lauson  was  skittish 
and  iiactious,  he  was  her  full  match  as 
a  wife-breaker. 

In  short,  the  Squire  had  not  chosen 
wisely ;  he  was  not  fitted  to  win  a 
woman's  heart  by  sympathy  and  jus- 
tice ;  and  thus  Providence  had  not 
blessed  his  second  marriage. 

We  must  return  now  to  Miss  Mercy 
Lauson  and  her  niece  Bessie.  They 
are  alone  once  more,  for  Squire  Lauson 
has  finished  his  sarcastic  mutterings, 
and  has  stumped  away  to  some  other 
dungeon  of  the  unhappy  old  house. 

"  You  see,  Bessie  !  "  said  Miss  Mer- 
cy, after  a  pinching  of  her  thin  lips 
which  was  like  the  biting  of  forceps,  — 
"  you  see  how  married  people  can  live 
with  each  other.  Bickerings  an'  strife  ! 
bickerings  an'  strife  !  But  for  all  that 
you  mean  to  marry  Henry  Foster." 

We  must  warn  the  reader  not  to  ex- 
pect vastness  of  thought  or  eloquence 
of  speech  from  Miss  Mercy.  Her  nar- 
row-shouldered, hollow -chested  soul 
could  not  grasp  ideas  of  much  moment, 
nor  handle  such  as  she  was  able  to 
grasp  with  any  vigor  or  grace. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  returned 
Bessie  with  spirit,  "  if  I  am  not  likely 
to  have  my  share  of  bickerings  and 


strife,  if  I  stay  here  and  don't  get  mar- 
ried." 

"  That  depends  upon  how  far  you 
control  your  temper,  Elizabeth." 

"  And  so  it  does  in  marriage,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Miss  Mercy  found  herself  involved 
in  an  argument,  when  she  had  simply 
intended  to  play  the  part  of  a  preacher 
in  his  pulpit,  warning  and  reproving 
without  being  answered.  She  accepted 
the  challenge  in  a  tone  of  iced  pugna- 
city, which  indicated  in  part  a  certain 
imperfect  habit  of  self-control,  and  in 
part  the  unrestrainable  peevishness  of 
a  chronic  invalid. 

"  I  don't  say  folks  will  necessarily  be 
unhappy  in  merridge,"  she  went  on. 
"  Merridge  is  a  Divine  ord'nance,  an' 
I  'm  obleeged  to  respect  it  as  such.  1 
do,  I  suppose,  respect  it  more  'n  some 
who  've  entered  into  it.  But  merridge, 
to  obtain  the  Divine  blessing,  must  not 
be  a  yoking  with  unbelievers.  There  's 
the  trouble  with  father's  wife  ;  she  ain't 
a  professor.  There,  too,  's  the  trouble 
with  Henry  Foster  ;  he  's  not  one  of 
those  who  've  chosen  the  better  part. 
I  want  you  to  think  it  all  over  in  sober- 
ness of  sperrit,  Elizabeth." 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  you  know  against 
him,"  replied  the  girl,  flushing  with  the 
anger  of  outraged  affection. 

"  No,  it  ain't.  He  ?s  brung  home 
strange  ways  from  abroad.  He  smokes 
an'  drinks  beer  an'  plays  cards  ;  an'  his 
form  seldom  darkens  the  threshold  of 
the  sanctuary.  Elizabeth,  I  must  be 
plain  with  you  on  this  vital  subject.  I  'm 
going  to  be  as  plain  with  you  as  your 
own  conscience  ought  to  be.  I  see  it 's 
no  use  talking  to  you  'bout  duty  an'  the 
life  to  come.  I  must —  there  's  no  sort 
of  doubt  about  it  —  I  must  bring  the 
things  of  this  world  to  bear  on  you. 
You  know  1  've  made  my  will :  I  've  left 
every  cent  of  my  property  to  you, — 
twenty  thousand  dollars  !  Well,  if  you 
enter  into  merridge  with  that  young  man, 
I  shall  alter  it.  I  ain't  going  to  have  my 
money,  —  the  money  that  my  poor  God- 
fearing aunt  left  me, —  I  ain't  going  to 
have  it  fooled  away  on  card-players  an' 
scorners.  Now  there  it  is,  Elizabeth. 


452 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[April, 


There  's  what  my  duty  tells  me  to  do, 
an'  what  I  shall  do.  Ponder  it  well, 
an'  take  your  choice." 

"  I  don't  care,"  burst  forth  Bessie, 
springing  to  her  feet.  "  I  shall  tell  him, 
and  if  it  makes  no  difference  to  //////,  it 
will  make  none  to  me." 

Here  a  creak  in  the  floor  caught  her 
ear,  and  turning  quickly  she  discovered 
Henry  Foster.  Entering  the  house  by 
a  side  door,  and  coming  through  a 
short  lateral  passage  to  the  front  hall, 
he  had  reached  it  in  time  to  hear  the 
close  of  the  conversation  and  catch  its 
entire  drift.  You  could  see  in  his  face 
that  he  had  heard  thus  much,  for 
healthy,  generous,  kindly,  and  cheer- 
ful as  the  face  usually  was,  it  wore  now 
a  confused  and  pained  expression. 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  disturbing  you," 
he  said.  "  I  was  pelted  into  the  house 
to  get  out  of  the  shower,  and  I  took 
the  shortest  cut." 

Bessie's  Oriental  visage  flushed  to  a 
splendid  crimson,  and  a  whiter  ashi- 
ness  stole  into  the  sallow  cheek  of  Aunt 
Mercy.  The  girl,  quick  and  adroit 
as  most  women  are  in  leaping  out  of 
embarrassments,  rushed  into  a  strain 
of  light  conversation.  How  wet  Pro- 
fessor Foster  was,  and  would  n't  he  go 
and  dry  himself?  What  a  storm  it  had 
been,  and  what  wonderful,  dreadful 
thunder  and  lightning;  and  how  glad 
she  was  that  he  had  come,  for  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  some  protection. 

"  There  's  only  One  who  can  protect 
us,"  murmured  Aunt  Mercy,  "  either  in 
such  seasons  or  any  others." 

"  His  natural  laws  are  our  proper 
recourse,"  respectfully  replied  Foster, 
who  was  religious  too,  in  his  scientific 
fashion. 

Bessie  cringed  with  alarm  ;  here  was 
an  insinuated  attack  on  her  aunt's  favor- 
ite dogma  of  special  provid&nces  ;  the 
subject  must  be  pitched  overboard  at 
once. 

"  What  is  the  news  in  Hampstead  ? " 
she  asked.  "  Has  the  town  gone  to 
sleep,  as  Barham  has  ?  You  ought  to 
wake  us  up  with  something  amusing." 

"  Jennie  Brown  is  engaged,"  said 
Foster.  "  Is  n't  that  satisfactory  ?  " 


"  O  dear !  how  many  times  does 
that  make  ?  "  laughed  Bessie.  "  Is  it 
a  student  again  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  a  student." 

"You  ought  to  make  it  a  college 
offence  for  students  to  engage  them- 
selves," continued  Bessie.  "  You  know 
that  they  can  hardly  ever  marry,  and 
generally  break  the  girls'  hearts." 

"  Have  they  broken  Jennie  Brown's  ? 
She  does  n't  believe  it,  nor  her  present 
young  man  either.  I  've  no  doubt  he 
thinks  her  as  good  as  new." 

u  I  dare  say.  But  such  things  hurt 
girls  in  general,  and  you  professors 
ought  to  see  to  it,  and  I  want  to  know 
why  you  don't.  But  is  that  all  the 
news  ?  That 's  such  a  small  matter ! 
such  an  old  sort  of  thing !  If  I  had 
come  from  Hampstead,  I  would  have 
brought  more  than  that." 

So  Bessie  rattled  on,  partly  because 
she  loved  to  talk  to  this  admirable 
Professor,  but  mainly  to  put  off  the 
crisis  which  she  saw  was  coming. 

But  it  was  vain  to  hope  for  clemency, 
or  even  for  much  delay,  from  Aunt 
Mercy.  Grim,  unhappy,  peevish  as 
many  invalids  are,  and  impelled  by  a 
remorseless  conscience,  she  was  not  to 
be  diverted  from  finishing  with  Foster 
the  horrid  bone  which  she  had  com- 
menced to  pick  with  Bessie.  You  could 
see  in  her  face  what  kind  of  thoughts  and 
purposes  were  in  her  heart.  She  was 
used  to  quarrelling  ;  or,  to  speak  more 
strictly,  she  was  used  to  entertaining 
hard  feelings  towards  others  ;  but  she 
had  never  learned  to  express  her  bitter 
sentiments  frankly.  Unable  to  destroy 
them,  she  had  felt  herself  bound  in 
general  not  to  utter  them,  and  this 
non-utterance  had  grown  to  be  one  of 
her  despotic  and  distressing  "  duties." 
Nothing  could  break  through  her  shy- 
ness, her  reserve,  her  habit  of  silence, 
but  an  emotion  which  amounted  to  pas- 
sion ;  and  such  an  emotion  she  was 
not  only  unable  to  conceal,  but  she  was 
also  unable  to  exhibit  it  either  nobly  or 
gracefully :  it  shone  all  through  her, 
and  it  made  her  seem  spiteful. 

As  she  was  about  to  speak,  however, 
a  glance  at  Bessie's  anxious  face 


1 870.] 


The  Lanson  Tragedy. 


453 


checked  her.  After  her  painful,  severe 
fashion,  she  really  loved  the  girl,  and 
she  did  not  want  to  load  her  with  any 
more  sorrow  than  was  strictly  neces- 
sary. Moreover,  the  surely  worthy 
thought  occurred  to  her  that  Heaven 
might  favor  one  last  effort  to  convert 
this  wrong-minded  young  man  into  one 
who  could  be  safely  intrusted  with  the 
welfare  of  her  niece  and  the  manage- 
ment of  her  money.  Hailing  the  sug- 
gestion, in  accordance  with  her  usual 
exaltation  of  faith,  as  an  indication  from 
the  sublimest  of  all  authority,  she  en- 
tered upon  her  task  with  such  power 
as  nature  had  given  her  and  such 
sweetness  as  a  shattered  nervous  sys- 
tem had  left  her. 

"  Mr.  Foster,  there  's  one  thing  I 
greatly  desire  to  see,"  she  began  in  a 
hurried,  tremulous  tone.  "  I  want  you 
to  come  out  from  among  the  indifferent, 
an'  join  yourself  to  us.  Why  don't  you 
do  it  ?  Why  don't  you  become  a  pro- 
fessor?" 

Foster  was  even  more  surprised  and 
dismayed  than  most  men  are  when  thus 
addressed.  Here  was  an  appeal  such 
as  all  of  us  must  listen  to  with  respect, 
not  only  because  it  represents  the 
opinions  of  a  vast  and  justly  revered 
portion  of  civilized  humanity,  but  be- 
cause it  concerns  the  highest  mysteries 
and  possibilities  of  which  humanity  is 
••.o^nizant.  As  one  who  valued  himself 
on  ijcing  both  a  philosopher  and  a  gen- 
tleman, he  would  hava  felt  bound  to 
treat  any  one  courteoaslv  who  thus  ap- 
proached him.  But  there  \v:is  more ; 
this  appeal  evidently  alluded  to  his  in- 
tentions of  marriage  ;  it  was  connected 
with  the  threat  of  disinheritance  which 
he  had  overheard  on  entering  the  house. 
If  he  would  promise  to  "join  the 
church,"  if  he  would  even  only  appear 
to  take  the  step  into  favorable  consid- 
eration, he  could  remove  the  objections 
of  this  earnest  woman  to  his  betrothal, 
and  secure  her  property  to  his  future 
wife.  But  Foster  could  not  do  what 
policy  demanded  ;  he  had  his  "  honest 
doubts,"  and  he  could  not  remove  them 
by  an  exercise  of  will ;  moreover,  he 
was  too  self-respectful  and  honorable 


to  be  a  hypocrite.  After  pondering 
Aunt  Mercy's  question  for  a  moment, 
he  answered  with  a  dignity  of  soul 
which  was  not  appreciated  :  — 

"  I  should  have  no  objection  to  what 
you  propose,  if  it  would  not  be  misun- 
derstood. If  it  would  only  mean  that  I 
believe  in  God,  and  that  I  worship  his 
power  and  goodness,  I  would  oblige 
you.  But  it  would  be  received  as 
meaning  more,  —  as  meaning  that  I  ac- 
cept doctrines  which  I  am  still  examin- 
ing,—  as  meaning  that  I  take  upon 
myself  obligations  which  I  do  not  yet 
hold  binding." 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  the  God  of 
Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  ?  "  demand- 
ed Miss  Mercy,  striking  home  with  tell- 
ing directness. 

"  I  believe  in  a  Deity  who  views  his 
whole  universe  with  equal  love.  I  be- 
lieve in  a  Deity  greater  than  I  always 
hear  preached." 

Miss  Mercy  was  puzzled ;  for  while 
this  confession  of  faith  did  not  quite 
tally  with  what  she  was  accustomed  to 
receive  from  pulpits,  there  was  about 
it  a  largeness  of  religious  perception 
which  slightly  excited  her  awe.  Nev- 
ertheless, it  showed  a  dangerous  vague- 
ness, and  she  decided  to  demand  some- 
thing more  explicit. 

"What  are  your  opinions  on  the 
inspiration  of  the  Scriptures  ? "  she 
asked. 

He  had  been  reading  Colenso's  work 
on  Genesis  ;  and,  so  far  as  he  could 
judge  the  Bishop's  premises,  he  agreed 
with  his  conclusions.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  aware  that  such  an  exege- 
sis would  seem  simple  heresy  to  Miss 
Mercy,  and  that  whoever  held  it  would 
be  condemned  by  her  as  a  heathen  and 
an  infidel.  After  a  moment  of  hesita- 
tion, he  responded  bravely  and  honest- 
ly, though  with  a  placating  smile. 

"  Miss  Lauson,  there  are  some  sub-  ' 
jects,  indeed  there  are  many  subjects, 
on  which  I  have  no  fixed  opinions. 
I  used  to  have  opinions  on  almost 
everything ;  but  I  found  them  very 
troublesome,  I  had  to  change  them  so 
often  !  I  have  decided  not  to  declare 
any  more  positive  opinions,  but  only 


454 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[April, 


to  entertain  suppositions  to  the  effect 
that  this  or  that  may  be  the  case ; 
meantime  holding  myself  ready  to 
change  my  hypotheses  on  further  evi- 
dence." 

Although  he  seemed  to  her  guilty  of 
shuffling  away  from  her  question,  yet 
she,  in  the  main,  comprehended  his  re- 
ply distinctly  enough.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve in  plenary  inspiration  ;  that  was 
clear,  and  so  also  was  her  duty  clear  ; 
she  must  not  let  him  have  her  niece 
nor  her  money. 

Now  there  was  a  something  in  her 
face  like  the  forming  of  columns  for  an 
assault,  or  rather  like  the  irrational, 
ungovernable  gathering  of  clouds  for  a 
storm.  Her  staid,  melancholy  soul  — 
a  soul  which  usually  lay  in  chains  and 
solitary —  climbed  writhing  to  her  lips 
and  eyes,  and  made  angry  gestures  be- 
fore it  spoke.  Bessie  stared  at  her  in 
alarm  ;  she  tried,  in  a  spirit  of  youthful 
energy,  to  look  her  down ;  but  the 
struggle  of  prevention  was  useless ;  the 
hostile  words  came. 

"  Mr.  Foster,  I  can't  willingly  give 
my  niece  to  such  an  one  as  you,"  she 
said  in  a  tremulous  but  desperate  mon- 
otone. "  I  s'pose,  though,  it 's  no  use 
forbidding  you  to  go  with  her.  I  s'pose 
you  would  n't  mind  that.  But  I  expect 
you  will  care  for  one  thing,  —  for 
her  good.  My  will  is  made  now  in  her 
favor.  But  if  she  marries  you,  I  shall 
change  it.  I  sha'  n't  leave  her  a  cent." 

Here  her  sickly  strength  broke 
down  ;  such  plain  utterance  of  feeling 
and  purpose  was  too  much  for  her 
nerves  ;  she  burst  into  honest,  better 
tears,  and,  rushing  to  her  room,  locked 
herself  up ;  no  doubt,  too,  she  prayed 
there  long,  and  read  solemnly  in  the 
Scriptures. 

**-  What  was  the  result  of  this  conscien- 
tious but  no  doubt  unwise  remon- 
strance ?  After  a  sliock  of  disagreeable 
surprise,  the  two  lovers  did  what  all 
true  lovers  would  have  done  ;  they  en- 
tered into  a  solemn  engagement  that 
no  considerations  of  fortune  should 
prevent  their  marriage.  They  shut 
their  eyes  on  the  future,  braved  all  the 
adverse  chances  of  life,  and  almost 


prayed  for  trials  in  order  that  each 
might  show  the  other  greater  devotion. 
The  feeling  was  natural  and  ungovern- 
able, and  I  claim  also  that  it  was  beau- 
tiful and  noble. 

"  Do  you  know  all  ?  "  asked  Bessie. 
"  Grandfather  has  never  proposed  to 
leave  me  anything,  he  hated  my  father 
so  !  It  was  always  understood  that 
Aunt  Mercy  was  to  take  care  of  me." 

"  I  want  nothing  with  you,"  said 
Foster.  "  I  will  slave  myself  to  death 
for  you.  I  will  rejoice  to  do  it." 

"  O,  I  knew  it  would  be  so,"  replied 
the  girl,  almost  faint  with  joy  and  love. 
"  I  knew  you  would  be  true  to  me.  I 
knew  how  grand  you  were." 

When  they  looked  out  upon  the 
earth,  after  this  scene,  during  which 
they  had  been  conscious  of  nothing  but 
each  other,  the  storm  had  fled  beyond 
verdant  hills,  and  a  rainbow  spanned 
all  the  visible  landscape,  seeming  to 
them  indeed  a  bow  of  promise. 

"  O,  we  can  surely  be  happy  in  such 
a  world  as  this,"  said  Bessie,  her  face 
colored  and  illuminated  by  youth,  hope, 
and  love. 

"  We  will  find  a  cloud  castle  some- 
where," responded  the  young  man, 
pointing  to  the  western  sky,  piled  with 
purple  and  crimson. 

Bessie  was  about  to  accompany  him 
to  the  gate  on  his  departure,  as  was 
her  simple  and  affectionate  custom, 
when  a  voice  called  her  up  stairs. 

"  O  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed,  pettishly. 
"  It  seems  as  if  I  could  n't  have  a  mo- 
ment's peace.  Good  by,  my  darling." 

During  the  close  of  that  day,  at  the 
hour  which  in  Barham  was  known  as 
"  early  candle  -  lighting,"  the  Lauson 
tragedy  began  to  take  form.  The  mys- 
terious shadow  which  vaguely  an- 
nounced its  on-coming  was  the  disap- 
pearance from  the  family  ken  of  that 
lighthouse  of  regularity,  that  fast-root- 
ed monument  of  strict  habit,  Aunt  Mer- 
cy. The  kerosene  lamp  which  had  so 
long  beamed  upon  her  darnings  and 
mendings,  or  upon  her  more  aesthetic 
labors  in  behalf  of  the  Barham  sewing 
society,  or  upon  the  open  yellow  pages 
of  her  Scott's  Commentary  and  Bax- 


1870.] 


Right  and  Left. 


455 


ter's  Saints'  Rest,  now  flared  distract- 
edly about  the  sitting-room,  as  if  in 
amazement  at  her  absence.  Nowhere 
was  seen  her  tall,  thin,  hard  form,  the 
truthful  outward  expression  of  her  lean, 
and  sickly  soul  ;  nowhere  was  heard 
the  afflicted  squeak  of  her  broad  calf- 
skin shoes,  symbolical  of  the  worryings 
of  her  fretful  conscience.  The  doors 


J  which  she  habitually  shut  to  keep  out 
:  the  night -draughts  remained  free  to 
swing,  and,  if  they  could  find  an  aiding 
hand  or  breeze,  to  bang,  in  celebration 
of  their  independence.  The  dog  might 
wag  his  tail  in  wonder  through  the  par- 
lor, and  the  cat  might  profane  the  sofa 
Avith  his  stretchings  and  slumbers. 

At  first  the  absence  of  Aunt  Mercy 
merely  excited  such  pleasant  consider- 
ations as  these.  The  fact  was  accept- 
ed as  a  relief  from  burdens  ;  it  tended 
towards  liberty  and  jocoseness  of  spirit. 
The  honest  and  well-menning  and  de- 
vout woman  had  been  the  censor  of  the 
family,  and,  next  after  the  iron-head- 
ed Squire,  its  dictator.  Bessie  might 
dance  alone  about  the  sober  rooms, 


and  play  operatic  airs  and  waltzes  upon 
her  much-neglected  piano,  without  be- 
ing called  upon  to  assume  sackcloth 
and  ashes  for  her  levity.  The  cheerful 
life  which  seemed  to  enter  the  house 
because  Aunt  Mercy  had  left  it  was  a 
severe  commentary  on  the  sombre  and 
unlovely  character  which  her  diseased 
sense  of  duty  had  driven  her  to  give 
to  her  unquestionably  sincere  religious 
sentiment.  It  hinted  that,  if  she  should 
be  taken  altogether  away  from  the  fam- 
ily, her  loss  would  awaken  little  mourn- 
ing, and  would  soon  be  forgotten. 

Presently,  however,  this  persistent 
absence  of  one  whose  very  nature  it 
was  to  be  present  excited  surprise,  and 
eventually  a  mysterious  uneasiness. 
Search  was  made  about  the  house  ;  no 
one  was  discovered  up  stairs  but  Mrs. 
Lauson,  brooding  alone  ;  then  a  neigh- 
bor or  two  was  visited  by  Bessie  ;  still 
no  Aunt  Mercy.  The  solemn  truth 
was,  although  no  sanguinary  sign  as 
yet  revealed  it,  that  the  Lauson  trage- 
dy had  an  hour  since  been  consum- 
mated. 


RIGHT    AND     LEFT. 


IT  is  claimed  by  mathematicians  that 
their  ancient  science  underlies  all 
others.  No  doubt  they  are  correct ; 
for  theirs  is,  essentially,  the  science  of 
space  and  of  time,  without  reference  to 
which  we  can  neither  think  nor  act 
upon  this  earth.  It  may  be  doubted 
how  far  a  practical  acquaintance  with 
the  ways  and  means  of  any  other  than 
the  simplest  mathematics  is  required 
in  the  every-day  life  of  the  ordinary 
business  or  professional  man;  but  it 
is  certain  that  the  three  characteris- 
tic signs,  o,  -)-,  —  (zero,  plus,  minus), 
may  be  taken  to  represent  the  three 
successive  stages  of  human  thought 
upon  most  questions,  great  or  small, 
in  the  other,  even  the  least  kindred, 
branches  of  knowledge. 


At  first  we  know  nothing.  Zero  is 
the  full  extent  of  our  information. 

Then  follows  an  accumulation  of  facts 
and  development  of  ideas,  which  sooner 
or  later  crystallize  into  theories,  broad 
and  sweeping,  and  so  eminently  satis- 
factory, that  no  further  inquiry  seems 
necessary  ;  and  this  stage,  which  ap- 
pears to  be  complete  or  to  be  suscep- 
tible only  of  addition,  is  fitly  represented 
by  the  sign  plus. 

The  third  stage  may  be  long  de- 
ferred, but  is  sure  to  come.  It  is  when 
exceptions  are  found  to  the  supposed 
universal  rules  ;  when  new  facts  are 
discovered,  and  old  ones  prove  capable 
of  a  different  interpretation,  so  that 
each  year  takes  something  from  the 
accepted  theories,  which  finally  are  seen 


456 


Right  and  Left. 


[April, 


to  be  either  wholly  false,  or  true  only  so 
far  as  is  compatible  with  some  more 
comprehensive  law  now  brought  to 
light. 

Chaos  became  a  broad,  unbroken 
ocean,  but  afterward  the  dry  land  ap- 
peared. Too  little  is  followed  by  too 
much,  and  the  happy  mean  comes 
later. 

Vacuity  is  succeeded  by  the  ideal, 
which  in  turn  must  give  place  to  the 
real. 

Fancy  fills  a  great  void  in  the  mind, 
but  must  yield,  in  part  at  least,  to  fact. 

Ignorance  is  the  parent  of  conceit, 
and  this,  by  grace  of  God,  may  give 
birth  to  humility,  —  to  the  humble  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  truth. 

Paganism,  and  the  denial  of  a  true 
God,  gave  way  to  Romanism  ;  and  this 
is  now  everywhere  breaking  down  be- 
fore the  slow  but  sure  advance  of  lib- 
eral Christianity. 

Let  us  now  inquire  how  far  this  suc- 
cession of  states  may  be  detected  in 
the  history  of  a  single  question  in 
science. 

There  has  doubtless  been  a  time 
when  men  saw  not,  or  if  they  saw, 
appreciated  not,  that  dual  composition 
of  the  most  beautiful  objects  of  nature, 
—  the  human  face  and  the  whole  human 
form,  certain  regular  crystals  and  many 
leaves, — which  has  since  been  so  uni- 
versally recognized,  and  which,  under 
the  name  of  symmetrical  beauty,  has 
been  a  standing  law  in  art  of  every 
kind ;  so  that  the  highest  results  of 
painting  and  of  architecture  —  the  ideal 
face  and  the  Greek  temple  and  Gothic 
church  —  are  or  are  intended  to  be 
composed  of  two  equal  and  identical 
halves  upon  opposite  sides  of  a  mesial 
plane. 

But  although  this  idea  of  perfect 
symmetry  has  been  thus  adopted  as  a 
rule  in  art,  admitted  in  theory  and  fol- 
lowed in  practice  as  a  first  and  indis- 
pensable step  toward  pre-eminence,  it 
by  no  means  follows  that  it  is  true  to 
nature  ;  and  it  behooves  us,  whether 
as  artists  or  as  naturalists,  to  examine 
carefully  all  the  facts,  and  see  whether 
they  justify  a  continuance  of  our  belief 


in  the  law  of  perfect  symmetry,  or  of 
absolute  identity  between  two  halves  of 
anything. 

If  not,  then  we  may  be  ready  to  enter 
upon  the  third  stage  of  the  subject,  and 
are  bound  to  examine  each  statement, 
whether  new  or  old,  in  the  light  of  a 
possible  reversal  of  previous  opinions. 

Having  done  this  with  all  the  infor- 
mation at  my  command,  conclusions 
have  been  reached  which  may  be  briefly 
expressed  by  the  following  six  proposi- 
tion :  — 

I.  That  many  of  the  most  beautiful 
and   useful  objects   in   nature  and  art 
are  symmetrical;  that  is,  composed  of 
two  similar  halves  separated  by  a  com- 
mon mesiad  plane. 

II.  That   these   two   similar   halves, 
when    carefully  examined,    are    never 
found  to  be  identical  either  in  form  or 
function. 

III.  That  many  objects  in  nature  are 
manifestly   composed   of  two   unequal 
halves. 

IV.  That  in  all  cases  of  marked  de- 
parture from  symmetry  in  the  adult,  a 
less  deviation  exists  at  an   earlier  pe- 
riod of  life. 

V.  That  deviations   from   symmetry 
ought   eventually   to    be    divided   into 
three    classes,   which   .may  be    called 
Abnormal,  Teleological,  and  Normal. 

VI.  That  there   are  principles,  nat- 
ural, human,  and  Divine,  which  require 
that  the  more  perfect  and  highly  organ- 
ized forms  should  consist  of  two  similar 
halves    separated   by  a   mesial   plane, 
but  which    at  the    same    time    forbid 
that  these  two   similar   halves   should 
ever  be  absolutely  identical. 

If  it  is  objected  that  the  halves  of 
anything  cannot  be  unequal,  and  that 
some  other  term  —  as  part  or  moiety  or 
portion  —  ought  to  be  used,  I  ask  the 
critic  to  suspend  judgment  until  the 
end  of  this  article  ;  by  which  time  he 
may  be  convinced  that,  although  in  the 
dictionary,  in  many  scientific  works, 
and  in  nearly  all  popular  ones,  halves 
are  defined  as  equal  and  identical  por- 
tions, yet  in  all  probability  neither 
equality  nor  identity  can  exist  in  na- 
ture. 


1 870.] 


Right  and  Left. 


457 


I. 

Our  first  proposition  is,  that  many  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  useful  objects 
in  nature  and  in  art  are  symmetrical, 
that  is,  composed  of  two  similar  halves 
separated  by  a  mesial  plane. 

As  this  is  the  generally  accepted 
doctrine  upon  the  subject,  and  the  very 
one  \ve  wish  to  qualify,  we  are  not 
called  upon  to  offer  any  facts  in  its 
support ;  but  as  the  glory  of  a  victory 
is  great  in  proportion  to  the  real  or 
apparent  strength  of  the  enemy,  it  is 
well  to  state  briefly  the  grounds  upon 
which  this  common  belief  is  based. 

A  glance  in  the  mirror  offers  the 
most  accessible  series  of  facts  ;  there 
is  a  right  and  a  left  eye,  a  right  and  a 
left  nostril,  a  right  and  a  left  ear,  the 
members  of  each  pair  being  evidently 
similar  ;  the  two  corners  of  the  mouth, 
the  two  temples,  the  two  cheeks,  and 
the  two  sides  of  the  forehead  closely 
resemble  each  other  in  shape  and  in 
position. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  there  are  two 
groups  of  features  ;  the  nose  and  mouth 
and  chin  and  forehead  are  all  upon 
the  middle  line,  and  their  right  and  left 
halves  are  to  be  compared  together ; 
they  are  called. single  or  median  organs, 
and  are  symmetrical  in  tJictnselves  :  but 
the  eyes,  the  nostrils,  the  ears,  the 
cheeks,  are  in  pairs,  one  on  each  side 
of  the  middle  line  ;  they  are  thus  sym- 
metrical with  each  other,  but  not  in 
themselves;  that  is,  the  outer  half  of 
the  right  eye  corresponds,  not  to  the 
inner  half  of  the  same  eye,  but  to  the 
outer  half  of  the  left  eye ;  and  so  with 
the  inner  halves  of  the  two  eyes,  so 
with  the  inner  and  outer  halves  of  each 
nostril.  And  the  same  is  true  of  all 
organs  in  the  body  :  some  being  me- 
dian, single,  and  symmetrical  in  them- 
selves ;  others,  lateral  and  in  pairs,  so 
as  to  be  symmetrical,  not  in  themselves, 
but  with  each  other. 

We  have  two  hands  and  two  feet, 
two  arms  and  two  legs,  and  the  entire 
right  side  of  the  body  is  the  reversed 
repetition  of  the  left.  There  is  a  right 
and  a  left  lung  too,  a  right  and  a  left 


kidney,  right  and  left  ribs,  muscles, 
nerves,  and  blood-vessels,  which  cer- 
tainly correspond  quite  closely  with 
each  other. 

The  same  is  true  concerning  our 
common  animals,  the  birds,  the  rep- 
tiles, the  fish,  and  the  insects.  The 
symmetrical  form  of  common  leaves 
is  so  obvious  that  no  one  hesitates 
to  say  that  they  consist  of  two  equal 
halves  joined  by  a  midrib.  Seeds,  like 
eggs,  are  often  round  or  oval,  and  are 
then  regarded  as  equal  upon  the  two 
sides ;  and  no  one  who  admits  the 
regularity  of  crystals  and  the  identity 
of  any  two  specimens,  is  likely  to  deny 
the  still  more  absolute  identity  which 
is  supposed  to  exist  between  their  two 
halves. 

And  so  we  might  enumerate  all  the 
symmetrically  beautiful  objects  in  na- 
ture. Many  cases  are  known  of  inflam- 
mation attacking  at  the  same  time  and 
in  the  same  way  the  two  elbows  or  the 
two  knees  or  the  two  sides  of  the  pel- 
vis. Occasionally,  too,  a  wound  or 
burn  upon  one  hand  or  arm  or  leg  will 
produce  pain  upon  the  other,  in  what 
is  said  to  be  the  very  same  spot ;  but, 
as  will  be  seen  further  on,  "to  seem  is 
not  always  to  be."  And  we  ought  to 
exact  the  most  rigid  tests  from  those 
who  claim  absolute  identity  between 
similar  parts  on  the  two  sides  of  the 
body. 

What  was  so  prominent  in  nature 
could  not  fail  to  be  imitated  in  art ;  and 
the  portraits,  the  temples,  and  the  col- 
umns of  all  ages  attest  the  faithfulness 
of  genius  to  what  was  thought  to  be 
the  true  ideal  of  beauty. 

The  same  necessity  for  symmetry 
which  we  observe  in  birds  and  in  most 
fishes  exists  in  all  bodies  which  are  to 
be  supported  by  a  fluid  medium,  as  the 
air  and  the  water ;  and  the  impression 
made  by  a  long  life  spent  upon  a  vessel 
has  sometimes  led  to  an  absurd  reten- 
tion of  the  symmetrical  arrangement 
there  required,  where  no  such  call  for 
it  existed.  An  old  sea-captain,  having 
retired  to  private  life  upon  the  shore, 
built  himself  a  house  of  which  the 
door  was  exactly  in  the  middle,  with 


458 


Right  and  Left. 


[April, 


an  equal  number  of  windows  upon  each 
side  ;  the  same  extent  of  ground  to 
the  right  and  the  'left,  and  the  same 
trees  and  bushes  and  flowers  in  the 
ground  ;  but  when  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  have  a  well,  and  the  land  would 
not  admit  of  placing  it  in  the  rear,  he 
consented  to  its  being  dug  upon  one 
side  of  the  house,  only  upon  the  condi- 
tion that  a  curb  and  well-sweep  and 
bucket  should  be  placed  upon  the  other, 
in  order  that  to  appearance,  at  least, 
his  dwelling  should  be  all  trim  and 
*'  ship-shape." 

That  the  ideal  standard  of  the  sea- 
captain  and  the  artist  is  truly  an  ideal 
and  not  an  actual  one  will  be  seen  in 
what  follows  under  our  second  proposi- 
tion. 

II. 

That  the  two  similar  halves  of  the 
so-called  symmetrical  object,  when  care- 
fully studied,  are  never  found  to  be  iden- 
tical in  form,  position,  or  function. 

This,  the  reverse  of  what  most  peo- 
ple would  take  to  be  the  signification 
of  the  first  proposition,  is  most  readily 
established  by  prolonging  the  glance 
at  yourself  in  the  mirror  into  a  careful 
scrutiny  of  each  feature,  and  comparing 
it  closely  with  its  fellow  of  the  opposite 
side. 

To  begin  with  the  eyes :  a  very 
slight  examination  will  show  that  one 
is  a  little  more  open  than  the  other,  or 
that  the  upper  lid  droops  at  the  outer 
or  the  inner  corner  more  in  one  than  in 
the  other  ;  one  eyebrow,  too,  is  raised 
a  little  higher  than  the  other ;  neither 
lids  nor  brows,  it  is  true,  are  any  part 
of  the  eye  itself,  but  they  are  the  chief 
agents  in  whatever  expression  it  has  : 
while  the  not  infrequent  occurrence  of 
strabismus  in  its  various  forms,  and 
even  of  different  colors  of  the  eyes 
themselves,  indicate  the  possible  ex- 
istence of  unsuspected  differences  be- 
tween the  two  organs,  which  need  only 
more  careful  looking  for  to  be  seen. 
Everybody  knows,  too,  that  the  right 
€ye  does  not  see  an  object  just  as  the 
left  does ;  and  the  immense  demand 
for  stereoscopic  views,  though  it  proves 


nothing  new,  tends  to  confirm  the  truth 
of  the  proposition. 

It  is  not  easy  to  compare  the  two 
ears  together  during  life,  and  their 
form  is  so  apt  to  change  after  death 
that  not  much  is  to  be  said  of  them. 

But  the  nose,  being  the  most  promi- 
nent feature,  likewise  best  exhibits  this 
want  of  perfect  symmetry  in  its  two 
halves.  This  usually  consists  in  a  great- 
er or  less  deviation  to  one  side,  which 
is  often  so  great  as  to  give  it  quite  a 
different  outline,  as  seen  from  the  right 
or  the  left  side  ;  either  with  or  without 
this  bending  of  the  nose  itself,  the  bony 
and  cartilaginous  partition  between  the 
two  cavities  may  vary  from  the  perpen- 
dicular so  as  to  approach  and  even 
touch  the  outer  wall  of  one  nostril, 
which  is  thereby  obstructed,  either  con- 
stantly or  temporarily,  as  when  there  is 
any  inflammation  of  the  mucous  mem- 
brane. And  when  no  deviation  from 
symmetry  is  observable  in  the  body  of 
the  nose,  the  nostrils,  even  in  what  are 
called  perfect  and  regular  features,  dif- 
fer in  size  and  shape  ;  and  generally 
the  wing  of  one  nostril  is  elevated  a 
little  more  than  the  other. 

The  mouth  participates  in  the  irregu- 
larities of  the  nose,  and  one  angle  is 
always  a  little  more  drawn  than  the 
other  ;  the  same  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
cheeks,  especially  of  thin,  strong-fea- 
tured people,  so  that  one  entire  side  of 
the  face  appears,  and  really  is,  shorter 
than  the  other. 

It  is  not  easy,  either,  to  see  or  to 
describe  variations  of  the  chin  ;  but  in 
the  beard,  its  hairy  appendage,  there  is 
almost  always  a  difference  of  the  two 
sides,  which  persists  during  life,  in 
spite  of  all  cultivation  of  the  deficient 
portion. 

Deviations  from  symmetry  are  ex- 
tremely common  in  the  bones  of  the 
head,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  any 
skull  is  equal  upon  the  two  sides.  Sel- 
dom if  ever  are  the  wrinkles  of  the  skin 
of  the  forehead  equal  in  number  or 
shape  or  direction  upon  the  two  sides. 

All  these  are  illustrations  of  ana- 
tomical or  strjictural  deviations  from 
ideal  symmetry ;  but  the  functional 


1 870.] 


Right  and  Left. 


459 


manifestations,  though  more  transient 
and  less  often  noticed,  are  none  the 
less  significant.  Homoeopathic  practi- 
tioners lay  great  stress  upon  the  pre- 
dominance of  symptoms  upon  one  or 
the  other  side  of  the  face  or  body,  and 
certain  it  is  that  even  in  health  a  differ- 
ence may  be  recognized.  There  are 
cases  of  what  is  called  unilateral  sweat- 
ing of  the  head  ;  and  the  blushing  of 
one  cheek,  with  partial  or  complete 
paleness  of  the  other,  is  very  common. 
There  is  in  some  cases  a  very  marked 
alternation  of  pulse  upon  the  two  sides, 
as  if  one  beat  of  the  heart  sent  the 
blood  more  forcibly  to  the  right,  the 
next  to  the  left  side  of  the  body  ;  this 
is  most  easily  perceived  when  one  or 
the  other  side  is  inflamed,  when,  of 
course,  the  pulse  of  that  side  is  exag- 
gerated; but  I  have  myself  felt  it  in  the 
ordinary  pulse  at  the  wrist,  and  doubt 
not  that  the  proper  examination  will 
demonstrate  its  universal  existence. 

There  are  many  other  facts  in  dis- 
ease which  must  be  due  to  a  difference 
in  either  the  heart's  action  or  in  the 
blood-vessels  of  the  organs  themselves  ; 
as,  for  instance,  the  greater  frequency 
of  tubercles  in  the  left  lung,  and  of 
pneumonia  in  the  right,  as  if  the  right 
were  the  more  vigorous  or  sthenic  half 
of  the  body,  with  the  internal  organs 
as  well  as  with  the  limbs  where  it  is 
more  generally  recognized  ;  and  the 
remarkable  tendency  of  rheumatism  to 
attack,  now  one,  now  the  other  side  of 
the  body  was  doubtless  the  foundation 
for  the  comical  answer  of  a  physician 
when  asked  concerning  a  patient  treat- 
ed in  common  by  himself  and  a  fellow- 
practitioner.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "at  last 
accounts  my  half  was  doing  finely,  but 
Dr.  B 's  half  was  worse  than  usual." 

Those  who  wear  closely  fitting  gloves 
and  boots  are  well  aware,  though  the 
people  who  make  them  seem  to  ignore 
the  fact,  that,  as  a  rule,  the  right  hand 
and  the  right  foot  are  larger  than  the 
left;  and  if  it  be  said  that  this  dif- 
ference was  not  natural,  but  is  caused 
by  the  greater  or  the  different  use 
of  one  hand  and  foot,  then  I  ask, 
What  causes  all  men,  with  few  ex- 


ceptions, to  employ  the  right  hand  for 
striking  and  the  left  for  holding  and 
supporting,  the  right  foot  for  kicking 
and  for  taking  the  more  vigorous  part 
in  propelling  the  body,  while  the  left 
supports  the  body  in  the  one  case,  and 
is  advanced  to  be  ready  to  receive  its 
weight  in  the  other?  No  doubt  imi- 
tation of  others  and  long- continued 
habit  go  far  toward  perfecting  the  ready 
use  of  the  right  hand  and  the  right 
foot,  but  something  else  must  have 
originated  the  habit  and  the  custom. 
It  is  found,  too,  that  the  left  hand  is 
more  sensible  to  changes  of  tempera- 
ture than  the  right,  while,  as  every  one 
knows,  it  is  with  the  right  that  we 
most  readily  detect  variations  of  shape. 

Professor  Wyman  has  found  by  care- 
ful measurements  that  "in  ten  human 
skeletons  the  bones  of  the  forearms 
were  of  equal  length  in  only  one,"  and 
even  in  that  a  still  more  minute  com- 
parison would  probably  have  shown  a 
difference.  He  has  also  compared  the 
concentric  rows  of  papillae  upon  the 
thumbs  or  the  fingers  of  the  two  hands, 
by  making  an  impression  of  them  on 
paper  slightly  coated  with  black,  and 
found  in  most  individuals  a  very  close 
approach  to  absolute  symmetry,  but  in 
others  remarkable  departures  from  it, 
even  the  entire  pattern  being  changed. 
Now,  slight  as  this  difference  seems, 
it  alone  is  sufficient  to  establish  our 
point,  that  an  absolute  and  entire  iden- 
tity has  not  been  found  between  the 
two  halves  of  the  body. 

It  is  surely  something  more  than 
habit  which  causes  us  to  look  through 
a  microscope  or  telescope  with  one 
eye  rather  than  with  the  other,  and 
there  have  even  been  perceived  by  the 
two  eyes  two  different  shades  of  color 
from  the  same  flame  when  viewed 
through  either  alone. 

It  may,  too,  be  something  more  than 
mere  habit  which  determines  the  man- 
ner of  putting  on  our  clothes  :  the  ma- 
jority of  people  putting  the  right  arm 
first  into  a  coat-sleeve  and  the  right 
leg  into  its  proper  garments.  There  is, 
too,  —  though  possibly  the  garment  it- 
self may  be  responsible  for  it,  —  a  dif- 


460 


Right  and  Left. 


[April, 


ference  in  the  way  the  two  legs  are 
raised,  the  right  being  elevated  and 
bent  in  the  same  plane  which  it  gener- 
ally occupies,  while  the  left  is  turned 
outward  and  goes  through  a  more  ex- 
tensive series  of  motions  ;  but  my  rea- 
ders can  see  all  this  better  than  I  can 
describe  it. 

We  are  told  that  the  cow  and  the  other 
ruminating  animals  chew  first  with  one 
side  and  then  with  the  other,  so  that 
the  direction  of  the  lateral  motion  of 
the  jaw  is  reversed  at  regular  intervals  ; 
but  in  human  beings,  though  less  free- 
dom is  allowed  for  a  sidewise  motion, 
the  muscles  work  in  such  a  way  that 
the  teeth  of  one  side  touch  before  those 
of  the  other,  and  the  whole  jaw  is 
worked  obliquely  from  right  to  left  or 
from  left  to  right ;  this  may  be  partly 
custom,  but  the  habit  is  formed  uncon- 
sciously, and  usually  persists  through 
life. 

A  few  words  upon  imperfect  symme- 
try in  what  are  generally  considered 
regular  leaves.  In  the  hop-hornbeam 
(Ostrya  Virginicd),  the  casual  observer 
sees  no  difference  between  the  two 
halves  of  each  leaf;  but  if  the  plant  be 
examined  more  carefully  it  will  be  found 
that  the  veins  branch  off  from  the  mid- 
rib, not  in  pairs,  but  alternately,  so  that 
on  one  side  they  begin  lower  down  than 
upon  the  other ;  and  now  if  several 
leaves  be  compared  together,  about  half 
of  them  will  prove  to  be  larger  and  to 
have  the  veins  beginning  lower  down 
upon  the  one  side,  and  the  rest  upon  the 
other  side  ;  and  if  a  pair  of  leaves  upon 
the  stem  be  contrasted,  you  will  see 
that  in  each  it  is  the  outer  half  which 
is  the  larger,  and  the  inner  which  is  the 
smaller.  These  leaves,  then,  are  not 
symmetrical  in  themselves,  but  with 
each  other,  the  outer  half  of  one  corre- 
sponding to  the  outer  half  of  the  other, 
and  the  two  inner  halves  in  the  same 
way  ;  and  they  are  therefore  right  and 
left,  just  like  the  two  eyes. 

The  leaves  of  elm-trees  show  this 
difference  still  more  strikingly,  but  here 
it  is  the  inner  halves  which  are  the 
larger  and  in  which  the  veins  com- 
mence lower  clown  ;  and  in  many  other 


leaves  the  difference  between  the  two 
sides  is  so  great  that  every  one  notices 
them.  Our  object,  however,  is  to  show 
that  the  differences  may  exist  even  in 
those  where  it  is  not  apparent  to  or- 
dinary observation;  but  the  facts  just 
given  lead  naturally  to  a  consideration 
of  our  third  proposition. 

The  lack  of  symmetry  which  we  be- 
lieve to  exist  in  even  the  most  perfect 
works  of  art  cannot  be  described  par- 
ticularly, except  by  taking  up  any  single 
picture*  or  edifice,  and  comparing  one 
side  with  the  other.  But  when  we  re- 
flect that  so  many  elements  enter  into 
the  composition  of  each  work,  and  that 
all  these,  material,  color,  shape,  weight, 
and  position,  are  so  many  variables,  and 
that  each  half  must  be,  by  human 
hands,  constructed  separately,  so  that 
all  the  variable  elements  of  human  ac- 
tion must  have  a  place  in  our  calculation, 
it  is  self-evident  that,  however  closely 
the  two  sides  of  a  portrait  or  the  two 
halves  of  a  church  or  other  building 
may  repeat  each  other,  it  is  absolutely 
impossible  that  they  should  ba  identi- 
cal in  every  respect. 

III. 

That  many  objects  in  nature  are 
manifestly  composed  of  two  unequal 
halves. 

Let  us  begin,  as  before,  with  the  hu- 
man body.  Marked  differences  between 
the  two  sides  of  the  face  are  not  very 
rare,  but  they  are  generally  called  de- 
formities,—  such  as  an  excessive  twist 
of  the  nose,  an  extreme  squint  or  de- 
cided strabismus,  —  but  the  infinite  gra- 
dation in  all  these,  and  the  varied  im- 
pressions they  make  upon  observers, 
render  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
draw  a  distinction  between  these  de- 
cided cases  and  those  only  to  be  de- 
tected by  careful  scrutiny.  Distortions 
of  the  limbs  are  sometimes  alike  upon 
the  two  sides,  but  are  often  different ;  for 
instance,  out  of  703  cases  of  club-feet, 
in  only  320  were  both  feet  similarly 
affected  ;  in  182  the  right  foot  was  dis- 
torted, in  138  the  left  foot,  and  in  20 
cases  one  foot  was  turned  outward  and 
the  other  inward. 


1 870.] 


Right  and  Left. 


461 


Supernumerary  teeth  occur  generally 
upon  only  one  side  of  the  jaw ;  in  the 
152  cases  of  sexdigitism  lately  tabu- 
lated by  me,  the  34  individuals  who 
had  an  extra  digit  upon  two  limbs  had, 
except  in  two  cases,  two  extra  thumbs, 
or  two  extra  little  fingers,  two  great  or 
little  toes  ;  but  although  the  same  lii^if 
is  here  repeated  upon  the  two  sides, 
there  is  always  a  difference  between  tJie 
two  extra  ones.  The  same  is  true  with 
what  are  called  muscular  and  nervous 
and  vascular  anomalies  ;  for  when  these 
organs  are  found  to  vary  from  the  nor- 
mal condition  upon  one  side  of  the 
body  only,  they  of  course  differ  from 
their  fellows  of  the  opposite  side ;  and 
even  when  both  vary,  they  never  do  so 
in  precisely  the  same  way  or  to  the 
same  extent.  Hut  it  is  among  the  in- 
ternal organs  of  man  that  the  most 
striking  differences  exist  between  the 
two  sides.  Even  in  the  brain  whose 
two  halves  are  commonly  supposed  by 
anatomists  as  well  as  by  others  to  be 
perfectly  equal,  the  left  lobe  is  generally 
a  little  larger  than  the  other;  and  in 
some  cases  this  amounts  to  a  real  de- 
formity, though  no  such  discrepancy 
may  have  been  suspected  during  the 
life  of  the  individual ;  curiously  enough, 
Bichat,  a  celebrated  anatomist,  who 
during  life  upheld  the  theory  that  in- 
sanity was  due  to  a  disproportion  in 
size  of  the  two  halves  of  the  brain,  was 
found  himself  to  be  one  of  the  most 
marked  cases  of  this  kind,  one  lobe 
of  the  cerebrum  being  nearly  an  inch 
shorter  than  the  other.  It  is  not  often 
that  a  man  is  able  after  death  to  cor- 
rect the  very  errors  he  made  during  his 
life. 

Similar  and  even  more  striking  dif- 
ferences have  been  observed  in  the 
other  parts  of  the  brain.  The  number, 
extent,  and  direction  of  the  convolutions 
or  foldings  of  the  surface  of  the  cere- 
brum are  never  the  same  upon  the  two 
hemispheres,  and  no  practical  anato- 
mist expects  to  find  the  size  and  the 
arrangement  of  the  nerves  and  of  their 
branches  precisely  alike  upon  the  two 
sides  of  the  face,  or  any  other  part  of 
the  body. 


Descending  into  the  chest,  the  heart 
is  found  to  be  more  upon  the  left  side, 
and  the  right  lung  to  be  a  little  more 
capacious  than  the  left ;  but  in  conse- 
quence of  the  upward  pressure  of  the 
liver,  it  is  shorter  and  has  only  two 
lobes,  while  the  left  lung  is  longer  and 
has  three  lobes.  The  difference  in 
power  of  the  two  sides  of  the  heart  is 
well  known,  but  there  is,  in  addition,  a 
difference  in  the  mode  of  branching  of 
the  great  arteries  as  they  leave  it  to  go 
to  the  head  and  the  arms  of  the  two 
sides. 

In  the  abdomen,  no  one  thinks  of 
looking  for  symmetry,  for  the  stomach 
and  pancreas  lie  on  the  left,  the  liver 
on  the  right ;  while  the  intestines  are 
coiled  up  in  a  very  irregular  way. 
Even  the  two  kidneys,  as  they  appear, 
always  differ  a  little  in  form  and  in  po- 
sition, the  right  being  shorter  and  thick- 
er and  lower  down  than  the  left.  The 
great  artery  of  the  body,  the  aorta, 
passes  down  on  the  left  of  the  back- 
bone, and  the  vena-cava  ascends  upon 
the  right,  which  produces  a  difference 
in  the  length  of  all  their  branches. 

Turning  now  to  the  lower  animals, 
the  same  or  similar  facts  meet  us 
wherever  we  examine  with  reference 
to  this  point.  The  reason  so  few  facts 
are  on  record  is  that  anatomists  gen- 
erally have  taken  for  granted  that  the 
two  sides  were  alike,  and  have  made 
one  half  do  for  the  whole  ;  but  in  view 
of  what  is  known  on  this  point  we 
have  no  more  right  to  judge  one  half 
from  the  other  than  to  judge  a  whole 
species  from  a  single  specimen. 

The  size  of  some  of  the  common  ani- 
mals, the  hairy  coat  of  most,  and  the 
rounded  outline  of  all,  render  it  very 
difficult  to  compare  the  two  sides  to- 
gether ;  but  we  cannot  fail  to  note  great 
differences  in  the  smaller  and  more 
definitely  shaped  appendages  :  as  the 
ears,  the  horns  of  cattle  and  of  goats, 
and  the  antlers  of  deer,  the  spurs  of 
cocks,  and  the  curious  appendage 
hanging  from  the  corner  of  the  lower 
jaw,  in  Normandy  pigs,  which  some- 
times even  exists  only  on  one  side. 

The    narwhal,   a  kind  of  whale,   is 


462 


Right  and  Left. 


[April, 


called  Monodon,  because  the  male  has 
a  long  conical  tooth  projecting  from 
the  left  side  only  of  the  upper  jaw, 
and  nearly  all  of  the  cetacea  present  an 
exaggerated  degree  of  the  one-sided- 
ness  which  we  noted  in  the  human 
nose  ;  for  the  bony  nostrils  are  never 
quite  vertical,  and  the  partition  is  always 
crowded  toward  the  right,  so  as  in  some 
cases  wholly  to  obliterate  the  nostril 
of  that  side.  All  our  domesticated 
animals,  too,  are  liable,  like  man,  to  a 
deficiency  or  redundancy  of  fingers  and 
toes,  and  never  to  the  same  extent 
upon  the  two  sides.  The  same  is  the 
case  among  birds,  whose  beaks  also, 
especially  when  large,  as  in  ducks,  etc., 
are  generally  a  little  out  of  the  straight 
line.  In  the  curious  crossbills,  the 
lower  beak  curves  strongly  to  one  side, 
while  the  upper  one  curves  as  far  to 
the  other. 

Among  reptiles  and  fishes,  the  same 
things  are  found  whenever  they  are 
looked  for,  but  we  have  space  for  only 
a  few  striking  examples.  Cuvier  has 
noticed  that  in  salamanders  the  bones 
of  the  pelvis  are  sometimes  attached 
to  the  backbone  by  the  process  of  one 
vertebra  on  the  one  side  and  by  that 
of  a  different  one  on  the  other,  so  that 
a  slight  obliquity  is  produced ;  and  I 
am  informed  by  Professor  Agassiz, 
who  has  kindly  supplied  me  with  many 
facts  and  suggestions  upon  this  sub- 
ject, that  a  slight  inequality  often  exists 
between  the  two  sides  of  the  lower 
shell  or  plastron  of  turtles.  I  do  not 
know  that  any  imperfections  of  symme- 
try have  been  observed  with  the  ordi- 
nary fishes,  whose  mode  of  life  certainly 
requires  a  most  accurate  balancing  of 
the  two  sides  of  the  body  ;  but  many 
of  the  selachians,  whose  bodies  tend 
toward  a  flattened  and  outspread  form, 
present  quite  striking  differences  of 
color,  form,  and  structure  between  the 
two  sides. 

The  sunfish,  too  (not  the  jelly-fish, 
which  is  a  radiate),  swims  wholly  upon 
one  side,  which  is  white  or  light  col- 
ored, while  the  other  and  upper  side  is 
dark.  But  it  is  among  the  flounders 
and  their  allies  that  the  most  extraor- 


dinary differences  exist  between  the 
right  and  the  left  side.  They,  like  the 
sunfish,  swim  always  upon  one  side, 
which  is  in  some  species  the  right  and 
in  others  the  left;  but  not  only  are 
the  colors  of  these  different,  but  the 
whole  head  is  twisted  so  as  to  bring  as 
much  as  possible  upon  the  top  ;  and, 
most  wonderful  of  all,  the  eye  of  the , 
lower  side  actually  looks  out  of  the  up- 
per side  close  by  its  fellow,  which  prop- 
erly belongs  there  ;  —  the  nature  of 
this  extraordinary  transmigration  will 
be  referred  to  under  the  next  proposi- 
tion. 

As  would  be  expected  from  their 
mode  of  locomotion,  most  of  the  inter- 
nal organs  of  birds  are  more  symmetri- 
cal than  those  of  the  mammalia  ;  their 
liver,  for  instance,  instead  of  lying 
wholly  upon  the  right  side,  consists  of 
two  nearly  equal  portions,  one  upon 
each  side  of  the  backbone  ;  but  in  some 
species  the  right  lobe  is  decidedly  the 
longer  ;  the  lower  larnyx,  the  true  vo- 
cal organ  of  birds,  lies  not  in  the 
throat,  but  behind  the  end  of  the 
breast -bone;  it  is  generally  divided 
into  two  apparently  equal  halves,  but  in 
the  swans  and  geese,  etc.,  one  side  is 
very  much  larger  than  the  other. 

The  lungs  of  all  reptiles,  when  in- 
flated, are  seen  to  be  quite  different  on 
the  two  sides  ;  and  in  the  serpents  one 
half  is  a  mere  rudiment,  while  the 
other  is  enormously  developed,  reach- 
ing a  great  distance  along  the  cavity 
of  the  body. 

For  obvious  reasons,  it  is  much  easier 
to  detect  imperfections  of  symmetry  in 
the  articulates  than  in  the  vertebrates. 
The  markings  of  butterfly  wings  al- 
ways present  some  slight  difference  up- 
on the  two  sides.  I  am  not  aware  that 
any  observations  have  been  made  upon 
the  size  and  length  of  the  legs  or  an- 
tennae, but  it  would  be  well  worth  while 
to  make  them,  in  view  of  what  those 
organs  exhibit  among  the  next  group, 
the  Crustacea.  In  very  many  genera 
of  crabs  (Lithodus,  Cardesonia,  and 
the  little  fiddler  crabs  of  the  Southern 
marshes),  one  biting -claw  is  much 
larger  than  the  other  ;  the  same  is  true 


Right  and  Left. 


463 


of  the  lobster  (Astacus),  and  of  some 
other  genera  (Gelasimus,  etc.),  while 
in  Bopyrus,  one  entire  side  of  the  body 
is  larger  than  the  other. 

Among  the  mollusks  even  an  ap- 
proach to  symmetry  is  the  exception,  as 
in  the  cuttle-fishes,  while  the  ordinary 
bivalve  shells,  even  when  quite  sym- 
metrical, always  have  the  hinge-joint  un- 
equally divided  between  the  two  valves  ; 
in  the  common  oyster  one  valve  is 
deeper  than  the  other,  and  in  a  curious 
genus  (Radiolites)  the  difference  is  so 
great  as  to  suggest  what  happens  to 
one  valve  among  the  so-called  univalve 
shells,  —  its  reduction  to  a  mere  flat 
plate  to  close  the  mouth  of  its  now  im- 
mensely enlarged  and  coiled  fellow. 

This  is  a  pretty  formidable  array  of 
instances  of  manifest  departure  from 
exact  symmetry  in  the  three  types  of 
the  animal  kingdom  in  which  the  body 
is  composed  of  two  halves,  and  we 
may  now  inquire  into  the  direct  means 
by  which  these  deviations  from  sym- 
metry are  produced. 

IV. 

That  in  all  cases  of  marked  de- 
parture from  symmetry  in  adult  ani- 
mals, a  less  deviation  exists  at  an 
earlier  period  of  development. 

Professor  Wyman  has  seen  a  young 
lobster,  nearly  three  inches  in  length,  in 
which  the  right  and  left  anterior  claws 
were  still  symmetrical,  although  this  is 
one  of  the  species  in  which,  at  a  greater 
age,  one  claw  is  very  much  larger  than 
the  other.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  the  other  Crustacea  and  of  the  mol- 
lusks, and  even,  incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  of  the  extraordinary  cases  among 
the  vertebrates.  In  the  young  nar- 
whal the  right  and  left  upper  teeth  were 
of  equal  size,  but  the  former  remains 
stationary  and  imbedded  in  its  socket, 
while  the  left  grows  very  fast  and  finally 
attains  a  length  of  several  feet. 

The  very  young  flounder  is  as  sym- 
metrical and  well  balanced  as  any  other 
fish  ;  but  as  it  grows  it  swims  more  and 
more  upon  one  side,  and  the  lower 
surface  remains  light  colored  and  the 


upper  becomes  dark;  all  its  internal 
organs,  even  its  brain,  partake  of  the 
steadily  increasing  twist,  and  the  eye  of 
the  lower  side,  according  to  the  obser- 
vation of  Steenstrup,  actually  sinks 
inward,  and  gradually  works  its  way 
through  the  softer  parts,  and  passes 
through  a  place  where  there  is  no  bone, 
and  at  last  makes  its  appearance  upon 
the  other  and  upper  surface  of  the  head, 
not  far  from  its  mate  ;  but  it  always 
has  an  irregular,  somewhat  foreign 
look  and  position,  so  as  to  be  easily 
distinguished  from  the  original  eye  of 
that  side.  I  know  nothing  of  the  dif- 
ferences between  the  embryonic  limbs 
of  animals  as  compared  with  the  differ- 
ences already  alluded  to  as  existing  in 
the  adult,  but  will  repeat  my  belief  that 
in  all  cases  these  differences  were  only 
less,  not  totally  absent. 

The  changes  which  occur  during  de- 
velopment among  the  internal  organs 
of  most  mammals,  including  man,  are 
not  less  extensive  and  wonderful  than 
those  observed  in  the  flounder.  With- 
out entering  into  details,  it  is  enough 
to  say,  that  all  those  organs,  as  the 
heart,  the  stomach,  the  liver,  and  the 
spleen,  which  in  the  adult  lie  more 
upon  one  than  upon  the  other  side  of 
the  middle  line,  and  are  irregular  and 
unsymmetrical  in  shape,  were  in  the 
embryo  not  only  regular  and  symmet- 
rical, but  placed  each  upon  the  middle 
line  of  the  body  ;  they  were  then  some- 
times smaller,  sometimes  proportionally 
larger,  than  at  a  later  period,  but  the 
chief  changes  are  in  shape  and  posi- 
tion. The  long  and  tortuous  intestine 
was  once  a  short,  straight,  and  simple 
canal,  the  lungs  were  much  less  differ- 
ent, and  the  kidneys  were  more  nearly 
symmetrical  in  form  and  position. 

Even  if  the  most  careful  embryolo- 
gists  had  not  become  convinced  of  the 
above  facts  by  the  various  stages  as 
to  form  and  position  of  the  several 
viscera,  as  seen  in  embryos  at  different 
periods  of  development,  there  are  cer- 
tain other  and  more  easily  observed 
facts  which  would  alone  indicate  that 
at  some  early  stage  the  organs  had  a 
different  aspect  from  that  in  the  adult 


464 


Right  and  Left. 


[April, 


Occasionally  a  man's  heart  is  found  to 
be  upon  the  middle  line  and  directly 
beneath  the  breast-bone;  while  cases 
are  by  no  means  rare  of  a  reversed  ar- 
rangement of  organs,  the  heart  lying 
upon  and  pointing  toward  the  right 
side,  the  right  lung  being  the  longer 
and  narrower,  while  the  left  is  shorter, 
being  pushed  up  by  the  liver,  which 
has  changed  places  with  the  stomach  ; 
the  latter,  with  the  spleen  and  pancreas, 
lying  in  the  right  side  of  the  abdomen. 


V. 

That  deviations  from  symmetry  ought 
eventually  to  be  divided  into  three 
classes,  which  may  be  called  Abnor- 
mal, Teleological,  and  Normal. 

The  first  will  include  those  exagger- 
ated and  exceptional  differences  be- 
tween right  and  left  sides  which  are 
produced  by  disordered  action,  and 
which  result  in  disease  or  deformity. 

The  second,  those  more  or  less  ap- 
parent deviations  from  symmetry  which 
are  connected  with  certain  special  needs 
of  the  organism  in  which  they  occur. 

The  third  will  include  all  other  cases 
of  imperfect  symmetry  which  we  can- 
not account  for  upon  grounds  of  special 
adaptation  or  malformation,  and  which, 
we  must  believe,  are  due  to  the  action 
•of  still  higher  laws,  and  to  necessities 
above  and  beyond  those  now  generally 
recognized. 

I  do  not  feel  prepared  to  state  my 
own  belief  as  to  the  way  in  which  all 
the  facts  above  given  are  to  be  divided 
among  these  three  classes  ;  but  I  am 
fully  convinced  that  the  distinctions 
ought  to  be  drawn.  That  they  are  true 
to  nature  is  more  evident  when  we 
contrast  striking  examples  of  each  to- 
gether. The  production  of  a  club-foot 
upon  one  leg,  or  of  a  supernumerary 
finger  upon  one  hand,  or  of  a  single 
cross-eye,  is  surely  not  normal,  nor  is 
it  to  be  accounted  for  as  conducive  in 
any  way  to  the  comfort  or  well-being 
of  the  individual  :  on  the  other  hand, 
the  displacement  of  the  abdominal  vis- 
cera is  evidently  for  convenience  of 
packing  in  the  smallest  possible  space  ; 


the  greater  size  of  one  claw  enables  the 
lobster  to  use  it  for  offence  and  for  crush- 
ing larger  bodies,  and  the  other  as  an 
organ  for  carrying  food  to  the  mouth. 
Under  the  same  category  ought,  proba- 
bly, to  be  placed  those  structural  dis- 
tinctions between  the  right  and  the  left 
hands  which  enable  us  without  reflec- 
tion to  use  the  one  for  one  purpose 
and  the  other  for  another  ;  since,  as 
Sir  Charles  Bell  has  remarked,  delay 
would  often  be  dangerous  and  some- 
times fatal.  All  these  and  some  other 
cases  may  clearly  be  regarded  as  wise 
provisions  of  the  Creator  for  the  sake 
of  the  individual ;  and  this  conclusion 
is,  perhaps,  not  incompatible  with  occa- 
sional reversions  of  the  usual  arrange- 
ments ;  as  in  left-handed  people,  in 
those  whose  viscera  are  transposed, 
and  in  flat-fish,  which  are  dark  upon 
the  right  side,  while  the  larger  num- 
ber of  their  species  are  dark  upon  the 
left. 

But  the  third,  and  by  far  the  most 
numerous  class  of  cases,  we  are,  at 
present  at  least,  utterly  unable  to  ac- 
count for  in  either  of  the  above  ways. 
There  are  slight  and  almost  impercep- 
tible differences  between  the  right  and 
left  sides  of  even  the  most  regular 
faces,  which  certainly  are  not  deformi- 
ties, and  which  we  have  no  reason  to 
believe  are  especially  adapted  to  the 
mere  physical  necessities  of  the  indi- 
vidual ;  the  same  is  to  be  said  of  the 
differences  in  the  markings  of  animals, 
of  butterflies,  and  of  beetles  ;  and  of  all 
the  other  deviations  from  perfect  and 
ideal  symmetry,  whether  in  nature  or 
in  art,  which  the  superficial  artist  or 
naturalist  may  overlook,  which  the  arro- 
gant and  self-willed  may  ignore,  but 
which  the  true  lover  of  the  beautiful 
humbly  admits  to  exist,  even  though 
they  seem  to  baffle  his  highest  en- 
deavors and  to  render  imperfect  the 
works  of  God  himself. 


VI. 

That  there  are  principles,  natural, 
human,  and  Divine,  which  require  that 
the  more  perfect  and  highly  organized 


8;o.] 


Right  and  Left. 


465 


forms  should  consist  of  two  similar 
halves  separated  by  a  mesial  plane, 
but  which  at  the  same  time  forbid 
that  these  two  similar  halves  should 
ever  be  absolutely  identical. 

Thus  far  all  our  argument  has  been 
inductive  in  its  character;  and  no  con- 
clusions have  been  drawn  without  a 
tolerable  support  of  undeniable  facts. 
Perhaps  the  easier  way  of  concluding 
the  subject  would  be  to  express  the 
above  proposition  as  an  individual 
opinion,  the  truth  of  which  is  made 
probable  by  the  facts  already  presented. 
But  while  this  is  so,  and  while  on  mere- 
ly natural  grounds  the  proposition  might 
be  provisionally  accepted,  yet  with  even 
more  reason  might  its  validity  be  ques- 
tioned, since  it  is  impossible  to  de- 
monstrate it  upon  all  the  objects  of  na- 
ture. But  in  addition  to  the  evidence, 
partial  as  it  is,  afforded  by  the  few  ob- 
served facts  in  support  of  the  universal 
operation  of  natural  laws  toward  the 
production  of  duality  in  animals  and 
their  organs  and  in  the  leaves  of  plants, 
we  may  cite  the  opinions  of  philoso- 
phers who  certainly  derived  a  part  of 
their  inspiration  from  nature  itself. 

Oken,  the  greatest  and  most  pro- 
found naturalist  of  his  time,  of  whom 
Agassiz  writes  that  he  will  never  be 
forgotten  so  long  as  thinking  is  con- 
nected with  investigation,  says,  "  Ev- 
ery single  thing  is  a  duplicity,"  and 
"all  motion  has  resulted  from  a  du- 
plicity." *  And  were  it  necessary,  whole 
pages  of  quotations  could  be  given  from 
the  highest  authorities,  expressing  their 
belief  in  the  existence  of  symmetry 
and  of  natural  laws  which  tend  to  pro- 
duce it. 

In  evidence  of  the  imperfection  of 
this  symmetry.  I  quote  from  a  single 
author  ;  for  although  most  writers  on 
anatomy  recognize  the  facts,  they  sel- 
dom express  an  opinion  concerning  more 
than  what  is  then  being  described. 

The  great  Swedish  philosopher,  who 
was  a  most  learned  man  of  science,  and 
fully  recognized  as  such  long  before 
the  publication  of  those  theological 

*  Physiophilosopby,  Parag.  7Saud8i. 
VOL.   XXV.  —  NO.    150.  30 


works  which  have  since  induced  disbe- 
lievers therein  to  look  with  suspicion 
upon  his  purely  scientific  labors,  ex- 
presses himself  in  the  following  manner : 
"  No  society  can  exist  among  absolute 
peers  or  equals  ;  the  founding  of  soci- 
ety involves  a  perpetual  diversity  of 
members."  He  here  refers  directly  to 
entire  individuals,  but  the  same  idea 
is  elsewhere  expressed  in  treating  of 
halves  of  a  single  individual.  "  In  or- 
der that  all  things  may  flow  to  and  fro 
in  a  constant  circle,  and  that  each  may 
be  emulous  of  perpetuity  and  describe 
forms  that  shall  perpetuate  the  motions 
of  life,  the  viscera,  cavities,  and  septa 
of  the  organic  frame  [of  man]  are  not 
precisely  equilibrated  and  sustained  by 
each  other  in  the  manner  of  a  well- 
poised  balance  ;  they  are  not  symmet- 
rical, nor  of  equal  force  and  weight  on 
the  right  and  left  sides  of  the  body."  * 

So  much  for  natural  laws.  That  there 
are  also  spiritual  laws  and  principles 
which  correspond  to  and  act  by  means 
of  them  is  certainly  not  demonstrable 
upon  natural  grounds.  But  no  such 
demonstration  is  needed  by  those  who 
believe  that  all  natural  objects  and  laws 
and  processes  are  merely  the  visible 
results  and  representatives  of  corre- 
sponding spiritual  objects  and  laws  and 
processes  ;  who  believe  that  the  outer 
corporeal  man  is  only  the  clothing  of 
the  inner  and  spiritual  man,  yet  that 
the  former  is  so  fully  and  completely 
adapted  to  the  latter  that  the  constitu- 
tion and  function  of  the  one  may  be 
surely  concluded  from  the  other  ;  who 
feel  assured  that  the  spirit  of  man  has 
eyes  and  ears  and  the  power  of  speech 
equally  with  the  body  ;  that  it  has  arms 
and  hands  and  legs  and  feet  and  all 

*  Animal  Kingdom,  Par.  464,  note  O,  and  Par. 
455- 

To  the  above  it  may  be  added  from  Aristotle,  that 
harmony  is  not  a  single  quality,  but  "  the  union  of 
contrary  principles  having  a  ratio  to  each  other." 
And  the  old  Roman  definition  of  Beauty  was,  "  mul- 
titude (or  variety)  in  unity  "  ;  while  a  modern  poet 
declares  it  is  produced  by  a  "  multiplicity  of  symmet- 
rical parts,  uniting  in  a  consistent  whole." 

And  in  conclusion  the  artists  admit  two  kinds  of 
beauty,  —  the  symmetrical  and  the  picturesque,  ac- 
cording as  the  unity  or  the  variety  predominates  ;  if 
they  admit  the  impossibility  of  absolute  unity,  we  may 
accept  their  ideas. 


466 


Right  and  Left. 


[April, 


things  belonging  to  them  ;  that  it  has 
what  corresponds  to  the  heart,  to  the 
lungs,  to  the  stomach,  and  to  the  brain, 
yes,  and  to  each  and  every  part  and 
organ  of  the  brain  ;  and  that  finally, 
since  the  human  body  is  composed  of 
two  halves,  similar,  yet  not  identical  in 
structure,  either  consentaneous  or  in- 
dependent in  action,  and  thus  mutually 
aiding  each  other  and  acting  as  one 
for  all  higher  purposes  of  life,  —  as 
when  we  look  with  two  eyes  into  the 
face  of  our  friend,  when  we  leap  for  joy 
to  meet  him,  when  not  one  but  both 
hands  clasp  his,  when  our  two  arms 
meet  around  the  beloved  form,  —  there- 
fore at  the  same  time,  and  even  when 
the  bodily  actions  are  impossible,  do 
the  parts  of  the  soul  look  and  hasten 
ana  grasp  and  hold  what  they  can  per- 
ceive in  the  unseen  world.  The  soul 
also  consists  of  two  similar,  yet  not 
identical  halves  :  the  one,  the  will,  in- 
cluding all  affections  and  desires  and 
loves  of  every  kind  ;  the  other,  the  un- 
derstanding, including  all  thoughts  and 
ideas  and  knowledges  ;  for  each  desire 
upon  the  one  side  there  is  upon  the 
other  a  corresponding  faculty  of  thought 
in  order  to  accomplish  it ;  for  every- 
thing we  know  there  is  a  counterpart 
of  affection  to  use  that  knowledge ;  but 
affection  is  not  thought,  neither  is  de- 
sire the  same  as  knowledge,  or  love  the 
same  as  wisdom  ;  they  correspond,  they 
are  similar,  and,  in  one  sense,  equal, 
but  never  identical. 

All  this  and  more  is  expressly  taught 
in  the  religious  doctrines  revealed 
through  Swedenborg ;  and  as  we  have 
already  quoted  from  his  scientific  works 
in  support  of  the  natural  laws  of  sym- 
metry, let  us  now  see  what  his  theo- 
logical writings  say  concerning  the  cor- 
responding spiritual  laws :  — 

"  The  right  of  the  body  and  of  the 
brain  relates  to  the  good  of  love,  whence 
comes  the  truth  of  wisdom  ;  and  the 
left  to  the  truth  of  wisdom  from  the 
good  of  love.  And  as  the  conjunction 
of  good  and  truth  is  reciprocal,  and  that 
conjunction  makes,  as  it  were,  a  one, 
hence  those  pains  act  together  and  con- 


jointly in  their  functions,  motions,  and 
senses."  * 

"The  left  part  of  the  brain  corre- 
sponds to  things  rational  or  intellectual, 
but  the  right  to  affections  or  things  vol- 
untary." f 

And  now,  if  all  this  is  true,  —  and  by 
a  large  and  constantly  increasing  circle 
of  readers  it  is  fully  believed,  —  then, 
since  man  was  made  in  the  image  and 
likeness  of  God,  in  him  too,  or  rather 
in  his  works  and  in  the  operations  of 
his  providence,  we  ought  to  seek  for 
similar  indications  of  a  dual  nature  : 
the  one  perfect  love,  wishing  the  high- 
est possible  good  to  all  men ;  the  other 
perfect  wisdom,  by  means  of  which  love 
acts  to  produce  the  effects  it  desires. 
Through  men  these  two  qualities  flow 
down  into  the  corresponding  regions 
of  their  minds ;  through  nature  they 
come  to  us  as  the  heat  and  light  of  the 
sun  ;  which,  like  them,  are  similar,  yet 
distinct,  may  act  together  or  indepen- 
dently, and  may  be  either  one  in  excess, 
but  never  in  nature  absolutely  alone. 

There  are,  of  course,  many  questions 
connected  with  this  subject  which  read- 
ily occur  to  the  reader,  but  which  are 
not  so  easily  solved  ;  for  most  of  them 
either  require  the  most  minute  and 
careful  search  for  slight  anatomical  dif- 
ferences between  the  two  sides  of  the 
body,  or  involve  an  immense  amount 
of  statistical  information  upon  the  hab- 
its of  men  and  animals,  with  a  careful 
discrimination  between  those  which 
are  merely  acquired,  and  thus  exist  in 
any  given  number  of  individuals  in 
pretty  equal  proportions,  and  those 
which,  being  universal  or  nearly  so, 
must  be  regarded  as  connected  with 
some  structural  peculiarities,  even  when 
they  cannot  be  detected  in  any  other 
way. 

The  six  propositions  already  ad- 
vanced may  not  appear  demonstrated, 
and  perhaps  the  writer  ought  only  to 
hope  that  the  facts  and  ideas  here 
given  may  incite  others  to  further  in- 
vestigations upon  this  interesting  topic. 

*  Divine  Love  and  Wisdom,  Parag.  384. 
t  Arcana  Ccelestia,  Par.  3883,  4652. 


My  Triumph. 


467 


MY   TRIUMPH. 

THE  autumn-time  has  come ; 
On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom, 
And  over  purpling  vines, 
The  low  sun  fainter  shines. 

The  aster-flower  is  failing, 
The  hazel's  gold  is  paling; 
Yet  overhead  more  near 
The  eternal  stars  appear ! 

And  present  gratitude 
Insures  the  future's  good, 
And  for  the  things  I  see 
I  trust  the  things  to  be ; 

That  in  the  paths  untrod, 
And  the  long  days  of  God, 
My  feet  shall  still  be  led, 
My  heart  be  comforted. 

O  living  friends  who  love  me! 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 

Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 

Save  it  from  evil  phrases : 

Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 

Are  dumb,  should  strangers  wake  it? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall ; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted: 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 


Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 


468  My  Triumph.  [April, 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong, — 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of  win. 

What  matter,  I  or  they? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers  ! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringers ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me ; 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be,  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 

A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 
Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold ! 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor ; 
An  equal-handed  labor; 
The  richer  life,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  ! 

Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore-reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory. 

I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith,  while  living, 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


469 


THE    GODS    OF    WO    LEE. 


WO  LEE  has  many  gods,  and,  after 
a  strange  fashion,  his  life  is 
largely  a  life  of  worship.  Some  of  his 
gods  are  creatures  of  wrath  and  hot 
blood  and  vindictiveness  ;  for  these  he 
makes  great  show  of  respect,  and  to 
them  he  offers  much  incense  and  many 
prayers.  Others  are  noted  for  their 
love  and  mercy  and  kindness ;  with 
these  he  gets  along  easily,  and  they 
readily  forgive  or  overlook  his  worst 
misdeeds  and  saddest  shortcomings. 
The  good  spirits  don't  like  to  harm  a 
man  ;  and,  therefore,  if  worship  is  in- 
convenient or  burdensome,  one  may 
somewhat  omit  or  neglect  his  service 
to  them:  the  bad  spirits  are  looking 
out  for  chances  against  men  ;  and  there- 
fore, and  at  whatever  of  cost  or  hazard, 
they  must  be  supplicated  and  kept  in 
good  humor  by  presents  and  attentions. 
This,  in  brief,  is  about  the  sum  of  what 
one  hears  in  San  Francisco  as  to  the 
religion  of  the  Chinese.  That  Lee 
is  devout  in  his  way,  that  he  spends 
much  time  in  the  ceremonies  of  wor- 
ship, that  his  religion  curiously  enters 
into  the  warp  and  woof  of  his  daily 
life, —  this  is  soon  seen  by  every  care- 
ful observer.  I  am  not  certain  that  the 
American  mind  can  either  apprehend 
or  comprehend  Chinese  religion  or 
Chinese  theology.  The  more  I  in- 
quired into  their  religious  system,  —  if 
indeed  they  have  a  system,  —  the  more 
I  found  it  full  of  riddles  and  intricacies 
and  contradictions.  The  traveller  may 
write  of  forms  and  ceremonies  from  the 
outside,  but  we  shall  know  little  of 
their  meaning  and  significance  till  some 
one  writes  of  them  fully  from  the  in- 
side. 

Kwan  Tae  is  the  god  of  war,  and  his 
images  are  numerous  in  the  Chinese 
Quarter  of  every  city  or  town  on  the 
Pacific  slope.  One  of  the  puzzles  of 
the  Chinaman  is,  that  though  peaceable 
and  inoffensive  to  a  remarkable  degree, 


he  dearly  loves  the  show  and  noise 
and  bustle  of  conflict.  The  banners 
and  implements  of  war  abound  in  his 
temples,  and  the  principal  feature  of 
the  plays  at  his  theatres  is  a  terrific 
contest  in  which  actors  are  wounded 
and  slaughtered  by  wholesale.  Looked 
at  in  one  light,  it  did  not  seem  strange 
to  find  Kwan  Tae  so  popular  among 
Wo  Lee  and  his  kinsfolk;  the  laws 
of  California  do  not  recognize  their 
rights,  and  if  I  were  a  Chinaman  I 
think  I  should  assiduously  cultivate  the 
favor  and  protection  of  this  mighty 
god  of  war.  He  is  the  first  of  the 
Chinese  gods  with  whom  most  Eastern 
visitors  to  the  Golden  Gate  make  per- 
sonal acquaintance.  He  is  the  patron 
of  Ning  Yung,  one  of  the  Six  Compa- 
nies, and  has  a  temple  on  Broadway 
wholly  to  himself.  This  is  easy  of  ac- 
cess from  any  of  the  hotels,  and  is  the 
Joss-house  to  which  strangers  are  gen- 
erally taken  or  directed. 

On  one  of  my  visits  there  I  had  for 
company  a  very  intelligent  Chinese 
gentleman,  and  during  the  afternoon  he 
told  me  the  story  of  this  divinity. 
Kwan  Tae  lived  about  sixteen  hundred 
years  ago.  In  the  early  part  of  his  life 
he  was  a  soldier,  and  won  high  renown 
for  vigor  in  the  field  and  success  in  bat- 
tle. Other  men  frequently  had  bad  luck, 
but  he  mostly  had  good  luck  ;  other 
men  sometimes  suffered  defeat,  but  he 
generally  gained  victories.  He  was  a 
person  of  great  individual  prowess,  and 
not  "  Go  !  "  but  "  Come  !  "  was  his  usu- 
al word  of  command.  He  was,  withal, 
kind  and  merciful,  as  well  as  valorous, 
and  overcame  enemies  by  deeds  of 
manly  love  no  less  than  by  deeds  of 
martial  might.  The  wars  being  over, 
he  resigned  his  position  in  the  army. 
The  Emperor  counted  him  among  his 
friends  and  relatives,  and  offered  him 
some  honorable  station  in  the  civil  ser- 
vice ;  but  Kwan  Tae  declined  this, 


470- 


Thc  Gods  of  Wo  La\ 


[April, 


joined  the  order  of  Devoted  Brothers, 
and  gave  himself  to  works  of  religious 
benevolence.  The  qualities  of  mind 
and  heart  that  had  made  him  so  nota- 
ble a  figure  in  the  army  soon  advanced 
him  to  a  leader's  place  in  the  charita- 
ble Brotherhood,  and  for  many  years 
he  was  one  of  the  foremost  men  in  the 
empire  in  labors  for  the  relief  of  the 
sick  and  needy  and  suffering.  But 
war  came  again,  and  with  it  a  long 
train  of  disasters  to  the  reigning  sov- 
ereign. Kwan  Tae  kept  aloof  for  many 
months,  but  finally,  moved  alike  by 
duty  and  desire,  offered  his  services, 
and  was  put  in  command  of  a  large 
army.  His  old  luck  still  prevailed, 
and  where  he  went  there  also  went 
victory,  so  that  he  became  everywhere 
known  and  respected  as  a  great  soldier 
and  chieftain.  It  was  his  fortune  at 
length  to  meet  the  forces  directly  under 
the  head  of  the  rebellious  movement, 
and  him  he  routed  as  he  had  before 
routed  inferior  officers  and  smaller  ar- 
mies. War  once  more  ended,  Kwan 
Tae  retired  to  his  h©me  to  resume  the 
badge  of  the  Brotherhood  and  live  out 
his  days  in  quiet  and  honor.  There 
came  to  him  one  day  a  man  ragged 
and  wounded,  and  in  the  last  extrem- 
ity of  illness  and  distress.  He  did  not 
know  the  Brother,  but  was  recognized 
by  him  as  the  leader  of  the  late  revolt, 
for  whom  the  police  of  the  Emperor 
were  in  anxious  search.  Kwan  Tae 
was  at  first  minded  to  seize  and  surren- 
der him,  but  chose  rather  to  take  him. 
in  and  feed  him,  and  clothe  him,  and 
nurse  him,  and  bind  up  his  wounds, 
and  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  secrete 
money  in  his  purse,  and  send  him  on 
his  way  rejoicing.  Then  he  put  his 
house  in  order,  presented  himself  to 
the  Emperor,  told  the  story  of  what 
he  had  done,  adjudged  himself  guilty 
of  treason,  and  cheerfully  submitted 
to  instant  death.  And  for  more  than 
a  thousand  years  he  has  been  the  Chi- 
nese god  of  war.  Seen  at  the  Broad- 
way temple,  he  sits  on  a  high  dais, 
under  a  silken  and  golden  canopy,  with 
scymitar  and  battle-axe  near,  and  has 
a  red  face,  great  black  eyes,  high  fore- 


head, and  long  black  mustache,  —  on 
the  whole,  not  a  bad  looking  god,  as 
Chinese  gods  average. 

The  gods  are  numerous  as  the  wants 
of  man.  In  my  inquiries  I  heard  of 
these :  the  god  of  general  defence ; 
the  god  of  water ;  the  god  of  fire  ;  the 
god  of  wealth  ;  the  god  of  trouble  ;  the 
god  of  rain  ;  the  god  of  the  evil  eye  ;  the 
god  of  the  earth  ;  the  god  of  wisdom  ; 
the  god  of  the  forests ;  the  god  of  long 
life  ;  the  god  of  the  bad  heart ;  the  god 
of  medicine  ;  sixty  gods  for  the  sixty 
years  of  the  grand  cycle  ;  the  goddess 
of  child-bearing  ;  the  goddess  of  naviga- 
tion ;  the  goddess  of  mercy,  who  is  also 
the  goddess  of  children,  and  sometimes 
has  the  form  of  a  man;  the  queen  of 
heaven ;  and  the  queen  of  the  under- 
world, who  seems  to  be  one  with  the 
god  of  the  bad  heart.  Probably  there 
are  many  other  gods  and  goddesses, 
but  this  list  was  quite  as  large  as  I 
could  well  manage  in  one  tour  of  inves- 
tigation. 

Each  of  the  gods  has  a  history, 
though  I  heard  of  no  other  one  so  inter- 
esting as  that  of  Kwan  Tae.  The  god 
of  medicine  is  Kwa  Toi :  he  was  a 
great  scholar,  two  thousand  years  ago, 
who  had  a  marvellous  art  of  healing, 
and  went  about  among  the  poorer 
classes.  On  one  occasion  a  sick  peas- 
ant, to  whom  he  had  given  the  wrong 
remedy,  died  of  his  treatment ;  where- 
upon Kwa  Toi,  as  an  act  of  expiation, 
and  to  teach  other  doctors  carefulness, 
said  his  prayers  and  then  killed  himself. 
Kwan  Yin  is  the  goddess  of  mercy: 
she  was  a  nice  young  woman  who  ran 
away  from  home  to  avoid  a  disagreea- 
ble marriage,  took  refuge  in  the  house 
of  a  religious  sisterhood,  was  there 
nursed  and  protected,  and  had  such 
efficacy  in  prayer  that  everybody  es- 
caped when  the  building  was  burned 
by  her  enraged  father.  Raised  after 
her  death  to  the  dignity  of  a  goddess, 
she  was,  when  I  saw  her,  a  damsel  with 
bare  feet,  a  pensive  face,  and  a  babe  in 
her  arms.  My  Chinese  friend  said  that 
she  is  carried  in  processions  at  the 
feast  of  All-souls,  and  looks  after  spir- 
its in  the  other  world  who  are  neglect- 


1870.] 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


471 


eel  by  friends  in  this.  The  earthly  lives 
of  several  other  gods  were  given  me, 
but  the  stories  of  their  conflicts  and 
victories  do  not  appear  to  be  worth 
repeating. 

The  Chinese  in  California  have  no 
regular  day  for  religious  services.  Our 
Sabbath  they  observe  as  a  general  hol- 
iday :  then  the  barbers  and  the  mar- 
ket-men and  the  opium-dealers  and  the 
eating-houses  do  a  driving  business  ; 
and  if  the  day  be  fair,  the  stranger  in 
the  Quarter  will  have  a  view  of  joyous 
and  careless  and  exuberant  life  that  he 
cannot  soon  forget.  There  are  festi- 
vals for  one  or  another  of  the  gods  on 
nearly  a  third  of  the  days  in  the  year, 
but  only  a  few  of  them  require  univer- 
sal observance  on  the  part  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  temples  are  open  continually, 
and  can  be  engaged  for  the  day  or  the 
hour  by  any  one  wishing  service. 
There  are  no  priests  or  public  teachers, 
but  the  gods  are  severally  waited  on  by 
a  number  of  attendants. 

The  decorations  of  the  temples  are 
unique  and  not  easy  to  describe.  The 
image  is  generally  in  a  niche  or  recess, 
on  a  platform  about  four  feet  high. 
The  altar  is  like  a  large  and  heavy 
table  ;  over  it  is  the  sacred  fire,  —  a 
lamp  kept  forever  burning  ;  on  it  are  tall, 
slender  candlesticks,  with  copper  ves- 
sels in  which  incense  and  offerings  are 
burned.  On  each  side  of  the  room  is 
the  row  of  "  eight  holy  emblems,"  — 
staves  six  or  seven  feet  long,  with  a  fan 
or  an  axe  or  a  knife  at  the  upper  end. 
In  one  of  the  rear  corners  is  a  bell  or 
a  gong,  with  which  the  attention  of  the 
god  may  be  attracted.  There  are  nu- 
merous tablets  fastened  to  the  walls 
and  ceilings,  made  of  wood,  four  or  five 
feet  long  by  fifteen  or  twenty  inches 
wide,  mostly  red  or  yellow  in  color, 
covered  with  Chinese  letters  which  may 
be  sentences  of  thanks  or  praise,  or 
lines  from  some  of  the  classics.  In 
one  temple  is  a  stove,  wherein  are 
burned  pictures  of  whatever  one  would 
like  to  send  to  the  dead.  Banners  of 
strange  device  greatly  abound.  There 
.are  rich  vases  for  flowers  ;  bronze  lions 
>or  dragons  to  watch  by  the  god  ;  mats 


for  kneeling  worshippers  ;  rolls  of 
prayers  printed  on  yellow  paper  ;  chan- 
deliers glittering  with  cut  glass  ;  cano- 
pies and  curtains  of  gorgeous  silk  ;  the 
god's  great  seal  of  authority  ;  cloths 
with  fantastic  birds  worked  in  gold 
thread  ;  slabs  of  bronze,  with  hundreds 
of  small  human  figures  in  bass-relief; 
carvings  of  wood  that  no  white  man 
can  understand ;  scrolls  with  notices 
and  injunctions  to  visitors  ;  cups  in 
which  divining-slips  are  kept ;  bundles 
of  incense-sticks  like  pipe-stems  for 
size  ;  fragrant  sandal-wood  tapers,  and 
through  the  room  a  languid  odor  of  for- 
eign lands.  The  worshipper  brings  in 
his  offering  of  rice  or  fruits  or  dressed 
chicken,  places  it  on  the  altar,  lights 
the  tapers  and  his  incense  of  some 
strongly  scented  mixture,  and  then 
drops  on  his  knees  and  inaudibly  re- 
cites his  prayers  while  the  attendant 
strikes  half  a  dozen  blows  on  the  bell 
or  gong.  As  he  did  so  at  my  first  visit, 
I  thought  of  Elijah  and  the  prophets  of 
Baal :  "  Cry  aloud  ;  either  he  is  talking, 
or  he  is  on  a  journey,  or  perad venture 
he  sleepeth  and  must  be  awaked." 

Wo  Lee  worships  in  his  own  way 
and  at  his  own  pleasure  such  of  the 
gods  as  he  chooses  to  adore.  If  he  is 
in  bad  luck,  he  goes  to  the  temple  and 
prays  for  good  luck  ;  if  his  business 
prospers,  he  goes  there  and  renders 
thanks  ;  he  asks  for  guidance  in  new 
undertakings ;  he  makes  prayers  for 
the  recovery  of  friends  from  illness  ; 
he  brings  offerings  for  a  safe  journey 
to  his  old  home  ;  he  puts  up  a  tablet 
of  praise  when  he  arrives  from  ship- 
board :  he  burns  incense  on  the  death 
of  his  children  ;  he  seeks  counsel  front 
the  gods  when  he  is  in  distress  ;  he 
presents  wine  and  fruits  after  escape 
from  calamity;  he  bows  down  and  im- 
plores help  against  his  enemies ;  he 
beats  his  head  on  the  floor  before 
Kwan  Tae  when  the  courts  refuse  him 
protection.  He  ascribes  frowns  and 
favors,  troubles  and  blessings,  joys  and 
sorrows,  to  the  higher  powers  ;  and 
his  whole  round  of  yearly  life  is  inter- 
fused with  the  forms  and  dignities  and 
ceremonials  of  religion.  His  faith  may 


472 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


[April, 


be  cold  to  our  hearts,  and  his  pomps 
frivolous  or  blasphemous  in  our  eyes  ; 
but  in  such  light  as  he  has  he  walks, 
with  ready  and  sincere  acknowledg- 
ment of  human  dependence  on  super- 
human aid  and  mercy.  His  precepts 
are  moral  and  kindly  precepts  ;  the 
adornment  of  his  house  is  a  salutation 
of  good-will ;  he  respects  old  age,  and 
keeps  green  the  memory  of  the  wise 
fathers  ;  the  lessons  of  his  youth  taught ' 
him  to  look  upward,  and  in  his  mature 
years  he  does  not  forget  this  teaching. 
Such  we  shall  find  him  to  be  when 
we  really  begin  the  work  of  trying  to 
Christianize  him,  —  a  man  of  great  faith 
in  superior  intelligence,  but  almost 
immovable  in  devotion  to  many  gods 
whereto  he  can  give  visible  form  and 
body ;  of  high  reverence  for  powers 
and  abilities  greater  than  those  of 
earth,  but  materialistic  in  all  his  con- 
ceptions, and  blind  to  our  ideas  of 
Christ  and  the  Father. 

He  is  a  great  believer  in  spirits,  par- 
ticularly in  those  with  an  evil  disposi- 
tion. His  upper-world  is  peopled  by 
gods,  and  his  under-world  by  multitudes 
of  devils.  Numbers  of  his  kinsfolk  are 
professional  devil-killers,  and  their  ser- 
vices are  often  in  demand  to  rid  houses 
of  these  unwelcome  visitors.  During 
my  stay  in  California  a  dwelling  at  Sac- 
ramento became  infested,  and  thereby 
ensued  a  high  commotion  in  the  Chi- 
nese Quarter.  The  exorcist  or  devil- 
killer  was  summoned,  and  four  or  five 
hours  of  hard  work  slew  or  drove  out 
the  evil  spirits.  He  burned  incense 
before  the  family  or  household  god, 
and  fervently  repeated  many  and  di- 
verse prayers ;  he  mouthed  numerous 
curses,  wrote  them  with  red  ink  on  yel- 
low paper,  burned  them  on  a  porcelain 
plate,  and  stirred  the  ashes  into  a  cup 
of  water.  He  filled  his  mouth  with  this 
holy  water,  took  a  stout  sword  in  one 
hand,  and  in  the  other  held  an  en- 
graved bit  of  wood  weighty  with  virtue 
for  the  overthrow  of  demons.  Then 
he  stamped  up  and  down  the  rooms 
in  a  vigorous  manner,  thrusting  and 
brandishing  his  sword,  holding  aloft 
his  magic  wand,  spurting  water  from 


his  mouth  in  every  direction,  command- 
ing the  devils  in  his  loudest  voice  to 
depart,  yelling  and  howling  and  curs- 
ing and  fighting,  till  the  police  hustled 
through  the  awed  and  excited  crowd, 
swooped  down  on  the  magician,  decid- 
ed straightway  that  the  devils  were  all 
in  him,  and  so  carried  him,  panting  and 
exhausted,  to  the  watch-house,  there  to 
meditate  on  the  ways  of  the  'Melican 
man,  and  renew  himself  for  further  fear- 
ful encounters  with  the  evil  spirits  that 
vex  the  good  Chinaman's  peace  and 
happiness. 

My  Oriental  friend's  religion  has  a 
considerable  element  of  superstition. 
His  almanac  is  filled  with  lucky  and 
unlucky  days.  He  sees  signs  and 
omens  in  everything.  The  gods  give 
him  a  convenient  excuse  whenever  he 
wants  to  break  an  engagement  or  evade 
a  disagreeable  duty.  He  has  ivory 
pieces  and  silver  rings  and  sandal- 
wood  blocks  for  charms.  He  carries 
coins  and  bones  in  his  pockets  or  tied 
by  a  string  round  his  neck  as  guards 
against  evil  influences.  He  finds  token 
of  bad  luck  or  good  luck  in  the  most 
common  occurrences  of  every-day  life. 
He  is  frightened  at  the  appearance  of 
certain  birds,  and  rejoiced  by  an  east- 
erly wind  on  one  particular  day  and  a 
southerly  breeze  on  another  particular 
day.  There  is  disaster  in  clouds  of  a 
peculiar  form  and  color,  and  promise 
of  good  in  the  crackling  of  a  fire  or  the 
flaming  of  a  lamp.  Calamity  is  hid- 
den on  every  hand,  and  the  gods  or 
devils  must  continually  be  propitiated. 

Events  are  forecast  by  lottery,  and 
decided  by  divination.  In  the  temple 
of  Kwan  Tae  one  afternoon  I  was  anx- 
ious to  know  my  chance  for  a  safe  jour- 
ney homeward  over  the  Pacific  Rail- 
road. I  took  up  the  cup  of  spiritual 
sticks,  shook  it  well,  and  then  drew  out 
one  of  them ;  it  was  numbered,  and  the 
attendant  turned  to  the  corresponding 
number  in  his  big  yellow-leaved  book 
of  fortune  and  gave  me  this  answer  : 
"The  gods  prosper  the  man  of  upright 
ways."  It  was  impossible  to  evade  my 
fate,  and  I  came  home  without  acci- 
dent of  any  kind.  Sun  King  said  I 


87o.] 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lcc. 


473 


could  have  my  life  mapped  out  for  a 
year  by  going  to  one  of  the  fortune- 
tellers and  passing  in  the  date  of  my 
birth  and  a  lock  of  my  hair.  There 
was  a  cellar  down  in  Jackson  Street 
where  a  fee  of  five  dollars  would  give 
me  an  interview  with  the  shade  of 
Miles  Standish  or  Cotton  Mather  ;  and 
three  doors  nearer  to  Dupont  Street 
was  a  man  who  could  write  me  a  cor- 
rect history  of  my  doings  ten  years 
backward  or  twenty  years  forward,  and 
in  commiseration  for  my  inferiority  of 
race  would  do  it  for  nothing  too  !  I 
saw  an  astrologer  of  long  beard  and 
sinister  face,  for  whom  it  was  vouched 
that  he  could  compel  the  stars  to  tell 
the  date  of  any  coming  event ;  and  my 
friend  said  that  before  deciding  on  the 
proposal  to  go  into  partnership  with  me 
as  a  dealer  in  tea  and  rice,  he  must 
consult  the  gods  on*  three  successive 
clays. 

One  of  my  miscellaneous  acquaint- 
ances was  a  doctor,  Kim  Woon  by 
name,  office  in  Sacramento  Street.  He 
was  a  neatly  built  fellow,  forty  or  forty- 
five  years  of  age,  who  looked  as  if  he 
could,  if  he  would,  a  tale  unfold  of  hid- 
den and  mysterious  things.  He  invited 
me  into  his  office  one  pleasant  morning, 
and  the  room  was  so  dingy  and  som- 
bre and  sepulchral  that  all  the  joy  and 
delight  of  life  at  once  went  out  of  my 
heart.  It  was  hard  work  to  keep  from 
being  sick  on  the  spot.  The  den  was 
eight  or  ten  feet  square,  with  a  shelf  of  a 
dozen  books  in  one  corner,  a  table  and 
two  or  three  stools,  a  collection  of  drugs 
and  leaves  and  grasses  on  an  upturned 
box,  and  a  faded  window-curtain  that 
shut  out  three  fourths  of  the  sweet  sun- 
light. If  I  were  a  Chinaman  and  had 
come  for  consultation,  he  said,  he 
would  feel  of  my  several  pulses,  look 
at  my  tongue,  retire  to  his  inner  room, 
locate  my  disease,  give  me  medicine, 
and  regulate  my  diet.  I  learned,  on 
further  inquiry,  that  he  had  a  remedy 
for  every  possible  ailment,  that  his 
specialty  was  diseases  of  the  head, 
that  in  many  cases  he  sought  advice 
from  the  gods,  that  for  the  benefit  of 
liberal  customers  he  sometimes  made 


offerings  at  the  temple,  that  the  dura- 
tion of  sickness  often  depended  upon 
the  will  and  power  of  evil  spirits,  that 
he  could  occasionally  conjure  away  a 
symptom  not  to  be  reached  by  medi- 
cine, and  that  a  man  has  need  to  be 
careful  how  he  offends  the  gods,  be- 
cause diseases  are  frequently  the  result 
of  their  vengeance.  After  this  state- 
ment of  the  peril  in  which  we  ever  live, 
I  found  it  more  agreeable  to  talk  with 
Kim  Woon  in  front  of  his  office  on  the 
sidewalk. 

He  and  his  fellow-doctors  don't  know 
much  about  medicine  as  a  science.  Of 
anatomy  they  have  little  knowledge, 
and  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood  they 
are  wholly  ignorant.  If  one  of  them 
were  to  treat  me  for  a  felon,  he  would 
probably  give  me  one  thing  to  act  on 
the  swollen  finger,  and  another  to  drive 
the  first  down  through  my  arm  to  the 
seat  of  disease.  They  use  many  herbs 
and  roots  and  grasses  and  metallic 
preparations,  and  all  in  such  quantities 
that  one  wonders  how  a  man  can  live 
long  after  coming  into  the  physician's 
hands.  Some  of  their  remedies  are  as 
unique  as  their  methods  of  practice. 
Such  things  as  bugs,  snails,  worms, 
snakes,  dog's  blood,  crushed  bones, 
ashes  of  burned  teeth,  the  claws  of 
cats,  the  hoofs  of  horses,  hair  from  a 
cow's  tail,  entrails  of  various  animals, 
skin  from  the  feet  of  fowls,  parings  of 
the  toe-nails,  and  a  hundred  others 
that  could  hardly  be  named  here,  are 
in  constant  demand  and  thought  to  be 
of  great  virtue.  The  doctors  have  a 
theory  that,  while  some  diseases  must 
be  driven  out,  others  may  better  be 
coaxed  out.  They  curiously  mix  re- 
ligion and  medicine,  talk  about  good 
luck  and  bad  luck,  speak  of  the  ill-will 
of  the  gods  and  the  influence  of  wicked 
spirits,  and  for  the  most  part  seemed 
to  me  to  hold  their  places  by  practising 
on  the  credulity  or  superstition  of  their 
patients.  The  intelligent  and  culti- 
vated class  of  Chinese  discard  their 
own  doctors  entirely,  and  in  case  of 
serious  illness  invariably  call  an  Ameri- 
can physician. 

When  a  Chinaman  dies,  his  body  is 


474 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


[April, 


at  once  placed  on  the  ground  or  floor, 
so  that  his  several  distinct  souls  may 
have  an  opportunity  to  withdraw  and 
-enter  upon  their  new  stage  of  transmi- 
gration. It  is  then  covered  with  a 
white  cloth,  —  white,  and  not  black, 
being  the  Chinese  color  of  mourning, 
—  and  large  quantities  of  provisions 
are  set  near  for  the  refreshment  of  the 
dead  man's  spirit  and  other  spirits  sup- 
posed to  be  waiting  to  conduct  it  away. 
The  undertaker  told  me  that  the  cries 
and  howls  of  the  real  and  hired  mourn- 
•ers  at  this  stage  of  the  burial  ceremo- 
nies are  most  doleful ;  he  had  been 
present  on  many  occasions,  but  even 
yet  felt  some  nervousness  when  brought 
into  the  mourning-room.  One  thing  a 
Chinaman  must  have  if  possible,  —  a 
strong  and  elegant  coffin.  Frequently 
at  the  funerals  there  is  a  great  beating 
of  gongs  and  shooting  of  fire-crackers  ; 
this  is  to  keep  off  bad  spirits,  and  re- 
mind the  gods  that  another  soul  has 
departed,  and  will  need  attention  in  the 
upper-world.  Scraps  of  paper  repre- 
senting money  are  scattered  about  the 
house  and  along  the  road  to  the  ceme- 
tery :  these  are  propitiatory  offerings 
to  the  gods  of  evil  disposition  for  per- 
mission to  bury  the  dead  in  peace  and 
safety.  Clothing  of  various  kinds  is 
put  into  the  coffin,  as  are  also  at  times 
cups  or  small  baskets  of  rice  and 
fruits  for  the  soul's  long  journey.  At 
the  grave  there  are  further  supplies  of 
food  and  drink,  and  things  which  it 
is  supposed  the  spirit  may  war.t  a^e 
burned  in  flames  kindled  with  holy  lire 
from  the  temple. 

The  officers  of  the  Six  Companies 
report  that  about  eleven  thousand  of 
their  countrymen  have  died  in  the 
United  States,  and  that  over  six  thou- 
sand bodies  have  already  been  sent 
back  to  China  for  final  burial,  while 
many  more  would  be  forwarded  this  win- 
ter and  spring,  prior  to  the  great  feast 
for  the  dead.  Two  of  us  had  some  talk 
with  an  educated  Chinaman  about  this 
custom  of  sending  home  the  remains 
of  those  who  die  here.  It  appears  to 
rest  on  the  belief  that  spirits  constantly 
need  earthly  care  and  attention  ;  that 


they  love  the  body  and  forever  remain 
near  it ;  and  are  likely  to  be  forgotten 
or  overlooked  if  that  is  left  in  a  strange 
land,  among  people  not  holding  the 
Chinese  view  of  the  relation  between 
the  dead  and  the  living.  The  China- 
man wishes,  therefore,  to  be  buried 
among  his  friends  and  ancestors,  and 
religion  and  sentiment  alike  lead  him 
to  make  provision  for  his  body  after 
death  as  well  as  before  death.  It  is 
not  necessary  that  the  fleshy  integu- 
ment shall  mingle  with  the  soil  of 
home,  and,  as  a  fact,  in  most  cases 
only  the  bones  of  persons  are  removed 
to  the  ancestral  grounds.  Many  men 
enter  into  arrangements  with  their 
Company  or  associates  as  soon  as  they 
arrive  here  for  the  return  of  their  bod- 
ies, and  obligations  of  this  kind  are 
held  to  be  as  sacred  as  any  that  one 
can  assume.  In* the  earlier  days  of  the 
immigration,  provision  for  final  burial 
at  home  was  made  by  everybody  ;  but  a 
change  of  doctrine  is  taking  place,  and 
now  one  finds  a  considerable  number 
of  persons  who  are  content  to  have 
their  bodies  and  those  of  their  relatives 
rest  in  America  forever.  The  work  of 
removal  will  go  on  for  years,  but  the 
belief  in  its  religious  necessity  is  likely 
to  disappear  when  our  laws  and  cus- 
toms permit  the  Chinaman  to  establish 
his  permanent  home  under  the  stars 
and  stripes. 

The  great  religious  festival  of  the 
Chinese  year  is  that  of  Feeding  the 
Dead.  It  is  a  movable  feast,  but 
always  occurs  in  the  spring,  and  gener- 
ally near  the  end  of  our  month  of 
March.  On  that  day  the  whole  Chi- 
nese population  of  the  Pacific  slope 
suspends  work.  Then,  as  Wo  Lee 
devoutly  believes,  the  gates  of  the  other 
world  are  set  wide  open,  so  that  spirits 
of  every  age  and  condition  may  revisit 
the  earth  and  enjoy  the  society  of 
friends  still  in  the  body.  Then  the 
incense  of  thanksgiving  is  burned,  and 
flowers  tenderly  and  profusely  laid 
upon  every  grave.  Then  tapers  are 
lit  at  the  tombs  with  fire  from  the  tem- 
ples, prayers  of  joy  and  penitence  are 
offered  to  all  the  gods,  while  flame  and 


1870.] 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lcc. 


475 


smoke  pass  over  to  the  spirits  great 
quantities  of  things  thought  essential 
to  perfect  happiness  in  other  spheres. 
Then  the  Chinese  Quarter  of  San 
Francisco  is  temporarily  transferred  to 
the  hills  of  the  suburbs,  and  all  classes 
go  to  the  cemeteries  with  baskets  and 
boxes  and  carts  and  wagons  full  of 
meats  and  fruits  and  wines.  The  ob- 
servance of  the  day  has  its  comic  side, 
to  be  sure,  as  many  other  strange  cus- 
toms have ;  but  Americans  capable  of 
looking  at  the  ceremonies  in  a  catholic 
spirit  speak  of  them  as  being  extremely 
touching  and  beautiful. 

The  social  festivals  are  numerous, 
but,  so  far  as  I  learned,  not  more  than 
four  or  five  of  them  are  universally  ob- 
served. These  are  New- Year's,  the 
harvest  moon,  All-souls-day,  the  feast 
of  lanterns,  and  the  winter  solstice. 
New- Year's  is  the  great  festival.  It 
occurs  near  the  end  of  our  month 
of  January,  —  this  year  on  the  3oth, 
and  last  year^on  the  loth  of  February. 
Then  all  business  matters  are  adjusted, 
all  accounts  settled,  quarrels  reconciled, 
feuds  healed;  as  far  as  possible  the 
old  must  be  finished  ere  the  new  is 
begun.  Prayers  are  made  in  private 
and  at  the  temples,  offerings  of  food 
and  drink  are  presented  to  the  gods, 
incense  is  burned  before  the  shrines  of 
the  dead,  fire-crackers  are  exploded  by 
the  wagon-load,  the  red  of  joy  is  every- 
where displayed,  and  tea  and  wines  and 
fruits  and  sweetmeats  are  set  out  in 
profusion  for  all  visitors.  The  feast  of 
the  harvest  moon  is  more  generally 
kept  in  the  country  and  the  villages 
than  in  San  Francisco  ;  it  lasts  two  or 
three  days,  brings  business  to  the  as- 
trologers, much  gathering  of  persons 
out  of  doors,  many  civilities  to  stran- 
gers, thank-offerings  to  the  gods,  great 
slaughter  of  pigs  and  chickens,  and  is 
in  some  respects  not  unlike  our  Thanks- 
giving day.  The  feast  of  All-souls  is 
for  the  special  benefit  of  spirits  who 
have  no  living  friends,  and  were  not, 
therefore,  provided  for  in  the  grand 
religious  festival  of  March  or  April. 
It  usually  falls  in  the  month  of  Au- 
gust. There  is  a  procession  in  which 


images  of  certain  gods  are  carried,  and 
a  generous  display  in  the  streets  and 
on  the  balconies  of  houses  of  food  and 
clothing  and  such  other  things  as  are 
either  left  at  graves  or  burned  in  ceme- 
teries at  the  annual  Feeding  of  the 
Dead.  On  this  as  well  as  on  all  other 
occasions  when  meats  are  offered,  what 
is  not  eaten  by  the  gods  or  spirits  may 
be  put  into  the  family  larder  for  home 
consumption.  It  is  useless  trying  to 
corner  a  Chinaman  by  asking  if  he 
believes  that  the  spirits  can  eat  and 
drink :  he  answers  that  there  is  more 
in  the  leg  of  a  fowl  than  human  eyes 
can  see  or  human  palates  taste,  and 
that  his  duty  is  at  least  done  in  cook- 
ing and  presenting  the  best  of  what  he 
has  for  the  support  of  existence. 

When  Wo  Lee  comes  to  dwell  with 
us,  we  shall  have  to  consider  his  re- 
ligious views  and  his  festal  customs, 
but  his  desire  for  amusement  will  hard- 
ly give  us  either  trouble  or  serious  in- 
convenience. After  a  quaint  fashion 
he  greatly  enjoys  his  holidays,  but  he  is 
altogether  too  grave  a  man  for  anything 
like  national  sport.  His  ear  for  the 
concord  of  sweet  sounds  is  so  utterly 
unlike  ours,  that  we  may  properly  doubt 
if  he  has  any  ear  at  all.  There  are 
singing  women  in  his  gambling-shops, 
but  he  rarely  concerns  himself  with  the 
question  whether  their  warbling  is  good 
or  bad.  He  drops  into  his  theatre 
occasionally,  sits  patiently  through  the 
long  play,  and  then  walks  off  with  the 
air  of  one  who  has  killed  time  rather 
than  found  delight.  He  is  a  social 
fellow,  and  somewhat  given  to  going 
in  crowds,  but  mostly  chooses  the  mild 
excitement  of  a  quiet  chat  over  a  pot 
of  weak  tea,  or  with  a  good  pipe  and 
plenty  of  tobacco.  If  he  opens  a  place 
of  amusement  in  Boston  or  New  York, 
we  may  visit  it  sometimes  to  see  his 
neat  and  curious  jugglery,  but  if  those 
at  San  Francisco  are  to  be  taken  as  a 
model,  two  or  three  evenings  a  year 
of  his  regular  theatrical  performances 
will  be  about  as  much  as  any  of  us  can 
endure. 

He  is  a  tireless  and  an  inveterate 
gambler ;  and  when  he  comes  Eastward 


476 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


[April, 


the  gambling-shop  and  its  sphinx-faced 
manager  will  also  come.  A  white  man 
finds  it  difficult  to  get  into  the  San 
Francisco  establishments.  One  is  much 
like  all  the  others,  —  a  small  entry  on 
the  street,  in  which  sits  the  watchman, 
a  door  from  that  into  a  hall,  and  an- 
other door  from  the  hall  into  the  house. 
This  is  a  room  with  bare  floor  and  low 
ceiling,  a  narrow  counter  at  the  rear 
for  the  manager  or  book-keeper,  and 
behind  him  a  bit  of  a  platform  whereon 
lounge  the  two  or  three  women  who 
furnish  the  music  of  the  evening  or 
afternoon.  Whenever  I  stopped  at  the 
street  door  as  if  about  to  enter,  the 
guard  came  forward  with  forbidding 
gestures,  and  "  Go  way-ee ;  you  not 
come-ee  here  ;  go  way-ee."  I  tried  it 
a  dozen  times,  and  always  with  the 
same  result ;  he  would  not  allow  me  to 
even  look  into  the  hall,  fearing,  as  I 
afterward  discovered,  that  I  might  be  a 
spy  from  police  head-quarters.  I  went 
where  I  pleased  while  in  the  interior 
towns,  and  finally  accomplished  my 
desire  in  San  Francisco  by  persuading 
a  well-known  Chinese  gentleman  to 
introduce  me  and  vouch  for  my  char- 
acter. Wo  Lee  bets  often,  but  not 
high  ;  he  stakes  his  last  piece  of  money 
on  the  chance  of  doubling  it  or  going 
supperless  ;  he  often  consults  the  for- 
tune-tellers for  luck,  and  even  goes  to 
the  temple  and  tries  to  find  out  the 
winning  numbers  by  aid  of  the  spiritual 
slips. 

Chinese  gambling  has  about  as  much 
interest  for  a  looker-on  as  the  odd-or- 
even  game  of  school-boys ;  in  fact,  it  is 
little  more  than  a  variation  of  that 
famous  game  of  our  childhood.  The 
gamblers  sit  or  stand  around  a  table 
covered  with  matting  or  oil-cloth,  on 
which  a  black  square  is  plainly  marked. 
In  one  or  two  houses  there  was  a  small 
sheet  of  lead  or  zinc  in  place  of  this 
painted  square.  The  banker  sits  be- 
hind the  table,  with  gold  and  silver  in 
a  drawer,  and  on  the  matting  a  heap 
of  cas/i,  —  a  brassy  coin  of  small  value, 
in  size  like  our  twenty-five  cent  piece, 
having  a  square  hole  in  the  centre. 
From  this  heap  the  banker  takes  a 


handful,  lays  it  on  the  square,  and 
partly  or  wholly  covers  it  with  a  brass 
or  pewter  bowl.  The  players  simply 
bet  whether  this  pile  under  the  bowl 
will  count  out  odd  or  even  on  fours. 
One  lays  his  money  down  on  whichever 
side  of  the  square  he  chooses,  and  the 
dealer,  with  a  pointed  stick,  eighteen 
or  twenty  inches  long,  rapidly  counts 
the  cash,  drawing  toward  himself  four 
coins,  then  four  more,  and  so  on  until 
the  last  four  have  been  drawn  out.  If 
the  count  is  even,  each  player  receives 
four  times  the  amount  of  his  stakes ; 
if  three  coins  remain,  the  one  whose 
money  lies  on  the  third  side  of  the 
square  gets  three  times  his  bet,  and 
the  bank  takes  what  lies  on  the  other 
three  sides  ;  and  if  two  only  remain, 
the  second  side  wins  double  and  the 
others  lose,  —  the  winner  always  pay- 
ing the  bank  a  small  percentage  of 
what  he  has  gained  by  way  of  commis- 
sion. This  is  all  there  is  of  the  game, 
and  I  heard  of  no  other  game  played 
by  the  Chinese  in  any  of  the  shops. 

That  the  Chinese  are  much  given  to 
the  smoking  of  opium  everybody  well 
understands.  In  the  stores  of  the 
Quarter  at  San  Francisco  and  else- 
where, jars  of  opium  are  displayed  as 
jars  of  snuff  are  in  the  stores  of  the 
Southern  States.  There  are  smoking- 
dens  just  as  there  are  gambling-dens 
and  barbers'  shops,  though  my  efforts 
to  get  into  one  were  not  successful. 
The  Chinese  of  San  Francisco  pay 
duty  on  near  thirty  thousand  pounds 
of  the  drug  yearly,  and  probably  man- 
age to  smuggle  in  half  as  much  more 
without  paying  the  duty.  The  shrewd- 
ness of  the  custom-house  officials  is 
taxed  to  the  utmost  to  detect  the  tricks 
of  smugglers,  and  some  of  those  that 
have  been  exposed  showed  a  wonderful 
knack  for  disguising  the  precious  com- 
modity. Thus  in  one  case  a  box  of 
common  medicinal  roots  proved  to  be 
worth  thousands  of  dollars  ;  it  was 
opium,  drawn  or  moulded  into  roots  or 
fibres,  then  dried  and  colored  and  scent- 
ed. I  asked  a  young  man  who  did  me 
many  services  if  he  had  ever  smoked 
opium;  he  resented  the  inquiry  as  a 


1 870.] 


TJic  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


477 


well-bred  American  lad  would  resent  the 
question  whether  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  getting  drunk.  He  and  many  other 
Chinamen  told  me  that  opium-smoking 
was  disreputable  ;  that  it  was  not  pleas- 
ant to  the  gods  ;  and  that  habitual  or 
intemperate  smokers  are  not  admitted 
into  the  best  circles  of  their  people. 
Numbers  of  leading  merchants  seemed 
anxious  to  impress  this  fact  upon  my 
attention,  that  the  custom  does  not 
prevail  among  the  refined  classes,  but 
is  deplored  and  condemned  as  strongly 
by  them  as  by  Americans. 

This  is  something  fine  to  say  of  a 
nation,  —  every  man  can  read  and  write 
his  own  language.  And  of  the  Chinese 
on  our  Western  shore  this  can  almost 
be  said.  Yet  they  are  heathens  and 
we  are  Christians  !  It  will  not  hurt  us 
to  recall  this  fact,  when  we  feel  over- 
much inclined  to  boast  of  our  superior 
civilization.  The  Chinese  have  nearly 
made  education  universal  :  we  have  not. 
"  Learn,  learn,  —  learn  all  you  can,"  said 
Lee  Kan,  in  a  little  speech  to  some 
Sunday-school  children;  "knowledge 
and  virtue  go  together,  and  no  people 
can  have  too  much  of  either."  These 
are  the  words  of  one  who  appreciates 
the  day  and  generation  in  which  he 
lives  ;  and  they  speak  the  sentiment  of 
his  people,  too.  The  Chinese  children 
of  San  Francisco  are  all  instructed 
in  private  schools :  education  is  re- 
garded as  a  solemn  religious  obliga- 
tion, for  "  the  gods  will  not  smile  upon 
a  people  that  neglects  its  children." 
Have  we  anything  of  doctrine  higher 
than  that  ? 

The  Chinese  Sunday  schools  are  not 
specially  schools  of  religious  instruc- 
tion. The  largest  one  in  San  Fran- 
cisco has  been  in  operation  something 
over  a  year,  and  has  on  its  books  the 
names  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
teachers  and  six  hundred  pupils.  It 
could  not  be  kept  up  a  month  if  the  Bi- 
ble and  the  catechism  were  put  forward 
as  books  for  study.  The  lessons  taught 
are  in  reading,  writing,  arithmetic, 
grammar,  geography,  and  such  other 
branches  as  are  common  to  ordinary 
week-day  schools.  The  Chinese  do 


not  take  kindly  to  our  religious  views, 
and  the  children  would  at  once  be 
withdrawn  if  we  declined  offering  them 
instruction  in  anything  else.  The 
practical  bearing  of  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  they  understand  and  appreciate ; 
but  as  for  our  theology,  it  is  a  riddle 
they  do  not  care  to  unravel.  At  one  of 
the  schools  I  heard  the  familiar  song 
"  We  '11  gather  at  the  River,"  and  at  an- 
other the  old  hymn,  "  All  hail  the  pow- 
er of  Jesus'  name."  These  schools  are 
doing  a  good  work,  undoubtedly,  but 
their  Christianizing  influence  is  only  of 
an  indirect  character. 

It  is  idle  to  fancy  that  the  immigra- 
tion from  China  is  to  result  in  the 
immediate  conversion  of  many.  The 
present  generation  will  stick  to  its  own 
faith,  and  so  will  the  greater  part  of  the 
next  generation.  The  Chinese  religion 
was  old  long  ere  Christ  came,  and  we 
have  not  yet  done  much  to  commend 
his  Gospel  to  this  serious,  reflective, 
high-spirited  people.  They  judge  us, 
and  have  a  right  to  judge  us,  by  what 
their  experience  on  the  Pacific  has 
taught  them  ;  and  it  will  take  many 
years  of  patient  work  to  disabuse  them 
of  the  impressions  they  have  formed  in 
their  struggle  there.  It  will  be  an  ad- 
vantage if  we  fully  comprehend  this 
before  they  plant  their  feet  on  these 
Eastern  shores. 

And  that  they  are  coming  here  I  do 
not  in  the  least  doubt.  I  cannot  clearly 
see,  as  I  have  already  said,  what  change 
in  the  national  mind  led  to  the  emigra- 
tion to  California ;  but  having  con- 
quered the  right  to  live  there,  I  am 
sure  that  neither  the  mountains  nor  the 
wide  plains  will  stay  them  from  coming 
hither.  They  are  quiet  and  patient,  but 
they  are  also  very  persistent  and  re- 
markably self-poised.  The  Governor 
of  California  may  recommend  measures 
to  prevent  their  immigration,  and  his 
Legislature  may  gravely  discuss  prop- 
ositions to  tax  them  out  of  existence, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  that  State  and 
its  neighbors  may  treat  them  never  so 
shamefully:  all  this  is  as  futile  and 
foolish  as  an  anathema  against  the  wind 
or  the  sunshine.  They  are  not  going 


478 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lee. 


[April, 


back  to  China;  on  the  contrary,  they 
will  bring  their  wives  and  children  and 
household  gods  and  strange  customs  to 
the  Golden  Gate,  —  there,  and  through 
California,  and  over  the  Sierras,  and 
across  the  desert,  and  along  the  rail- 
way, to  our  farms  and  workshops  and 
manufactories.  Seeing  this,  as  every 
thoughtful  man  spending  two  months 
in  California  will  see  it,  I  have  deemed 
it  well  to  indicate  certain  of  their  chief 
habits  and  peculiarities  wherewith  we 
ourselves  shall  be  called  upon  to  deal 
at  a  time  not  many  years  distant. 

The  article  in  this  magazine  for  De- 
cember, 1869,  sufficiently  proved  their 
capacity  for  varied  labor.  Three  fourths 
or  more  of  those  now  in  our  country  are 
of  the  so-called  peasant  class.  In  many 
trades  requiring  delicate  and  careful 
workmanship  they  are  superior ;  in 
every  branch  of  what  is  properly  called 
handicraft  they  easily  take  position  in 
the  foremost  ranks.  If  they  lack  swift- 
ness, they  have  large  perseverance.  If 
they  want  knowledge,  they  have  apt- 
ness in  learning.  If  they  show  little 
creative  or  inventive  power,  they  are  a 
daily  study  and  wonder  of  imitative- 
ness.  Make  it  clear  to  them  how  you 
want  a  thing  done,  and  your  thing  is 
done  in  that  way  till  you  teach  them 
another.  Of  the  powers  and  capacities 
of  the  refined  and  educated  classes 
we  have  not  yet  had  any  great  means 
for  judging.  The  few  in  California 
are  liberal  and  catholic  and  upright 
and  public-spirited.  They  have  talent 
for  organization  and  business  enter- 
prise, and  the  promise  of  what  they 
have  done  is  one  of  hopefulness  and 
encouragement. 

I  do  not  fully  share  the  current  no- 
tion that  Mr.  Wo  Lee  is  the  Perfect 
Servant  for  whose  appearance  our 
households  have  prayed  with  such  fer- 
vency. Remembering  Bridget's  tyran- 
ny and  worthlessness,  I  made  many 
inquiries  as  to  his  fitness  for  her  king- 
dom. He  is  no  more  a  natural  cook 
than  he  is  a  natural  gold-digger.  He 
is  willing  to  work  in  any  station,  and 
therefore  accommodates  himself  to  the 
service  of  the  kitchen  and  dining-room. 


He  can  readily  do  almost  anything  that 
may  be  done  with  an  intelligent  use  of 
the  hand,  and  in  a  comparatively  short 
time,  under  good  instruction,  make  a 
skilful  cook.  He  is  rarely  insolent  or 
domineering,  never  imagines  himself 
the  owner  of  the  house  in  which  he  is 
engaged,  and  applies  himself  steadily 
and  faithfully  to  the  business  of  the 
hour.  He  is  generally  neat  enough  in 
his  person,  but  not  always  so  in  his 
surroundings,  and  has  an  unsavory 
habit  of  mixing  truth  and  falsehood. 
He  is  attentive  to  his  duties  and  care- 
ful with  crockery  and  furniture,  but  his 
ideas  of  mine  and  thine  with  respect  to 
small  things  are  not  quite  so  clear  as 
they  should  be  in  a  servant.  He  is  easi- 
ly seduced  from  his  allegiance  by  an 
offer  of  higher  wages,  and  somewhat  sub- 
ject to  sudden  and  unexpected  conclu- 
sions that  service  at  the  other  end  of 
town  is  preferable.  He  does  not  hold 
high  and  secret  carousal  in  the  base- 
ment, but  he  is  a  night-bird,  and  must 
often  go  out  in  the  evening  to  see  his 
friends.  He  is  neither  quarrelsome  nor 
prone  to  anger,  but  when  once  inflamed 
his  passion  is  malicious  and  destructive. 
He  neither  storms  nor  threatens,  but  at 
times  his  ways  are  far  from  being  ways 
of  pleasantness.  The  worst  trait  he 
has  yet  developed  is  that  of  inability  to 
recognize  the  binding  force  of  a  con- 
tract. Unless  special  reasons  exist  for 
attachment  to  the  family,  there  is  never 
any  certainty  that  he  will  remain  till 
the  great  party  or  dinner  Is  over.  And 
when  he  gets  ready  to  go  he  goes. 
The  mistress  may  complain  or  remon- 
strate as  she  will ;  he  listens  in  silence, 
proffers  no  apology  or  explanation,  and 
then  walks  away,  serene  and  immova- 
ble, with  little  regard  for  his  bargain  or 
her  convenience.  He  is  much  better 
"  help "  than  Bridget  ever  was,  but 
even  he  is  not  the  Perfect  Servant. 

This  peasant  class  adapts  itself 
,  with  cheerful  facility  to  our  methods  of 
labor ;  on  that  head  their  presence  will 
bring  us  no  difficulty  but  such  as  pa- 
tience and  firmness  can  overcome.  It 
will  work  for  less  wages  than  we  now 
pay  whites,  and  its  expense  for  food 


1 870.] 


The  Gods  of  Wo  Lcc. 


479 


and  clothing  will  be  considerably  small- 
er. It  has  trades'  unions  of  its  own, 
but  has  never  yet  indulged  in  strikes  or 
combinations  against  capital.  Whether 
it  will  develop  anything  of  creative 
power  is  to  be  determined  ;  but,  as  al- 
ready indicated,  it  has  surpassing  tact 
and  skill  in  every  kind  of  handicraft. 

The  higher  class  is  quite  a  force  in 
the  business  circles  of  San  Francisco. 
The  value  of  goods  brought  to  that 
port  last  year  from  China  and  Japan 
was  three  and  a  quarter  millions  of  dol- 
lars, and  the  records  of  the  Custom- 
House  show  that  at  least  two  thirds  of 
the  duties  on  this  importation  were 
paid  by  Chinese  merchants.  The  rice 
import  was  thirty  million  pounds,  and 
nearly  the  whole  of  it  was  on  their  or- 
ders. The  tea  import  was  two  mil- 
lion three  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
and  they  paid  the  duties  on  but  little 
less  than  half  of  it.  One  of  the  largest 
business  branches  of  business  in  the 
city  is  that  of  making  cigars  ;  it  is 
mostly  managed  and  carried  on  by 
Chinese,  and  gives  employment  to 
about  three  thousand  persons.  The 
internal  revenue  officers  told  me  that 
they  have  little  trouble  in  collecting 
taxes  from  this  class  ;  they  are  gener- 
ally honest  in  making  returns  and 
prompt  in  paying  their  dues.  On 
'Change,  the  word  of  nearly  all  the 
Chinese  mercantile  houses  is  as  good 
as  that  of  American  houses  ;  and  I  was 
assured,  indeed,  by  a  number  of  author- 
ities, that  the  commercial  honor  of  the 
Quarter  is  really  very  high. 

The  Quarter,  quick  to  fall  in  with  our 
ways  of  work,  is  slow  to  accept  our 
beliefs  and  ways  of  thought.  To  our 
aggression  it  opposes  passiveness  like 
fate  in  its  fixedness.  On  questions  of 
morality  the  upper  class  is  with  us, 
even  when  the  lower  class  is  somewhat 
against  us  in  practice  ;  but  as  soon  as 
we  leave  mere  morals  and  touch  relig- 
ion, the  whole  body  of  the  people  is  in 
the  opposition.  Coming  over  here 


they  will  bring  Joss  and  his  temple, 
Kwan  Tae,  and  Kwa  Toi,  and  Kwan  Yin, 
and  the  other  gods  and  goddesses,  and 
all  the  religious  and  semi-religious  fes- 
tal days.  I  have  purposely  given  much 
space  to  a  statement  of  their  peculiar 
views  and  customs.  We  shall  have  to 
accept  the  Chinese,  and  with  them 
these  customs  ;  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  avoiding  this  conclusion. 

But  this  strange  people  will  bring  us 
something,  too,  that  is  very  good  and 
wholesome.  They  are  tender  to  the 
aged  and  infirm  ;  they  look  upon  home 
as  a  sacred  institution  ;  they  inculcate 
the  highest  regard  for  parents ;  they 
are  courteous  by  instinct  as  well  as  by 
teaching  ;  they  venerate  the  wise  and 
upright  among  their  ancestors  ;  they 
respect  law  and  order  and  authority  at 
all  times  ;  they  abstain  from  intoxicat- 
ing liquors,  and  lead  lives  of  quietness 
and  thoughtfulness  ;  and  from  their 
sentiment  toward  the  dead  grow  sweet 
flowers  in  the  heart.  We  are  prodigal 
and  wasteful ;  they  are  frugal  and  eco- 
nomical. We  nurture  a  genius  for 
quick  results,  and  pay  the  penalty  of 
many  failures  ;  they  have  learned  to 
strive  for  sure  results,  and  success  rare- 
ly escapes  their  grasp.  We  are  eager 
and  changeful ;  they  are  steady  and  well 
balanced.  We  continually  reach  out 
for  the  new  and  strange ;  they  abide 
by  the  old,  and  are  cheerful  in  routine. 
We  aspire,  and  are  nervous  with  long- 
ings ;  they  are  not  ashamed  to  do  well 
whatever  they  find  to  do.  They  honor 
good  government ;  they  believe  that 
integrity  alone  is  worthy  of  station ; 
they  hold  that  promotion  should  rest 
on  capacity  and  faithfulness  ;  they  have 
swift  methods  of  dealing  with  official 
rascals  and  peculators  ;  they  are  not 
impatient  of  the  slow  processes  of  the 
years,  but  know  how  to  labor  in  faith 
and  \vait  in  contentment;  if  they  are 
not  progressive,  they  have  at  least  con- 
quered the  secret  of  national  and  indi- 
vidual steadfastness. 


480 


The  B hie- Jay  Family, 


[April, 


THE    BLUE-JAY    FAMILY. 


IN  an  intellectual  point  of  view,  the 
whole  family  to  which  our  common 
and  familiar  Blue  Jay  belongs  are  un- 
surpassed by  any  of  the  feathered 
tribe.  The  study  of  their  habits  is  full 
of  interest,  and  affords  evidences  of 
sagacity,  forethought,  and  a  conformity 
to  circumstances  wonderfully  like  the 
results  of  reason  rather  than  the  blind 
promptings  of  a  mere  instinct.  These 
peculiarities  are  confined  to  no  one 
species,  but  are  common  to  the  entire 
family,  so  far  as  they  have  fallen  under 
the  observation  of  naturalists.  The 
habits  of  our  own  Blue  Jay  and  those 
of  the  common  Jay  of  Europe  —  the 
two  best  known  of  any  of  the  race  — 
are  so  nearly  identical,  that,  except  in 
their  places  of  residence,  the  history 
of  the  one  might  almost  serve  for  that 
of  the  other.  When  first  observed  in 
wild  and  unexplored  sections  of  this 
country,  the  Jay  is  shy  and  suspicious 
of  man.  Yet,  curious  to  a  remarkable 
degree,  he  follows  the  intruder  on  his 
privacy,  watches  his  movements,  and 
hovers  about  his  steps  with  great  perti- 
nacity, keeping  at  a  respectful  distance, 
even  before  he  can  have  had  occasion 
to  dread  weapons  of  destruction.  This 
has  been  noticed  in  regard  to  all  our 
American  Jays,  of  which  there  are 
eleven  varieties.  Upon  their  first  in- 
troduction to  man  their  cautious  study 
of  the  stranger  has  been  described  as 
something  quite  remarkable.  After- 
wards, on  becoming  better  acquainted, 
the  Jay  conforms  his  conduct  to  the 
treatment  he  receives.  Here  in  New 
England,  where  he  is  hunted  in  wanton 
sport,  sought  for  on  account  of  his  bril- 
liant plumage,  and  persecuted  generally 
because  of  his  bad  reputation,  he  is  shy 
and  wary,  and  avoids  as  much  as  pos- 
sible all  human  society.  In  the  West- 
ern States,  where  he  is  comparatively 
exempt  from  persecution,  as  well  as  in 
certain  other  portions  of  the  country 
where  he  is  unmolested,  we  find  the 


Jay  as  confiding  and  familiar  even  as 
the  common  Robin.  Mr.  J.  A.  Allen 
recently  found  these  birds  "common 
in  the  groves  of  Iowa,  and  nearly  as 
unsuspicious  as  the  Black-capped  Tit- 
mouse." Afterwards,  in  Illinois,  he 
found  the  Jay  "  very  abundant  and  half 
domestic."  This  result  is  due,  at  least 
in  part,  to  "the  kind  treatment  it  re- 
ceives from  the  farmers,  who  not  only 
do  not  molest  it,  but  are  pleased  with 
its  presence."  In  Indiana  the  same  re- 
markable familiarity  was  noticed.  The 
Jays  were  abundant,  and  so  unsuspi- 
cious that  the  nest  of  a  pair  was  no- 
ticed in  a  bunch  of  lilacs  under  a  win- 
dow, on  one  of  the  principal  streets  of 
Richmond.  And  the  writer  remembers 
to  have  seen  the  nest  of  the  Blue  Jay 
filled  with  young  birds  on  the  grounds 
of  the  late  Mr.  Audubon,  within  the 
limits  of  New  York  City,  in  July,  1843  ; 
and  at  another  time  to  have  found  a 
nest  in  the  borough  of  Carlisle,  Penn- 
sylvania, a  few  feet  from  a  public  street. 
So  great  is  the  difference  of  habit,  in- 
duced by  persecution  on  the  one  hand 
and  kind  treatment  on  the  other,  in  the 
Jays  of  Massachusetts  and  those  of  the 
West !  No  two  species  could  well  be 
more  unlike. 

The  Jay  is  arboreal  in  its  habits, 
—  more  so  than  any  bird  of  the  same 
order.  It  prefers  the  shelter  and  se- 
curity of  thick  covers  to  more  open 
ground.  It  is  omnivorous,  eating  either 
animal  or  vegetable  food,  though  not 
without  an  apparent  preference  for  the 
former,  feeding  upon  insects,  their  eggs 
and  larvae,  and  worms  wherever  pro- 
curable, and  laying  up  large  stores  of 
acorns  and  beech-mast  for  winter  pro- 
visions, when  insects  are  no  longer 
procurable.  All  our  writers  agree  in 
charging  the  Blue  Jay  with  a  strong 
propensity  to  destroy  the  eggs  and 
young  of  the  smaller  birds,  and  declare 
that  it  even  pursues,  kills,  and  devours 
the  full-grown  birds.  While  we  are  not 


T8;o.] 


The  Blue-Jay  Family. 


481 


able  to  verify  these  charges  from  our 
own  observations,  they  seem  to  be  too 
generally  conceded  for  us  to  dispute 
their  correctness.  Admitting,  then, 
their  justice,  they  are  the  chief  if  not 
the  only  ground  of  complaint  which 
exists  against  the  Jays.  Their  depre- 
dations upon  the  garden  and  the  corn- 
fields are  too  trivial  to  be  mentioned. 

Their  destruction  of  other  birds,  and 
their  alleged  misdeeds  in  this  con- 
nection, have  given  the  Jays  a  bad 
name,  and  have  made  them  objects  of 
dislike  and  persecution  both  with  man 
and  with  the  more  courageous  of  the 
feathered  tribes,  especially  the  King- 
birds, the  Wrens,  and  the  Robins. 
Their  noisy,  loquacious  habits  are 
often  very  annoying  to  the  sports- 
man, whom  they  follow  in  his  excur- 
sions, warning  off  his  game.  They 
are  therefore  no  favorites  with  the 
hunter,  and  generally  receive  no  mercy 
at  his  hands. 

The  Jay  is  one  of  our  most  conspic- 
uous musicians,  exhibiting  a  variety 
in  his  notes,  and  occasionally  a  beauty 
and  a  harmony  in  his  song,  for  which 
very  few  give  him  due  credit.  Wilson, 
generally  a  very  accurate  observer,  com- 
pares his  position  among  our  feathered 
songsters  to  that  of  the  trumpeter  in  a 
band.  His  notes  he  varies  at  will  to 
an  almost  infinite  extent,  now  scream- 

»ing  with  all  his  might,  now  singing  and 
warbling  with  the  softness  of  tone  and 
modulation  of  the  Bluebird,  and  at  an- 
other time  imparting  to  his  voice  the 
•  grating  harshness  of  a  wheel  creaking 
on  an  ungreased  axle. 
His  power  of  mimicry  is  hardly  sur- 
passed by  that  of  the  Mocking-bird 
itself.  In  those  parts  of  the  country 
where  the  Sparrow-hawk  is  abundant 
the  Jay  delights  to  imitate  its  cry,  which 
it  does  to  perfection.  At  other  times 
the  cries  of  the  Red-shouldered  and 
the  Red-tailed  Hawks  are  given  with 
such  exactness  that  the  smaller  birds 
fly  to  a  covert  and  the  inmates  of  the 
poultry-yard  are  in  the  greatest  alarm. 
Other  sounds  the  Jay  will  imitate  with 
equal  success,  even  to  the  continuous 
song  of  a  bird.  The  European  Jay  has 
VOL.  XXV.  —  NO.  150.  31 


been  known  to  imitate  the  neighing 
of  a  horse  so  perfectly  as  to  deceive 
the  most  practised  ear. 

When  reared  from  the  nest  the  Jay 
becomes  very  tame,  and  is  perfectly 
reconciled  to  confinement.  It  very 
soon  grows  into  an  amusing  pet,  learn- 
ing to  imitate  the  human  voice,  and  al- 
most any  other  sound  it  hears.  There 
are  several  well-attested  instances  on 
record  in  which  both  our  own  Blue  Jay 
and  the  common  Jay  of  Europe  have 
been  taught  to  articulate  several  words. 
They  have  also  learned  to  imitate  the 
bleating  of  lambs,  the  mewing  of  a  cat, 
the  hooting  of  owls,  and  various  other 
sounds,  even  to  the  crowing  of  a  cock 
and  the  barking  and  cries  of  a  house- 
dog. Wilson  gives  an  account  of  one 
that  had  been  brought  up  in  the  family 
of  a  gentleman  in  South  Carolina,  and 
that  had  all  the  loquacity  of  a  parrot. 
He  seemed  to  delight  in  pilfering  ev- 
erything he  could  conveniently  carry 
off,  for  no  other  apparent  purpose  than 
to  hide  it.  This  bird  could  utter  some 
words  with  great  distinctness,  and 
whenever  called  would  answer  to  his 
name  with  great  sociability. 

But  however  interesting  the  habits 
of  the  Blue  Jay  may  appear  when  ex- 
amined, however  bright  and  attractive 
its  plumage,  however  remarkable  its 
sagacity  and  intelligence,  or  however 
entertaining  its  peculiarities,  both  in  a 
wild  and  in  a  partially  domesticated 
state,  this  bird  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  held  in  very  high  favor  by  our 
ornithological  writers.  They  all  dwell, 
with  what  appears  to  us  an  unfair  and 
unjust  emphasis,  upon  his  faults,  and 
refer  but  very  slightly  and  only  inci- 
dentally to  the  good  deeds  which  he 
is  ever  performing,  but  for  which  he 
receives  so  little  credit.  Recent  inves- 
tigations into  the  history  of  the  Euro- 
pean Jay  demonstrate  that  during  the 
winter  months  he  feeds  very  largely 
upon  the  larvas  and  the  eggs  of  the 
caterpillars,  which,  when  unchecked, 
commit  such  fearful  ravages  amon^  the 
forests  of  Europe ;  and  that  the  value 
of  the  property  which  each  year  this 
species  aids  to  save  from  destruction 


482 


The  Blue-Jay  Family. 


[April, 


may  be  estimated  at  millions  of  dol- 
lars. The  services  rendered  by  our 
common  Blue  Jay,  though  not  gen- 
erally known,  are  also  of  the  highest 
value.  Mr.  J.  A.  Allen,  in  his  list  of 
the  birds  found  near  Springfield,  Mas- 
sachusetts, mentions  finding  the  eggs 
of  the  tent  caterpillar  in  the  stomachs 
of  the  Blue  Jays  which  he  killed  during 
the  winter  months.  Mr.  Allen  was  the 
first,  so  far  as  we  are  aware,  among  our 
writers,  to  make  public  this  very  impor- 
tant fact.  Its  significance  can  hardly 
be  overestimated.  It  shows  that  our 
own  species  have  the  same  highly  valu- 
able habits  and  taste  in  these  respects 
as  the  European  species,  and  that  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  these  birds  are 
constantly  rendering  very  similar  ser- 
vices to  our  own  North  American  for- 
ests, for  which  they  receive  little  or  no 
credit. 

Fortunately,  however,  besides  this 
corroborative  testimony  of  Mr.  Allen, 
we  are  in  possession  of  evidence  of  the 
most  conclusive  character,  furnished  us 
by  the  ripe  experience  and  the  careful 
observations  of  one  of  our  best  orni- 
thologists, than  whom  we  can  desire 
no  better  and  no  higher  authority. 
The  venerable  Jared  P.  Kirtland  of 
Cleveland,  Ohio,  who  has  enjoyed  pe- 
culiarly favorable  opportunities  for 
studying  the  habits  of  our  Jays,  and 
who  has  also  well  improved  them,  has 
furnished  us  with  the  most  satisfactory 
and  perfectly  conclusive  evidence  that 
these  birds,  where  they  are  protected 
and  encouraged,  are  not  only  the  most 
available  means  we  have  of  removing 
that  great  pest  of  the  orchard,  the  tent 
caterpillar,  but  that  so  complete  and 
sweeping  can  be  their  extirpation  of 
this  nuisance  that  for  miles  around  a 
given  district  not  so  much  as  an  indi- 
vidual shall  be  left.  What  a  pregnant 
commentary  do  the  facts  communicated 
by  Dr.  Kirtland  suggest  upon  the  re- 
cent empirical  and  short-sighted  legisla- 
tion of  Massachusetts,  where  the  Blue 
Jays,  in  common  with  the  Owls  and  the 
Crows, — probably,  without  any  excep- 
tion, the  three  most  valuable  classes  of 
birds  to  be  found  within  the  limit  of 


the  State,  —  are  specially  denied  pro- 
tection and  virtually  outlawed  !  We 
shall  permit  our  venerable  friend  to 
tell  the  interesting  story  of  his  pets 
in  his  own  words.  The  letter  from 
which  these  extracts  are  taken  is  dated 
"  East  Rockport,  near  Cleveland,  Janu- 
ary i,  1869." 

"'THE  MISSION  OF  BIRDS'  has  been 
a  favorite  study  of  mine  nearly  seventy 
years,  and  loses  none  of  its  interest 
with  the  advancement  of  age.  Before 
I  knew  anything  of  ornithology  as  a 
science,  or  had  access  to  the  first  edi- 
tion of  Wilson  in  1813-14,  I  had  be- 
come familiar  with  the  common  names 
and  habits  of  very  many  of  the  birds 
of  Connecticut,  and  the  summer  and 
autumn  of  1810,  spent  in  Northern 
Ohio,  furnished  me  with  a  starting-point 
to  note  the  wonderful  changes  in  the 
animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms,  inci- 
dental to  the  conversion  of  this  State 
from  a  wilderness  into  a  land  of  cit- 
ies, villages,  and  cultivated  farms, — 
changes  as  great  and  numerous  as 
those  which  mark  the  transition  of  one. 
period  into  another  in  geological  his- 
tory. 

"In  the  year  1840  I  located  on  my 
farm  bordering  on  Lake  Erie,  five  miles 
west  of  Cleveland.  Every  apple  and 
wild-cherry  tree  in  the  vicinity  was 
then  extensively  impaired,  disfigured, 
and  denuded  of  its  leaves,  by  the  bag- 
worm  (called  in  New  England  the  tent 
caterpillar,  Clisiocampa  Americana  of 
Harris),  which  annually  appeared  in 
numerous  colonies.  The  evil  was  so 
extensive  that  even  the  most  thorough 
farmers  ceased,  in  despair,  to  attempt 
its  counteraction.  At  that  period  I  be- 
gan to  set  out  evergreen-trees  of  many 
species  extensively,  both  for  the  shel- 
ter and  the  ornament  of  my  grounds,  — 
an  example  soon  followed  by  several 
of  my  neighbors.  Favorable  soil  and 
cultivation  rapidly  developed  stately 
growths,  forest-like,  in  dense  clumps. 

"  While  these  were  progressing  ex- 
tensive ranges  of  native  hemlocks  and 
pines,  bordering  the  precipitous  banks 
of  Rocky  River,  were  as  rapidly  falling 
before  the  axe  and  cultivation.  These 


1 870.] 


The  Blue-Jay  Family. 


483 


ranges  are  from  two  to  seven  miles 
west  from  my  locality,  and  had  long 
been  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Jay,  as 
well  as  numerous  other  birds,  not  to 
mention  quadrupeds  and  reptiles. 

"  When  my  Norway  spruces  had  at- 
tained to  the  height  of  some  ten  or 
twelve  feet,  I  was  pleased  to  find  them 
occupied,  one  spring,  by  colonies  of 
these  Jays,  apparently  migrating  from 
the  perishing  evergreen  forests  along 
the  river,  and  during  the  ensuing  winter 
the  new  tenants,  augmented  in  num- 
bers, made  these  incipient  forests  their 
places  of  abode.  Each  successive  year 
found  them  still  more  numerous  and 
exempt  from  the  interruption  of  their 
enemies,  the  red  squirrel,  blue  racer, 
and  idle  gunners,  all  of  whom  were 
abundant  and  destructive  in  their  for- 
mer resorts.  They  soon  became  so 
familiar  as  to  feed  about  our  yards  and 
corn-cribs. 

"  At  the  dawn  of  every  pleasant  day, 
throughout  the  year,  the  nesting  sea- 
son excepted,  a  stranger  in  my  house 
might  well  suppose  that  all  the  axles 
in  the  county  were  screeching  aloud 
for  lubrication,  hearing  the  harsh  and 
discordant  utterances  of  these  birds. 
During  the  day  the  poultry  might  be 
frequently  seen  running  into  their  hid- 
ing-places, and  the  gobbler  with  his 
upturned  eye  searching  the  heavens 
for  the  enemy,  all  excited  and  alarmed 
by  the  mimic  utterances  of  the  adept 
ventriloquists,  the  Jays  simulating  the 
cries  of  the  Red-shouldered  and  the 
Red-tailed  Hawks. 

"  The  domestic  circle  of  the  barn- 
yard evidently  never  gained  any  insight 
into  the  deception  by  experience ;  for, 
though  the  trick  was  repeated  every  few 
hours,  the  excitement  would  always  be 
re-enacted. 

"  During  the  period  of  incubation 
silence  reigned,  not  a  note  or  utterance 
was  heard  ;  and  it  required  close  scru- 
tiny to  discover  the  numerous  indi- 
vidual Jays  concealed  in  the  dense 
clumps  of  limbs  and  foliage.  If,  how- 
ever, a  stranger,  a  dog,  cat,  hawk,  or 
owl,  chanced  to  invade  these  evergreen 
groups,  the  scene  rapidly  changed. 


Such  screaming,  screeching,  and  op- 
probrious scoldings  ensued  as  would 
lead  one  to  consider  Xantippe  amiable 
and  reticent  in  comparison  with  these 
birds. 

"  With  my  person  they  became  so 
familiar  that  I  could  closely  approach 
them  and  sit  for  hours  under  the  shade 
of  these  trees,  without  exciting  their 
fears.  A  family  cemetery  occupies  a 
place  beneath  the  evergreens.  On  one 
occasion  a  lady,  pensively  bent  over  the 
grave  of  a  departed  friend,  strewing 
flowers,  received  a  smart  blow  on  the 
head.  Alarmed,  she  arose,  expecting 
to  discover  some  evil-disposed  person 
in  the  vicinity.  Her  eye  could  not  as- 
certain the  source  of  the  blow,  and  she 
resumed  her  occupation,  when  the  blow 
was  renewed,  and  she  soon  saw  her 
assailant  perched  on  a  limb  just  over- 
head, threatening  to  renew  the  contest. 
Near  by  was  a  female  bird,  brooding 
over  a  nest  of  young,  and  angrily  watch- 
ing the  intruder. 

"The  late  Dr.  Esteep  of  Canton, 
Ohio,  an  experienced  bird-fancier,  while 
examining  my  Jayery,  —  if  you  will  ex- 
cuse this  coinage,  —  some  years  since, 
informed  me  that  he  had  pet  Jays,  and 
that  he  found  them  more  ingenious, 
cunning,  and  teachable  than  any  other 
species  of  birds  he  had  ever  attempted 
to  instruct.  My  own  observations,  de- 
rived from  watching  my  colony  for  many 
years,  convince  me  of  the  correctness  of 
his  conclusions. 

"  Although  I  rarely  read  fiction,  yet  I 
recollect  the  long  period  of  time  it  took 
Cooper,  in  'The  Pioneers,'  to  get  his 
heroine  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  which 
disclosed  the  view  of  Templeton,  to 
her  father's  residence  in  the  village. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  period  nearly  as 
long,  we  have  at  length  arrived  at  the 
subject-matter  of  my  communication, 
to  wit,  77/6'  Insectivorous  Habits  of  the 
Blue  Jay. 

"  Soon  after  they  had  emigrated  to 
my  evergreens,  I  one  day  noticed  one 
of  the  birds  engaged  in  tearing  open  a 
nest  of  the  bag-worm  on  an  apple-tree. 
Thinking  the  act  was  a  mere  destruc- 
tive impulse,  I  was  about  walking  away, 


484 


The  Blue-Jay  Family. 


[April, 


when  the  bird,  with  its  bill  apparently 
filled  with  several  living  and  contorting 
larvae,  changed  its  position  to  a  tree 
close  by  where  I  was  standing.  After 
several  nervous  and  angry  bows  of  the 
head  and  flirts  of  the  wings,  it  eyed  me 
sternly  and  seemed  to  say,  '  You  are 
inquisitive  and  meddling  with  that  which 
is  none  of  your  business.  We  are  like 
our  secesh  friends,  wishing  to  be  let 
alone.'  Its  next  removal  was  to  an 
adjacent  black-spruce-tree,  where  I 
could  plainly  see  it  distributing  the 
captive  bag-worms  to  sundry  open  and 
uplifted  mouths. 

"  From  this  hint  I  was  led  closely  to 
watch  the  further  proceedings  of  the 
community.  Before  the  young  birds 
had  passed  from  the  care  of  the  parents, 
most  of  the  worm's  nests  had  been  bro- 
ken into,  many  were  torn  into  threads, 
and  the  number  of  occupants  evidently 
diminished.  Two  or  three  years  after- 
wards not  a  worm  was  to  be  seen  in 
that  neighborhood,  and  more  recently 
I  have  searched  for  it  in  vain,  in  order 
to  rear  some  cabinet  specimens  of  the 
moth.  In  several  adjacent  townships 
it  is  said  to  be  still  common. 

"  Early  in  the  month  of  April,  two 
years  since,  my  attention  was  awakened 
by  a  commotion  among  the  birds  in 
my  evergreens.  It  involved  not  only 
Jays  and  Crow  Blackbirds,  but  Robins 
and  Bluebirds.  Combatants  seemed  to 
have  gathered  from  the  whole  country 
around.  At  times  half  a  dozen  of  these 
several  species  would  engage  in  a  con- 
test, screaming,  biting,  and  pulling  out 
feathers ;  and  at  length,  in  many  in- 
stances, the  birds,  lost  in  rage,  would 
actually  fall  to  the  ground.  For  two 
days  this  fight  continued.  At  length 
the  Jays  disappeared,  and  I  have  not 
seen  half  a  dozen  individuals  on  my 
farm  since  that  period.  A  numerous 
colony  of  Crow  Blackbirds  have  reared 
their  young  there  during  the  two  past 
seasons,  and  have  been  equally  as- 
siduous in  collecting  worms  of  different 
species.  Whether  the  abandoning  of 
the  locality  by  the  Jays  was  owing  ex- 
clusively to  the  intrusion  of  the  Black- 
birds, or  in  part  to  the  scarcity  of  their 


favorite  bag-worms,  I  cannot  well  deter- 
mine." 

We  can  add  nothing  which  will  im- 
part greater  force  or  weight  to  testi- 
mony so  full  and  conclusive.  The  vex- 
atious and  annoying  nature  of  the  mis- 
chief wrought  in  orchards  throughout 
the  country  by  these  caterpillars  is  too 
familiar  to  every  one  to  require  com- 
ment on  the  value  of  the  services  ren- 
dered by  the  Jay  in  their  extirpation. 
The  extermination  of  the  measure- 
worms  in  New  York  by  the  European 
Sparrow  has  not  been  more  complete 
and  satisfactory.  Shall  such  facts  as 
these  continue  to  be  dumb  to  us  ? 
Shall  we  of  New  England  continue  to 
persecute  a  bird  which  Providence  de- 
signed for  our  benefactor  and  friend, 
and  our  committees  on  agriculture  at 
the  State  House  report  bills,  and  our 
legislature  re-enact  laws,  branding  them 
as  outlaws  and  inviting  their  destruc- 
tion ? 

Before  we  leave  the  subject,  it  may 
not  be  amiss  to  refer  to  a  few  recent 
well-attested  instances  in  which  the 
services  rendered  by  various  birds 
have  been  positive  and  efficient. 

Early  in  the  fall  of  1868  the  com- 
plaint was  loud  and  general  throughout 
the  Southern  seaboard,  that  the  crop 
of  Sea  Island  cotton  was  in  great  dan- 
ger of  being  destroyed  through  the  rav- 
ages of  the  cotton-worm.  This  pest  had 
appeared,  over  a  wide  extent  of  territo- 
ry, in  such  numbers  that  it  was  impos- 
sible by  human  agency  to  arrest  its  pro- 
gress. Yet  it  was  arrested  promptly, 
effectually,  and  completely.  Our  well- 
known  Bobolinks  —  the  Reed-bird  of 
Pennsylvania  and  the  Rice-bird  of  the 
Carolinas  —  chanced  to  make  their 
appearance  in  their  Southern  migra- 
tions, and  just  in  the  nick  of  time. 
Instead  of  attacking  the  rice-fields  the 
new-comers  went  into  the  cotton-fields 
and  accomplished  in  a  few  hours  what 
man  had  despaired  of  doing.  They 
devoured  the  worms  and  saved  the 
cotton  crop.  The  birds  were  worth 
thousands  of  dollars  to  the  Southern 
planters.  Will  these  remember  their 
services,  and  for  the  future  protect  their 


1 870.] 


The  Blue- Jay  Family. 


485 


valuable  lives  from  the  murderous  gun 
of  the  epicure  and  his  purveyors  ? 

In  the  spring  of  1867  the  grasshop- 
pers had  deposited  their  eggs  by  the 
million  throughout  the  cultivated  fields 
of  Kansas,  threatening  the  general  de- 
struction of  the  crops.  Just  as  they 
were  beginning  to  hatch  out  large 
flocks  of  the  Yellow-headed  Blackbirds 
(Xanthocephalus  ictcroccphalus,  Baird) 
appeared  in  their  Northern  migrations. 
They  soon  discovered  the  grasshoppers 
and  devoured  them,  making  clean 
work.  Wherever  a  flock  alighted  upon 
the  fields,  the  rear  birds  kept  flying  to 
the  front,  from  time  to  time,  as  the 
grasshoppers  disappeared.  The  farm- 
ers of  Kansas  owe  to  these  birds  the 
salvation  of  their  wheat  crop,  and  prob- 
ably thousands,  if  not  millions,  in  a 
money  value. 

The  Republican  or  Clift  Swallow 
(Ilirnndo  lunifrons)  is  another  bird  that 
has  been  ascertained  to  fulfil  a  useful 
and  important  mission  in  behalf  of  the 
pomologist.  Dr.  Kirtland  writes  us, 
that,  from  his  earliest  acquaintance  with 
Cleveland  and  its  vicinity,  the  pear  and 
the  cherry  trees  have  been  much  in- 
jured by  the  slug.  In  recent  years, 
colonies  of  these  Swallows  have  taken 
up  their  summer  abode  in  various  parts 
of  the  surrounding  country  ;  wherever 
these  colonies  make  their  annual  visi- 
tations the  slugs  entirely  disappear 
from  the  neighborhood,  the  parent  fly  of 
the  slug  being  caught  by  the  swallows. 

"  No  bird,"  the  same  accurate  ob- 
server writes  us,  "fulfils  its  mission 
more  beneficially  and  effectually  than 
the  diminutive  House  -  Wren.  The 
bee-moth,  it  is  well  known,  has  been 
for  more  than  half  a  century  a  great 
obstacle  to  success  in  bee-culture  in 
the  United  States.  Some  years  since 
I  observed  this  wren  daily  prying  into 
my  hives,  capturing  every  worm  which 
had  been  expelled  therefrom  and  dig- 
ging out  with  its  bill  the  chrysalids 
concealed  in  various  cracks,  nooks,  and 
corners  about  the  hive.  From  this 
discovery  I  was  encouraged  to  patron- 
ize this  bird.  Empty  oyster-cans,  cat- 


tle's skulls,  boxes,  and  holes  bored  into 
the  cornices,  were  all  devoted  to  it  for 
breeding-places.  War  was  openly  de- 
clared against  all  cats,  and  waged  to 
extermination  by  aid  of  a  terrier  dog. 
With  these  auxiliaries,  the  Wrens,  the 
spiders,  an  ichneumon  insect,  and 
Longstroth's  movable  comb-hives,  the 
bee-moth  has  lost  all  its  terrors,  and  is 
no  longer  any  detriment  to  the  apia- 
rist." 

We  might  go  on  and  multiply  simi- 
lar instances,  covering  all  orders  and 
genera  of  our  birds,  not  omitting  even 
the  Gulls,  which  have  been  also  of 
such  signal  service  to  the  pioneers 
of  Utah,  Colorado,  and  Nevada,  and 
saved  them  from  starvation  by  de- 
stroying the  locusts  and  grasshoppers. 
But  we  have  already  opened  the  ques- 
tion sufficiently,  and  we  trust  that  it 
will  not  be  again  closed  until  wiser 
laws,  a  healthier  public  opinion,  and 
more  correct  information  shall  have 
become  the  result  of  the  fullest  inves- 
tigations and  the  most  careful  scrutiny 
of  the  habits  of  birds. 

The  present  law  of  Massachusetts, 
nominally  for  the  preservation  and  pro- 
tection of  birds,  is  discreditable  to  the 
State,  for  its  incoherency,  its  incom- 
pleteness, and  its  inconsistencies.  It 
should  be  radically  changed.  Except 
for  the  occasional  purposes  of  scientific 
studies,  no  birds  should  be  permitted  to 
be  molested  in  the  breeding-season. 
The  nests,  eggs,  and  young  of  all  birds 
should  be  protected  and  their  wanton 
molestation  punished.  No  birds  should 
be  permitted  to  be  hunted  during  the 
season  of  reproduction,  or  from  Febru- 
ary until  September.  During  the  other 
seven  months  of  the  year,  only  those 
birds  that  are  serviceable  to  man  for 
purposes  of  food  should  be  suffered  to 
be  hunted,  and  in  their  case  no  exter- 
minating mode  of  warfare  should  be 
permitted.  These  simple  and  general 
principles  require  but  a  brief  and  con- 
sistent enactment,  which,  once  passed, 
the  rapidly  improving  public  sentiment 
in  favor  of  the  birds  will  not  fail  to  see 
faithfully  observed  and  enforced. 


486 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choctaws. 


[April, 


PETER    PITCHLYNN,    CHIEF    OF    THE    CHOCTAWS. 


WHEN  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  first 
visited  this  country,  he  met  upon 
a  steamboat  on  the  Ohio  River  a  noted 
Choctaw  chief,  with  whom  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  a  long  conversation.  In  the 
"American  Notes"  we  find  an  agree- 
able account  of  this  interview,  in  which 
the  Indian  is  described  as  a  remarka- 
bly handsome  man,  and,  with  his  black 
hair,  aquiline  nose,  broad  cheek-bones, 
sunburnt  complexion,  and  bright,  dark, 
and  piercing  eye,  as  stately  and  com- 
plete a  gentleman  of  Nature's  mak- 
ing as  the  author  ever  beheld.  That 
man  was  Peter  P.  Pitchlynn.  Of  all 
the  Indian  tribes  which  acknowledge 
the  protecting  care  of  the  American 
government,  there  are  none  that  com- 
mand more  respect  than  the  Choctaws, 
and  among  their  leading  men  there  is 
not  one  more  deserving  of  notice  by 
the  public  at  large  than  the  subject  of 
this  paper.  Merely  as  a  romantic  sto- 
ry, the  leading  incidents  of  his  life  can- 
not but  be  read  with  interest,  and  as  a 
contribution  to  American  history,  ob- 
tained from  the  man  himself,  they  are 
worthy  of  being  recorded. 

His  father  was  a  white  man  of  a 
fighting  stock,  noted  for  his  bravery 
and  forest  exploits,  and  an  interpreter 
under  commission  from  General  Wash- 
l  ington,  while  his  mother  was  a  Choc- 
taw.  He  was  born  in  the  Indian  town 
of  Hush-ook-wa,  now  Noxabee  County, 
in  the  State  of  Mississippi,  January  30, 
1806.  The  first  duties  he  performed 
were  those  of  a  cow-boy,  but  when  old 
enough  to  bend  a  bow  or  hold  a  rifle 
to  his  shoulder,  he  became  a  hunter. 
In  the  councils  of  his  nation  he  some- 
times made  his  appearance  as  a  looker- 
on,  and  once,  when  a  member  of  the 
tribe  who  had  been  partially  educated 
in  New  England  was  seen  to  write  a 
letter  to  President  Monroe,  Pitchlynn 
resolved  that  he  would  himself  become 
a  scholar.  The  school  nearest  to  his 


father's  log-cabin  was  at  that  time  two 
hundred  miles  off,  among  the  hills  of 
Tennessee,  and  to  that  he  was  de- 
spatched after  the  usual  manner  of 
such  important  undertakings.  As  the 
only  Indian-boy  in  this  school,  he  was 
talked  about  and  laughed  at,  arid  with- 
in the  first  week  of  his  admission  he 
found  it  necessary  to  give  the  "  bully  " 
of  the  school  a  severe  thrashing.  At 
the  end  of  the  first  quarter  he  re- 
turned to  his  home  in  Mississippi, 
where  he  found  his  people  negotiating 
a  treaty  with  the  general  government ; 
on  which  occasion  he  made  himself 
notorious  by  refusing  to  shake  the 
hand  of  Andrew  Jackson,  the  nego- 
tiator, because  in  his  boyish  wisdom 
he  considered  the  treaty  an  imposition 
upon  the  Choctaws.  Nor  did  he  ever 
change  his  opinion  on  that  score.  His 
second  step  in  the  path  of  education 
was  taken  at  the  Academy  of  Columbia, 
in  Tennessee,  and  he  graduated  at  the 
University  of  Nashville.  Of  this  insti- 
tution General  Jackson  was  a  trustee, 
and  on  recognizing  young  Pitchlynn, 
during  an  official  visit  to  the  college, 
he  remembered  the  demonstration 
which  the  boy  had  made  on  their  first 
meeting,  and  by  treating  him  with  kind- 
ness changed  the  old  feeling  of  animos- 
ity to  one  of  warm  personal  friendship, 
which  lasted  until  the  death  of  the  fa- 
mous Tennesseean. 

On  his  return  to  Mississippi  our  hero 
settled  upon  a  prairie  to  which  his  name 
was  afterwards  given,  and  became  a 
farmer,  but  amused  himself  by  an  oc- 
casional hunt  for  the  black  bear.  He 
erected  a  comfortable  log-cabin,  and, 
having  won  a  faithful  heart,  he  caused 
his  marriage  ceremony  to  be  performed 
in  public,  and  according  to  the  teach- 
ings of  Christianity,  the  Rev.  C.  Kings- 
bury  being  the  officiating  missionary,  — 
a  man  long  endeared  to  the  Southern 
Indians,  and  known  as  "'  Father  Kings- 


1870.] 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  CJiicf  of  the  Choctaws. 


bury.''  As  Pitchlynn  was  the  first  man 
among  his  people  to  set  so  worthy  an 
example,  we  must  award  to  him  the 
credit  of  having  given  to  polygamy  its 
death  -  blow  in  the  Choctavv  nation, 
where  it  had  existed  from  the  earliest 
times. 

Another  reform  which  young  Pitch- 
lynn had  the  privilege  and  sagacity 
to  promote  among  his  people  was  that 
of  temperance,  which  had  for  some 
years  been  advocated  by  an  Indian 
named  David  Folsom.  In  a  treaty 
made  in  1820,  an  article  had  been  in- 
troduced by  the  Choctaws  themselves 
prohibiting  the  sale,  by  red  men  as 
well  as  white  men,  of  spirituous  liquors 
within  their  borders,  but  up  to  1824  it 
remained  a  dead  letter.  During  that 
year  the  Council  of  the  Nation  passed 
a  law  organizing  a  corps  of  light  horse, 
to  whom  was  assigned  the  duty  of  clos- 
ing all  the  dram-shops  that  could  be 
found  carrying  on  their  miserable  traf- 
fic contrary  to  treaty  stipulations.  The 
command  of  this  band  was  assigned  to 
young  Pitchlynn,  who  was  thereafter 
recognized  by  the  title  of  Captain.  In 
one  year  from  the  time  he  undertook 
the  difficult  task  of  exterminating  the 
traffic  in  liquor  he  had  successfully  ac- 
complished it.  As  a  reward  for  his 
services  he  was  elected  a  member  of 
the  National  Council,  being  the  only 
young  man  ever  thus  honored.  His 
first  proposition,  as  a  member  of  the 
Council,  was  for  the  establishment  of 
a  school ;  and,  that  the  students  might 
become  familiar  with  the  customs  of 
the  whites,  it  was  decided  that  it  should 
be  located  somewhere  in  their  country. 
The  Choctavv  Academy,  thus  founded 
near  Georgetown,  Kentucky,  and  sup- 
ported by  the  funds  of  the  nation,  was 
for  many  years  a  monument  of  their 
advancing  civilization. 

One  of  the  most  important  and  ro- 
mantic incidents  in  Pitchlynn's  career 
grew  out  of  the  policy,  on  the  part  of 
the  general  government,  for  removing 
the  Choctaws,  Chickasaws,  and  Creeks 
from  their  old  hunting-grounds  to  a  new 
location  west  of  the  Mississippi  River. 
At  the  request  and  expense  of  the 


United  States, *a  delegation  of  Indians 
was  appointed  in  1828  to  go  upon  an 
exploring  and  peace-making  expedition 
into  the  Osage  country,  and  of  this  par- 
ty Pitchlynn  was  appointed  the  leader. 
He  succeeded  in  making  a  lasting  peace 
with  the  Osages,  who  had  been  the  en- 
emies of  the  Choctaws  from  time  im- 
memorial. 

The  delegation  consisting  of  six  per- 
sons, —  two  from  each  of  the  three 
tribes  interested,  —  was  absent  from 
home  about  six  months.  The  first  town 
at  which  they  stopped  was  Memphis  ; 
their  next  halt  was  at  St.  Louis,  where 
they  were  supplied  with  necessaries  by 
the  Indian  superintendent  ;  and  their 
last  was  Independence,  which  was  then 
a  place  of  a  dozen  log-cabins,  and  here 
the  party  received  special  civilities  from 
a  son  of  Daniel  Boone.  On  leaving 
Independence  the  members  of  the  dele- 
gation, all  well  mounted,  were  joined 
by  an  Indian  agent,  and  their  first 
camp  on  the  broad  prairie-land  was 
pitched  in  the  vicinity  of  a  Shawnee 
village.  This  tribe  had  never  come  in 
conflict  with  the  Choctaws  (though  the 
former  took  the  side  of  Great  Britain 
in  the  war  of  1812),  and,  according  to 
custom,  a  council  was  convened  and 
pledges  of  friendship  were  renewed  by 
an  exchange  of  wampum  and  the  de- 
livery of  speeches. 

After  these  ceremonies,  a  grand  feast 
took  place  at  a  neighboring  village  on 
the  following  day  ;  and  then  the  expe- 
dition continued  its  march  towards  the 
Osage  country.  For  a  time  their  course 
lay  along  the  famous  Santa  Fd  trail, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  southwest, 
they  journeyed  over  a  beautiful  country 
of  rolling  prairies  skirted  with  timber, 
until  they  came  to  an  Osage  village, 
on  a  bluff  of  the  Osage  River.  The 
delegation  came  to  a  halt  within  a 
short  distance  of  the  village,  but  for 
several  days  the  Osages  showed  signs 
of  their  original  enmity,  and  refused  to 
meet  the  strangers  in  council  ;  and  as 
it  was  well  known  that  several  Osages 
had  recently  been  killed  by  a  wander- 
ing band  of  Choctaws,  the  probability 
of  hostilities  and  an  attempted  surprise 


488 


•   (/  the  ( 


[April, 


W.ls     ,|uite     apparent.       The    delegation. 

however,  piopo-.ed  .\  tieatv  of  peace, 

ami     .illrf     a     long     delay 
.u;teed   to   meet    them   in  general  conn- 
i-il;     when     Captain     ritclmnn     stated 
tli.it   hr  ami    his   party,  the 
taws    \\!u>    had    over    met    tho    Osages 
\\ith   pcaeeful   intentions,  hail   tia\  oiled 
-,  >  thousand   niilrs  by  the  advice 
of  the    I'niU'il    .Mates    govei  nnient.   in 

order  to  propose  to  the  Osages  a  treaty 

of  pi-ipetu.il  peaee. 

To  this  an  oiator  of  the  Osages  mailo 
a  defiant  aiul  unfriendly  reply,  ami  tho 
delegation  at  a  .second  council  changed 
theii  tone. 

Captain    I'itehlynn.    as    b. 

thi-ii    only  speaker.     After  casting  a 

defiant  look  upon  Etl  (>/.w.;.v,  tho 
Osagc  iM.itor,  as  \\ell  as  upon  the  oth- 
er Osages  present,  he  proceeded  in 
these  words:  "After  what  the  Osage 

\\auioi  .said  to  u-.  \ .-  ...  ,  i\.  we  t'nul  it 
very  hard  to  restrain  our  ancient  ani- 

\  oa    mloim    u.s    til 
la\\s   it    is    \our    duty    to    strike    down 

all  \\lu>  are  not  Osage  India-.--.  \\  e 
have  no  Mich  la\\.  but  we  have  a 
la\\  which  tolls  us  that  we  muM  alw.us 
strike  down  an  i  V.:;y  when  we  nu\-t 
him.  I  know  not  what  war  pat!-.-,  you 
r.<.a\  !i.',\e  tollowcd  we.sl  of  t'ae  big 
II  know  tluit  tho 

Smoke    of    our  council  tires    you    have 

.  and  \\e  live  on  the  other 

Side  of   the    I>IL;    Kiver.     Our    soil   lias 

bten   uackovl    l\\    an   O.sage,  CX- 

\\hen   he   \\as  a  prisoner.    I 

\\ill  not.  like  you.  speak  Kustins;ly  of 
the  nunv  \\.u  paths  we  have  been  up- 
on. 1  am  in  earnest,  and  can  onl\  say 
that  our  la.s;  \\.n  I]  have 

It   SO,    has    buni-ht    u 

\.  a:ul  to  this  villas;*- 

-.ouKl  very  \vell  like  to 
obtain    a    tew    hundred   Ot 

,'v   Mich  tropliies  that 
they  obtain  their   names.       I    mention 
thing .    to  \\    we    have 

.some    ancient    la\\-- 

were    made 

:      Idhert  to  the  lawa  - 

•.,!e.  and  you  must  bear  the 


conseijueiu  >  re    .1    little    band 

no\\  beioie  you.  but  we  are  not  afraid 
to  .speak  our  minds.  Our  contemplated 
lemoval  fiom  our  old  country  to  the 
SOUrCea  ot  the  \ikansasand  Ked  Kiv- 
Cra  will  biini;  u.s  within  two  hundred 
miles  c^f  your  nation  ;  and  when  that 
lemoval  takes  place,  we  will  not  finish 
build  ins;'  our  cabins  before  you  shall 
hear  the  whoop  of  the  Oioctaws  and 
the  ri.uk  of  their  ritles.  Your  waniors 
will  then  fall,  and  your  wives  and  chil- 
dren shall  be  taken  into  captivity  ; 
and  this  woik  will  «;o  on  until  tho 
Osa-;o  natioi\  is  entiioly  forgotten.  You 
ma\  not  believe  me.  but  our  numbers 
justify  the  assertion,  and  it  is  time  that 
the  Indian  race  should  be:-,in  a  new- 
kind  of  life.  You  say  you  will  not  re- 
ceive  the  white  paper  of  our  father,  the 
President;  and  we  now  tell  yon  that 
we  take  back  all  that  we  said  yesterday 
about  a  tieat\  of  pe.uv.  A  pi 
tion  for  peace,  if  we  are  to  1 
must  now  come  from  the  * 

This  speech  had  the  intended  effect  ; 
tho  next  day  negotiations  weie  . 
by  the  Osages ;  peace  was  declared, 
and  a  universal  shaking  of  hands  suc- 
.  .v,:.-.:  \  /..,!  fea.st  next  followed, 
and  the  entire  Osage  village, during  the 
succeeding  night,  presented  as  joyous 

luitValo-mo.it   and    water   could   i 
Speeches  furnished  a  largo  pan 
entertainment,  and    to    Captain    Titch- 
lynn  was  awarded  the  honor  of  > 
ing  the  closing   oration.     He    told  the 
Osages  that  his  people  had  adopted  the 
customs  of  civili.ation. 

-.  much  benefit  therefrom.     They 
encouraged    mi>  established 

•-.  and  de\  -;ion  to  the 

pursu:.  .vl    the    me- 

chanic arts.     Ho    ad\ 
to  do  the  same  ; 
amusement. 

for  food,   and    then    they 
would  become  a  happy  am'. 
people.     Tins  was  their  only  means  of 

habits 
man.      li  .  strive 

.    ,      V.nciican    | 
ment    would    treat    them   with   | 


Pet€r  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choc 


id,  though  they  might  throw 

A-nt  cabins,  there  \v.is  no  clanger 
;ig  their    identity    or  n.ur., 

the  end  ot'  these  prolonged 

..>;-,;//    ami 

selected  tor  the    purpose    escorted  the 
delegation  :.  .-is  of  the  Osage 

count!  \ 
and    fifty    miles.      1  hiring    the    14 

\\hich    tlu 

fore  parting  ni  the  chief 

talker,    and    he    did    much    to    enter- 
tain   the    whole    p.u:\.    whQfl 

,  la  ting 

what    adventures     and     traditions     he 
could  i 

with   facts    of  aboriginal    histoiy.      He 
claimed  that  his  people  \\ere  de- 
ed from  a  beaver,  and  that  the  Osage 
hunteis  never  killed  that  anim.-.' 

killing  one  ot  their  own  kindred. 
not  as 

large  as  many  others,  it  had  I 
contained  the  largest  and  hamN 
men  in  :  Id  ;  that  their  hoises 

were    finer   than    those   owned  by  the 
Pawnees    and    the    Comanches  . 

v-d  buffalo-meat  for  food  to 

the  l.incv  tV  used  in  the 

.  that  the  buffalo-robe  suit- 

:han  the  red  blanket  ; 

the  bOD  - '    than 

the  ritle  or  gun  ;  and  he  thought  their 

1    a    better    friend    to 

them    than  tit    of    the 

white    mar.. 

to  ruin  themselves  by  drink 

;ig    to     their    own    homes 

pursued    a    southern 

D    the    Canadian 

agent    leaving    the-,--. 

point  :  ul   so  con- 

tinuin^  ..ley  of  the    Red 

They 
:h    the 
•.us,    and    t\\o    - 

a  time  while  hunting 
buffaloes  a: ..  ..a  Titchlynn 

I  up  in  one  of  the  fiontic; 
a  bright  little  lr.  ging  to 


v»  as  he  M 

him  to    \  d  hail  hi: 

cated  at  the  :n\   in  Kcn- 

.   and  that  bo\  i>  now  one  of  the 
'.orient  and  faithful  ; 
;;d  in  the  Choctaw  nation. 
The   expedition    here    .vketclu 

It  step  taken  by  the  government 

la  accomplishing  the  removal  of 

the   Indian  :  \\ard  of  the  Mis- 

*  and  permanent 

home    in    the    far   \YeM.     The    several 

.-n  the  souices  of  the 

-as    and    Red    Rivers,   and   now 

and  progt. 

numity,  will  /amber  trfty  thou- 

sand souls.  ghteen   thousand 

Cherokees  and  three  thousand  Semi- 
noles  have  followed  their  example;  SO 
that  while  thirty-six  hundred  of  the 
Southern  Indians  are  said  to  be  liv- 
ing at  the  present  time  in  the  coun- 

.•re  born,—  the 

of  Mis.sis.xippi,   Alabama,   North 
lina,   <-  d    Kloiida,       M^ 

one  thousand  have  made  them.^ 

.ml  of  the  Mississippi 

.in    Titchlynn    was 
admirer  of  Henry  Clay,  and  first  made 

ot"  the  great  sta. 

in  1840.  The  Choctaw  was  ascending 
the  Ohio  in  a  steamboat,  and  at 
ville  during  the  night  the  Kentuckian 
came  on  board,  bound  to  Washington. 
On  leaving  his  state-room  at  a  \eiy 
,t  into  the 

cabin,  where  he   saw   two  old   farmers 
earnestly  engaged  in  a  talk  about  farm- 
ing, and,  dra  chair,  he  listened 
delight   for   more  than  an 
hour.     Returning  to  his  state-room  he 
roused  a  tiavelling  co;n;u:::,>;;  a:'.d  ;old 
him  what  a  great  treat  he    had   been 
enjoying,  and  added:  "  If  that  old  far- 
I  had  only  been 
C    law.  he  \\ould  have 
aen  in  this 
That     "old    former"    w*s 

M  the  compliment  that 
had    been    paid    him.     The    .steamboat 
.he  mouth  of 
the   Kana\\'.  was  com:. 


490 


Peter  PitcJilynn,  Chief  of  tJie  Choctaws. 


[April, 


such  occasions,  the  passengers  held 
mock  trials  and  improvised  a  debate 
on  the  relative  happiness  of  single  and 
married  life.  Mr.  Clay  consented  to 
speak,  and  took  the  bachelor  side  of 
the  question,  while  the  duty  of  replying 
was  assigned  to  the  Indian.  He  was 
at  first  greatly  bewildered,  but  recol- 
lecting that  he  had  heard  Methodist 
preachers  relate  their  experiences  on 
religious  matters,  he  thought  he  would 
relate  his  own  experiences  of  mar- 
ried life.  He  did  this  with  minute- 
ness and  considerable  gusto,  laying 
particular  stress  upon  the  goodness  of 
his  wife  and  the  different  shades  of 
feeling  and  sentiment  which  he  had 
experienced  ;  and  after  he  had  finished, 
the  ladies  present  vied  with  Mr.  Clay 
in  applauding  the  talented  and  warm- 
hearted Indian. 

When  the  war  of  the  Rebellion  com- 
menced, in  1 86 1,  the  subject  of  our 
sketch  was  in  Washington,  attending 
to  public  business  for  his  people,  but 
immediately  hurried  home  in  the  hope 
of  escaping  the  evils  of  the  impending 
strife.  Before  leaving,  however,  he 
had  an  interview  with  President  Lin- 
coln and  assured  him  of  his  desire  to 
have  the  Choctaws  pursue  a  neutral 
course,  to  which  the  President  assent- 
ed as  the  most  proper  one  to  adopt  un- 
der the  circumstances.  But  Pitchlynn's 
heart  was  for  the  Union,  and  he  made 
the  further  declaration,  that,  if  the  gen- 
eral government  would  protect  them, 
his  people  would  certainly  espouse  its 
cause.  He  then  returned  to  the  South- 
west, intending  to  lead  the  quiet  life 
of  a  planter  on  his  estate  in  the  Choc- 
taw  country.  But  the  white  men  of  Ar- 
kansas and  Texas  had  already  worked 
upon  the  passions  of  the  Choctaws,  and 
on  reaching  home  he  found  a  large  part 
of  the  nation  already  infected  with  the 
spirit  of  rebellion.  He  pleaded  for  the 
national  government,  and,  at  the  haz- 
ard of  his  life,  denounced  the  conduct 
of  the  Southern  authorities.  Many  sto- 
ries were  circulated  to  increase  the 
number  of  his  enemies  ;  among  them 
was  one  that  he  had  married  a  sister 
of  President  Lincoln,  and  another  that 


the  President  had  offered  him  four 
hundred  thousand  dollars  to  become 
an  Abolitionist.  He  was  sustained, 
however,  by  the  best  men  in  the  nation, 
who  made  him  colonel  of  a  regiment 
of  militia  for  home  defence,  and  after- 
wards elected  him  Head  Chief  of  the 
Choctaws;  but  all  this  did  not  prevent 
two  or  three  of  his  children,  as  well  as 
many  others  in  the  nation,  from  joining 
the  Confederate  Army.  He  himself 
remained  a  Union  man  during  the 
entire  war.  Not  only  had  many  local 
positions  of  honor  been  conferred  upon 
him  in  times  past,  but  he  had  long  been 
looked  upon  by  all  the  Choctaws  as 
their  principal  teacher  in  religious  and 
educational  matters,  as  their  philoso- 
pher and  faithful  friend,  and  also  as 
the  best  man  to  represent  their  claims 
and  interests  as  a  delegate  to  Wash- 
ington. He  had  under  cultivation, 
just  before  the  Rebellion,  about  six 
hundred  acres  of  land,  and  owned  over 
one  hundred  slaves  ;  and  though  he 
annually  raised  good  crops  of  cotton 
and  corn,  he  found  the  market  for 
them  too  far  off,  and  was  beginning  to 
devote  all  his  attention  to  the  raising 
of  cattle.  His  own  stock  and  that  of 
his  neighbors  was  of  course  a  prize  for 
the  Confederates,  who  took  everything, 
and  left  the  country  almost  desolate. 
When  the  Emancipation  Proclamation 
appeared,  he  acquiesced  without  a  mur- 
mur, managing  as  well  as  he  could  in 
the  reduced  condition  of  his  affairs ; 
and  after  the  war,  he  was  again  solicit- 
ed to  revisit  Washington  as  a  delegate, 
in  which  capacity  he  was  assigned  the 
charge  of  a  claim  for  unpaid  treaty 
money  of  several  millions  of  dollars. 
An  address  that  he  delivered  as  dele- 
gate before  the  President  at  the  White 
House  in  1855  was  commented  upon  at 
the  time  as  exceedingly  touching  and 
eloquent ;  and  certain  speeches  that  he 
made  before  Congressional  committees 
in  1868,  and  especially  an  address  that 
he  delivered  in  1869  before  a  delega- 
tion of  Quakers,  called  to  Washington 
by  President  Grant  for  consultation  on 
our  Indian  affairs,  placed  him  in  the 
foremost  rank  of  orators. 


Peter  Pitchlynn,   CJiief  of  tJic  CJioctaws. 


491 


While  it  is  true  that  the  most  popu- 
lous single  tribe  of  Indians  now  living 
in  this  country  is  that  of  the  Cherokees, 
the  Choctaws  and  Chickasaws,  who 
form  what  is  known  as  the  Choctaw 
nation,  outnumber  the  former  by  about 
five  thousand,  and  they  claim  in  the 
aggregate  near  twenty  thousand  souls. 
They  both  speak  the  same  language, 
and  have  attained  a  higher  degree  of 
civilization  than  any  other  of  the  South- 
ern tribes.  The  nation  is  divided  into 
four  districts,  one  of  which  is  composed 
exclusively  of  Chickasaws  ;  each  district 
was  formerly  under  one  chief,  but  now 
they  are  all  ruled  by  a  single  chief  or 
governor ;  and  they  have  a  National 
Legislative  Council.  They  have  an  al- 
phabet of  their  own,  and  are  well  sup- 
plied with  schools  and  academies,  with 
churches  and  benevolent  institutions, 
and,  until  lately,  had  a  daily  press. 
They  are  the  only  tribe  which  has  nev- 
er, as  a  whole,  been  in  hostile  collision 
with,  nor  been  subdued  by,  the  United 
States.  Have  they  never  broken  a 
promise  or  violated  their  plighted  faith 
with  the  general  government  ?  What 
certain  individuals  may  have  done  dur- 
ing the  late  war  ought  not  certainly  to 
be  charged  against  the  nation  at  large. 

The  Choctaws  and  Chickasaws  claim 
for  their  territory,  that  it  is  as  fertile 
and  picturesque  as  could  be  desired. 
To  speak  in  general  terms,  it  forms  the 
southeast  quarter  of  what  is  called  the 
Indian  Territory.  It  is  about  two  hun- 
dred miles  long  by  one  hundred  and 
and  thirty  wide,  forming  an  elongated 
square  ;  and  while  the  Arkansas  and 
Canadian  Rivers  bound  it  on  the  north, 
it  joins  the  State  of  Arkansas  on  the 
east,  and  the  Red  River  and  Texas 
bound  it  on  the  south  and  west.  These 
two  nations,  now  living  in  alliance,  con- 
sider themselves  much  more  fortunate 
now  than  they  were  in  the  "old  coun- 
try," the  designation  which  they  love  to 
apply  to  Mississippi.  Their  form  of 
government  is  similar  in  all  particulars 
to  that  of  the  States  of  the  Union. 
While  it  is  true  that  the  Rebellion  had 
a  damaging  effect  upon  their  affairs,  it 
cannot  be  long  before  they  will  be  re- 


stored to  their  former  prosperous  con- 
dition. They  adopted  and  supported 
before  the  war  a  system  of  what  they 
called  "  neighborhood  schools,"  as  well 
as  seminaries,  taught  for  the  most  part 
by  ladies  from  the  New  England  States, 
and  intended  to  afford  the  children  a  pri- 
mary course  of  instruction  and  fit  them 
for  the  colleges  and  seminaries  in  the 
States,  to  which  many  pupils  have 
hitherto  been  annually  sent.  The  prime 
mover  in  all  these  educational  enter- 
prises was  Colonel  Pitchlynn,  and  it  is 
now  one  of  the  leading  desires  of  his 
heart  that  the  good  lady  teachers,  who 
were  driven  off  by  the  war  would  either 
return  themselves,  or  that  others  like 
them  might  be  sent  out  from  New  Eng- 
land. In  his  opinion,  these  teachers 
were  the  best  civilizers  of  the  Choctaw 
nation.  To  New  England  clergymen 
also  are  the  Choctaws  indebted  for  their 
best  translations  of  the  Scriptures  and 
other  religious  books.  Their  school 
system,  which  was  eminently  prosperous 
until  interfered  with  by  the  Rebellion, 
was  founded  in  1842.  Up  to  that  date 
the  general  government  undertook  to 
educate  that  people,  and  the  funds  set 
aside  for  the  purpose  were  used  by  de- 
signing men  for  their  own  benefit. 
Pitchlynn  well  knew  that  he  would  have 
to  fight  an  unscrupulous  opposition, 
but  he  resolved  to  make  an  effort  to 
have  the  school  fund  transferred  from 
the  United  States  to  the  Choctaws. 
After  many  delays,  he  obtained  an  in- 
terview with  John  C.  Spencer,  then 
Secretary  of  War,  and  was  permitted  to 
tell  his  story.  The  Secretary  listened 
attentively,  was  much  pleased,  and  told 
the  chief  he  should  have  an  interview 
with  the  President,  John  Tyler.  The 
speech  which  he  then  delivered  in  the 
White  House  and  before  the  Cabinet 
was  pronounced  wonderful  by  those 
who  heard  it.  It  completely  converted 
the  President,  who  gave  immediate 
orders  that  Pitchlynn's  suggestions 
should  all  be  carried  out.  The  Secre- 
tary fully  co-operated  ;  and  before  the 
clerks  of  the  Indian  Office  quitted  their 
desks  that  night  the  necessary  papers 
had  been  prepared,  signed,  sealed, 


492 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  CJiicf  of  the  Choctaws. 


[April, 


and  duly  delivered.  Pitchlynn  left 
Washington  with  flying  colors,  and  was 
one  of  the  happiest  men  in  the  land. 
On  reaching  the  Choctaw  country,  he 
was  honored  with  all  the  attention  his 
people  knew  how  to  confer.  On  a 
subsequent  Fourth  of  July  he  delivered 
an  oration  of  remarkable  beauty  and 
power,  in  which  he  recapitulated  the 
history  of  their  emigration  from  Missis- 
sippi ;  and  after  describing  their  subse- 
quent trials,  urged  them  to  be  con- 
tented in  their  new  homes,  and  then 
set  forth  at  great  length  his  views  on 
the  subject  of  universal  education,  the 
whole  of  which,  to  the  minutest  partic- 
ular, were  subsequently  adopted.  The 
first  academy  organized  under  the  new 
arrangement  was  named  for  the  Secre- 
tary of  War  ;  and  from  that  year,  until 
the  death  of  John  C.  Spencer,  that  wise 
and  warm-hearted  lover  of  the  Indians 
had  not  a  more  devoted  friend  than 
Peter  Pitchlynn. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  Rebel- 
lion the  number  of  slaves  in  the  Choc- 
taw  nation  was  estimated  at  three 
thousand ;  and  these,  in  the  capacity 
of  freedmen,  are  now  waiting  for  the 
general  government  to  keep  its  prom- 
ises in  regard  to  their  welfare.  By  a 
treaty  which  was  ratified  in  1866  they 
were  to  be  adopted  by  the  Choctaws 
and  Chickasaws,  and  those  tribes  were 
to  receive  a  bonus  of  three  hundred 
thousand  dollars ;  if  this  stipulation 
should  fail,  the  government  was  to  re- 
move them  to  some  public  lands,  where 
they  might  found  a  colony  ;  and  as  the 
Indians  have  thus  far  failed  to  adopt 
the  freedmen,  the  latter  are  patiently 
waiting  for  the  government  to  keep  its 
solemn  promises.  These  unfortunate 
people  are  said  to  be  more  intelligent 
and  self-reliant  than  many  of  their  race 
in  the  Southern  States,  and  it  certainly 
seems  a  pity  that  they  should  continue 
in  their  present  unsatisfactory  and  dis- 
organized condition.  It  is  due  to  Col- 
onel Pitchlynn  to  state,  that  from  the 
beginning  he  has  advocated  the  adop- 
tion of  the  freedmen.  Ever  since  the 
removal  of  the  Choctaws  and  Chicka- 
saws to  their  Western  territory,  mis- 


sionaries and  school  teachers  have  la- 
bored among  them  with  great  faithful- 
ness, and  the  denominations  which 
have  chiefly  participated  in  this  good 
work  are  the  Baptist,  the  Methodists, 
and  the  Cumberland  and  Old-School 
Presbyterians.  Upon  the  whole,  the 
cause  of  temperance  has  fared  as  well 
with  them  as  with  any  of  the  fully  civ- 
ilized people  of  the  Atlantic  States.  In 
certain  parts  of  the  interior  alcoholic 
drinks  are  seldom  if  ever  seen,  but 
this  cannot  be  said  of  those  parts  bor- 
dering on  Arkansas  and  Texas.  No 
white  man  is  allowed  citizenship  among 
them  unless  he  marries  a  Choctaw. 
Some  years  ago  they  concluded  to 
adopt  one  man,  but  during  the  next 
winter  no  less  than  five  hundred  peti- 
tions were  sent  in  for  the  same  boon, 
which  was  not  granted. 

That  there  has  always  been  a  want  of 
harmony  among  this  people  on  moral 
as  well  as  political  questions  cannot  be 
denied,  and  the  fact  may  be  attributed 
to  a  few  influential  families,  whom  un- 
profitable jealousies  and  a  party  spirit 
are  kept  up,  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 
masses.  If  there  is  anything  among 
them  which  might  be  called  aristocracy, 
it  consists  more  in  feeling  than  in  out- 
ward circumstances  ;  for  all  the  people 
live  alike  in  plain  but  comfortable  log- 
cabins,  and  are  content  with  a  simple 
manner  of  life.  They  have  a  goodly 
number  of  really  intellectual  men  ;  but 
it  is  undoubtedly  true  that,  so  far  as 
the  higher  qualities  are  concerned,  the 
particular  man  of  whom  we  have  been 
writing  is  without  a  peer. 

To  be  the  leading  intellect  among 
such  a  people  is,  of  course,  no  ordi- 
nary honor,  and  Colonel  Pitchlynn  has 
always  cherished  with  affectionate  pride 
their  history  and  romantic  traditions. 
He  is,  indeed,  the  poet  of  his  people  ; 
and  he  has  communicated  to  the  writer 
many  Choctaw  legends,  stored  up  in 
his  retentive  memory,  which  have  never 
appeared  in  print,  and  which,  but  for 
Pitchlynn's  appreciation  of  their  beau- 
ty, would  scarcely  have  been  repeated 
to  a  white  man. 


8/o.] 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choctaws. 


493 


According  to  one  of  these  tradi- 
tions, the  Choctaw  race  came  from 
the  bosom  of  a  magnificent  sea,  sup- 
posed to  be  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Even 
when  they  first  made  their  appearance 
upon  the  earth,  they  were  so  numerous 
as  to  cover  the  sloping  and  sandy 
shore,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and 
for  a  long  time  they  travelled  upon  the 
sands  before  they  could  find  a  place 
suited  to  their  wants.  The  name  of 
their  principal  chief  or  prophet  was 
Chah-tah,  and  he  was  a  man  of  great 
age  and  wisdom.  For  many  moons 
their  bodies  were  strengthened  by 
pleasant  breezes  and  their  hearts  glad- 
dened by  perpetual  summer.  In  pro- 
cess of  time,  however,  the  multitude  was 
visited  by  sickness,  and  the  dead  bod- 
ies of  old  women  and  little  children  one 
after  another  were  left  upon  the  shore. 
Then  the  heart  of  the  prophet  became 
troubled,  and,  planting  a  long  staff 
which  he  carried  in  his  hand,  and 
which  was  endowed  with  the  powers  of 
an  oracle,  he  told  his  people  that  from 
the  spot  designated  they  must  turn 
their  faces  towards  the  unknown  wil- 
derness. But  before  entering  upon 
this  part  of  their  journey  he  specified 
a  certain  day  for  starting,  and  told  them 
that  they  were  at  liberty,  in  the  mean 
time,  to  enjoy  themselves  by  feasting 
and  dancing  and  performing  their  na- 
tional rites. 

It  was  now  early  morning  and  the 
hour  appointed  for  starting.  Heavy 
clouds  and  flying  mists  rested  upon  the 
sea,  but  the  beautiful  waves  melted  upon 
the  shore  as  joyfully  as  ever  before. 
The  staff  which  the  prophet  planted 
was  found  leaning  towards  the  point  in 
the  north,  and  in  that  direction  did  the 
multitude  take  up  their  line  of  march. 
Their  journey  lay  across  streams,  over 
hills,  through  tangled  forests,  and  over 
immense  prairies.  They  now  arrived 
in  an  entirely  new  country  ;  they  plant- 
ed the  magic  staff  every  night  with  the 
utmost  care,  and  arose  in  the  morning 
with  eagerness  to  ascertain  the  direc- 
tion in  which  it  leaned.  And  thus  had 
they  travelled  many  days  when  they 
found  themselves  upon  the  margin  of 


an  O-kee-na-chitto,  or  great  highway  of 
water,  —  the  Mississippi  River.  Here 
they  pitched  their  tents,  and,  having 
again  planted  the  staff,  lay  down  to 
sleep.  When  morning  came,  the  or- 
acle told  them  that  they  must  cross  the 
mighty  river  before  them.  They  built 
themselves  rafts  and  reached  the  oppo- 
site shore  in  safety.  They  now  found 
themselves  in  a  country  of  rare  beauty, 
where  the  trees  were  so  high  as  almost 
to  touch  the  clouds,  and  where  game 
of  all  kinds  and  the  sweetest  of  fruits 
were  found  in  great  abundance.  The 
flowers  of  this  land  were  more  brilliant 
than  any  they  had  ever  seen,  and  so 
large  as  often  to  shield  them  from  the 
sunlight  of  noon.  With  the  climate  of 
the  land  they  were  delighted,  and  the 
air  they  breathed  seemed  to  fill  their 
bodies  with  new  strength.  So  pleased 
were  they  with  all  they  saw,  that  they 
built  mounds  in  all  the  more  beauti- 
ful valleys  through  which  they  passed, 
so  that  the  Master  of  Life  might  know 
they  were  not  an  ungrateful  people. 
In  this  country  they  resolved  to  re- 
main, and  here  they  established  their 
government,  and  in  due  time  made  the 
great  mound  of  Nun-i-wai-ya,  near  the 
head-waters  of  what  is  now  known  as 
Pearl  River  in  Mississippi. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  Choctaw 
nation  became  so  powerful  that  its 
hunting-grounds  extended  even  to  the 
sky.  Troubles  now  arose  among  the 
younger  warriors  and  hunters  of  the 
nation,  until  it  came  to  pass  that  they 
abandoned  the  cabins  of  their  fathers, 
and  settled  in  distant  regions  of  the 
earth.  Thus,  from  the  body  of  the 
Choctaw  nation  have  sprung  those 
other  nations  which  are  known  as  the 
Chickasaws,  the  Cherokees,  the  Creeks 
or  Muscogees,  the  Shawnees,  and  the 
Delawares.  And  in  process  of  time 
the  Choctaws  founded  a  great  city, 
wherein  their  aged  men  might  spend 
their  days  in  peace  ;  and,  because  they 
loved  those  of  their  people  who  had 
long  before  departed  into  distant  re- 
gions, they  called  this  city  Yazoo,  the 
meaning  of  which  is,  Home  of  the  people 
iuho  are  gone 


494 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choctaws. 


[April, 


Another  legend,  entitled  77/6'  Over- 
flowing Waters,  is  as  follows.  The 
world  was  in  its  prime.  The  tiny 
streams  among  the  hills  and  moun- 
tains shouted  with  joy,  and  the  broad 
rivers  wound  their  wonted  course  along 
the  peaceful  valleys.  The  moon  and 
stars  had  long  made  the  night  skies 
beautiful,  and  guided  the  hunter  through 
the  wilderness.  The  sun,  which  the 
red  man  calls  the  glory  of  summer-time, 
had  never  failed  to  appear.  Many 
generations  of  men  lived  and  passed 
away.  But  in  process  of  time  the  as- 
pect of  the  world  became  changed. 
Brother  quarrelled  with  brother,  and 
cruel  wars  frequently  covered  the  earth 
with  blood.  The  Great  Spirit  saw  all 
these  and  was  displeased.  A  terrible 
wind  swept  over  the  wilderness,  and  the 
Ok-la-ho-ma,  or  red  people,  knew  that 
they  had  done  wrong,  but  they  lived 
as  if  they  did  not  care.  Finally,  a  stran- 
ger prophet  made  his  appearance  among 
them,  and  proclaimed  in  every  village 
the  news  that  the  human  race  was  to  be 
destroyed.  None  believed  his  words, 
and  the  moons  of  summer  again  came 
and  disappeared.  It  was  now  the  au- 
tumn of  the  year.  Many  cloudy  days 
had  occurred,  and  then  a  total  dark- 
ness came  upon  the  earth,  and  the  sun 
seemed  to  have  departed  forever.  It 
was  very  dark  and  very  cold.  Men 
lay  down  to  sleep,  but  were  troubled 
with  unhappy  dreams.  They  arose 
when  they  thought  it  was  time  for  the 
day  to  dawn,  but  only  to  see  the  sky 
covered  with  a  darkness  deeper  than 
the  heaviest  cloud.  The  moon  and 
stars  had  all  disappeared,  and  there 
was  constantly  a  dismal  bellowing  of 
thunder  all  round  the  sky.  Men  now 
believed  that  the  sun  would  never  re- 
turn, and  there  was  great  consternation 
throughout  the  land.  The  great  men 
of  the  Choctaw  nation  spoke  despond- 
ingly  to  their  fellows,  and  sung  their 
death  -  songs,  but  those  songs  were 
faintly  heard  in  the  gloom  of  the  great 
night.  Men  visited  each  other  by 
torchlight.  The  grains  and  fruits  of 
the  land  became  mouldy,  and  the  wild 
animals  of  the  forest  became  tame,  and 


gathered  around  the  watch-fires  of  the 
Indians,  entering  even  into  the  vil- 
lages. 

A  louder  peal  of  thunder  than  was 
ever  before  heard  now  echoed  through 
the  firmament,  and  a  light  was  seen  in 
the  north.  It  was  not  the  light  of  the 
sun,  but  a  gleam  of  distant  waters. 
They  made  a  mighty  roar,  and,  in  bil- 
lows like  the  mountains,  they  rolled  over 
the  earth.  They  swallowed  up  the  en- 
tire human  race,  and  destroyed  every- 
thing which  had  made  the  earth  beauti- 
ful. Only  one  human  being  was  saved, 
and  that  was  the  mysterious  prophet 
who  had  foretold  the  calamity.  He 
had  built  a  raft  of  sassafras-logs,  and 
upon  this  he  floated  above  the  wa- 
ters. A  large  black  bird  came  and  flew 
in  circles  above  his  head.  He  called 
upon  it  for  help,  but  it  shrieked  aloud, 
and  flew  away  and  returned  no  more. 
A  smaller  bird,  of  a  bluish  color,  with 
scarlet  eyes  and  beak,  now  came  hov- 
ering over  the  prophet's  head.  He 
spoke  to  it,  and  asked  if  there  were  a 
spot  of  dry  land  in  any  part  of  the  waste 
of  waters.  It  fluttered  its  wings,  uttered 
a  wail,  and  flew  directly  towards  that 
part  of  the  sky  where  the  newly  born 
sun  was  just  sinking  in  the  waves.  A 
strong  wind  now  arose,  and  the  raft  of  the 
prophet  was  rapidly  borne  in  that  direc- 
tion. The  moon  and  stars  again  made 
their  appearance,  and  the  prophet 
landed  upon  a  green  island,  where  he 
encamped.  Here  he  enjoyed  a  long  and 
refreshing  sleep,  and  when  morning 
dawned,  he  found  that  the  island  was 
covered  with  every  variety  of  animals, 
excepting  the  great  Shakanli,  or  mam- 
moth, which  had  been  destroyed.  Birds, 
too,  he  also  found  here  in  great  abun- 
dance. He  recognized  the  identical 
black  bird  which  had  abandoned  him  to 
his  fate  upon  the  waters,  and,  as  it  was 
a  wicked  bird  and  had  sharp  claws,  he 
called  it  Fulluh-chitto,  or  Bird  of  the 
Evil  One.  He  also  discovered,  and 
with  great  joy,  the  bluish  bird  which 
had  caused  the  wind  to  blow  him  upon 
the  island,  and  because  of  its  kindness 
to  him  and  its  beauty,  he  called  it  Puch- 
che-yon-sho-ba,)  or  the  Soft- voiced  Pig- 


1 870.] 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choctaws. 


495 


eon.  The  waters  finally  passed  away  ; 
and  in  process  of  time  that  bird  be- 
came a  woman  and  the  wife  of  the 
prophet,  and  from  them  all  the  people 
now  living  upon  the  earth  were  de- 
scended. And  so  ends  the  story  of 
the  overflowing  waters,  in  which  the 
reader  must  have  noted  the  strong  re- 
semblance to  the  scriptural  account  of 
the  Deluge. 

The  most  poetical  of  Pitchlynn's  sto- 
ries is  that  of  77/6'  Unknown  IVoman, 
which  is  as  follows.  It  was  in  the  very 
far-off  times,  and  two  hunters  were 
spending  the  night  by  their  watch-fire 
in  a  bend  of  the  river  Alabama.  The 
game  and  the  fish  were  with  every  new 
moon  becoming  less  abundant,- and  all 
they  had  to  satisfy  their  hunger  was 
the  tough  flesh  of  a  black  hawk.  They 
were  very  tired,  and  as  they  reflected 
upon  their  condition,  and  thought  of 
their  hungry  children,  they  were  very 
unhappy,  and  talked  despondingly. 
But  they  roasted  the  bird  before  the 
fire,  and  tried  to  enjoy  their  repast. 
Hardly  had  they  commenced  eating, 
before  they  were  startled  by  a  singular 
noise  resembling  the  cooing  of  a  dove. 
Looking  in  one  direction  they  saw 
nothing  but  the  moon  just  rising  above 
the  thick  woods  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river.  Looking  up  and  down 
the  stream,  they  could  see  nothing  but 
the  sandy  shores  and  the  dark  waters 
which  were  murmuring  a  low  song. 
They  turned  their  eyes  in  the  quarter 
directly  opposite  the  moon,  and  there 
discovered,  standing  upon  the  summit 
of  a  grassy  mound,  the  form  of  a  beau- 
tiful woman.  They  hastened  to  her 
side,  when  she  told  them  she  was  very 
hungry,  and  thereupon  they  ran  after 
their  roasted  hawk  and  gave  it  all  into 
the  hands  of  the  woman.  She  barely 
tasted  the  proffered  food,  but  told 
the  hunters  that  their  kindness  had 
preserved  her  from  suffering,  and  that 
she  would  not  forget  them  when  she 
returned  to  the  happy  grounds  of  her 
father,  who  was  the  Hosh-ial-li,  or 
Great  Spirit,  of  the  Choctaws.  She  had 
one  request  to  make,  and  this  was, 
that  when  the  next  moon  of  midsum- 


mer should  arrive  they  must  visit  the 
spot  where  she  then  stood.  A  pleasant 
breeze  swept  among  the  forest  leaves, 
and  the  strange  woman  disappeared. 

The  hunters  were  astonished,  but 
they  returned  to  their  families,  and 
kept  all  that  they  had  seen  and  heard 
hidden  in  their  hearts.  Summer  came, 
and  they  once  more  visited  the  mound 
on,  the  banks  of  the  Alabama.  They 
found  it  covered  with  a  plant  whose 
leaves  were  like  knives  of  the  white 
man  ;  and  it  yielded  a  delicious  food, 
which  has  since  been  known  among  the 
Choctaws  as  the  sweet  toncha,  or  In- 
dian maize. 

Like  the  foregoing  in  spirit  is  this  lit- 
tle story  about  the  Hunter  of  the  Sun. 
The  Choctaws  were  always  a  grateful 
people,  and  once,  after  enjoying  a  rich 
harvest  of  the  sweet  maize,  they  held 
a  national  council,  and  their  leading 
prophet  descanted  at  great  length  upon 
the  beauty  of  the  earth,  attributing 
the  blessings  they  enjoyed  to  the  sun. 
They  knew  that  the  great  luminary 
came  from  the  east,  but  none  of  them 
had  ever  found  out  what  became  of  it 
when  it  passed  beyond  the  mountains 
at  the  close  of  day.  "  Is  there  not," 
said  the  prophet,  "  among  all  my  peo- 
ple a  single  warrior  who  will  go  upon  a 
long  journey  and  find  out  what  becomes 
of  the  sun  ?  "  Then  it  was  that  a  young 
warrior  named  Ok-la-no-wa,  or  the  trav- 
eller, arose  and  said,  "  I  will  go  and 
try  to  find  out  the  sleeping-place  of  the 
sun,  and  if  unsuccessful  will  never  re- 
turn." Of  course,  the  saddest  mourner 
that  he  left  behind  was  the  girl  whom 
he  loved,  and  to  whom  he  had  pre- 
sented a  belt  of  scarlet  wampum.  Af- 
ter many  years  the  traveller  returned 
to  the  region  of  his  birth,  but  so  many 
changes  had  taken  place  that  he  felt 
himself  a  stranger  to  the  people.  The 
only  person  who  seemed  to  remember 
anything  about  his  exploit  was  a  very 
old  woman,  and  although  she  was  real- 
ly the  girl  he  had  loved  in  his  youth, 
she  talked  a  great  deal  about  the  long- 
lost  Ok-la-no-iua,  and  laughed  at  the 
idea  as  foolish  that  he  and  the  old  man 
present  were  the  same.  The  old  man 


496 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  Choctaws. 


[April, 


spent  the  entire  winter  in  telling  the 
people  about  the  wide  prairies  and  high 
mountains  he  had  crossed,  about  the 
strange  men  and  animals  that  he  had 
seen,  and  that  when  the  sun  went  out 
of  sight  in  the  evening  it  always  sank 
into  a  blue  sea;  but  the  old  woman 
would  not  listen,  and  remained  in  her 
cabin,  counting  the  wampum  in  her 
belt;  and  when  spring  came  the  "old 
man  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  mound 
of  Nun-i-wai-ya,  and  before  the  end  of 
the  corn-planting  moon  the  aged  wo- 
man also  died,  and  was  buried  by  her 
loving  friends  by  the  side  of  Ok-la-no- 
wa  in  the  mound  of  Nun-i-'wai-ya. 
And  when  the  Indians  see  the  bright 
clouds  gathering  around  the  sun,  they 
think  of  the  hunter  of  the  sun,  and  of 
the  girl  he  loved,  with  her  belt  of  scar- 
let wampum. 

But  in  the  way  of  a  love  legend  the 
following  account  of  the  Nameless 
Choctaw  is  perhaps  as  good  a  speci- 
men as  the  writer  can  submit ;  and 
•with  this  he  will  conclude  his  chapter 
of  Choctaw  lore.  There  once  lived 
in  the  royal  Indian  town  of  E-ya-sho 
(Yazoo)  the  only  son  of  a  war  chief, 
who  was  famous  for  his  handsome  form 
and  lofty  bearing.  The  old  men  of  the 
nation  looked  upon  him  with  pride,  and 
said  that  his  courage  was  rare,  and  he 
was  destined  to  be  an  eminent  warrior. 
He  was  also  an  eloquent  orator.  But 
with  all  these  qualities  he  was  not 
allowed  a  seat  in  the  councils  of  his 
nation,  because  he  had  not  yet  distin- 
guished himself  in  war.  The  fame  of 
having  slain  an  enemy  he  could  not 
claim,  nor  had  he  even  been  fortunate 
enough  to  take  a  single  prisoner.  He 
was  greatly  beloved,  and,  as  the  name 
of  his  childhood  had  been  abandoned, 
according  to  an  ancient  custom,  and  he 
had  not  yet  won  a  name  worthy  of  his 
ability,  he  was  known  among  his  kin- 
dred as  the  Nameless  Choctaw. 

In  the  town  of  E-ya-sho  there  also 
once  lived  the  most  beautiful  maiden 
of  her  tribe.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
a  hunter,  and  the  promised  wife  of  the 
Nameless  Choctaw.  They  met  often 
at  the  great  dances,  but,  in  accordance 


with  Indian  custom,  she  treated  him 
as  a  stranger.  They  loved,  and  one 
thought  alone  entered  their  minds  to 
cast  a  shadow.  They  knew  that  the 
laws  of  their  nation  were  unalterable, 
and  that  she  could  not  become  his 
wife  until  he  had  won  a  name  in  war, 
though  he  could  always  place  at  the 
door  of  her  lodge  an  abundance  of 
game,  and  could  deck  her  with  the 
most  beautiful  wampum  and  feathers. 

It  was  now  midsummer,  and  the  even- 
ing hour.  The  lover  had  met  his  be- 
trothed upon  the  summit  of  a  hill  cov- 
ered with  pines.  From  the  centre  of 
a  neighboring  plain  rose  the  smoke 
of  a  large  watch-fire,  around  which 
were  dancing  a  party  of  four  hundred 
warriors.  They  had  planned  an  expe- 
dition against  the  distant  Osages,  and 
the  present  was  the  fourth  and  last 
night  of  the  preparation  ceremonies. 
Up  to  that  evening  the  Nameless  Choc- 
taw had  been  the  leader  in  the  dances, 
and  even  now  he  was  only  temporarily 
absent,  for  he  had  stolen  away  for 
a  parting  interview  with  his  beloved. 
They  separated,  and  when  morning 
came  the  Choctaw  warriors  were  upon 
the  war-path  leading  to  the  head-waters 
of  the  Arkansas.  On  that  stream  they 
found  a  cave,  in  which,  because  they 
were  in  a  prairie-land,  they  secreted 
themselves.  Two  men  were  then 
selected  as  spies,  one  of  whom,  the 
Nameless  Choctaw,  was  to  reconnoitre 
in  the  west,  and  the  other  in  the  east. 
Night  came,  and  the  Indians  in  the  cave 
were  discovered  by  an  Osage  hunter, 
who  had  entered  to  escape  the  heavy 
dews.  He  at  once  hastened  to  the 
nearest  camp,  told  his  people  what  he 
had  seen,  and  a  party  of  Osage  warriors 
hastened  to  the  cave.  At  its  mouth 
they  built  a  fire,  and  before  the  dawn 
of  clay  the  entire  Choctaw  party  had 
been  smothered  to  death  by  the  cun- 
ning of  their  enemies. 

The  Choctaw  spy  who  journeyed  to 
the  east  had  witnessed  the  surprise  and 
unhappy  fate  of  his  brother-warriors, 
and,  soon  returning  to  his  own  country, 
he  called  a  council  and  revealed  the 
sad  intelligence.  As  to  the  fate  of  the 


Peter  Pitchlynn,  Chief  of  the  CJioctaivs. 


497 


nameless  warrior  who  had  journeyed 
towards  the  west,  he  felt  certain  that 
he  too  must  have  been  overtaken  and 
slain.  Upon  the  heart  of  one  this 
story  fell  with  a  heavy  weight ;  and 
the  promised  wife  of  the  lost  Choctaw 
began  to  droop,  and  before  the  moon 
had  passed  away  she  died  and  was 
buried  on  the  spot  where  she  had 
parted  with  her  lover. 

But  what  became  of  the  Nameless 
Choctaw  ?  It  was  not  true  that  he  had 
been  overtaken  and  slain.  He  was  in- 
deed discovered  by  the  Osages,  and 
far  over  the  prairies  and  across  the 
streams  was  he  closely  pursued.  For 
many  days  and  nights  did  the  race 
continue,  but  the  Choctaw  finally  made 
his  escape.  His  course  had  been  very 
winding,  and  when  he  came  to  a  halt 
he  was  astonished  to  find  that  the 
sun  rose  in  the  wrong  quarter  of  the 
heavens.  Everything  appeared  to  him 
wrong  and  out  of  order,  and  he  became 
a  forlorn  and  bewildered  man.  At  last 
he  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  moun- 
tain which  was  covered  with  grass,  and 
unlike  any  he  had  ever  befoce  seen.  It 
so  happened,  however,  at  the  close  of 
a  certain  day,  that  he  wandered  into  a 
wooded  valley,  and,  having  made  a  rude 
lodge  and  killed  a  swamp  rabbit,  he 
lighted  a  fire,  and  prepared  himself  for 
at  least  one  quiet  supper  and  a  night  of 
repose.  Morning  dawned,  and  he  was 
still  in  trouble,  but  continued  his  wan- 
derings. Many  moons  passed  away  ; 
summer  came,  and  he  called  upon  the 
Great  Spirit  to  make  his  pathway  plain. 
He  hunted  the  forests  for  a  spotted 
deer,  and  having  killed  it,  on  a  day 
when  there  was  no  wind  he  offered  it  as 
a  sacrifice,  and  that  night  supped  upon 
a  portion  of  the  animal's  flesh.  His 
fire  burnt  brightly,  and,  though  lone- 


some, his  heart  was  at  peace.  But 
now  he  hears  a  footstep  in  an  adjoining 
thicket !  A  moment  more,  and  a  snow- 
white  wolf  of  immense  size  is  crouch- 
ing at  his  feet,  and  licking  his  torn 
moccasins.  "How  came  you  in  this 
strange  country?"  inquired  the  wolf; 
and  the  poor  Indian  told  the  story  of 
his  many  troubles.  The  wolf  took  pity 
upon  him,  and  said  that  he  would  con- 
duct him  in  safety  to  the  country  of  his 
kindred  ;  and  on  the  following  morning 
they  departed.  Long,  very  long  was 
the  journey,  and  very  crude  and  dan- 
gerous the  streams  which  they  had  to 
cross.  The  wolf  helped  the  Indian  to 
kill  game  for  their  mutual  support,  and 
by  the  time  that  the  moon  for  weeding 
corn  had  arrived  the  Choctaw  had  en- 
tered his  native  village  again.  This 
was  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  he 
had  parted  from  his  betrothed,  and  he 
now  found  his  people  mourning  for  her 
untimely  death.  Time  and  suffering 
had  so  changed  the  wanderer,  that 
his  relatives  and  friends  did  not  recog- 
nize him,  and  he  did  not  make  himself 
known.  Often,  however,  he  made  them 
recount  the  story  of  her  death,  and 
many  a  wild  song,  to  the  astonishment 
of  all,  did  he  sing  to  the  memory  of  the 
departed,  whom  he  called  by  the  name 
of  Inuna,  or  the  idol  of  warriors.  On 
a  cloudless  night  he  visited  her  grave, 
and  at  a  moment  when  the  Great  Spirit 
cast  a  shadow  upon  the  moon  he  fell 
upon  the  grave  in  grief  and  died.  For 
three  nights  afterwards  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Choctaw  village  were  alarmed 
by  the  continual  howling  of  a  wolf,  and 
when  it  ceased,  the  pine  forest  upon 
the  hill  where  the  lovers  were  resting 
in  peace  took  up  the  mournful  sound, 
and  has  continued  it  to  the  present 
time. 


VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  150. 


498 


An  Alpine  Home. 


[April, 


AN     ALPINE     HOME. 


IF  my  poor  mother  as  a  good  Catho- 
lic had  not  acted  very  wisely  in 
consenting  that  I  should  be  sent  to 
school  in  Germany,  she  scarcely  chose 
a  better  part  when  I  came  home  to 
Mantua  infected  with  Protestantism  to 
such  a  degree  that  I  abhorred  with 
youthful  ardor,  not  only  the  confession- 
al, but  all  the  offices  of  her  religion, 
and  in  accompanying  her  to  church 
never  could  be  got  farther  than  the 
door.  The  case  is  a  very  common  one 
in  Italy  now,  but  thirty  years  ago  af- 
fairs were  different.  Converts  to  Prot- 
estantism were  rare,  and  the  laissez- 
faire  treatment  was  by  no  means  in 
favor.  A  family  and  ecclesiastical 
council  was  held  concerning  me ;  and 
it  was  decided  that  nothing  would  do 
me  so  much  good  as  some  months'  re- 
flection in  the  cell  of  a  convent,  where 
I  could  enjoy  perfect  quiet  without  the 
distractions  of  books  or  society.  This 
decision  was  made  known  to  me  by 
accident;  in  fact,  I  overheard  it;  and 
being  only  eighteen  years  old,  and  ab- 
surdly in  earnest  about  personal  liberty 
and  the  freedom  of  religious  opinion,  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  look  upon  it 
with  equanimity.  I  ran  away  from 
home  that  night ;  and  pursuing  my 
northward  journey  through  Lombardy, 
up  the  Lake  of  Como,  and  across  the 
Septimer,  I  stood  at  last  with  my  hand 
on  the  railing  of  the  stile  that  formally 
separated  Austrian  Italy  from  Switzer- 
land. At  this  important  moment,  when 
I  thought  to  leave  my  troubles  behind 
me  forever,  two  gendarmes,  belong- 
ing to  the  little  custom-house  on  the 
frontier,  suddenly  appeared,  crossed 
their  muskets  above  the  plank  in  front 
of  me,  and,  lightly  touching  me  on 
either  shoulder,  begged  me  to  do  them 
the  pleasure  of  halting.  They  had  been 
watching  me  for  some  time,  they  said  ; 
they  knew  I  had  a  companion  laden 
with  smuggled  goods,  and  was  a  lure 
thrown  out  to  divert  them  from  him ; 


they  added  that  whilst  I  was  making 
up  my  mind  to  tell  them  where  my 
comrade  was,  they  would  trouble  me 
for  my  passport.  "  If  you  should  hap- 
pen to  have  such  a  paper,"  they  added, 
"you  can  of  course  go  at  once." 

Now  I  happened  to  have  no  paper  of 
that  kind,  and  I  could  only  surrender 
myself  in  despair.  The  gendarmes 
marched  me  off  towards  their  station, 
putting  a  hundred  questions  to  me  on 
the  way,  and  among  the  rest  the  de- 
mand, "Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"  Mantua,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Mantua  !  I  don't  know  how  it  is," 
said  one  of  the  gendarmes,  "but  your 
voice  sounds  very  much  like  that  of 
the  captain  we  had  when  we  were  sta- 
tioned at  St.  Benedetto,  not  far  from 
Mantua." 

A  ray  of  hope  broke  upon  me,  and 
I  eagerly  asked,  "  Was  it  Antonio 
T ?  " 

"  Exactly !  " 

"That  is  one  of  my  brothers," *  said 
I  exultantly,  "  he  is  in  that  neighbor- 
hood yet."  And  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  I  poured  out  my  whole  story 
to  my  captors. 

They  listened,  and  when  I  had  done, 
they  laughed,  and  one  said  :  "  Why 
did  n't  you  mention  this  at  once  ?  We 
should  not  have  kept  you  a  minute 
in  suspense.  It's  our  custom  to  han- 
dle roughly  those  who  fall  into  our 
hands,  for  spies  are  often  sent  to  see 
if  we  do  our  duty;  but  we  never  arrest, 
when  we  can  safely  avoid  it,  either  de- 
serters or  young  men  flying  from  the 
conscription.  Many  a  time  we  are 
tempted  to  go  over  the  bridge  ourselves, 
instead  of  serving  these  accursed  Aus- 
trians.  As  to  the  smugglers,  we  know 
them  too  well  to  act  against  them,  except 
when  Austrian  officers  are  among  us  ; 

*  The  traveller  visiting  Milan  will  find  the  name 
of  Antonio  T.,  who  fell  fighting  against  the  Austrians, 
inscribed  on  the  monument  to  the  martyrs  of  the  rev- 
olution of  1848. 


i8;o/ 


An  Alpine  Home. 


499 


then  we  show  fight,  in  order  not  to  be 
betrayed.  You  can  go  where  you  like ; 
but  mind  that,  whatever  happens,  you 
have  never  seen  ns" 

So  saying  they  both  shook  hands 
with  me.  I  gladly  gave  them  something 
to  get  a  good  dinner  and  a  bottle  of 
wine  in  which  to  drink  success  to  my 
enterprise,  and,  stepping  lightly  over 
the  stile,  found  myself  in  Switzerland. 

I  suppose  that  any  traveller,  who 
now  chanced  to  cross  the  Septimer  by 
that  obscure  pass,  would  not  find  it  at 
all  different  from  what  I  saw  it,  nor 
would  he  find  the  mountaineers  of 
the  region  in  the  least  disturbed  or 
changed  by  the  great  events  that  have 
taken  place  during  the  last  thirty  years. 
I  am  sure,  therefore,  a  sketch  of  a  fam- 
ily of  these  people  as  I  saw  them  will 
have  at  least  the  merit  of  novelty  and 
of  fidelity  to  existing  facts. 

The  Canton  Grisons,  where  I  now 
found  myself,  is  the  largest  in  the  Con- 
federation, or  as  large  as  Geneva,  Zug, 
Unterwalden,  Schwytz,  Glarus,  Soleure, 
Bale,  Schaffhausen,  Appenzell,  Thur- 
govia,  and  Neufchatel  put  together,  but 
has  only  about  fifteen  thousand  inhabi- 
tants. More  than  one  half  of  these  are, 
of  course,  in  the  capital  and  the  forty  or 
fifty  principal  townships,  leaving  to  the 
square  mile  for  the  remainder  of  the 
canton  some  sixteen  or  seventeen  souls. 
These  few  thousand  Grisons,  up  to 
1848,  governed  themselves  in  twenty- 
six  independent,  microscopic  repub- 
lics, having  each  a  complete  legis- 
lative, executive,  and  judiciary  ;  but  in 
remote  times  when  the  Grisons  were 
yet  fewer  in  number,  they  formed  but 
three  leagues,  called  respectively  the 
League  of  God,  the  League  of  the  Ten 
Jurisdictions,  and  the  League  Grisha, 
or  Gray,  from  the  color  of  their  clothes, 
and  this  league  gave  its  name  to  the 
whole  canton. 

My  object  was  to  reach  some  Protes- 
tant friends  in  St.  Gall,  upon  whose 
hospitality  I  knew  I  could  rely,  and  I 
had  arrived  in  this  Canton  Grisons,  as 
I  have  said,  by  the  Septimer,  choosing 
the  most  direct  road  because  I  had 
neither  money  nor  physical  strength  in 


superfluity.  Yet  the  Septimer  had  not 
in  itself  been  a  delightful  anticipation, 
for  I  knew  that  it  would  take  me  into 
the  wildest  Alpine  region  and  among 
vast  glaciers. 

Persons  who,  in  closed  and  comfort- 
able sleighs,  coaches,  and,  recently, 
railway  carriages,  have  crossed  the 
Simplon,  St.  Gothard,  Spliigen,  Mt. 
Cenis,  or  any  other  passes,  may  sup- 
pose that  all  the  Alpine  roads  are  more 
or  less  alike.  But  this  is  a  great  mis- 
take. Very  few  travellers  indeed  cross 
the  Septimer,  for  two  reasons  :  first,  it 
leads  only  into  wild  regions  ;  secondly, 
the  road  was  and  is  indescribably 
bad.  That  miserable  communication 
between  Switzerland  and  Italy  is  used 
mostly,  I  should  say,  only  by  cattle- 
drivers,  who  sell  their  stock  in  Lom- 
bardy,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Lake 
Como,  and  by  smugglers  who  know 
every  tree  and  every  stone. 

Streams  and  ravines  cross  and  re- 
cross  it  at  every  moment,  and  the  hand 
of  man  has  done  nothing  for  the  road, 
except  where  it  runs  quite  upon  the 
brink  of  the  precipices.  At  times  all 
vestiges  of  a  path  disappear,  and  for 
all  guidance  you  might  as  well  be  in  the 
prairies  of  the  West  or  the  untrodden 
fastnesses  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

I  hurried  forward  with  what  speed 
I  could,  but  my  feet  soon  became  so 
swollen  that  I  could  not  endure  the 
pressure  of  my  boots,  and  having  slung 
these  over  my  back,  I  picked  my  way 
barefoot  through  the  snow  and  fro- 
zen gravel.  The  only  relief  I  found 
was  occasionally  afforded  by  the  slip- 
pery rocks,  polished  by  ice,  rain,  snow, 
and  extending  across  the  space  be- 
tween the  frequent  curves  of  the  path  ; 
sliding  twenty  or  twenty-five  feet  down 
these  would  save  me  ten  to  twelve 
minutes'  walk ;  but  even  this  pleasure 
had  its  pains,  for  I  could  not  always 
stop  on  the  path  below,  and  sometimes 
brought  up  in  a  snow-bank  or  a  briery 
thicket. 

The  reader  who  is  enamored  of  this 
method  of  travel  will  regret  to  learn 
that  the  accommodations  by  the  way 
are  poor.  His  food  will  be  rather  worse 


500 


An  Alpine  Home. 


[April, 


than  that  we  give  to  cattle  ;  hair  or 
spring  mattresses  there  are  none  ;  and 
he  may  be  obliged  one  evening  to  in- 
vite slumber  on  a  bundle  of  straw, 
another  to  stretch  his  weary  limbs  in 
a  hay -loft,  and  only  where  civiliza- 
tion has  outdone  herself  may  he  have 
happy  dreams  on  a  nice,  clean,  dry, 
comfortable  heap  of  oak  and  ash  leaves. 
The  minister  or  the  priest  in  larger 
villages  may  shelter  a  respectable  trav- 
eller for  one  night,  but  inns  or  hotels 
are  unknown  ;  for  if  they  existed,  who 
would  support  them  ? 

Crossing  marshy  fields,  pursuing 
rough  paths,  and  descending  rocky 
slopes  through  thorny  brakes  and  pri- 
meval forests  (I  had  the  misfortune 
one  day  to  follow  the  dry  bed  of  a 
stream  which  I  mistook  for  a  path,  and 
so  lost  myself  in  a  large  wood),  coast- 
ing, as  a  New  England  boy  would  call 
it,  without  a  sled  down  those  smooth 
rocks,  —  I  had  left  the  Septimer  behind 
me,  and  was  one  day,  after  a  misera- 
ble breakfast,  dragging  slowly  onward. 
The  sun  had  passed  the  meridian  ;  the 
mountain  air  and  the  exercise  had  so 
sharpened  my  appetite  that  it  could 
have  competed  with  the  finest  razor  in 
keenness  ;  I  had  become  cross  and 
fierce  enough  to  dispute  the  hind  foot 
of  a  lamb  with  a  wolf;  but  I  had  given 
up  all  hopes  of  finding  a  human  habita- 
tion (and  it  would  not  have  been  the 
first  night  I  had  spent  in  the  hollow 
of  a  rock),  when  I  reached  a  very  small 
valley  containing  a  solitary  house. 

As  I  eyed  the  structure,  a  dreadful 
doubt  seized  me ;  there  was  no  chim- 
ney, yet  the  house  was  too  good  for  a 
cattle-shed,  and  besides  there  were 
many  steps  ;  that  decided  the  matter 
in  my  favor.  The  cabin  must  have 
been  some  thirty  or  thirty  -  six  feet 
long,  and  perhaps  twenty  feet  deep. 
The  walls  consisted  of  round  trunks 
of  trees  cut  within  a  few  feet  more 
or  less  of  the  same  length,  and  placed 
lengthwise  one  on  the  top  of  the  oth- 
er, and  fastened  here  and  there  with 
strong  wooden  pins.  The  interstices 
between  the  logs  were  filled  in  with 
a  composition  of  fine-cut  straw  and 


mud  or  clay,  which,  when  dry,  makes 
such  walls  wind  and  water  tight,  and 
forms  a  perfect  quadrilateral  for  ver- 
min and  insects.  When  I  saw  on  Bos- 
ton Common  the  log-cabin  in  which 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  born,  it  appeared 
to  me  almost  the  exact  counterpart  of 
this  Alpine  home. 

The  strangest  part  of  the  whole 
building  was  the  roof.  Thick  logs  took 
the  place  of  rafters,  and  in  their  turn 
were  covered,  not  with  stone  flags, 
shingles,  slates,  or  tiles,  but  with  mon- 
strously thick  wooden  slabs,  also  fas- 
tened with  long  pegs  ;  and,  in  order  to 
resist  the  wind,  which  in  those  high 
valleys  sweeps  everything  before  it  at 
times,  enormous  stones,  some  of  them 
weighing  more  than  a  hundred  pounds, 
were  laid  on  the  slabs,  and  kept  from 
sliding  by  wooden  pegs. 

Not  having  seen  any  smoke,  I  waited 
for  some  other  sign  of  life  about  the 
place,  but  to  no  purpose.  It  harmo- 
nized perfectly  with  the  death-like  still- 
ness of  that  whole  region. 

The  cabin  had  two  floors.  .The  low- 
er, a  very  little  digged  out  of  the  ground, 
was  divided  into  two  sections,  one  of 
which  served  as  a  stable,  the  other  as  a 
cellar.  The  stable,  it  is  true,  was  at 
the  time  empty,  and  it  remained  so  for 
the  whole  summer,  the  cattle  roaming 
day  and  night  on  the  mountains  ;  but 
the  cellar,  placed  at  the  north  end,  was 
nice  and  cool  to  keep  the  milk  which 
was  turned  into  butter  and  cheese, — • 
articles  which  on  the  Swiss  Alps  in 
general  are  of  the  very  best  quality,  for 
the  cows  in  those  regions  eat  only  aro- 
matic and  sweet  herbs,  and  the  hay  has 
a  better  flavor  than  what  is  called  in 
America  English  breakfast-tea. 

The  upper  floor  of  such  a  cabin 
serves,  although  all  in  one  room,  as  the 
dwelling  and  sleeping  apartments  of 
the  whole  family,  no  matter  how  nu- 
merous it  may  be.  Those  mountain- 
eers have  advantage  over  the  Irish 
peasantry,  that  while  the  latter  associ- 
ate directly  with  their  pigs,  goats,  and 
hens,  the  former  place  a  whole  floor 
between  man  and  beast. 

Arrived  at  the  door,  I  looked  in  vain 


8;o.] 


An  Alpine  Home. 


501 


for  a  latch,  or  a  lock,  or  anything  of  the 
kind.  Nothing  was  visible  but  a  small 
string,  by  pulling  which  a  wooden  cross- 
bar resting  in  a  wooden  catch  within  is 
lifted.  Even  hinges  are  unknown  ;  but 
instead  there  is  a  round  stick  fastened 
at  one  side  of  the  door  and  projecting 
a  little  at  the  bottom  and  a  little  at  the 
top,  playing  in  two  holes  there. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  not  the  least 
sign  of  life  after  I  had  entered ;  and  I 
was  going  out  again  to  look  about  the 
house,  when  a  voice  startled  me,  saying 
in  a  strange  idiom,  "  Why  don't  you 
take  a  seat?"  It  was  the  voice  of  an 
old  man  sitting  close  to  an  opening 
which,  by  a  stretch  of  the  imagination, 
could  be  called  a  window.  A  large 
table  stood  between  him  and  me,  and 
he  was  seated  on  a  low  stool  as  rough- 
ly put  together  as  the  remainder  of  the 
furniture.  His  elbows  rested  on  his 
knees,  and,  as  he  supported  his  face  in 
both  his  hands,  he  looked  as  immova- 
ble as  a  statue. 

A  shirt  of  very  coarse  material,  and 
a  very  short  pair  of  knee-breeches  were 
all  the  garments  which  troubled  or  pro- 
tected his  person.  His  tibial  bones 
were  covered  so  parsimoniously  with 
flesh  that  they  seemed  dry  sticks  of 
wood ;  his  face,  although  very  wrin- 
kled, was  so  pale  that,  a  few  steps 
off,  the  skin  looked  like  vellum,  rather 
than  the  human  epidermis.  The  eye- 
sight of  this  old  man  was,  of  course, 
dim,  although  that  sense  had  suffered 
less  than  his  hearing. 

"  Sit  down,  stranger,"  said  he  a  sec- 
ond time,  and  complying,  I  tried  to 
enter  into  conversation,  speaking  as 
loud  as  a  church-bell ;  but  I  soon  per- 
ceived that  there  were  other  difficulties 
besides  his  hearing,  for  he  spoke  only 
"  Romansch." 

All  Switzerland  seems  to  be  inhabit- 
ed by  the  descendants  of  those  dreadful 
sinners  who  built  the  tower  of  Babel, 
and  were  turned  into  hopeless  poly- 
glots, and  in  Switzerland  Canton  Gri- 
sons  labors  under  peculiar  difficulties. 
As  far  back  as  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar 
a  Roman  colony  established  itself  in 
Switzerland,  and  principally  in  this  part 


of  it.  Those  Romans  spoke  a  corrupt 
Latin,  to  which  has  been  added,  with 
years,  more  corrupt  Italian,  French,  and 
German  words.  The  whole  is  called, 
from  its  origin,  the  Romansch  language, 
and  this  was  my  host's  idiom.  Every 
one  will,  therefore,  believe  me  when  I 
say  that  I  was  obliged  to  guess  at  much 
of  what  he  said. 

He  made  me  understand,  however, 
that  he  had  two  sons  and  two  daugh- 
ters ;  the  former  of  whom  were  lazy, 
and  always  loafing  in  the  valleys  and  at 
houses  of  their  neighbors.  They  were 
otherwise  of  very  irregular  conduct,  for 
after  having  had  some  troubles  with  the 
magistrates  (he  meant,  I  think,  that 
they  had  been  imprisoned),  every  one 
avoided  them,  and  now  they  had  gone 
to  serve  the  king  of  Naples  and  the 
Pope.  It  has  always  been  the  fate  of 
the  prince  who  rules  in  Rome  to  have 
for  the  protection  of  his  sacred  person 
soldiers  who  have  escaped  the  prison 
or  the  gibbet.  Pius  IX. 's  regiments 
are  richly  inlaid  with  such  Canadian, 
Irish,  Swiss,  and  Belgian  jewels  at  this 
day. 

As  to  his  daughters,  the  old  man 
told  me  that  he  was  blest  in  them.  He 
considered  them  handsome  and  dili- 
gent, and  pearls  of  truth  and  chastity. 
They  were  at  the  moment  two  or  three 
miles  from  home,  on  the  mountain,  but 
they  would  soon  return.  Towards  even- 
ing I  had,  in  fact,  the  pleasure  to  make 
the  personal  acquaintance  of  these 
"pearls,"  in  the  shape  of  two  of  the 
hugest  masses  of  womanhood  my  eyes 
had  ever  beheld.  One  of  them  meas- 
ured five  feet  six  inches  in  height,  the 
other  something  more,  and  they  were 
both  large  in  proportion.  No  two  hu- 
man hands  could,  no  matter  how  long 
the  fingers,  have  encircled  one  of  their 
arms;  and  as,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  place,  their  lower  garments  re- 
luctantly reached  only  the  upper  part 
of  the  calf,  their  nether  limbs  were 
seen  to  be  proportionably  vast.  Their 
cheeks  were  rosy,  even  scarlet,  no 
doubt,  but  they  were  not  over-prepos- 
sessing. 

In  one  respect  Nature  had  done  a 


502 


An  Alpine  Home. 


[April, 


good  piece  of  work,  she  had  made  them 
strong,  and  it  was  strength,  and  not 
beauty,  they  needed;  for,  when  they 
came  home,  each  of  them  was  loaded 
with  a  bundle  of  hay  of  such  size  and 
weight  as  a  good-sized  donkey  might 
have  been  very  proud  to  carry  over 
those  hills  without  breaking  down. 

But  I  perceive  that  I  have  somewhat 
anticipated  their  arrival.  I  was  yet 
alone  with  the  old  man,  who  gave  me 
to  understand  that  it  was  about  ten 
years  since  he  had  lost  his  wife,  who 
was  a  great  comfort  to  him,  for  they 
loved  each  other  very  much;  and  in 
saying  this,  involuntary  tears  started 
from  his  eyes.  Since  her  death  life 
was  only  a  burden  to  him  ;  every  day 
he  wished  for  the  moment  when  they 
should  place  him  beside  her  under  the 
sod. 

Although  it  takes  me  but  a  few  min- 
utes to  write  this,  it  was  the  work  of 
more  than  one  hour  to  understand  him. 
I  showed  due  sympathy  for  him,  but 
I  had  also  the  ruthless  hunger  of  a 
boy,  and,  at  last,  I  could  not  refrain 
from  telling  him  that  I  was  famished, 
and  should  be  exceedingly  glad  if  he 
would  give  me  something  to  eat.  In 
his  turn  he  expressed  compassion  for 
me,  but  he  declared  that  it  was  out  of 
his  power  to  go  to  the  cellar.  To  prove 
this  he  got  up  from  his  seat  and  walked 
a  few  steps,  which  showed  that  his 
legs  could  scarcely  carry  him  on  level 
ground.  His  poor  old  head  and  neck 
were  buried  in  his  shoulders,  so  that  he 
looked  comparatively  a  small  man,  al- 
though, in  his  youth,  he  must  have 
been  a  very  tall  one.  He  begged  me 
to  be  patient  until  his  girls  came  in. 

Thinking  it  impertinent  to  volun- 
teer my  services  in  an  exploring  expe- 
dition to  the  cellar,  I  wound  up  my  pa- 
tience a  little  more,  and  made  a  virtue 
of  necessity.  In  the  mean  time  he  ex- 
plained to  me  that  his  only  possessions 
were  a  few  cows,  but  that,  by  selling 
calves,  cheese,  and  butter  to  men  who, 
except  in  winter,  came  regularly  for 
those  articles,  he  could  buy  all  he  want- 
ed. He  had  not  much  tilled  land,  just 
enough  for  his  girls  to  plant  potatoes 


and  wheat  for  their  own  use.  It  was 
now  several  years  since  he  had  been 
able,  on  account  of  a  severe  illness, 
to  go  out  of  the  house  ;  it  was  difficult 
to  get  a  doctor,  and  the  nearest  church, 
where  his  girls  went  in  summer  every 
Sunday,  was  eight  miles  away,  unless 
you  crossed  a  high  mountain,  which 
would  reduce  the  road  more  than  half. 
In  winter  almost  all  communication 
was  cut  off  by  enormous  drifts  of  snow, 
and  his  stock  of  cheese  and  butter 
accumulated  rapidly.  Horses  or  mules 
were  not  used ;  the  dealers  carrying 
everything  on  their  backs. 

He  then  wanted  to  know  how  I  came 
into  that  valley,  adding  that  he  could 
not  remember  to  have  seen  for  many 
and  many  years  a  stranger  like  me.  I 
told  him  very  frankly  that  I  had  run 
away  from  home,  and  that  it  was  less  a 
matter  of  choice  than  of  necessity  that 
I  had  crossed  the  Septimer,  and  had 
gone  astray  into  the  bargain.  While  we 
were  talking  the  girls  .~ame  in,  loaded, 
as  I  have  described,  with  hay,  which 
they  had  mowed  on  places  where  goats 
could  hardly  stand.  Later  in  the  even- 
ing they  showed  me  an  immense  heap 
of  wood  piled  against  the  house,  and 
told  me  that  they  had  felled  the  trees, 
cross-cut  them,  and  split  them  without 
help  from  any  one. 

But  these  women  at  first,  instead  of 
seeming  glad  to  see  a  stranger,  frowned 
upon  me,  and  their  looks  meant  that  I 
should  feel  myself  an  intruder.  After 
some  explanations  from  the  father,  a 
vast  smile  dawned  upon  their  broad 
faces,  which  made  me  feel,  not  exactly 
at  home,  but,  if  we  had  well  under- 
stood each  other,  certainly  on  speaking 
terms. 

I  thanked  all  the  gods  of  Olympus 
when  I  saw  one  of  them  take  off  her 
wooden  shoes,  or  sabots,  and  go  into  the 
cellar  for  the  dinner  which  was  also  to 
be  supper  for  me.  Waiting  her  return, 
I  mechanically  observed  the  dress  of 
the  other  woman,  which  in  all  appear- 
ance consisted,  like  that  of  the  man,  of 
two  articles  only.  The  garment  next 
her  person  was  buttoned  high  up  in 
the  neck,  but  had  very  short  sleeves. 


1870.] 


.In  Alpine  Home. 


503 


Her  arms  were  therefore  so  sunburned 
that  a  negress  could  not  have  been 
darker.  The  other  garment  was  nei- 
ther too  ample  nor  too  long,  and  was 
made,  like  her  father's  breeches,  out  of 
some  orange-colored  woollen  stuff.  I 
found  out  afterwards  that  all  the  cloth- 
ing the  family  had  worn  for  years  was 
home-spun,  home-woven,  and  home- 
dyed.  Yellow  being  the  favorite  color, 
it  is  given  to  a  whole  piece,  from 
which  breeches  and  dresses  are  cut. 
As  to  the  wool,  they  can  keep  sheep  by 
the  thousands  on  the  mountains;  but 
this  family  had  only  a  few. 

Amidst  these  observations  I  was 
alert  to  see  the  other  maiden  coming 
up  stairs.  She  bore  in  her  arms  a  loaf 
of  bread,  not  very  thick  one  way  (some 
eight  or  nine  inches),  but  measuring  not 
less  than  two  feet  and  a  half  the  other. 
This  she  took  to  a  large  block,  similar 
to  those  used  by  butchers,  and  in  a 
masterly  way  with  an  axe  (no  oth- 
er instrument  could  have  touched  the 
heart  of  that  bread)  split  it  first  in  two 
halves,  then  into  quarters,  and  then 
into  smaller  pieces,  with  an  almost 
mathematical  precision. 

What  was  the  composition  of  the 
loaf?  That  is  what  puzzled  me  and 
would  have,  at  first  sight,  brought  to  a 
stand-still  even  Liebig  and  Agassiz. 
All  that  could  be  seen  at  a  few  steps 
off  was  a  mass  of  hairs,  neither  green 
nor  blue,  but  something  between  the 
two  shades  ;  and  I  discovered  at  last 
that  instead  of  being  mouldy-bread  it 
was  bready-mould. 

Unconsciously  to  myself  my  face 
must  have  looked  almost  equally  sour  ; 
for  the  old  man,  upon  some  remark 
from  one  of  the  girls,  which  I  could 
not  understand,  taking  hold  of  my 
hands  with  the  authority  of  a  grand- 
father, said  that  surely  at  home  I  must 
have  been  a  spoiled  child,  since  I  looked 
with  so  much  diffidence  at  bread  which 
was  nearly  fresh,  being  not  yet  two 
months  old.  They  baked  only  three 
times  a  year,  and  there  were  loaves 
enough  in  the  cellar  to  last  two  months 
longer.  Toward  the  end  they  became,  it 
•was  a  fact,  a  little  sour ;  but  no  man  in 


his  right  sense  could  find  fault  with  it 
now,  it  being  as  yet  nice  and  sweet. 

My  face  must  have  remained,  even 
after  this  rebuke,  somewhat  dubious 
in  expression,  for  the  same  daughter 
who  had  drawn  his  attention  to  me, 
after  having  broken  some  of  the  bread 
into  morsels  and  thrown  them  into  one 
of  the  large  holes  which,  bowl-like,  were 
cut  out  in  the  table  (dishes  and  plates 
being  unknown  in  those  regions),  and 
having  poured  about  a  quart  of  milk 
upon  it,  with  a  smiling  countenance 
said  to  me :  "  Let  it  soak  a  few  min- 
utes, stranger;  it  will  soon  be  as  tender 
and  sweet  as  sponge-cake." 

Bread  was  broken  and  milk  poured 
into  three  other  holes  in  the  table, 
which  was  made  of  a  three-inch  plank, 
and  fastened  by  the  four  legs  into  the 
floor,  becoming  thus  a  fixture.  I  think 
civilization,  in  this  respect,  is  a  few  de- 
grees higher  in  Canton  Grisons  than 
on  the  Bernese  Alps,  where  I  travelled 
afterwards,  and  where  the  food  is  thrown 
into  one  huge  wooden  or  earthen  bowl, 
which  is  placed  on  a  small  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  and  out  of  which 
father,  mother,  children,  servants,  and 
strangers  must  all  eat. 

Letters  do  not  slip  more  easily  or 
swiftly  into  a  letter-box  than  the  bread 
and  milk  found  its  way  down  the  throats 
of  the  two  women.  The  old  man,  on  the 
contrary,  was  very  slow,  and  I  was  sim- 
ply a  spectator.  Potatoes  were  boil- 
ing, and  I  was  waiting  to  commit  an 
assault  upon  them,  when,  putting  on  a 
somewhat  forced  smile,  I  said  to  one 
of  the  women,  that  if  they  would  give 
me  a  piece  of  cold  meat  I  would  pay 
for  it.  "Meat!"  (earn}  was  repeated 
in  a  trio  ;  and,  looking  in  each  other's 
faces,  they  burst  into  laughter  which 
re-echoed  several  times  in  the  little 
valley.  "  -Meat,"  then  said  one  of  them, 
"  if  you  want  to  see  any  in  this  house 
you  must  come  at  Easter  or  on  Christ- 
mas day." 

The  potatoes  were  served.  They 
had  never  ripened,  and  were  green  as 
frogs  and  as  watery  as  a  soaked  sponge. 
At  last  my  hosts,  showing  the  pity  they 
felt  for  a  poor  hungry  lad,  gave  me  some 


5°4 


Revieivs  and  Literary  Notices. 


[April, 


cheese,  and  the  reader  need  not  doubt 
that  an  enormous  piece  of  it  was  washed 
down  with  plenty  of  milk.  The  repast 
put  me,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  in 
the  best  of  spirits ;  and  my  eyes  con- 
tentedly followed  the  women  at  their 
work,  their  first  care  being  to  wash 
with  boiling  water  the  table,  which  be- 
came as  white  as  snow.  A  board  was 
then  placed  over  it,  to  prevent  dust  and 
dirt  falling  into  the  bowls. 

As  soon  as  it  grew  dark,  the  old 
man  announced  that  it  was  time  to  go 
to  sleep  ;  he,  correctly  enough,  did  not 
speak  of  going  to  bed,  because  beds 
there  were  none  in  the  house.  It  was 
a  large  oblong  rectangular  room,  hav- 
ing lengthwise,  on  both  sides,  large 
benches  as  fixtures,  and  above  these 
small  windows  or  holes  to  admit  light, 
as  in  a  ship's  cabin.  The  table  was  on 
one  side  close  to  the  bench  ;  a  few  stools 
completed  the  parlor  furniture.  The 
kitchen  was  simply  a  chimney  or  hearth- 
stone, with  a  few  boards  above  it  in  one 
of  the  corners,  the  smoke  finding  its 
way  out  through  a  hole  in  the  wall 
close  to  the  roof.  The  pots  and  pans 
used  in  cooking  were  fastened  to  a  chain. 

To  have  an  idea  of  the  sleeping 
apartments,  one  must  imagine  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  enclosure  a  stable 
with  a  double  row  of  stalls,  only  instead 
of  having  a  single  passage  in  the  cen- 


tre, those  stalls  have  one  passage  on 
each  side  of  the  wall,  and  the  occupants' 
heads  would  meet  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  if  a  board  did  not  separate  them. 
The  partitions  are  five  or  six  feet  high 
and  divide  spaces  or  stalls  three  feet  by 
six  or  seven.  At  the  foot,  the  board  is 
only  twelve  or  fifteen  inches  high  ; 
enough  to  keep  as  many  inches  of 
dried  leaves  for  bedding  in  their  place. 
There  are  two  passage-ways,  for  the 
gentlemen  sleep  on  one  side,  the  ladies 
on  the  other.  Several  tiers  of  shelves 
ornament  the  whole  hall ;  there  being 
no  closets,  no  chests  of  drawers,  or 
cabinets  to  enclose  anything. 

As  it  was  now  almost  dark,  light  was 
made,  not  with  an  oil  lamp  or  candle, 
but,  as  in  the  Black-Forest  of  Germany, 
with  a  resinous  piece  of  wood  wedged 
between  two  stones,  which  are  fixed  for 
that  purpose  in  the  wall.  These  sticks 
are  about  two  feet  long  and  half  an  inch 
thick,  and  burn  from  ten  to  fifteen  min- 
utes ;  the  smell  is  pleasant,  the  smoke 
not  quite  so  ;  and  the  light  is  as  strong 
as  that  of  three  ordinary  candles. 

I  wrapped  up  myself  in  my  blanket, 
and  was  meditating  the  comforts  or 
discomforts  of  the  Alpine  life  when 
sleep  fell  upon  me  ;  and  the  next  morn- 
ing I  rose,  much  fresher  than  if  I  had 
spent  the  night  upon  a  bed  of  down, 
and  resumed  my  pilgrimage. 


REVIEWS   AND    LITERARY   NOTICES. 


Arne :  a  Sketch  of  Norwegian  Country  Life. 
By  BJORNSTJERNE  BjoRNSON.  Translat- 
ed from  the  Norwegian  by  Augusta  Ples- 
ner  and  S.  Rugeley  Powers.  Cambridge 
and  Boston  :  Sever,  PVancis,  &  Co. 

The  Happy  Boy ;  a  Tale  of  Norwegian 
Peasant  Life.  By  BJORNSTJERNE  BJORN- 
SON. Translated  from  the  Norwegian, 
by  H.  R.  G.  Cambridge  and  Boston : 
Sever,  Francis,  &  Co. 

77/6'  Fisher- Maiden ;  A  Norwegian  Tale. 
By  BJORNSTJERNE  BJORNSON.  From  the 
Author's  German  Edition,  by  M.  E.  Niles. 
New  York  :  Leypoldt  and  Holt. 


THE  author  of  that  unique  essay,  "  The 
Glut  of  the  Fiction  Market,"  who  had 
the  good  fortune  to  put  more  truth  about 
novels  into  wittier  phrase  than  any  other 
essayist  of  this  time,  held  that  having  ex- 
hausted all  the  types  and  situations  and 
catastrophes  of  English  fiction,  we  must 
give  it  up  as  a  source  of  literary  amuse- 
ment ;  and,  indeed,  there  are  very  few  critics 
who  do  not  now,  in  their  heart  of  hearts 
(if  they  have  any),  secretly  look  forward 
to  a  time  when  people  shall  read  nothing 
but  book -notices. 

Whilst    this   millennial    period    is    still 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


505 


somewhat  distant,  their  weariness  of  our 
own  novelists  is  attested  by  nothing  so 
vividly  as  the  extraordinary  welcome  which 
has  of  late  been  given  to  translations  of  the 
novels  of  all  other  races ;  for,  generally 
speaking,  these  invaders  of  our  realm  of 
fiction  are  not  better  than  the  novelists  they 
have  displaced,  but  only  different.  Miss 
Mil  hi  bach,  the  author  of  a  vast,  and,  we 
believe,  increasing  horde  of  blond  roman- 
ces, is  the  most  formidable  foe  that  our 
sorrier  sort  of  fictionists  have  had  to  con- 
tend with,  and  in  her  train  have  followed 
unnumbered  others,  though  none  so  popu- 
lar and  so  poor.  Amongst  these,  indeed, 
have  appeared  several  of  striking  merit, 
and  conspicuously  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson, 
the  Norwegian,  whose  beautiful  romances 
we  wish  all  our  readers  to  like  with  us. 
Concerning  the  man  himself,  we  know  little 
more  than  that  he  is  the  son  of  a  country 
clergyman,  and  that,  after  a  rather  unprom- 
ising career  in  school  and  college,  he  has 
risen  to  the  first  place  in  the  literature  of 
the  North,  and  has  almost  invented  a  new- 
pleasure  in  the  fresh  and  wonderful  tales 
he  writes  about  Norwegian  life.  He  has 
been  the  manager  of  a  theatre,  and  he  has 
written  many  plays,  but  we  believe  he  is 
known  in  English  only  by  the  three  books 
of  which  we  have  given  the  titles  below, 
and  which  form  an  addition  to  literature  of 
as  great  and  certain  value  as  any  which 
has  been  otherwise  made  during  the  last 
two  years. 

There  is  in  the  way  the  tales  are  told 
a  singular  simplicity,  or  a  reticence  and 
self-control  that  pass  for  this  virtue,  and 
that  take  the  aesthetic  sense  as  winningly 
as  their  sentiment  touches  the  heart.  The 
author  has  entire  confidence  in  his  reader's 
intelligence.  He  believes,  it  seems,  that 
we  can  be  fully  satisfied  with  a  few  distinct 
touches  in  representing  a  situation  or  a 
character  ;  he  is  the  reverse,  in  a  word,  of 
all  that  is  Trollopian  in  literary  art.  He 
docs  not  concern  himself  with  detail,  nor 
with  general  statement,  but  he  makes  some 
one  expressive  particular  serve  for  all  in- 
troduction and  explanation  of  a  fact.  The 
life  he  portrays  is  that,  for  the  most  part,  of 
humble  but  decent  folk  ;  and  this  choice  of 
subject  is  also  novel  and  refreshing  in  con- 
trast with  the  subjects  of  our  own  fictions, 
in  which  there  seems  to  be  no  middle 
ground  between  magnificent  drawing-rooms 
and  the  most  unpleasant  back-alleys,  or  be- 
tween very  refined  and  well-born  company 
and  the  worst  reprobates  of  either  sex. 


How  much  of  our  sense  of  his  naturalness 
would  survive  further  acquaintance  with 
Bjornson  we  cannot  venture  to  say  ;  the 
conventionalities  of  a  literature  are  but  too 
perilously  apt  to  be  praised  as  na'iveti  by 
foreign  criticism,  and  we  have  only  the  in- 
ternal evidence  that  peasant-boys  like  Arne, 
and  fisher-maidens  like  Petra,  are  not  as 
common  and  tiresome  in  Norwegian  fiction 
as  we  find  certain  figures  in  our  own  novels. 
"We  would  willingly  celebrate  them,  there- 
fore, with  a  wise  reserve,  and  season  our 
delight  with  d  nibt,  as  a  critic  should  ; 
though  we  are  not  at  all  sure  that  we  can  do 
this. 

Arne  is  the  son  of  Margit  Kampen  and 
Nils  the  tailor,  who  is  the  finest  dancer  and 
the  gallantest  man  in  all  the  country-side  ; 
and  it  is  with  subtlety  and  feeling  that  the 
author  hints  the  error  by  which  Arne  came 
to  be  :  — 

"  The  next  time  there  was  a  dance  in  the 
parish  Margit  was  there.  She  sat  listening 
to  the  music,  and  cared  little  for  the  dan- 
cing that  night ;  and  she  was  glad  that 
somebody  else,  too,  cared  no  more  for  it 
than  she  did.  But  when  it  grew  later,  the 
fidler,  Nils  the  tailor,  rose  and  wished  to 
dance.  lie  went  straight  over  and  took 
out  Margit,  and  before  she  well  knew  what 
she  was  doing  she  danced  with  him.  .  .  . 

"  Soon  the  weather  turned  warmer,  and 
there  was  no  more  dancing.  That  spring 
Margit  took  so  much  care  of  a  little  sick 
lamb,  that  her  mother  thought  her  quite 
foolish.  '  It 's  only  a  lamb,  after  all,' 
said  the  mother.  'Yes;  but  it's  sick,' 
answered  Margit. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  since  Margit  had 
been  to  church;  somebody  must  stay  at 
home,  she  used  to  say,  and  she  would  rath- 
er let  the  mother  go.  One  Sunday,  how- 
ever, later  in  the  summer,  the  weather 
seemed  so  fine  that  the  hay  might  very 
well  be  left  over  that  day  and  night,  the 
mother  said,  and  she  thought  both  of  them 
might  go.  Margit  had  nothing  to  say 
against  it,  and  she  went  to  dress  herself. 
But  when  they  had  gone  far  enough  to  hear 
the  church-bells,  she  suddenly  burst  into 
tears.  The  mother  grew  deadly  pale ;  yet 
they  went  on  to  church,  heard  the  sermon 
and  prayers,  sang  all  the  hymns,  and  let 
the  last  sound  of  the  bells  die  away  before 
they  left.  But  when  they  were  seated  at 
home  again,  the  mother  took  Margit's  face 
between  her  hands,  and  said,  '  Keep 
back  nothing  from  me,  my  child  ! '  " 

But  Nils  is  in  love  with  Birgit  Boen,  who 


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[April, 


loves  him  again,  and  is  richer  and  hand- 
somer than  Margit.  They  torment  each 
other,  lover's  fashion,  Birgit  being  proud, 
and  Nils  capricious  and  dissipated,  until 
one  night  at  a  dance  he  runs  wilfully 
against  Birgit  and  another  lover  of  hers 
(who  afterwards  marries  her),  and  knocks 
them  over.  Then  this  lover  strikes  Nils, 
who  falls  against  the  sharp  edge  of  the 
fireplace,  upon  his  spine.  So  Margit  comes 
to  claim  him,  and  takes  him  home,  and 
they  are  married  ;  but  as  Nils  grows  bet- 
ter in  health  he  grows  a  worse  man,  gives 
himself  constantly  to  drink,  and  beats  Mar- 
git cruelly.  At  last  it  comes  to  this  aw- 
ful scene,  which  is  portrayed  with  peculiar 
force  and  boldness,  and  which  is  a  good 
illustration  of  a  manner  so  unaffected  that 
manner  hardly  seems  the  word  for  it. 
Nils  comes  home  after  one  of  his  drinking- 
bouts  at  a  wedding-party,  and  finds  Arne 
reading  and  Margit  in  bed. 

"  Arne  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  a 
heavy  fall  in  the  passage,  and  of  something 
hard  pushing  against  the  door.  It  was  the 
father,  just  coming  home. 

"  '  Is  it  you,  my  clever  boy  ? '  he  mut- 
tered ;  '  come  and  help  your  father  to  get 
up.'  Arne  helped  him  up,  and  brought 
him  to  the  bench  ;  then  carried  in  the  vio- 
lin -  case  after  him  and  shut  the  door. 
4  Well,  look  at  me,  you  clever  boy  ;  I  don't 
look  very  handsome,  now ;  Nils  the  tailor  's 
no  longer  the  man  he  used  to  be.  One 
thing,  I  —  tell  —  you  —  you  shall  never 
drink  spirits  ;  they  're  —  the  devil,  the 

world,  and  the  flesh "  God  resisteth 

the  proud,  but  giveth  grace  to  the  hum- 
ble." .  .  .  .  O  dear  !  O  dear !  How  far 
gone  I  am  ! ' 

"  He  sat  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  sang 
in  a  tearful  voice,  — 

'  Merciful  Lord,  I  come  to  Thee  ; 
Help,  if  there  can  be  help  for  me  ; 
Though  by  the  mire  of  sin  defiled, 
I  'm  still  Thine  own  dear  ransomed  child.' 

" '  "  Lord,  I  am  not  worthy  that  Thou 
shouldest  come  under  my  roof;  but  speak 
the  word  only  ...."'  He  threw  himself 
forward,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
sobbed  violently.  .  .  . 

"  Then  he  was  silent,  and  his  weeping 
became  subdued  and  calm. 

"  The  mother  had  been  long  awake, 
without  looking  up  ;  but  now  when  she 
heard  him  weeping  thus  like  one  who  is 
saved,  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbows,  and 
gazed  earnestly  at  him. 


"  But  scarcely  did  Nils  perceive  her  be- 
fore he  called  out,  '  Are  you  looking  up, 
you  ugly  vixen  !  I  suppose  you  would  like 
to  see  what  a  state  you  have  brought  me 
to.  Well,  so  I  look,  just  so  !'....  He 
rose ;  and  she  hid  herself  under  the  fur 
coverlet.  '  Nay,  don't  hide,  I  'm  sure  to 
find  you,'  he  said,  stretching  out  his  right 
hand  and  fumbling  with  his  forefinger  on 
the  bedclothes,  'Tickle,  tickle,'  he  said, 
turning  aside  the  fur  coverlet,  and  putting 
his  forefinger  on  her  throat. 

"  '  Father  ! '  cried  Arne. 

" '  How  shrivelled  and  thin  you  've  be- 
come already,  there 's  no  depth  of  flesh 
here  ! '  She  writhed  beneath  his  touch, 
and  seized  his  hand  with  both  hers,  but 
could  not  free  herself. 

"  '  Father  ! '  repeated  Arne. 

" '  Well,  at  last  you, 're  roused.  How  she 
wriggles,  the  ugly  thing  !  Can't  you  scream 
to  make  believe  I  am  beating  you  ?  Tic- 
kle, tickle  !  I  only  want  to  take  away  your 
breath.' 

"  '  Father  ! '  Arne  said  once  more,  run- 
ning to  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  snatch- 
ing up  an  axe  which  stood  there. 

" '  Is  it  only  out  of  perverseness  you 
don't  scream  ?  you  had  better  beware  ;  for 
I  've  taken  such  a  strange  fancy  into  my 
head.  Tickle,  tickle !  Now,  I  think  I 
shall  soon  get  rid  of  that  screaming  of 
yours.' 

"  '  Father ! '  Arne  shouted,  rushing  to- 
wards him  with  the  axe  uplifted. 

"  But  before  Arne  could  reach  him,  he 
started  up  with  a  piercing  cry,  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  heart,  and  fell  heavily  clown. 
'  Jesus  Christ ! '  he  muttered,  and  then  lay 
quite  still. 

"  Arne  stood  as  if  rooted  in  the  ground, 
and  gradually  lowered  the  axe.  He  grew 
dizzy  and  bewildered,  and  scarcely  knew 
where  he  was.  Then  the  mother  began  to 
move  to  and  fro  in  the  bed,  and  to  breathe 
heavily,  as  if  oppressed  by  some  great 
weight  lying  upon  her.  Arne  saw  that  she 
needed  help  ;  but  yet  he  felt  unable  to  ren- 
der it.  At  last  she  raised  herself  a  little, 
and  saw  the  father  lying  stretched  on  the 
floor,  and  Arne  standing  beside  him  with 
the  axe. 

"  '  Merciful  Lord,  what  have  you  done  ?  ' 
she  cried,  springing  out  of  the  bed,  putting 
on  her  skirt  and  coming  nearer. 

"  '  He  fell  down  himself,'  said  Arne,  at 
last  regaining  power  to  speak. 

"  '  Arne,  Arne,  I  don't  believe  you,'  said 
the  mother,  in  a  stern  reproachful  voice ; 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


507 


*  now  Jesus  help  you  ! '  And  she  threw 
herself  upon  the  dead  man  with  loud  wail- 
ing. 

"  But  the  boy  awoke  from  his  stupor, 
dropped  the  axe  and  fell  down  on  his 
knees  :  '  As  true  as  I  hope  for  mercy  from 
God,  I  've  not  clone  it.  I  almost  thought 
of  doing  it ;  I  was  so  bewildered  ;  but  then 
he  fell  down  himself;  and  here  I  've  been 
standing  ever  since.' 

"The  mother  looked  at  him,  and  be- 
lieved him.  '  Then  our  Lord  has  been 
here  Himself,'  she  said,  quietly,  sitting  down 
on  the  floor  and  gazing  before  her." 

The  terror  and  shadow  of  what  he  might 
have  done  hung  long  about  Arne,  making 
lonelier  and  sadder  the  life  that  was  already 
melancholy  and  secluded.  lie  has  many 
dreams  of  going  abroad,  and  escaping  from 
the  gloomy  associations  of  his  home  and 
his  past  life  ;  and,  indulging  these  and  other 
dreams,  he  begins  to  make  songs  and  to 
sing  them.  All  the  processes  of  his  thought 
are  clearly  suggested,  and  then  almost  as 
much  is  left  to  the  reader's  fancy  as  in  any 
poem  that  stands  so  professed  in  rhyme. 
People  are  shown  without  effort  to  account 
for  their  presence  further  than  it  is  ex- 
plained in  their  actions,  so  that  all  has  the 
charm  of  fact,  about  which  there  ever  hangs 
a  certain  fascinating  mystery;  and  the 
pictures  of  scenery  are  made  with  a  confi- 
dence that  they  will  please  because  they  are 
beautiful.  In  these,  natural  aspects  arc 
represented  as  affecting  the  beholder  in  cer- 
tain ways,  and  nature  does  not,  as  in  our 
false  sentimentilization,  take  on  the  com- 
plexion of  his  thoughts  and  reflect  his  mood. 

By  and  by  Arnc  is  drawn  somewhat  away 
from  the  lonely  life  he  has  been  leading, 
and  upon  a  certain  occasion  he  is  per- 
suaded to  go  nutting  with  a  party  of  young 
girls ;  and  here  the  author  sketches  with 
all  his  winning  lightness  and  confidence 
the  young-girl  character  he  wishes  us  to 
see  :  — 

"  So  Arne  came  to  the  party,  and  was 
nearly  the  only  young  man  among  the  many 
girls.  Such  fun  as  was  there  Arne  had 
never  seen  before  in  all  his  life  ;  and  one 
thing  which  especially  astonished  him  was, 
that  the  girls  laughed  for  nothing  at  all : 
if  three  laughed,  then  five  would  laugh  just 
because  those  three  laughed.  Altogether, 
they  behaved  as  if  they  had  lived  with  each 
other  all  their  lives  ;  and  yet  there  were 
several  of  them  who  had  never  met  before 
that  very  day.  When  they  caught  the 
bough  which  they  jumped  after,  they 


laughed,  and  when  they  did  not  catch  it 
they  laughed  also  ;  when  they  did  not  find 
any  nuts,  they  laughed  because  they  found 
none  ;  and  when  they  did  find  some,  they 
also  laughed.  They  fought  for  the  nut- 
ting-hook :  those  who  got  it  laughed,  and 
those  who  did  not  get  it  laughed  also. 
Godfather  limped  after  them,  trying  to  beat 
them  with  his  stick,  and  making  all  the 
mischief  he  was  good  for  ;  those  he  hit 
laughed  because  he  hit  them,  and  those 
he  missed  laughed  because  he  missed 
them.  But  the  whole  lot  laughed  at  Arnc 
because  he  was  so  grave  ;  and  when  at  last 
he  could  not  help  laughing,  they  all  laughed 
again  because  he  laughed." 

This  is  the  way  in  which  all  young  girls 
appear  to  all  boys,  confounding  them  with 
emotions  and  caprices  which  they  do  not 
themselves  understand  ;  it  is  the  history  of 
a  whole  epoch  of  life ;  yet  with  how  few 
words  it  is  told  !  Think  how  one  of  our  own 
story-tellers,  —  even  a  very  clever  one,  — 
with  the  heavy  and  awkward  traditions  of 
the  craft  would  have  gone  about  it,  if  he 
or  she  had  had  the  grace  to  conceive  of 
anything  so  pretty  and  natural,  and  how  it 
would  have  been  explained  and  circum- 
stantiated, and  analyzed,  and  made  detesta- 
ble with  the  intrusion  of  the  author's  re- 
jections and  comments  ! 

There  is  not  much  plot  in  "  Arnc." 
The  task  which  the  author  seems  chiefly 
to  have  proposed  himself  is  the  working 
out,  by  incident  and  encounter,  of  a  few 
characters.  In  the  person  of  Arne  as  in 
Petra,  the  fisher-maiden,  he  attempts  a 
most  difficult  work ;  though  Arne  as  a 
genius  is  far  inferior  to  Petra.  Still,  there 
is  in  both  the  waywardness  and  strangeness 
produced  by  peculiar  gifts,  and  both  char- 
acters have  to  be  handled  with  great  deli- 
cacy to  preserve  the  truth  which  is  so  often 
unlike  truth,  and  the  naturalness  which  is 
so  uncommon  as  to  appear  unnatural.  One 
of  the  maidens  in  the  nutting-party  is  Eli 
Bb'en,  the  daughter  of  Birgit  and  Baard, 
the  man  who  struck  Arne's  father  that 
dreadful  blow ;  and  Arne,  with  as  little 
consciousness  as  possible,  and  while  still 
planning  to  go  abroad,  falls  in  love  with 
her.  It  all  ends,  of  course,  with  some  de- 
laying occurrence  in  their  marriage,  and 
in  the  heartfelt  union  of  Eli's  parents,  who 
during  twenty  years  have  been  secretly  held 
apart  by  Birgit's  old  love  for  Nils,  and  by 
the  memory  of  Baard's  share  in  his  ruin. 
This  last  effect,  which  is  an  incident  of  the 
main  story,  is  inseparable  from  it,  but  is 


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[April, 


not  hinted  till  far  toward  the  end,  and  is 
then  produced  with  that  trusting  and  un- 
hasty  art  which,  together  with  the  brevity  of 
every  scene  and  incident,  makes  the  ro- 
mance so  enjoyable.  There  is  something 
also  very  wise  and  fine  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  character  of  Margit,  Arne's 
mother,  who,  in  spite  of  the  double  trag- 
edy of  her  life,  is  seen  to  be  a  passive 
and  simple  heart,  to  whom  things  merely 
happen,  and  who  throughout  merely  loves, 
now  her  bad  husband  and  now  her  affec- 
tionate yet  unintelligible  son,  whom  she 
singly  desires  to  keep  with  her  always.  She 
is  the  type  of  maternity  as  nearly  as  it  can 
exist  unrelated  to  other  phases  and  condi- 
tions ;  and  when  she  hears  that  Arne  is  in 
love  with  Eli,  she  has  no  other  thought  than 
to  rejoice  that  this  is  a  tie  which  will  bind  him 
to  home.  Meeting  Eli  one  evening  in  the 
road,  she  lures  her  to  walk  toward  Kampen 
that  she  may  praise  Arne  to  her;  then 
comes  some  dialogue  which  is  contrived 
to  show  the  artless  artifices  by  which  these 
two  women  strive  to  turn  the  talk  to  and 
from  the  object  of  their  different  love  ;  and 
after  that  there  are  most  enchanting  little 
scenes  in  the  home  at  Kampen,  when  the 
women  find  Arne's  treasury  of  wedding- 
gear,  and  at  the  end  some  of  the  prettiest 
love-making  when  Arne  himself  comes 
home. 

With  people  in  another  rank,  Charles 
Reade  would  have  managed  this  as  charm- 
ingly, though  he  would  have  thrown  into 
it  somewhat  too  much  of  the  brilliancy 
of  the  footlights  ;  and  Auerbach  would 
have  done  it  with  equal  naturalness  ;  but 
neither  could  have  cast  about  it  that  poetic 
atmosphere  which  is  so  peculiarly  the  gift 
of  Bjornson  and  of  the  Northern  mind,  and 
which  is  felt  in  its  creations,  as  if  the  gla- 
mour of  the  long  summer  days  of  the  North 
had  got  into  literature.  It  is  very  noticeable 
throughout  "  Arne."  The  facts  are  stated 
with  perfect  ruggedness  and  downright- 
ness  when  necessary,  but  some  dreamy  haze 
seems  still  to  cling  about  them,  subduing 
their  hard  outlines  and  features  like  the 
tender  light  of  the  slanting  Norwegian  sun 
on  the  craggy  Norwegian  headlands.  The 
romance  is  interspersed  with  little  lyrics, 
pretty  and  graceful  in  their  form,  but  of 
just  the  quality  to  show  that  Bjornson  is 
wise  to  have  chosen  prose  for  the  expres- 
sion of  his  finer  and  stronger  thoughts. 

In  that  region  of  novel  characters,  whole- 
some sympathies,  and  simple  interests  to 
which  he  transports  us,  we  have  not  only 


a  blissful  sense  of  escape  from  the  jejune 
inventions  and  stock  repetitions  of  what 
really  seems  a  failing  art  with  us,  but  are 
aware  of  our  contact  with  an  excellent  and 
enviable  civilization.  Of  course  the  reader 
sees  the  Norwegians  and,  their  surroundings 
through  Bjornson's  poetic  eyes,  and  is  aware 
that  he  is  reading  romance  ;  yet  he  feels 
that  there  must  be  truth  to  the  real  as  well 
as  the  ideal  in  these  stories. 

"  Arne  "  is  the  most  poetical  of  the  three, 
and  the  action  is  principally  in  a  world  where 
the  troubles  are  from  within,  and  inherent 
in  human  nature,  rather  than  from  any 
artificial  causes,  though  the  idyllic  sweet- 
ness is  chiefly  owing  to  the  circumstances 
of  the  characters  as  peasant -folk  in  a 
"  North  countree."  In  "  The  Happy  Boy  " 
the  world  of  conventions  and  distinctions 
is  more  involved  by  the  fortunes  of  the 
lovers ;  for  the  happy  boy  Oeyvind  is  made 
wretched  enough  in  the  good  old  way  by 
finding  out  that  there  is  a  difference  be- 
tween riches  and  poverty  in  the  eyes  of 
grandparents,  at  least,  and  he  is  tormented 
in  his  love  of  Marit  by  his  jealousy  of  a 
wealthier  rival.  It  is  Marit's  worldly  and 
ambitious  grandfather  who  forbids  their 
love,  and  will  have  only  unpleasant  things 
to  say  to  Oeyvind,  until  the  latter  comes 
back  from  the  Agricultural  College,  and 
establishes  himself  in  his  old  home  with 
the  repute  of  the  best  farmer  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Meantime  unremitted  love-mak- 
ing goes  on  between  Marit  and  Oeyvind, 
abetted  by  Oeyvind's  schoolmaster,  through 
whom  indeed  all  their  correspondence  was 
conducted  while  Oeyvind  was  away  at 
school.  At  last  the  affair  is  happily  con- 
cluded when  Ole  Nordistuen,  the  grand- 
father, finds  that  his  farm  is  going  to  ruin, 
and  nothing  can  save  it  but  the  skill  of 
Oeyvind. 

In  this  story  the  peasant  life  is  painted 
in  a  more  naturalistic  spirit,  and  its  cus- 
toms are  more  fully  described,  though  here 
as  always  in  Bjornson's  work  the  people  are 
primarily  studied  as  men  and  women,  and 
secondarily  as  peasants  and  citizens ;  and 
the  descriptions  are  brief,  incidental,  and 
strictly  subordinate  to  the  story.  We  im- 
agine in  this  an  exercise  of  self-denial,  for 
Bjornson  must  be  in  love  with  all  that  be- 
longs to  his  characters  or  surrounds  them, 
to  the  degree  of  desiring  to  dwell  longer 
than  he  ever  does  upon  their  portrayal. 
His  fashion  in  dealing  with  scenery  fcnd 
character  both  is  well  shown  in  this  ac- 
count of  Marit's  party,  to  which  Oeyvind 


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509 


was  invited,  and  at  which  he  ceases  with 
his  experience  of  the  world  to  be  the  en- 
tirely happy  boy  of  the  past :  — 

"  It  was  a  half  clear,  mild  evening ;  no 
stars  were  to  be  seen  ;  the  next  clay  it  could 
not  help  raining.  A  sleepy  kind  of  wind 
blew  over  the  snow,  which  was  swept  away 
here  and  there  on  the  white  Heide  fields  ; 
in  other  spots  it  had  drifted.  Along  the 
side  of  the  road,  where  there  lay  but  little 
snow,  there  was  ice  which  stretched  along 
blue-black  between  the  snow  and  the  bare 
field,  and  peeped  out  in  patches  as  far  as 
one  could  see.  Along  the  mountains  there 
had  been  avalanches  ;  in  their  track  it  was 
dark  and  bare,  but  on  both  sides  bright 
and  covered  with  snow,  except  where  the 
birch-trees  were  packed  together  in  black 
masses.  There  was  no  water  to  be  seen, 
but  half-naked  marshes  and  morasses  lay 
under  the  deeply  fissured,  melancholy  look- 
ing mountain.  The  farms  lay  in  thick  clus- 
ters in  the  middle  of  the  plain ;  in  the 
darkness  of  the  winter  evening  they  looked 
like  black  lamps,  from  wh'ch  light  shot 
over  the  fields,  now  from  one  window,  now 
from  another  ;  to  judge  by  the  lights,  it 
seemed  as  if  they  were  busy  inside. 

"  Children,  grown  up  and  half  grown  up, 
were  flocking  together  from  all  directions  : 
the  smaller  number  walked  along  the  road  ; 
but  they,  too,  left  it  when  they  came  near 
the  farms  ;  and  there  stole  along  one  under 
the  shadow  of  the  stable,  a  couple  near  the 
granary  ;  some  ran  for  a  long  time  behind 
the  barn,  screaming  like  foxes,  others  an- 
swered far  away  like  cats,  one  stood  behind 
the  wash-house,  and  barked  like  a  cross 
old  crack-voiced  dog,  until  there  became 
a  general  hunt.  The  girls  came  along  in 
great  flocks,  and  had  some  boys,  mostly 
little  boys,  with  them,  who  gathered  around 
them  along  the  road  to  seem  like  young 
men.  "When  such  a  swarm  of  girls  arrived 
at  the  farm,  and  one  or  a  couple  of  the 
grown-up  boys  saw  them,  the  girls  sep- 
arated, flew  into  the  passages  between  the 
buildings  or  down  in  the  garden,  and  had 
to  be  dragged  into  the  house  one  by  one. 
Some  were  so  bashful  that  Marit  had  to  be 
sent  for,  and  compel  them  to  come  in. 
Sometimes,  too,  there  came  one  who  had 
not  originally  been  invited,  and  whose  in- 
tention was  not  at  all  to  go  in,  but  only  to 
look  on,  until  it  turned  out  that  she  would 
just  take  one  little  dance.  Those  whom 
Marit  liked  much  she  invited  into  a  little 
room  where  the  old  people  themselves 
were,  the  old  man  sitting  smoking  and 


grandmamma  walking  about.  There  they 
got  something  to  drink,  and  were  kindly 
spoken  to.  Oeyvind  was  not  among  them, 
and  that  struck  him  as  rather  strange." 

When  the  dancing  began,  he  scarcely 
dared  to  ask  Marit  to  dance  with  him,  and 
at  last,  when  he  did  so,  a  tall,  dark-com- 
plexioned fellow  with  thick  hair  threw  him- 
self in  front  of  him.  "  Back,  youngster  !  " 
he  shouted,  pushing  Oeyvind  so  that  the 
latter  nearly  fell  backward  over  Marit. 

"  Nothing  like  this  had  ever  happened 
to  him  before  ;  never  had  any  one  been 
otherwise  than  kind  to  him,  never  had  he 
been  called  '  Youngster,'  when  he  wished 
to  join  in  ;  he  blushed  scarlet,  but  said 
nothing,  and  drew  back  to  where  the  new 
fiddler,  who  had  just  arrived,  had  sat  down, 
and  was  busy  tuning  up  his  fiddle 

"  He  looked  longer  and  longer  at  her ; 
but,  in  whatever  way  he  looked,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  Marit  were  quite  grown  up  ;  'it 
cannot  be  so,  he  thought,  for  she  still  coasts 
down  hill  with  us.'  But  grown  up  she  was, 
nevertheless  ;  and  the  thick  -  haired  man 
pulled  her,  after  the  dance  was  over,  down 
on  to  his  lap ;  she  glided  off,  still  remain- 
ing, however,  sitting  by  his  side. 

So  Oeyvind  discovered  that  this  young 
man  was  handsome,  and  that  he  was  him- 
self very  shabbily  dressed.  He  could  bear 
his  novel  and  inexplicable  anguish  no 
longer,  and  went  out  and  sat  upon  the 
porch  alone  with  his  gloomy  thoughts,  till 
Marit,  who  loved  him,  missed  him  and  came 
to  seek  him. 

" '  You  went  away  so  soon,'  she  said  to 
Oeyvind.  He  did  not  know  what  he 
should  answer  to  this ;  thereupon,  she  also 
grew  confused,  and  they  were  all  three 
silent.  But  Hans  stole  away  little  by  little. 
The  two  remained,  not  looking  at  each 
other,  nor  stirring.  Then  she  said  in  a 
whisper  :  '  I  have  gone  the  whole  evening 
with  some  Christmas  goodies  in  my  pocket 
for  you,  Oeyvind  ;  but  I  have  not  had  any 
chance  to  give  them  to  you  before.'  She 
pulled  out  a  few  apples,  a  slice  of  a  cake 
from  town,  and  a  little  half-pint  bottle, 
which  she  thrust  over  towards  him,  and 
said  he  could  keep.  Oeyvind  took  them. 
'  Thank  you,'  said  he,  and  stretched  out  his 
hand ;  hers  was  warm ;  he  dropped  it  im- 
mediately, as  if  he  had  burnt  himself.  '  You 
have  danced  a  good  deal  this  evening  ? ' 
'  Yes,  I  have,'  she  answered  ;  '  but  you 
have  not  danced  much,'  she  added.  '  No, 
I  have  not.'  '  Why  not  ? '  '  O  — '  '  Oey- 
vind.' '  What  ? '  '  Why  did  you  sit  and 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[April, 


look  so  at  me  ? '  '  O,  —  Marit ! '  '  Yes  ? ' 
'  Why  did  n't  you  like  to  have  me  look  at 
you  ? '  '  There  were  so  many  people.' 
*  You  danced  a  good  deal  with  John  Hatlen 
this  evening.'  '  O,  yes  ! '  'He  dances 
well.'  '  Do  you  think  so  ?  '  '  O.  yes  !  I 
do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  this  evening  I 
cannot  bear  to  have  you  dance  with  him, 
Marit.'  He  turned  away ;  it  had  cost  him 
an  effort  to  say  it.  '  I  do  not  understand 
you,  Oeyvind.'  '  Nor  do  I  understand  it 
myself;  it  is  so  stupid  of  me.  Farewell, 
Marit ;  I  am  going  now.'  He  took  a  step 
without  looking  round.  Then  she  called 
after  him  :  'It  is  a  mistake  what  you 
thought  you  saw,  Oeyvind.'  He  stopped. 
'  That  you  are  already  a  grown-up  girl  is 
not  a  mistake.'  He  did  not  say  what  she 
had  expected,  and  so  she  was  silent." 

This  Marit's  character  is  beautifully 
drawn,  as  it  rises  out  of  maiden  coyness  to 
meet  the  exigency  of  her  lover's  sensitive 
passion,  and  is  so  frank  at  once  and  so  capri- 
cious in  the  sort  of  advances  she  is  obliged 
to  make  to  him.  The  correspondence  car- 
ried on  between  the  two  while  Oeyvind  is  in 
the  Agricultural  College  is  delightful  with 
its  mixture  of  prodigious  formality  and 
jealous  tenderness  on  the  hero's  part,  and 
mixture  of  jesting  coquetry  and  fond  con- 
senting on  Marit's  side.  A  lover  cannot 
take  a  joke  from  his  mistress,  and  of  course 
Marit  shows  superior  to  Oeyvind  at  this 
and  some  other  times,  but  she  is  always 
patient  and  firm  in  her  love  for  him. 

The  religious  feeling  which  is  a  passive 
quality  in  "  Arne  "  is  a  positive  and  control- 
ling influence  in  "  The  Happy  Boy,"  where 
it  is  chiefly  exerted  by  the  old  schoolmas- 
ter. To  him  a  long  and  bitter  quarrel  with 
an  only  brother,  now  dead,  has  taught  life- 
long meekness  and  dread  of  pride  ;  and  he 
affectingly  rebukes  Oeyvind's  ambition  to 
be  first  among  the  candidates  for  confirma- 
tion, in  order  that  he  may  eclipse  all  others 
in  Marit's  eyes.  But  Bjornson's  religious 
feeling  is  not  pietistic ;  on  the  contrary,  it 
teaches,  as  in  "  The  Fisher-Maiden,"  that  a 
cheerful  life  of  active  goor'ness  is  the  best 
interpretation  of  liberal  and  hopeful  faith, 
and  it  becomes  at  no  time  a  theological  ab- 
straction. It  is  always  more  or  less  blend- 
ed with  love  of  home,  and  a  sense  of  the 
sweetness  and  beauty  of  natural  affections. 
It  is  a  strengthening  property  in  the  ten- 
derness of  a  sentiment  which  seems  al- 
most distinctively  his,  or  which  at  least 
is  very  clearly  distinguished  from  Ger- 
man sentiment,  and  in  which  we  Anglo- 


Saxon  readers  may  indulge  our  hearts 
without  that  recoil  of  shame  which  other- 
wise attends  the  like  surrender.  Indeed, 
we  feel  a  sort  of  inherent  sympathy  with 
most  of  Bjornson's  people  on  this  and  other 
accounts,  as  if  we  were  in  spirit,  at  least, 
Scandinavians  with  them,  and  the  Viking 
blood  had  not  yet  died  out  of  us.  Some  of 
the  traits  that  he  sketches  are  those  now 
of  New  England  fishermen  and  farmers  and 
of  Western  pioneers,  —  that  is,  the  pioneers 
of  the  time  before  Pacific  Railroads.  A 
conscientiousness  also  exists  in  them  which 
is  like  our  own,  —  for  we  have  really  a  pop- 
ular conscientiousness,  in  spite  of  many 
shocking  appearances  to  the  contrary,  — 
though  there  seems  to  be  practically  more 
forgiveness  in  their  morality  than  in  ours, 
especially  towards  such  errors  as  those  by 
which  Arne  and  Petra  came  to  be.  But 
their  incentives  and  expectations  are  all  as 
different  from  ours  as  their  customs  are,  and 
in  these  romances  the  reader  is  always  sen- 
sible of  beholding  the  life  of  a  vigorous  and 
healthful  yet  innumerous  people,  restricted 
by  an  unfriendly  climate  and  variable  sea- 
sons, and  gaining  a  hard  subsistence  from 
the  treacherous  sea  and  grudging  soil. 
Sometimes  the  sense  of  nature's  reluctant  or 
cruel  attitude  toward  man  finds  open  ex- 
pression, as  in  "  The  Fisher-Maiden,"  where 
the  pastor  says  to  the  "  village  saints " : 
"  Your  homes  are  far  up  among  the  moun- 
tains, where  your  grain  is  cut  down  more 
frequently  by  the  frost  than  by  the  scythe. 
Such  barren  fields  and  deserted  spots  should 
never  have  been  built  upon;  they  might 
well  be  given  over  to  pasturage  and  the 
spooks.  Spiritual  life  thrives  but  poorly  in 
your  mountain  home,  and  partakes  of  the 
gloom  of  the  surrounding  vegetation.  Prej- 
udice, like  the  cliffs  themselves,  overhangs 
your  life  and  casts  a  shadow  upon  it." 
Commonly,  however,  the  pathos  of  this 
unfriendliness  between  the  elements  and 
man  is  not  sharply  uttered,  but  remains  a 
subtile  presence  qualifying  all  impressions 
of  Norwegian  life.  Perhaps  it  is  this  which 
gives  their  singular  beauty  to  Bjornson's 
pictures  of  the  scenery  amidst  which  the 
action  of  his  stories  takes  place,  —  pictures 
notably  of  Nature  in  her  kindlier  moods,  as 
if  she  were  not  otherwise  to  be  endured  by 
the  imagination. 

In  "The  Fisher-Maiden,"  which  is  less 
perfect  as  a  romance  than  "  Arne,"  Bjorn- 
son  has  given  us  in  Petra  his  most  perfect 
and  surprising  creation.  The  story  is  not  so 
dreamy,  and  it  has  not  so  much  poetic  inti- 


Re:' lews  and  Literary  Notices. 


macy  with  external  things  as  "  Arne,"  while 
it  is  less  naturalistic  than  "The  Happy 
Boy,"  and  interests  us  in  charaetcrs  more 
independently  of  circumstance.  It  is,  how- 
ever, very  real,  and  1'etra  is  a  study  as 
successful  as  daring.  To  work  out  the 
character  of  a  man  of  genius  is  a  task  of 
sufficient  delicacy,  but  the  difficulty  is  in- 
definitely enhanced  where  it  is  a  woman 
of  genius  whose  character  is  to  be  painted 
in  the  various  phases  of  childhood  and  girl- 
hood, and  this  is  the  labor  Bjornson  under- 
takes in  Petra.  She  is  a  girl  of  the  lowest 
origin,  and  has  had,  like  Arne,  no  legal  au- 
thority for  coming  into  the  world  ;  but  like 
him  she  has  a  wonderful  gift,  though  it  is 
different  from  his.  Loo-king  back  over  her 
career  from  the  close  of  the  book,  one  sees 
plainly  enough  that  she  was  born  for  the 
stage ;  but  it  is  then  only  that  the  au- 
thor's admirable  art  is  apparent,  and  that 
we  arc  reconciled  to  what  seemed  r.\- 
nces  and  inconsistencies,  and  arc 
even  consoled  for  the  disappointment  of 
our  foolish  novel-reading  desire  for  the 
heroine's  marriage.  Petra  docs  not  marry 
any  of  the  numerous  lovers  whom  she  has 
won  in  her  unconscious  effort  to  surround 
herself  with  the  semblances  that  charm  her 
imagination  but  never  touch  her  heart  ; 
she  is  wedded  to  dramatic  art  alone,  and 
the  author,  with  a  wisdom  and  modesty 
almost  rare  enough  to  be  called  singular, 
will  not  let  us  see  whether  the  union  is 
happy  or  not,  but  closes  his  book  as  the 
curtain  rises  upon  Petra's  first  appear- 
ance. In  fact,  his  business  with  her  was 
there  ended,  as  the  romancer's  used  to  be 
with  the  nuptials  of  his  young  people  ; 
what  followed  could  only  have  been  com- 
monplace in  contrast  with  what  went  be- 
fore. The  story  is  exquisitely  pleasing ; 
the  incidents  arc  quickly  successive ;  the 
facts  are  in  great  part  cheerful  and  amus- 
ing, and  even  where  they  are  disastrous 
there  is  not  a  hopeless  or  unrelieved  pathos 
in  them ;  the  situations  are  vivid  and  pic- 
turex[ue,  and  the  people  most  refreshingly 
original  and  new,  down  to  the  most  slightly 
seen  and  least  important  personage.  There 
is  also  unusual  range  and  variety  in  the 
characters  ;  we  have  no  longer  to  do  with  the 
peasants,  but  behold  Norwegian  nature  as 
it  is  affected  by  life  in  towns,  refined  by  ed- 
ucation and  thought,  and  sophisticated  by 
wrealth  and  unwise  experience  of  the  world. 
The  figures  are  drawn  with  a  strength 
and  fineness  that  coexist  more  in  this 
author  than  in  any  other  we  know,  and 


that  strike  us  peculiarly  in  the  characters  of 
Petra's  mother,  Gunlaug,  who  lets  her  own 
compassionate  heart  deceive  her  with  re- 
gard to  that  pitiful  Pedro  Ohlsen,  and  there- 
after lives  a  life  of  stormy  contempt  towards 
her  seducer,  forgiving  him  at  last  in  a  tacit 
sort  of  way  sufficiently  to  encourage  the 
feeble-souled  creature  to  leave  Petra  his 
money;  of  Gunnar,  the  young  sailor,  who 
being  made  love  to  by  Petra  because  she 
wants  the  figure  of  a  lover  for  her  reveries, 
furiously  beats  Ingve  Void  because  he  has 
stolen  Petra's  airy  affections  from  him  ;  of 
Ingve  Void,  the  Spanish-travelled,  dandi- 
fied, handsome  young  rich  man,  who,  after 
capturing  Petra's  fancy  with  stories  of 
Spain,  in  turn  lets  his  love  get  the  better  of 
his  wickeder  designs,  and  is  ready  to  do 
anything  in  order  to  call  Petra  his  wife  ;  of 
the  pastor's  son,  Oedegaard,  who  has  edu- 
cated Petra  and  has  then  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  and  been  accepted  by  her  after  that 
imaginative  person  has  promised  herself  to 
Gunnar  and  Ingve ;  of  the  country  pastor 
in  whose  house  Petra  finds  refuge  (after  her 
mother's  house  has  been  mobbed  because 
of  her  breaking  so  many  hearts,  and  she  has 
been  driven  out  of  her  native  village),  and 
in  despite  of  whom  she  dreams  and  thinks 
of  nothing  but  the  stage,  till  finally  he 
blesses  her  aspiration. 

Two  scenes  in  the  story  appeas  to  us  the 
most  interesting  ;  and  of  course  the  chief 
of  these  is  Petra  seeing  a  play  for  the  first 
time  at  the  theatre  in  Bergen,  which  stands 
quite  alone  as  a  sympathetic  picture  of  the 
amaze  and  exaltation  of  genius  in  the  art 
destined  henceforth  to  express  it  and  to 
explain  it  to  itself.  It  is  long  after  this 
before  Petra  comes  fully  to  understand  her 
past  life  from  her  present  consuming  desire, 
and  perhaps  she  never  does  it  so  fully  as  an- 
other does,  —  as  Oedegaard,  or  the  reader ; 
but  that  experience  at  once  gives  shape  and 
direction  to  her  future,  and  it  is  so  recorded 
as  to  be  nearly  as  much  a  rapture  to  us  as 
to  her. 

After  this  the  most  admirable  episode 
is  that  scene  in  which  the  "village  saints  " 
come  to  expostulate  with  the  pastor  against 
countenancing  music  and  dancing  and  other 
wicked  cheerfulnesses,  and  in  which  the 
unanswerable  arguments  of  the  pastor  in 
self-defence  are  made  subtly  to  undermine 
the  grounds  of  his  own  opposition  to  Petra's 
longing  for  the  theatre.  In  this  scene  the 
religious  and  earnest  element  of  Bjb'rnson's 
genius  appears  with  great  effect.  The 
bigoted  sincerity  of  the  saints  is  treated 


512 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[April. 


with  beautiful  tenderness,  while  their  errors 
are  forcibly  discovered  to  them.  In  a  little 
space  these  people's  characters  are  shown 
in  all  their  individual  quaintness,  their 
narrow  life  is  hinted  in  its  gloom  and  lone- 
liness, and  the  reader  is  made  to  feel  at 
once  respect  and  compassion  for  them. 

There  is  no  room  left  here  to  quote  from 
"  The  Fisher-Maiden  "  ;  but  the  reader  has 
already  been  given  some  idea  of  Bjornson's 
manner  in  the  passages  from  "  Arne  "  and 
"  The  Happy  Boy."  This  manner  is  always 
the  same  in  its  freedom  from  what  makes  the 
manner  of  most  of  our  own  stories  tedious 
and  abominable  :  it  is  always  direct,  unaffect- 
ed, and  dignified,  expressing  nothing  of  the 
author's  personality,  while  fully  interpreting 
his  genius,  and  supplying  no  intellectual 
hollovvness  and  poverty  with  tricks  and 
caprices  of  phrase. 

We  hope  that  his  publishers  will  find  it 
profitable  to  give  us  translations  of  all 
his  works.  From  him  we  can  learn  that 
fulness  exists  in  brevity  rather  more  than 
in  prolixity;  that  the  finest  poetry  is  not 
ashamed  of  the  plainest  fact ;  that  the  lives 
of  men  and  women,  if  they  be  honestly 
studied,  can,  without  surprising  incident  or 
advantageous  circumstance,  be  made  as  in- 
teresting in  literature  as  are  the  smallest 
private  affairs  of  the  men  and  women  in 
one's  o\vn  neighborhood ;  that  telling  a 
thing  is  enough,  and  explaining  it  too  much  ; 
and  that  the  first  condition  of  pleasing  is  a 
generous  faith  in  the  reader's  capacity  to 
be  pleased  by  natural  and  simple  beauty. 


Red  as  a  Rose  is  She.  By  the  Author  of 
"  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower,"  "Not  Wisely, 
but  too  Well,"  etc.  New  York  :  D. 
Appleton  &  Co. 

SOME  things  you  do  not  like  to  have  a 
woman  do  well,  and  these  are  about  the 
only  things  which  are  well  done  by  the  au- 
thoress of  "  Red  as  a  Rose  is  She. "  A  sad 
facility  in  reproducing  the  speeches  and 
feelings  of  loose  young  men  of  the  world 
about  women,  and  a  keen  perception  of 
those  thoughts  of  which  men  are  mostly  so 
much  ashamed  that  they  try  to  hide  them 
from  themselves,  are  the  strong  points  of 
this  popular  writer  whose  mental  and  mor- 
al attitudes  somehow  vividly  remind  you  of 
the  opera  bouffe  and  the  burlesques.  But  let 
women  be  as  immodest  and  reckless  as  they 
will,  they  have  always  a  fund  of  indestructi- 


ble innocence  ;  and  in  this  novel,  where  there 
is  apparently  neither  fear  of  God  nor  regard 
of  man,  there  is  artlessly  mixed  up  with 
the  wickedness  and  worldliness  ever  so 
much  sentimental  millinery  of  the  kind  that 
young  girls  delight  in,  when  they  write,  and, 
we  suppose,  when  they  read,  and  that  comes 
in  drolly  and  pathetically  enough  along  with 
all  the  rest. 

The  women's  characters  have  a  certain 
bad  naturalness,  and  so  have  the  worse 
men's,  —  if  there  is  any  choice  in  that 
doubtful  company.  Such  a  girl  as  Esther 
might  very  well  be,  and  such  a  one  as  Con- 
stance ;  though  a  little  more  modesty  and 
heart  would  not  hurt  either  likeness.  But  the 
plot  is  entirely  preposterous  in  its  staleness 
and  its  wildness.  You  have  all  that  dreary 
meeting  -  at-  a-  country  -  house,  dining  and 
shooting  business  which  makes  the  English 
society  novel  an  insupportable  burden,  and 
then  that  sort  of  love-making  (apparently 
studied  from  the  enamored  cats  upon  the 
roof)  in  which  the  lovers  scold  and  revile 
each  other,  and  bid  one  another  leave  the 
premises,  when  they  do  not  happen  to  thrill 
and  throb  and  hunger  and  clutch  and  have 
ice  and  fire  in  their  veins.  And  so  it 
comes  to  pass  that  Esther  falls  frightfully 
sick,  and,  being  at  the  point  of  death,  asks 
St.  John  to  kiss  her,  and,  miraculously  re- 
covering, cannot  get  over  having  begged 
this  simple  favor,  though  she  has  no  shame 
and  no  remorse  for  some  hundreds  of  kisses, 
as  seething  and  charring  as  any  out  of  Mr. 
Swinburne's  poetry,  which  she  exchanged 
with  St.  John  when  in  health.  She  will 
not  be  consoled  till  St.  John  in  his  vein  of 
airy  badinage  swears  "  by  the  holy  po- 
ker "  not  to  taunt  her  with  it  after  they  are 
married. 

Throughout  this  romance  there  is  a  great 
and  explicit  loathing  of  all  persons  in  sick- 
ness, poverty,  old  age,  or  calamity  of  any 
kind  except  unhappy  love,  and  of  all  re- 
ligious persons  especially,  and  most  of  the 
virtues  are  put  where  they  belong,  amongst 
the  humbugs.  You  may  say  that  the  char- 
acters are  vulgar  in  their  lives  and  words, 
but  it  is  all  nothing  to  the  vulgarity  which 
appears  when  the  authoress  speaks  for  her- 
self in  a  parenthetical  passage.  There  is  no 
denying  that  she  has  dash  ;  but  you  cannot 
call  it  anything  better.  Her  wit  would  not 
save  a  well-meaning  book  ;  but  a  very  little 
wit  goes  a  great  way  in  a  reckless  or  evil 
book. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A   Magazine  of  Literature,  Science.   Art, 
and  Politics. 


VOL.    XXV.— MAY,    1870.  — NO.    CLI. 


JOSEPH    AND    HIS    FRIEND. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

HTHERE  was  not  much  of  the  happy 
J-  bridegroom  to  be  seen  in  Joseph's 
face  when  he  arose  the  next  morning. 
To  Philip's  eyes  he  appeared  to  have 
suddenly  grown  several  years  older ; 
his  features  had  lost  their  boyish 
softness  and  sweetness,  which  would 
thenceforth  never  wholly  come  back 
again.  He  spoke  but  little,  and  went 
about  his  preparation  with  an  abstract- 
ed, mechanical  air,  which  told  how 
much  his  mind  was  preoccupied.  Phil- 
ip quietly  .assisted,  and  when  all  was 
complete,  led  him  before  the  mirror. 

"  There ! "  he  said  ;  "  now  study  the 
general  effect ;  I  think  nothing  more 
is  wanting." 

"  It  hardly  looks  like  myself,"  Joseph 
remarked,  after  a  careless  inspection. 

"  In  all  the  weddings  I  have  seen," 
said  Philip,  "the  bridegrooms  were 
pale  and  grave,  the  brides  flushed  and 
trembling.  You  will  not  make  an  ex- 
ception to  the  rule  ;  but  it  is  a  solemn 
thing,  and  I  — don't  misunderstand  me, 
Joseph  —  I  almost  wish  you  were  not 
to  be  married  to-day." 


"Philip!"  Joseph  exclaimed,  "let 
me  think,  now,  at  least,  —  now,  at  the 
last  moment,  —  that  it  is  best  for  me  ! 
If  you  knew  how  cramped,  restricted, 
fettered,  my  life  has  been,  and  how 
much  emancipation  has  already  come 
with  this  —  this  love  !  Perhaps  my 
marriage  is  a  venture,  but  it  is  one 
which  must  be  made  ;  and  no  conse- 
quence of  it  shall  ever  come  between 
us!" 

"  No ;  and  I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  a  word  that  might  imply  a 
doubt.  It  may  be  that  your  emancipa- 
tion, as  you  rightly  term  it,  can  only 
come  in  this  way.  My  life  has  been  so 
different,  that  I  am  unconsciously  put- 
ting myself  in  your  place,  instead  of 
trying  to  look  with  your  eyes.  When 
I  next  go  to  Coventry  Forge,  I  shall 
drive  over  and  dine  with  you,  and  I 
hope  your  Julia  will  be  as  ready  to  re- 
ceive me  as  a  friend  as  I  am  to  find 
one  in  her.  There  is  the  carriage  at 
the  door,  and  you  had  better  arrive  a 
little  before  the  appointed  hour.  Take 
only  ,my  good  wishes,  my  prayers  for 
your  happiness,  along  with  you,  —  and 
now,  God  bless  you,  Joseph  !  " 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 
of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


VOL.  xxv.  — 


151. 


33 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[May, 


The  carriage  rolle4  away.  Joseph, 
in  full  wedding  costume,  was  painfully 
conscious  of  the  curious  glances  which 
fell  upon  him,  and  presently  pulled 
down  the  curtains.  Then,  with  an  im- 
patient self-reprimand,  he  pulled  them 
up  again,  lowered  the  window,  and  let 
the  air  blow  upon  his  hot  cheeks.  The 
house  was  speedily  reached,  and  he 
was  admitted  by  a  festive  waiter  (hired 
for  the  occasion)  before  he  had  been 
exposed  for  more  than  five  seconds  to 
the  gaze  of  curious  eyes  in  all  the  win- 
dows around. 

Mrs.  Blessing,  resplendent  in  purple, 
and  so  bedight  that  she  seemed  almost 
as  young  as  her  portrait,  swept  into  the 
drawing-room.  She  inspected  him  rap- 
idly, and  approved,  while  advancing ; 
otherwise  he  would  scarcely  have  re- 
ceived the  thin,  dry  kiss  with  which 
she  favored  him. 

"  It  lacks  half  an  hour,"  she  said  ; 
"  but  you  have  the  usual  impatience  of 
a  bridegroom.  I  am  accustomed  to  it. 
Mr.  Blessing  is  still  in  his  room ;  he 
has  only  just  commenced  arranging  his 
cambric  cravat,  which  is  a  work  of  time. 
He  cannot  forget  that  he  was  distin- 
guished for  an  elegant  tie  in  his  youth. 
Clementina,"  —  as  that  young  lady  en- 
tered the  room,  —  "is  the  bride  com- 
pletely attired  ?  " 

"  All  but  her  gloves,"  replied  Clem- 
entina, offering  three  fourths  of  her 
hand  to  Joseph.  "  And  she  don't  know 
what  ear-rings  to  wear." 

"  I  think  we  might  venture,"  Mrs. 
Blessing  remarked,  "  as  there  seems  to 
be  no  rule  applicable  to  the  case,  to 
allow  Mr.  Asten  a  sight  of  his  bride. 
Perhaps  his  taste  might  assist  her  in 
the  choice." 

Thereupon  she  conducted  Joseph  up 
stairs,  and,  after  some  preliminary  whis- 
pering, he  was  admitted  to  the  room. 
He  and  Julia  were  equally  surprised 
at  the  change  in  each  other's  appear- 
ance :  he  older,  paler,  with  a  grave  and 
serious  bearing;  she  younger,  brighter, 
rounder,  fresher,  and  with  the  loveliest 
pink  flush  on  her  cheeks.  The  gloss 
of  her  hair  rivalled  that  of  the  white 
satin  which  draped  her  form  and  gave 


grace  to  its  outlines ;  her  neck  and 
shoulders  were  slight,  but  no  one  could 
have  justly  called  them  lean  ;  and  even 
the  thinness  of  her  lips  was  forgotten, 
in  the  vivid  coral  of  their  color,  and  the 
nervous  life  which  hovered  about  their 
edges.  At  that  moment  she  was  cer- 
tainly beautiful,  and  a  stranger  would 
have  supposed  her  to  be  young. 

She  looked  into  Joseph's  face  with 
a  smile  in  which  some  appearance 
of  maiden  shyness  yet  lingered.  A 
shrewder  bridegroom  would  have  un- 
derstood its  meaning,  and  would  have 
said,  "  How  lovely  you  are  !  "  Joseph, 
it  is  true,  experienced  a  sense  of  relief, 
but  he  knew  not  why,  and  could  not 
for  his  life  have  put  it  into  words.  His 
eyes  dwelt  upon  and  followed  her,  and 
she  seemed  to  be  satisfied  with  that 
form  of  recognition.  Mrs.  Blessing  in- 
spected the  dress  with  a  severe  critical 
eye,  pulling  out  a  fold  here  and  smooth- 
ing a  bit  of  lace  there,  until  nothing 
further  could  be  detected.  Then,  the 
adornment  of  the  victim  being  com- 
pleted, she  sat  down  and  wept  moder- 
ately. 

"  O  ma,  try  to  bear  up  !  "  Julia  ex- 
claimed, with  the  very  slightest  touch 
of  impatience  in  her  voice ;  "  it  is  all  to 
come  yet." 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door. 

"  It  must  be  your  aunt,"  said  Mrs. 
Blessing,  drying  her  eyes.  "  My  sis- 
ter," she  added,  turning  to  Joseph,  — 
Mrs.  Woollish,  with  Mr.  Woollish  and 
their  two  sons  and  one  daughter.  He  's 
in  the  —  the  leather  trade,  so  to  speak, 
which  has  thrown  her  into  a  very  dif- 
ferent circle  ;  but,  as  we  have  no  nearer 
relations  in  the  city,  they  will  be  pres- 
ent at  the  ceremony.  He  is  said  to  be 
wealthy.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing ; 
but  one  would  scarcely  think  so,  to 
judge  from  his  wedding-gift  to  Julia." 

"  Ma,  why  should  you  mention  it  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  enlighten  Mr.  Asten. 
Six  pairs  of  shoes  !  — of  course  all  of 
the  same  pattern  ;  and  the  fashion  may 
change  in  another  year !  " 

"  In  the  country  we  have  no  fashions. 
in  shoes,"  Joseph  suggested. 

"  Certainly  !  "  said  Julia.    "  /find  Un- 


8;o.] 


Joseph  and  Ids  Friend. 


515 


cle  Woollish's  present  very  practical 
indeed." 

Mrs.  Blessing  looked  at  her  daugh- 
ter, and  said  nothing. 

Mr.  Blessing,  very  red  in  the  face, 
but  with  triumphant  cambric  about  his 
throat,  entered  the  room,  endeavoring 
to  get  his  fat  hands  into  a  pair  of  No.  9 
gloves.  A  strong  smell  of  turpentine 
or  benzine  entered  with  him. 

"  Eliza,"  said  he,  "  you  must  find  me 
some  eau  de  cologne.  The  odor  left 
from  my  —  my  rheumatic  remedy  is 
still  perceptible.  Indeed,  patchouly 
would  be  better,  if  it  were  not  the  scent 
peculiar  lo parvenus" 

Clementina  came  to  say  that  the 
clergyman's  carriage  had  just  reached 
the  door,  and  Mr.  Blessing  was  hurried 
down  stairs,  mopping  his  gloves  and 
the  collar  of  his  coat  with  liquid  fra- 
grance by  the  way.  Mrs.  Blessing  and 
Clementina  presently  followed. 

"  Julia,"  said  Joseph  when  they  were 
quite  alone,  "have  you  thought  that 
this  is  for  life  ?  " 

She  looked  up  with  a  tender  smile, 
but  something  in  his  face  arrested  it  on 
her  lips. 

"  I  have  lived  ignorantly  until  now," 
he  continued,  —  "  innocently  and  igno- 
rantly. From  this  time  on  I  shall 
change  more  than  you,  and  there  may 
be,  years  hence,  a  very  different  Joseph 
Asten  from  the  one  whose  name  you 
will  take  to-day.  If  you  love  me  with 
the  love  I  claim  from  you,  —  the  love 
that  grows  with  and  through  all  new 
knowledge  and  experience,  —  there  will 
be  no  discord  in  our  lives.  We  must 
both  be  liberal  and  considerate  towards 
each  other ;  it  has  been  but  a  short 
time  since  we  met,  and  we  have  still 
much  to  learn." 

"  O  Joseph  !  "  she  murmured,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  reproach,  "  I  knew  your 
nature  at  first  sight." 

"  I  hope  you  did,"  he  answered  grave- 
ly, "  for  then  you  will  be  able  to  see  its 
needs,  and  help  me  to  supply  them. 
But,  Julia,  there  must  not  the  shadow 
of  concealment  come  between  us: 
nothing  must  be  reserved.  I  under- 
stand no  love  that  does  not  include 


perfect  trust.  I  must  draw  nearer,  and 
be  drawn  nearer  to  you,  constantly, 
or  —  " 

He  paused  ;  it  was  no  time  to  utter 
the  further  sentence  in  his  mind.  Julia 
glided  to  him,  clasped  her  arms  about 
his  waist,  and  laid  her  head  against  his 
shoulder.  Although  she  said  nothing, 
the  act  was  eloquent.  It  expressed 
acquiescence,  trust,  fidelity,  the  sur- 
render of  her  life  to  his,  and  no  man  in 
his  situation  could  have  understood  it 
otherwise.  A  tenderness,  which  seemed 
to  be  the  something  hitherto  lacking  to 
his  love,  crept  softly  over  his  heart,  and 
the  lurking  unrest  began  to  fade  from 
his  face-. 

There  was  a  rustle  on  the  stairs ; 
Clementina  and  Miss  Woollish  made 
their  appearance.  "  Mr.  Bogue  has 
arrived,"  whispered  the  former,  "and 
ma  thinks  you  should  come  down  soon. 
Are  you  entirely  ready  ?  I  don't  think 
you  need  the  salts,  Julia ;  but  you  might 
carry  the  bottle  in  your  left  hand : 
brides  are  expected  to  be  nervous." 

She  gave  a  light  laugh,  like  the  purl 
and  bubble  of  a  brook,  but  Joseph 
shrank,  with  an  inward  chill,  from  the 
sound. 

"  So  !  shall  we  go  ?  Fanny  and  I  — 
(I  beg  pardon ;  Mr.  Asten  —  Miss 
Woollish)  — will  lead  the  way.  We 
will  stand  a  little  in  the  rear,  not  beside 
you,  as  there  are  no  groomsmen.  Re- 
member, the  farther  end  of  the  room  !  " 

They  rustled  slowly  downward,  in 
advance,  and  the  bridal  pair  followed. 
The  clergyman,  Mr.  -Bogue,  suddenly 
broke  off  in  the  midst  of  an  oracular 
remark  about  the  weather,  and,  stand- 
ing in  the  centre  of  the  room,  awaited 
them.  The  other  members  of  the  two 
families  were  seated,  and  very  silent. 

Joseph  heard  the  introductory  re- 
marks, the  ceremony,  and  the  final 
benediction  as  in  a  dream.  His  lips 
opened  mechanically,  and  a  voice  which 
did  not  exactly  seem  to  be  his  own  ut- 
tered the  "  I  will  !  "  at  the  proper  time  ; 
yet,  in  recalling  the  experience  after- 
wards, he  was  unable  to  decide  whether 
any  definite  thought  or  memory  or  hope 
had  passed  through  his  mind.  From  his 


516 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[May, 


entrance  into  the  room  until  his  hand 
was  violently  shaken  by  Mr.  Blessing 
there  was  a  blank. 

Of  course  there  were  tears,  but  the 
beams  of  congratulation  shone  through 
them,  and  they  saddened  nobody.  Miss 
Fanny  Woollish  assured  the  bridal  pair, 
in  an  audible  whisper,  that  she  had 
never  seen  a  sweeter  wedding  ;  and  her 
mother,  a  stout,  homely  little  body, 
confirmed  the  opinion  with,  "  Yes,  you 
both  did  beautifully  !  "  Then  the  mar- 
riage certificate  was  produced  and 
signed,  and  the  company  partook  of 
•wine  and  refreshments  to  strengthen 
them  for  the  reception. 

Until  there  had  been  half  a  dozen 
arrivals,  Mrs.  Blessing  moved  about 
restlessly,  and  her  eyes  wandered  to 
the  front  window.  Suddenly  three  or 
four  carriages  came  rattling  together 
up  the  street,  and  Joseph  heard  her 
whisper  to  her  husband :  "  There  they 
are  !  it  will  be  a  success  ! "  It  was 
not  long  before  the  little  room  was  un- 
comfortably crowded,  and  the  presen- 
tations followed  so  rapidly  that  Joseph 
soon  became  bewildered.  Julia,  how- 
ever, knew  and  welcomed  every  one 
with  the  most  bewitching  grace,  being 
rewarded  with  kisses  by  the  gorgeous 
young  ladies  and  compliments  by  the 
young  men  with  weak  mouths  and  re- 
treating chins. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion  Mr. 
Blessing,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  pre- 
sented "Mr.  Collector  Twining"  and 
"  Mr.  Surveyor  Knob  "  and  "  Mr.  Ap- 
praiser Gerrish,'"all  of  whom  greeted 
Joseph  with  a  bland,  almost  affectionate, 
cordiality.  The  door  of  the  dining- 
room  was  then  thrown  open,  rnd  the 
three  dignitaries  accompanied  the  bri- 
dal pair  to  the  table.  Two  servants 
rapidly  whisked  the  champagne-bottles 
from  a  cooling -tub  in  the  adjoining 
closet,  and  Mr.  Blessing  commenced 
stirring  and  testing  a  huge  bowl  of 
punch.  Collector  Twining  made  a  neat 
little  speech,  proposing  the  health  of 
bride  and  bridegroom,  with  a  pun  upon 
the  former's  name,  which  was  received 
with  as  much  delight  as  if  it  had  never 
been  heard  before.  Therefore  Mr.  Sur- 


veyor Knob  repeated  it  in  giving  the 
health  of  the  bride's  parents.  The  en- 
thusiasm of  the  company  not  having 
diminished,  Mr.  Appraiser  Gerrish  im- 
proved the  pun  in  a  third  form,  in  pro- 
posing "the  Ladies."  Then  Mr.  Bless- 
ing, although  his  feelings  overcame 
him,  and  he  was  obliged  to  use  a  hand- 
kerchief smelling  equally  of  benzine 
and  eau  de  cologne,  responded,  intro- 
ducing the  collector's  and  surveyor's 
names  with  an  ingenuity  which  was 
accepted  as  the  inspiration  of  genius. 
His  peroration  was  especially  admired. 

"  On  this  happy  occasion,"  he  said, 
"  the  elements  of  national  power  and 
prosperity  are  represented.  My  son- 
in-law,  Mr.  Asten,  is  a  noble  specimen 
of  the  agricultural  population,  —  the 
free  American  yeomanry ;  my  daugh- 
ter, if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  it  in  the 
presence  of  so  many  bright  eyes  and 
blooming  cheeks,  is  a  representative 
child  of  the  city,  which  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  nation's  action  and  enter- 
prise. The  union  of  the  two  is  the 
movement  of  our  life.  The  city  gives 
to  the  country  as  the  ocean  gives  the 
cloud  to  the  mountain  -  springs  :  the 
country  gives  to  the  city  as  the  streams 
flow  back  to  the  ocean.  ["  Admirable  !  " 
Mr.  Collector  Twining  exclaimed.] 
Then  we  have,  as  our  highest  honor, 
the  representatives  of  the  political  sys- 
tem under  which  city  and  country  flour- 
ish alike.  The  wings  of  our  eagle 
must  be  extended  over  this  fortunate 
house  to-day,  for  here  are  the  strong 
Claws  which  seize  and  guard  its  treas- 
ures ! " 

The  health  of  the  Claws  was  enthu- 
siastically drunk.  Mr.  Blessing  was 
congratulated  on  his  eloquence ;  the 
young  gentlemen  begged  the  privilege 
of  touching  their  glasses  to  his,  and 
every  touch  required  that  the  contents 
be  replenished  ;  so  that  the  bottom  of 
the  punch-bowl  was  nearly  reached  be- 
fore the  guests  departed. 

When  Joseph  came  down  in  his  trav- 
elling-dress, he  found  the  drawing-room 
empty  of  the  crowd  ;  but  leaves,  with- 
ered flowers,  crumbs  of  cake  and  crum- 
pled cards,  scattered  over  the  carpet, 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


517 


indicated  what  had  taken  place.  In  the 
dining-room  Mr.  Blessing,  with  his 
cravat  loosened,  was  smoking  a  cigar 
at  the  open  window. 

"Come,  son-in-law!"  he  cried; 
"take  another  glass  of  punch  before 
you  start." 

Joseph  declined,  on  the  plea  that  he 
was  not  accustomed  to  the  beverage. 

"  Nothing  could  have  gone  off  bet- 
ter ! "  said  Mr.  Blessing.  "  The  col- 
lector was  delighted  :  by  the  by,  you  're 
to  go  to  the  St.  Jerome,  when  you  get 
to  New  York  this  evening.  He  tele- 
graphed to  have  the  bridal-chamber 
reserved  for  you.  Tell  Julia :  she 
won't  forget  it.  That  girl  has  a  deuced 
sharp  intellect :  if  you  '11  be  guided  by 
her  in  your  operations —  " 

"  Pa,  what  are  you  saying  about 
me  ?  "  Julia  asked,  hastily  entering  the 
room. 

"  Only  that  you  have  a  deuced  sharp 
intellect,  and  to-day  proves  it.  Asten 
is  one  of  us  now,  and  I  may  tell  him  of 
his  luck." 

He  winked  and  laughed  stupidly, 
and  Joseph  understood  and  obeyed  his 
wife's  appealing  glance.  He  went  to 
his  mother-in-law  in  the  drawing-room. 

Julia  lightly  and  swiftly  shut  the 
door.  "  Pa,"  she  said,  in  a  strong, 
angry  whisper  ;  "  if  you  are  not  able  to 
talk  coherently,  you  must  keep  your 
tongue  still.  What  will  Joseph  think 
of  we,  to  hear  you  ?  " 

"What  he  '11  think  anyhow,  in  a  little 
while,"  he  doggedly  replied.  "Julia, 
you  have  played  a  keen  game,  and 
played  it  well;  but  you  don't  know 
much  of  men  yet.  He  '11  not  always  be 
the  innocent,  white-nosed  lamb  he  is 
now,  nibbling  the  posies  you  hold  out 
to  him.  Wait  till  he  asks  for  strong- 
er feed,  and  see  whether  he'll  follow 
you  !  " 

She  was  looking  on  the  floor,  pale 
and  stern.  Suddenly  one  of  her  gloves 
burst,  across  the  back  of  the  hand. 
"  Pa,"  she  then  said,  "  it  's  very  cruel 
to  say  such  things  to  me,  now  when 
I  'm  leaving  you." 

"So  it  is!"  he  exclaimed,  tearfully 
contrite ;  "  I  am  a  wretch  !  They 


flattered  my  speech  so  much,  —  the  col- 
lector was  so  impressed  by  me,  —  and 
said  so  many  pleasant  things,  that — I 
don't  feel  quite  steady.  Don't  forget 
the  St.  Jerome  ;  the  bridal-chamber  is 
ordered,  and  I  '11  see  that  Mumm 
writes  a  good  account  for  the  '  Evening 
Mercury.'  I  wish  you  could  be  here  to 
remember  my  speech  for  me.  O,  I 
shall  miss  you  !  I  shall  miss  you  !  " 

With  these  words,  and  his  arm  lov- 
ingly about  his  daughter,  they  joined 
the  family.  The  carriage  was  already 
at  the  door,  and  the  coachman  was 
busy  with  the  travelling-trunks.  There 
were  satchels,  and  little  packages,  —  an 
astonishing  number  it  seemed  to  Jo- 
seph, —  to  be  gathered  together,  and 
then  the  farewells  were  said. 

As  they  rolled  through  the  streets  to- 
wards the  station,  Julia  laid  her  head 
upon  her  husband's  shoulder,  drew  a 
long,  deep  breath,  and  said  :  "  Now  all 
our  obligations  to  society  are  fulfilled, 
and  we  can  rest  awhile.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  am  a  free  woman, — 
and  you  have  liberated  me  ! " 

He  answered  her  in  glad  and  tender 
words  ;  he  was  equally  grateful  that 
the  exciting  day  was  over.  But,  as 
they  sped  away  from  the  city  through 
the  mellow  October  landscapes,  Phil- 
ip's earnest,  dark  gray  eyes,  warm  with 
more  than  brotherly  love,  haunted  his 
memory,  and  he  knew  that  Philip's 
faithful  thoughts  followed  him. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THERE  are  some  days  when  the  sun 
comes  slowly  up,  filling  the  vapory  air 
with  diffused  light,  in  advance  of  his 
coming;  when  the  earth  grows  lu- 
minous in  the  broad,  breezeless  morn- 
ing ;  when  nearer  objects  shine  and 
sparkle,  and  the  distances  melt  into 
dim  violet  and  gold  ;  when  the  vane 
points  to  the  southwest,  and  the  blood 
of  man  feels  neither  heat  nor  cold,  but 
only  the  freshness  of  that  perfect  tem- 
perature, wherein  the  limits  of  the  body 
are  lost,  and  the  pulses  of  its  life  beat 
in  all  the  life  of  the  world.  But  ere- 
long the  haze,  instead  of  thinning  into 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[May, 


blue,  gradually  thickens  into  gray  ;  the 
vane  creeps  southward,  swinging  to 
southeast  in  brief,  rising  flaws  of  the 
air;  the  horizon  darkens;  the  enfran- 
chised life  of  the  spirit  creeps  back  to 
its  old  isolation,  shorn  of  all  its  rash 
delight,  and  already  foreboding  the  de- 
spondency which  comes  with  the  east 
wind  and  the  chilly  rains. 

Some  such  variation  of  the  atmos- 
pheric influences  attended  Joseph  As- 
ten's  wedding-travel.  The  mellow,  ma- 
gical glory  of  his  new  life  diminished 
day  by  day ;  the  blue  of  his  sky  be- 
came colder  and  grayer.  Yet  he  could 
not  say  that  his  wife  had  changed  :  she 
was  always  ready  with  her  smiles,  her 
tender  phrases,  her  longings  for  quiet 
and  rest,  and  simple,  natural  life,  away 
from  the  conventionalities  and  claims 
of  Society.  But,  even  as,  looking  into 
the  pale,  tawny-brown  of  her  eyes,  he 
saw  no  changing  depth  below  the  hard, 
clear  surface,  so  it  also  seemed  with 
her  nature ;  he  painfully  endeavored 
to  penetrate  beyond  expressions,  the 
repetition  of  which  it  was  hard  not  to 
find  tiresome,  and  to  reach  some  spring 
of  character  or  feeling ;  yet  he  found 
nothing.  It  was  useless  to  remember 
that  he  had  been  content  with  those 
expressions  before  marriage,  had  given 
them  his  own  eager  interpretation, 
independent  of  her  will  and  knowl- 
edge ;  that  his  duty  to  her  remained 
the  same,  for  she  had  not  deceived 
him. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  was  as  ten- 
der and  affectionate  as  he  could  desire. 
Indeed,  he  would  often  have  preferred 
a  less  artless  manifestation  of  her 
fondness ;  but  she  playfully  insisted  on 
his  claiming  the  best  quarters  at  every 
stopping-place,  on  the  ground  of  their 
bridal  character,  and  was  sometimes  a 
little  petulant  when  she  fancied  that 
they  had  not  been  sufficiently  hon- 
ored. Joseph  would  have  willingly  es- 
caped the  distinction,  allowing  himself 
to  be  confounded  with  the  prosaic  mul- 
titude, but  she  would  not  permit  him 
to  try  the  experiment. 

"  The  newly  married  are  always  de- 
tected," she  would  say,  "  and  they  are 


only  laughed  at  when  they  try  to  seem 
like  old  couples.  Why  not  be  frank 
and  honest,  and  meet  half-way  the  sym- 
pathy which  I  am  sure  everybody  has 
for  us?" 

To  this  he  could  make  no  reply,  ex- 
cept that  it  was  not  agreeable  to  exact 
a  special  attention. 

"  But  it  is  our  right !  "  was  her  an- 
swer. 

In  every  railway-car  they  entered  she 
contrived,  in  a  short  time,  to  impress 
the  nature  of  their  trip  upon  the  other 
travellers  ;  yet  it  was  done  with  such  ap- 
parent unconsciousness,  such  innocent, 
impulsive  manifestations  of  her  happi- 
ness in  him,  that  he  could  not,  in  his 
heart,  charge  her  with  having  intention- 
ally brought  upon  him  the  discomfort 
of  being  curiously  observed.  He  could 
have  accustomed  himself  to  endure  the 
latter,  had  it  been  inevitable ;  the  sus- 
picion that  he  owed  it  to  her  made  it 
an  increasing  annoyance.  Yet,  when 
the  day's  journey  was  over,  and  they 
were  resting  together  in  their  own 
private  apartment,  she  would  bring  a 
stool  to  his  feet,  lay  her  head  on  his 
knee,  and  say :  "  Now  we  can  talk  as 
we  please,  —  there  are  none  watching 
and  listening." 

At  such  times  he  was  puzzled  to 
guess  whether  some  relic  of  his  former 
nervous  shyness  were  not  remaining, 
and  had  made  him  over-sensitive  to 
her  ways.  The  doubt  gave  him  an 
additional  power  of  self-control ;  he  re- 
solved to  be  more  slow  and  cautious 
of  judgment,  and  observe  men  and  wo- 
men more  carefully  than  he  had  been 
wont  to  do.  Julia  had  no  suspicion 
of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind :  she 
took  it  for  granted  that  his  nature  was 
still  as  shallow  and  transparent  as  when 
she  first  came  in  contact  with  it. 

After  nearly  a  fortnight  this  flying 
life  came  to  an  end.  They  returned  to 
the  city  for  a  day,  before  going  home  to 
the  farm.  The  Blessing  mansion  re- 
ceived them  with  a  hearty  welcome,  yet, 
in  spite  of  it,  a  depressing  atmosphere 
seemed  to  fill  the  house.  Mrs.  Blessing 
looked  pinched  and  care-worn,  Clemen- 
tina discontented,  and  Mr.  Blessing  as 


1 870.] 


JosepJi  and  liis  Friend. 


519 


melancholy  as  was  possible  to  so  buoy- 
ant a  politician. 

"  What  's  the  matter  ?  I  hope  pa 
has  n't  lost  his  place,"  Julia  remarked 
in  an  undertone  to  her  mother. 

"  Lost  my  place  !  "  Mr.  Blessing  ex- 
claimed aloud ;  "  I  'd  like  to  see  how 
the  collection  of  customs  would  go  on 
without  me.  But  a  man  may  keep 
his  place,  and  yet  lose  his  house  and 
home." 

Clementina  vanished,  Mrs.  Blessing 
followed,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes,  and  Julia  hastened  after  them, 
crying :  "  Ma  !  dear  ma  !  " 

"  It 's  only  on  their  account,"  said 
Mr.  Blessing,  pointing  after  them  and 
speaking  to  Joseph.  "  A  plucky  man 
never  desponds,  sir,  but  women,  you'll 
find,  are  upset  by  every  reverse." 

"  May  I  ask  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  A  delicate  regard  for  you,"  Mr. 
Blessing  replied,  "would  counsel  me 
to  conceal  it,  but  my  duty  as  your 
father-in-law  leaves  me  no  alternative. 
Our  human  feelings  prompt  us  to  show 
only  the  bright  side  of  life  to  those 
whom  we  love ;  principle,  however, 
conscience,  commands  us  not  to  sup- 
press the  shadows.  I  am  but  one  out 
of  the  many  millions  of  victims  of  mis- 
taken judgment.  The  case  is  simply 
this  :  I  will  omit  certain  legal  technicali- 
ties touching  the  disposition  of  property, 
which  may  not  be  familiar  to  you,  and 
state  the  facts  in  the  most  intelligible 
form ;  securities  which  I  placed  as 
collaterals  for  the  loan  of  a  sum,  not  a 
very  large  amount,  have  been  very  un- 
expectedly depreciated,  but  only  tem- 
porarily so,  as  all  the  market  knows. 
If  I  am  forced  to  sell  them,  at  such  an 
untoward  crisis,  I  lose  the  largest  part 
of  my  limited  means  ;  if  I  retain  them 
they  will  ultimately  recover  their  full 
value." 

"Then  why  not  retain  them?"  Jo- 
seph asked. 

"  The  sum  advanced  upon  them  must 
be  repaid,  and  it  so  happens  —  the 
market  being  very  tight  —  that  every 
•one  of  my  friends  is  short.  Of  course, 
•where  their  own  paper  is  on  the  street, 
I  can't  ask  them  to  float  mine  for  three 


months  longer,  which  is  all  that  is  ne- 
cessary. A  good  indorsement  is  the 
extent  of  my  necessity ;  for  any  one 
who  is  familiar  with  the  aspects  of  the 
market  can  see  that  there  must  be  a 
great  rebound  before  three  months." 

"If  it  were  not  a  very  large  amount," 
Joseph  began. 

"  Only  a  thousand  !  I  know  what 
you  were  going  to  say:  it  is  perfectly 
natural :  I  appreciate  it,  because,  if 
our  positions  were  reversed,  I  should 
have  done  the  same  thing.  But,  al- 
though it  is  a  mere  form,  a  temporary 
fiction,  which  has  the  force  of  reality, 
and,  therefore,  so  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, I  should  feel  entirely  easy,  yet 
it  might  subject  me  to  very  dishonor- 
ing suspicions  !  It  might  be  said  that 
I  had  availed  myself  of  your  entrance 
into  my  family  to  beguile  you  into  pe- 
cuniary entanglements ;  the  amount 
might  be  exaggerated,  the  circumstan- 
ces misrepresented,  —  no,  no  !  rather 
than  that,  let  me  make  the  sacrifice  like 
a  man  !  I 'm  no  longer  young,  it  is  true, 
but  the  feeling  that  I  stand  on  principle 
will  give  me  strength  to  work." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Blessing," 
said  Joseph,  "  very  unpleasant  things 
might  be  said  of  me,  if  I  should  permit 
you  to  suffer  so  serious  a  loss,  when 
my  assistance  would  prevent  it." 

"  I  don't  deny  it.  You  have  made  a 
two-horned  dilemma  out  of  a  one-sided 
embarrassment.  Would  that  I  had 
kept  the  secret  in  my  own  breast  ! 
The  temptation  is  strong,  I  confess: 
for  the  mere  use  of  your  name  for  a 
few  months  is  all  I  should  require. 
Either  the  securities  will  rise  to  their 
legitimate  value,  or  some  of  the  capital- 
ists with  whom  I  have  dealings  will  be 
in  a  position  to  accommodate  me.  I 
have  frequently  tided  over  similar  snags 
and  sand-bars  in  the  financial  current ; 
they  are  familiar  even  to  the  most  skil- 
ful operators, —  navigators,  I  might  say, 
to  carry  out  the  figure,  —  and  this  is  an 
instance  where  an  additional  inch  of 
water  will  lift  me  from  wreck  to  flood- 
tide.  The  question  is,  should  I  allow 
what  I  feel  to  be  a  just  principle,  a 
natural  suggestion  of  delicacy,  to  inter- 


520 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[May,. 


vene  between  my  necessity  and  your 
generous  proffer  of  assistance  ?  " 

"Your  family — "Joseph  began. 

"  I  know  !  I  know  !  "  Mr.  Blessing 
cried,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
"There  is  my  vulnerable  point, — my 
heel  of  Achilles  !  There  would  be  no 
alternative,  —  better  sell  this  house 
than  have  my  paper  dishonored!  Then, 
too,  I  feel  that  this  is  a  turning-point  in 
my  fortunes  :  if  I  can  squeeze  through 
this  narrow  pass,  I  shall  find  a  smooth 
road  beyond.  It  is  not  merely  the 
sum  which  is  at  stake,  but  the  future 
possibilities  into  which  it  expands. 
Should  I  crush  the  seed  while  it  is 
germinating  ?  Should  I  tear  up  the 
young  tree,  with  an  opening  fruit-bud 
on  every  twig  ?  You  see  the  considera- 
tions that  sway  me  :  unless  you  with- 
draw your  most  generous  proffer,  what 
can  I  do  but  yield,  and  accept  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  withdrawing 
it,"  Joseph  answered,  taking  his  words 
literally  ;  "  I  made  the  offer  freely  and 
willingly.  If  my  indorsement  is  all 
that  is  necessary  now,  I  can  give  it  at 
once." 

Mr.  Blessing  grasped  him  by  the 
hand,  winked  hard  three  or  four  times, 
and  turned  away  his  head  without 
speaking.  Then  he  drew  a  large  leather 
pocket-book  from  his  breast,  opened  it, 
and  produced  a  printed  promissory  note. 

"  We  will  make  it  payable  at  your 
county  bank,"  said  he,  "  because  your 
name  is  known  there,  and  upon  accept- 
ance—  which  can  be  procured  in  two 
days  —  the  money  will  be  drawn  here. 
Perhaps  we  had  better  say  four  months, 
in  order  to  cover  all  contingencies." 

He  went  to  a  small  writing-desk,  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  filled 
the  blanks  in  the  note,  which  Joseph 
then  indorsed.  When  it  was  safely 
lodged  in  his  breast-pocket,  he  said : 
"  We  will  keep  this  entirely  to  our- 
selves. My  wife,  let  me  whisper  to 
you,  is  very  proud  and  sensitive,  al- 
though the  De  1'Hotels  (Doolittles 
now)  were  never  quite  the  equals  of  the 
De  Belsains  ;  but  women  see  matters 
in  a  different  light.  They  can't  under- 
stand the  accommodation  of  a  name, 


but  fancy  that  it  implies  a  kind  of  hu- 
miliation, as  if  one  were  soliciting  char- 
ity." 

He  laughed  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
"I  shall  soon  be  in  a  position,"  he 
said,  "  to  render  you  a  favor  in  return. 
My  long  experience,  and,  I  may  add, 
my  intimate  knowledge  of  the  financial 
field,  enables  me  to  foresee  many  splen- 
did opportunities.  There  are,  just  now, 
some  movements  which  are  not  yet 
perceptible  on  the  surface.  Mark  my 
words  !  we  shall  shortly  have  a  new 
excitement,  and  a  cool,  well-seasoned 
head  is  a  fortune  at  such  times." 

"  In  the  country,"  Joseph  replied, 
"  we  only  learn  enough  to  pay  off  our 
debts  and  invest  our  earnings.  We 
are  in  the  habit  of  moving  slowly  and 
cautiously.  Perhaps  we  miss  oppor- 
tunities ;  but  if  we  don't  see  them,  we 
are  just  as  contented  as  if  they  had  not 
been.  I  have  enough  for  comfort,  and 
try  to  be  satisfied." 

"  Inherited  ideas  !  They  belong  to 
the  community  in  which  you  live.  Are 
you  satisfied  with  your  neighbors'  ways 
of  living  and  thinking  ?  I  do  not  mean 
to  disparage  them,  but  have  you  no 
desire  to  rise  above  their  level  ?  Mon- 
ey,—  as  I  once  said  at  a  dinner  given 
to  a  distinguished  railroad  man,  —  mon- 
ey is  the  engine  which  draws  individ- 
uals up  the  steepest  grades  of  society  ; 
it  is  the  lubricating  oil  which  makes 
the  truck  of  life  run  easy  ;  it  is  the 
safety -break  which  renders  collision 
and  wreck  impossible !  I  have  long 
been  accustomed  to  consider  it  in  the 
light  of  power,  not  of  property,  and  I 
classify  men  according  as  they  take 
one  or  the  other  view.  The  latter  are 
misers  ;  but  the  former,  sir,  are  philos- 
ophers ! " 

Joseph  scarcely  knew  how  to  answer 
this  burst  of  eloquence.  But  there  was. 
no  necessity  for  it ;  the  ladies  entered 
the  room  at  that  moment,  each  one,  in 
her  own  way,  swiftly  scrutinizing  the 
two  gentlemen.  Mrs.  Blessing's  face 
lost  its  woe-worn  expression,  while  a 
gleam  of  malicious  satisfaction  passed 
over  Clementina's. 

The  next  day,  on  their  journey  to 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


521 


the  country,  Julia  suddenly  said,  "I 
am  sure,  Joseph,  that  pa  made  use  of 
your  generosity  ;  pray  don't  deny  it !  " 
There  was  the  faintest  trace  of  hard- 
ness in  her  voice,  which  he  interpreted 
as  indicating  dissatisfaction  with  his 
failure  to  confide  the  matter  to  her. 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  denying  any- 
thing,  Julia,"   he   answered.     "  I    was 
not  called  upon  to  exercise  generosity ; 
it  was  simply  what  your  father  would 
term  an  '  accommodation '  ?  " 
"  I  understand.     How  much  ?  " 
"  An  indorsement  of  his  note  for  a 
thousand  dollars,  which  is  little,  when 
it  will  prevent  him  from  losing  valuable 
securities." 

Julia  was  silent  for  at  least  ten  min- 
utes ;  then,  turning  towards  him  with 
a  sternness  which  she  vainly  endeav- 
ored to  conceal  under  a  "  wreathed 
smile,"  she  said  :  "  In  future,  Joseph,  I 
hope  you  will  always  consult  me  in  any 
pecuniary  venture.  I  may  not  know 
much  about  such  matters,  but  it  is  my 
duty  to  learn.  I  have  been  obliged  to 
hear  a  great  deal  of  financial  talk  from 
pa  and  his  friends,  and  could  not  help 
guessing  some  things  which  I  think 
I  can  apply  for  your  benefit.  We  are 
to  have  no  secrets  from  each  other, 
you  know." 

His  own  words  !  After  all,  what  she 
said  was  just  and  right,  and  he  could 
not  explain  to  himself  why  he  should 
feel  annoyed.  Perhaps  he  missed  a 
frank  expression  of  delight  in  the  as- 
sistance he  had  so  promptly  given ; 
but  why  should  he  suspect  that  it  was 
unwelcome  to  her  ?  He  tried  to  banish 
the  feeling,  to  hide  it  under  self-re- 
proach and  shame,  but  it  clung  to  him 
most  uncomfortably. 

I^tovertheless,  he  forgot  everything 
in  the  pleasure  of  the  homeward  drive 
from  the  station.  The  sadness  of  late 
autumn  lay  upon  the  fields,  but  spring 
already  said,  "  I  am  coming ! "  in  the 
young  wheat ;  the  houses  looked  warm 
and  cosey  behind  their  sheltering  fir- 
trees  ;  cattle  still  grazed  on  the  mead- 
ows, and  the  corn  was  not  yet  deserted 
by  the  huskers.  The  sun  gave  a  bright 
edge  to  the  sombre  colors  of  the  land- 


scape, and  to  Joseph's  eyes  it  was 
beautiful  as  never  before.  Julia  leaned 
back  in  the  carriage,  and  complained 
of  the  cold  wind. 

"  There  !  "  cried  Joseph,  as  a  view 
of  the  valley  opened  below  them,  with 
the  stream  flashing  like  steel  between 
the  leafless  sycamores,  — "  there  is 
home-land  !  Do  you  know  where  to 
look  for  our  house  ? " 

Julia  made  an  effort,  leaned  forward, 
smiled,  and  pointed  silently  across  the 
shoulder  of  a  hill  to  the  eastward. 
"  You  surely  did  n't  suppose  I  could 
forget,"  she  murmured. 

Rachel  Miller  awaited  them  at  the 
gate,  and  Julia  had  no  sooner  alighted 
than  she  flung  herself  into  her  arms. 
"  Dear  Aunt  Rachel ! "  she  cried  :  "you 
must  now  take  my  mother's  place  ;  I 
have  so  much  to  learn  from  you  !  It  is 
doubly  a  home  since  you  are  here.  I 
feel  that  we  shall  all  be  happy  to- 
gether !  " 

Then  there  were  kisses,  of  which 
Joseph  received  his  share,  and  the  first 
evening  lapsed  away  in  perfect  har- 
mony. Everything  was  delightful ;  the 
room,  the  furniture,  the  meal,  even  the 
roar  of  the  wind  in  the  dusky  trees. 
While  Julia  lay  in  the  cushioned  rock- 
ing-chair, Rachel  gave  her  nephew  aa 
account  of  all  that  had  been  done  on 
the  farm  ;  but  Joseph  only  answered 
her  from  the  surface  of  his  mind.  Un- 
der the  current  of  his  talk  ran  a  graver 
thought,  which  said  :  "  You  wanted  in- 
dependence and  a  chance  of  growth 
for  your  life  ;  you  fancied  they  would 
come  in  this  form.  Lo,  now  !  here  are 
the  conditions  which  you  desired  to 
establish  ;  from  this  hour  begins  the 
new  life  of  which  you  dreamed.  Wheth- 
er you  have  been  wise  or  rash,  you  can 
change  nothing.  You  are  limited,  as 
before,  though  within  a  different  circle. 
You  may  pace  it  to  its  fullest  extent,, 
but  all  the  lessons  you  have  yet  learned! 
require  you  to  be  satisfied  within  it" 

CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE  autumn  lapsed  into  winter,  and 
the  household  on  the  Asten  farm  began 


522 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[May, 


to  share  the  isolation  of  the  season. 
There  had  been  friendly  visits  from  all 
the  nearest  neighbors  and  friends,  fol- 
lowed by  return  visits,  and  invitations 
which  Julia  willingly  accepted.  She 
was  very  amiable,  and  took  pains 
to  confirm  the  favorable  impression 
which  she  knew  she  had  made  in  the 
summer.  Everybody  remarked  how 
she  had  improved  in  appearance,  how 
round  and  soft  her  neck  and  shoulders, 
how  bright  and  fresh  her  complexion. 
She  thanked  them,  with  many  grateful 
expressions  to  which  they  were  not 
accustomed,  for  their  friendly  recep- 
tion, which  she  looked  upon  as  an 
adoption  into  their  society;  but  at 
home,  afterwards,  she  indulged  in  criti- 
cisms of  their  manners  and  habits 
which  were  not  always  friendly.  Al- 
though these  were  given  in  a  light, 
playful  tone,  and  it  was  sometimes  im- 
possible not  to  be  amused,  Rachel  Mil- 
ler always  felt  uncomfortable  when  she 
heard  them. 

Then  came  quiet,  lonely  days,  and 
Julia,  weary  of  her  idle  life,  undertook 
to  master  the  details  of  the  housekeep- 
ing. She  went  from  garret  to  cellar, 
inspecting  every  article  in  closet  and 
pantry,  wondering  much,  censuring  oc- 
casionally, and  only  praising  a  little 
when  she  found  that  Rachel  was  grow- 
ing tired  and  irritable.  Although  she 
made  no  material  changes,  it  was  soon 
evident  that  she  had  very  stubborn 
views  of  her  own  upon  many  points, 
and  possessed  a  marked  tendency  for 
what  the  country  people  call  "  near- 
ness." Little  by  little  she  diminished 
the  bountiful,  free-handed  manner  of 
provision  which  had  been  the  habit  of 
the  house.  One  could  not  say  that 
anything  needful  was  lacking,  and  Ra- 
chel would  hardly  have  been  dissatis- 
fied, had  she  not  felt  that  the  innova- 
tion was  an  indirect  blame. 

In  some  directions  Julia  seemed  the 
reverse  of  "  near,"  persuading  Joseph 
into  expenditures  which  the  people 
considered  very  extravagant.  When 
the  snow  came,  his  new  and  elegant 
sleigh,  with  the  wolf-skin  robe,  the  sil- 
ver-mounted harness,  and  the  silver- 


sounding  bells,  was  the  envy  of  all  the 
young  men,  and  an  abomination  to  the 
old.  It  was  a  splendor  which  he  could 
easily  afford,  and  he  did  not  grudge 
her  the  pleasure;  yet  it  seemed  to 
change  his  relation  to  the  neighbors, 
and  some  of  them  were  very  free  in 
hinting  that  they  felt  it  so.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  explain  why  they  should 
resent  this  or  any  other  slight  depart- 
ure from  their  fashions,  but  such  had 
always  been  their  custom. 

In  a  few  days  the  snow  vanished 
and  a 'tiresome  season  of  rain  and  thaw 
succeeded.  The  southeastern  winds, 
blowing  from  the  Atlantic  across  the 
intervening  lowlands,  rolled  intermina- 
ble gray  masses  of  fog  over  the  hills 
and  blurred  the  scenery  of  the  valley ; 
dripping  trees,  soaked  meadows,  and 
sodden  leaves  were  the  only  objects 
that  detached  themselves  from  the  gen- 
eral void,  and  became  in  turn  visible  to 
those  who  travelled  the  deep,  quaking 
roads.  The  social  intercourse  of  the 
neighborhood  ceased  perforce,  though 
the  need  of  it  were  never  so  great : 
what  little  of  the  main  highway  down 
the  valley  was  visible  from  the  win- 
dows appeared  to  be  deserted. 

Julia,  having  exhausted  the  resources 
of  the  house,  insisted  on  acquainting 
herself  with  the  barn  and  everything 
thereto  belonging.  She  laughingly 
asserted  that  her  education  as  a  farm- 
er's wife  was  still  very  incomplete ; 
she  must  know  the  amount  of  the 
crops,  the  price  of  grain,  the  value  of 
the  stock,  the  manner  of  work,  and 
whatever  else  was  necessary  to  her 
position.  Although  she  made  many 
pretty  blunders,  it  was  evident  that  her 
apprehension  was  unusually  quick,  and 
that  whatever  she  acquired  was 
in  her  mind  as  if  for  some  possible  fu- 
ture use.  She  never  wearied  of  the 
most  trivial  details,  while  Joseph,  on 
the  other  hand,  would  often  have  will- 
ingly shortened  his  lessons.  His  mind 
was  singularly  disturbed  between  the 
desire  to  be  gratified  by  her  curiosity, 
and  the  fact  that  its  eager  and  persist- 
ent character  made  him  uncomfortable. 
When  an  innocent,  confiding  nature 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


523 


begins  to  suspect  that  its  confidence 
has  been  misplaced,  the  first  result  is  a 
preternatural  stubbornness  to  admit  the 
truth.  The  clearest  impressions  are 
resisted,  or  half  consciously  misinter- 
preted, with  the  last  force  of  an  illusion 
which  already  foresees  its  own  over- 
throw. Joseph  eagerly  clung  to  every 
look  and  word  and  action  which  con- 
firmed his  sliding  faith  in  his  wife's 
sweet  and  simple  character,  and  re- 
pelled —  though  a  deeper  instinct  told 
him  that  a  day  would  come  when  it 
must  be  admitted  —  the  evidence  of 
her  coldness  and  selfishness.  Yet, 
even  while  almost  fiercely  asserting  to 
his  own  heart  that  he  had  every  reason 
to  be  happy,  he  was  consumed  with 
a  secret  fever  of  unrest,  doubt,  and 
dread. 

The  horns  of  the  growing  moon  were 
still  turned  downwards,  and  cold, 
dreary  rains  were  poured  upon  the 
land.  Julia's  patience,  in  such  straits, 
was  wonderful,  if  the  truth  had  been 
known,  but  she  saw  that  some  change 
was  necessary  for  both  of  them.  She 
therefore  proposed,  not  what  she  most 
desired,  but  what  her  circumstances 
prescribed,  —  a  visit  from  her  sister 
Clementina.  Joseph  found  the  request 
natural  enough :  it  was  an  infliction, 
but  one  which  he  had  anticipated  ;  and 
after  the  time  had  been  arranged  by 
letter,  he  drove  to  the  station  to  meet 
the  westward  train  from  the  city. 

Clementina  stepped  upon  the  plat- 
form, so  cloaked  and  hooded  that  he 
only  recognized  her  by  the  deliberate 
grace  of  her  movements.  She  extend- 
ed her  hand,  giving  his  a  cordial  press- 
ure, which  was  explained  by  the  brass 
baggage-checks  thus  transferred  to  his 
charge. 

"  I  will  wait  in  the  ladies'  room," 
was  all  she  said. 

At  the  same  moment  Joseph's  arm 
was  grasped. 

"  What  a  lucky  chance  !  "  exclaimed 
Philip:  then,  suddenly  pausing  in  his 
greeting,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  bowed 
to  Clementina,  who  nodded  slightly  as 
she  passed  into  the  room. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you ! "  Philip  re- 


sumed, laying  his  hands  on  Joseph's 
shoulders.  Their  eyes  met  and  lin- 
gered, and  Joseph  felt  the  blood  rise  to 
his  face,  as  Philip's  gaze  sank  more 
deeply  into  his  heart  and  seemed  to 
fathom  its  hidden  trouble  ;  but  pres- 
ently Philip  smiled  and  said :  "  I 
scarcely  knew,  until  this  moment,  that 
I  had  missed  you  so  much,  Joseph  !  " 

"  Have  you  come  to  stay  ?  "  Joseph 
asked. 

"  I  think  so.  The  branch  railway 
down  the  valley,  which  you  know  was 
projected,  is  to  be  built  immediately; 
but  there  are  other  reasons  why  the 
furnaces  should  be  in  blast.  If  it  is 
possible,  the  work  —  and  my  settlement 
with  it — will  begin  without  any  further 
delay.  Is  she  your  first  family  visit?" 

He  pointed  towards  the  station. 

"  She  will  be  with  us  a  fortnight ; 
but  you  will  come,  Philip  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  Philip  exclaimed.  "  I 
only  saw  her  face  indistinctly  through 
the  veil,  but  her  nod  said  to  me,  'A 
nearer  approach  is  not  objectionable.' 
Certainly,  Miss  Blessing ;  but  with  all 
the  conventional  forms,  if  you  please  ! " 

There  was  something  of  scorn  and 
bitterness  in  the  laugh  which  accom- 
panied these  words,  and  Joseph  looked 
at  him  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  You  may  as  well  know  now,"  Philip 
whispered,  "  that  when  I  was  a  spoony 
youth  of  twenty,  I  very  nearly  imagined 
myself  in  love  with  Miss  Clementina 
Blessing,  and  she  encouraged  my  green- 
ness until  it  spread  as  fast  as  a  bamboo 
or  a  gourd-vine.  Of  course,  I  've  long 
since  congratulated  myself  that  she  cut 
me  up,  root  and  branch,  when  our  fam- 
ily fortune  was  lost.  The  awkward- 
ness of  our  intercourse  is  all  on  her 
side.  Can  she  still  have  faith  in  her 
charms  and  my  youth,  I  wonder  ?  Ye 
gods!  that  would  be  a  lovely  conclu- 
sion of  the  comedy!" 

Joseph  could  only  join  in  the  laugh 
as  they  parted.  There  was  no  time  to 
reflect  upon  what  had  been  said.  Clem- 
entina, nevertheless,  assumed  a  new 
interest  in  his  eyes ;  and  as  he  drove 
her  towards  the  farm,  he  could  not 
avoid  connecting  her  with  Philip,  in 


JosepJi  and  his  Friend. 


[May. 


his  thoughts.  She,  too,  was  evidently 
preoccupied  with  the  meeting,  for  Phil- 
ip's name  soon  floated  to  the  surface 
of  their  conversation. 

"  I  expect  a  visit  from  him  soon," 
said  Joseph.  As  she  was  silent,  he 
ventured  to  add:  "You  have  no  ob- 
jections to  meeting  with  him,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  Mr.  Held  is  still  a  gentleman,  I  be- 
lieve," Clementina  replied,  and  then 
changed  the  subject  of  conversation. 

Julia  flew  at  her  sister  with  open 
arms,  and  showered  on  her  a  profusion 
of  kisses,  all  of  which  were  received 
with  perfect  serenity,  Clementina  mere- 
ly saying,  as  soon  as  she  could  get 
breath :  "  Dear  me,  Julia,  I  scarcely 
recognize  you !  You  are  already  so 
countrified ! " 

Rachel  Miller,  although  a  woman, 
and,  notwithstanding  her  recent  expe- 
rience, found  herself  greatly  bewildered 
by  this  new  apparition.  Clementina's 
slow,  deliberate  movements  and  her 
even -toned,  musical  utterance  im- 
pressed her  with  a  certain  respect; 
yet  the  qualities  of  character  they  sug- 
gested never  manifested  themselves. 
On  the  contrary,  the  same  words,  in 
any  other  mouth,  would  have  often  ex- 
pressed malice  or  heartlessness.  Some- 
times she  heard  her  own  homely  phrases 
repeated,  as  if  by  the  most  unconscious, 
purposeless  imitation,  and  had  Julia 
either  smiled  or  appeared  annoyed,  her 
suspicions  might  have  been  excited; 
as  it  was,  she  was  constantly  and  sore- 
ly puzzled. 

Once,  only,  and  for  a  moment,  the 
two  masks  were  slightly  lifted.  At 
dinner,  Clementina,  who  had  turned 
the  conversation  upon  the  subject  of 
birthdays,  suddenly  said  to  Joseph  : 
"By  the  way,  Mr.  Asten,  has  Julia 
told  you  her  age?" 

Julia  gave  a  little  start,  but  presently 
looked  up,  with  an  expression  meant 
to  be  artless. 

"  I  knew  it  before  we  were  married," 
Joseph  quietly  answered. 

Clementina  bit  her  lip.  Julia,  con- 
cealing her  surprise,  flashed  a  trium- 
phant glance  at  her  sister,  then  a  ten- 


der one  at  Joseph,  and  said :  "  We 
will  both  let  the  old  birthdays  ge,  we 
will  only  have  one  and  the  same  anni- 
versary from  this  time  on  !  " 

Joseph  felt,  through  some  natural 
magnetism  of  his  nature  rather  than 
from  any  perceptible  evidence,  that 
Clementina  was  sharply  and  curiously 
watching  the  relation  between  himself 
and  his  wife.  He  had  no  fear  of  her 
detecting  misgivings  which  were  not 
yet  acknowledged  to  himself,  but  was 
instinctively  on  his  guard  in  her  pres- 
ence. 

It  was  not  many  days  before  Philip 
called.  Julia  received  him  cordially, 
as  the  friend  of  her  husband,  while 
Clementina  bowed  with  an  impassive 
face,  without  rising  from  her  seat. 
Philip,  however,  crossed  the  room  and 
gave  her  his  hand,  saying  cheerily : 
"  We  used  to  be  old  friends,  Miss 
Blessing.  You  have  not  forgotten 
me?" 

"We  cannot  forget  when  we  have 
been  asked  to  do  so,"  she  warbled. 

Philip  took  a  chair.  "  Eight  years ! " 
he  said  :  "  I  am  the  only  one  who  has 
changed  in  that  time." 

Julia  looked  at  her  sister,  but  the 
latter  was  apparently  absorbed  in  com- 
paring some  zephyr  tints. 

"  The  whirligig  of  time ! "  he  ex- 
claimed :  "  who  can  foresee  anything  ? 
Then  I  was  an  ignorant,  petted  young 
aristocrat,  —  an  expectant  heir  ;  now 
behold  me,  working  among  miners  and 
puddlers  and  forgemen !  It 's  a  rough 
but  wholesome  change.  Would  you 
believe  it,  Mrs.  Asten,  I  've  forgotten 
the  mazurka !  " 

"  I  wish  to  forget  it,"  Julia  replied  : 
"the  spring-house  is  as  important  to 
me  as  the  furnace  to  you." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Hopetons  late- 
ly ?  "  Clementina  asked. 

Joseph  saw  a  shade  pass  over  Philip's 
face,  and  he  seemed  to  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment before  answering :  "  I  hear  they 
will  be  neighbors  of  mine  next  summer. 
Mr.  Hopeton  is  interested  in  the  new 
branch  down  the  valley,  and  has  pur- 
chased the  old  Calvert  property  for  a 
country  residence." 


Lost  Art. 


525 


"  Indeed  ?  Then  you  will  often  see 
the*." 

"  I  hope  so  :  they  are  very  agreeable 
people.  But  I  shall  also  have  my  own 
little  household  :  my  sister  will  prob- 
ably join  me." 

"  Not  Madeline  !  "  exclaimed  Julia. 

"Madeline,"  Philip  answered.  "It 
has  long  been  her  wish,  as  well  as 
mine.  You  know  the  little  cottage  on 
the  knoll,  at  Coventry,  Joseph  !  I 
have  taken  it  for  a  year." 

"  There  will  be  quite  a  city  society," 
murmured  Clementina,  in  her  sweetest 
tones.  "  You  will  need  no  commisera- 
tion, Julia.  Unless,  indeed,  the  coun- 
try people  succeed  in  changing  you  all 
into  their  own  likeness.  Mrs.  Hope- 
ton  will  certainly  create  a  sensation. 
I  am  told  that  she  is  very  extravagant, 
Mr.  Held  ? " 

"  I  have  never  seen  her  husband's 
bank  account,"  said  Philip,  dryly. 

He  rose  presently,  and  Joseph  ac- 
companied him  to  the  lane.  Philip, 
with  the  bridle-rein  over  his  arm,  de- 
layed to  mount  his  horse,  while  the 
mechanical  commonplaces  of  speech 
which,  somehow,  always  absurdly  come 
to  the  lips  when  graver  interests  have 
possession  of  the  heart,  were  exchanged 
by  the  two.  Joseph  felt,  rather  than 


saw,  that  Philip  was  troubled.  Pres- 
ently the  latter  said :  "  Something  is 
coming  over  both  of  us,  —  not  between 
us.  I  thought  I  should  tell  you  a  little 
more,  but  perhaps  it  is  too  soon.  If  I 
guess  rightly,  neither  of  us  is  ready. 
Only  this,  Joseph,  let  us  each  think 
of  the  other  as  a  help  and  a  sup- 
port ! " 

"  I  do,  Philip  !  "  Joseph  answered. 
"  I  see  there  is  some  influence  at  work 
which  I  do  not  understand,  but  I  am 
not  impatient  to  know  what  it  is.  As 
for  myself,  I  seem  to  know  nothing  at 
all  ;  but  you  can  judge, —  you  see  all 
there  is." 

Even  as  he  pronounced  these  words 
Joseph  felt  that  they  were  not  strictly 
sincere,  and  almost  expected  to  find  an 
expression  of  reproof  in  Philip's  eyes. 
But  no  :  they  softened  until  he  only 
saw  a  pitying  tenderness.  Then  he 
knew  that  the  doubts  which  he  had 
resisted  with  all  the  force  of  his  na- 
ture were  clearly  revealed  to  Philip's 
mind. 

They  shook  hands,  and  parted  in 
silence ;  and  Joseph,  as  he  looked  up 
to  the  gray  blank  of  heaven  asked  him- 
self :  "  Is  this  all  ?  Has  my  life  already 
taken  the  permanent  imprint  of  its 
future  ?  " 


LOST     ART. 


WHEN  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart 
I  made  sad  songs  with  easy  art : 
Now  I  am  sad,  and  no  more  young, 
My  sorrow  cannot  find  a  tongue. 


Ah,  Muses,  since  I  may  not  sing 
Of  death,  or  any  bitter  thing, 
Teach  me  some  joyous  strain,  that  I 
May  mock  my  youth's  hypocrisy! 


526 


Signs  and  S how-Cases  in  New   York. 


[May, 


SIGNS    AND    SHOW-CASES    IN    NEW    YORK. 


OF  all  great  cities  in  the  civilized 
world,  New  York  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  destitute  as  regards  public  statues 
and  works  of  monumental  art  in  gener- 
al. To  be  sure,  it  has  its  colossal  eques- 
trian Washington  in  Union  Square,  a 
work  characterized  by  a  certain  amount 
of  massive  dignity,  but  lost  for  want  of 
vista,  its  bronze  contour  looming  against 
no  patch  of  sky,  and  being  confounded 
with,  rather  than  relieved  by,  the  sombre 
walls  of  the  houses  that  form  its  back- 
ground. As  for  the  red-stone  abomi- 
nation in  the  City  Hall  Park,  libellously 
stated  to  be  a  presentment  of  the  Fa- 
ther of  his  Country,  it  is  unworthy 
to  figure  even  on  the  roll  of  "  signs," 
and  I  here  dismiss  it  without  another 
word.  Central  Park  is  beginning  to 
acquire  works  of  sculpture.  Schiller, 
intellectual  in  stove-metal,  gazes  out 
there  upon  the  swans  "floating  dou- 
ble "  on  the  lake.  By  and  by  Ward's 
Shakespeare  will  take  up  his  position 
upon  the  Mall ;  and  a  gigantic  bust  in 
bronze  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  in- 
tended for  one  of  the  lawns,  has  been 
executed  by  th^  sculptor  Launt  Thomp- 
son. But  it  will  be  some  time  before 
statues  become  a  feature  of  New  York 
and  its  parks  ;  and  this  paper  is  to  deal 
only  with  the  present  of  the  Empire 
City,  and  with  such  art  as  is  daily  dis- 
played in  the  emblematical  devices  of 
its  bustling  streets. 

In  default  of  sculptured  monuments, 
then,  and  statues  of  distinguished  per- 
sons, there  is  compensation  for  New 
York  in  the  endless  number  and  varie- 
ty of  signs  and  show-cases  with  which 
its  streets  are  furnished.  Just  now  a 
movement  is  on  foot  for  the  removal 
of  many  of  the  most  obtrusive  of  these. 
The  show-cases,  especially,  are  deemed 
to  be  an  obstruction  to  pedestrians, 
and  a  temptation  to  theft ;  but  rent  is 
paid  to  the  city  authorities,  as  I  am 
told,  for  the  spaces  occupied  by  some 
of  these,  and  such  will  probably  be  per- 


mitted to  remain.  It  is  likely,  never- 
theless, that  a  general  sweep  will  be 
made,  erelong,  of  the  most  remarkable 
emblems,  devices,  and  show-cases  hith- 
erto set  out  by  the  several  trades,  and 
on  this  account  some  record  of  them 
will  be  interesting  to  such  persons  as 
may  survive  their  loss. 

The  old  traditional  sign-boards,  such 
as  are  yet  to  be  seen  in  every  country 
town  and  village  of  England,  and 
swinging  in  front  of  the  roadside  inns, 
are  now  but  rarely  found  in  the  city 
of  New  York.  In  the  suburbs  a  few 
of  them  may  be  seen,  and  they  are  yet 
occasional  features  along  the  rural 
roads  of  Long  Island,  and  elsewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  city.  Not  long  since, 
indeed,  there  was,  in  the  Bowery,  a  very 
fair  version  of  the  time-honored  Pig 
and  Whistle  :  an  improved  version,  too, 
for  the  musical  porker  was  not  repre- 
sented blowing  upon  a  mere  common 
whistle,  as  in  the  old  tavern  sign,  but 
absolutely  performing  (that  is  the  prop- 
er word)  upon  a  very  complete  flageo- 
let fitted  with  all  the  modern  "attach- 
ments." But  the  premises  to  which 
this  sign  was  affixed  were  some  years 
ago  destroyed  by  fire,  and  the  musical 
porker  became  roast  pig  according  to 
the  original  recipe  of  Charles  Lamb. 

Tradition  being  but  little  reverenced 
here,  attempts  to  maintain  the  old-time 
sign-boards  in  New  York  have  gener- 
ally been  unsuccessful.  The  man  who 
would  erect  over  his  doorway  a  Green 
Man  and  Still,  for  instance,  or  a  Bag  o' 
Nails  Dancing,  would  be  set  down 
as  an  old  fogy  and  very  much  be- 
hind the  age.  A  ludicrous  instance  of 
failure  to  bring  an  old  sign  into  favor 
occurred  in  the  Bowery  a  few  years 
since.  There  came  a  stout,  red-faced 
Englishman,  of  the  pot-companion  type, 
who  opened  in  that  thoroughfare  a 
small  alehouse  on  the  English  plan. 
He  adopted  for  his  sign  the  Goose  and 
Gridiron,  an  emblem  often  to  be  seen 


1 8;o.] 


Signs  and  Show-Cases  in  Neiv   York. 


527 


swinging  from  the  sign-posts  of  Eng- 
lish hostelries.  Presently  it  got  abroad 
among  the  alert  youths  of  the  Bowery 
that  there  was  a  covert  sting  in  this,  — 
that  the  perfidious  British  tapster,  in 
fact,  meant  the  sign  for  a  satire  upon 
the  bird  of  Freedom  and  its  ribbed 
shield.  Convinced  of  this,  and  further 
nettled  by  a  certain  dogged,  overbear- 
ing manner  characteristic  of  the  man, 
they  mobbed  his  house  one  night,  drank 
up  his  liquors,  smashed  his  tumblers 
and  decanters,  and  made  a  small  bon- 
fire of  the  obnoxious  sign-board,  in  front 
of  the  tavern. 

Until  lately  there  was,  in  Fourth 
Avenue,  an  English  alehouse  kept  by  a 
member  of  the  theatrical  profession, 
over  the  doorway  of  which  hung  a  pic- 
ture of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  painted  by 
the  jovial  host  himself,  who  was  some- 
thing of  an  artist  in  more  ways  than 
one.  The  house  was  known  as  the 
Falstaff  Inn.  Another  Fat  Jack,  well 
known  to  New-Yorkers  for  many  years, 
was  displayed  at  the  door  of  an  ale- 
house kept  by  a  retired  member  of  the 
English  prize  ring.  He  was  a  man  of 
remarkable  obesity,  and  the  picture  of 
the  Fat  Knight  on  the  sign-board  was 
a  portrait  of  himself.  Both  of  these 
characteristic  signs  are  gone  now,  and 
I  am  not  aware  that  there  are  any  oth- 
ers like  them  existing  in  New  York. 
The  head  of  Shakespeare  is  a  sign, 
however,  to  be  seen  here  and  there  in 
the  city. 

Over  the  stalls  of  butchers  a  Black 
Bull  or  Red  Cow  may  yet  occasionally 
be  seen.  The  Red  Lion  is  apparently 
obsolete  ;  but  at  a  lager-beer  brewery 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  city  a  large 
golden  lion  is  displayed  upon  the  front 
of  the  wagon-sheds,  and  the  establish- 
ment is  called  the  Lion  Brewery.  The 
beehive  is  not  uncommon  as  a  sign, 
in  New  York,  and  sometimes  the  Dog 
and  Partridge,  or  some  similar  de- 
sign, gives  inkling  of  an  alehouse  to 
which  sportsmen  resort.  Not  far  from 
the  city  the  good  old  sign  of  the 
Three  Pigeons  is  to  be  seen  in  front 
of  a  roadside  house  of  entertainment. 
On  first  entering  this  house,  I  was 


surprised  to  find  it  kept  by  a  Ger- 
man, who  informed  me,  however,  that 
it  had  originally  been  established  by 
an  Englishman,  several  years  before. 
Occasionally  an  old  weather-beaten 
sign -board  may  be  seen,  with  what 
might  have  been  intended  as  a  like- 
ness of  George  Washington  dimly  dis- 
cernible upon  its  time-worn  surface. 
It  is  very  rare,  though,  to  find  sign- 
boards displaying  the  portraits  of  con- 
temporary public  characters.  There 
may  be  a  reason  for  this  in  the  fre- 
quent changes  of  all  public  officials, 
which  would  involve  a  corresponding 
change  in  sign-boards  of  the  portrait 
kind  at  inconveniently  short  intervals. 

Blacksmiths  in  New  York,  as  else- 
where, generally  hang  out  over  their 
forge -doors  boards  with  improbable 
horses  painted  on  them.  To  this  sign- 
board not  unfrequently  an  immense 
gilt  horseshoe  is  appended,  and,  in  two 
or  three  instances  that  I  know  of,  an 
old  rusty  horseshoe  is  nailed  to  a  cor- 
ner of  the  board,  "  for  luck."  The  po- 
etry of  the  forge  —  and  surely  the 
blacksmith,  with  his  anvil,  bellows,  and 
other  accessories,  has  a  strange,  weird 
poetry  of  his  own  —  is  none  the  weak- 
er for  this  bit  of  old-time  superstition. 
It  is  curious,  by  the  way,  how  fre- 
quently the  horseshoe,  as  a  talisman, 
or  protection  against  the  "  evil  eye,"  is 
adopted  in  New  York.  A  day  or  two 
since  I  noticed  a  cluster  of  four  or  five 
old  rusty  shoes  suspended  from  a  news- 
paper table  kept  in  Broadway  by  a  deaf 
old  man.  They  are  often  nailed  over 
the  doors  or  bar  counters  of  public 
houses,  as  though  with  some  vague 
idea  of  exorcising  the  blue  devils  that 
are  plausibly  supposed  to  lurk  in  the 
questionable  liquors  dispensed  at  these 
places. 

Of  traditional  signs,  one  very  often 
to  be  seen  in  New  York  is  that  of  the 
pawnbroker,  —  the  Three  Golden  Balls. 
In  some  cases  this  sign  is  painted  in 
black  on  a  white  board  fixed  to  the 
window  or  door-post,  while  the  three 
golden  balls  hang  out  higher  up  the 
wall.  I  have  noticed  one  pawnbroker, 
in  a  by-street,  who  displays  no  fewer 


528 


Signs  and  Show-Cases  in  New   York. 


[May, 


than  three  sets   of  these  emblems  on 
the  front  of  his  house. 

Another  traditional  emblem,  and  one 
yet  more  common  than  the  pawnbro- 
kers' sign,  is  the  pestle  and  mortar  of 
the  druggist,  which  is  to  be  seen  con- 
spicuously perched  upon  gilded  ledges 
everywhere,  and  most  frequently  at 
corners. 

In  the  German  quarters  of  the  city, 
sign-boards  are  of  frequent  occurrence. 
The  most  striking  of  these,  and  one 
not  uncommon,  is  a  representation  of 
St.  Gambrinus,  the  fabulous,  not  to 
•say  bibulous,  personage  supposed  to 
preside  over  lager-beer.  Sometimes 
he  is  presented  life  size,  bearded  and 
crowned,  and,  holding  in  one  hand  a 
stupendous  beaker  of  the  national  bev- 
erage, the  froth  of  which  bulges  from 
the  rim  like  a  prize  cauliflower.  An- 
other lager-beer  sign  very  often  to  be 
seen  is  that  of  a  frolicsome  goat,  who 
appears  to  be  rather  the  worse  for  what 
he  has  imbibed.  Sometimes  he  is  de- 
picted rolling  in  sportive  mood  a  keg 
of  beer.  Sometimes  the  artist  presents 
him  eying  with  drunken  gravity  a  full 
mug  of  the  ruddy  malt.  The  strongest 
kind  of  lager-beer,  brewed  at  a  particu- 
lar season,  and  to  be  had  for  a  short 
time  only,  is  known  among  the  Ger- 
mans as  "bock -bier,"  and  the  an- 
nouncement of  it  in  beer-houses  is 
invariably  accompanied  with  a  picture 
or  sign  of  the  frolicsome  buck-goat 
with  his  beer  cask  or  mug. 

Over  the  doorway  of  a  German  ten- 
ement-house in  the  eastern  district 
of  the  city,  where  Germans  greatly 
.abound,  there  is  a  sign-board  that  ex- 
hibits an  appearance  of  some  antiquity, 
and  which  was  probably  brought  from 
•Germany  as  a  memento  of  the  Vater- 
.land.  It  is  somewhat  like  a  shield  in 
form,  and  was  once  richly  gilt,  with  an 
inscription  on  it  in  gilt  letters.  Upon 
these,  however,  a  more  modern  an- 
nouncement has  been  painted,  in  the 
manner  of  a  palimpsest,  leaving  the 
original  lettering  undecipherable.  The 
present  inscription  displays  a  German 
name.  In  the  centre  of  the  board  is 
painted  a  blue  pail  with  a  brush  in  it, 


and  the  word  "whitewashing"  beneath 
this  gives  a  clew  to  the  owner's  occu- 
pation. In  New  York  the  business  of 
whitewashing  houses,  as  that  of  carpet- 
shaking,  is  almost  exclusively  in  the 
hands  of  the  colored  people,  and  this 
is  the  only  exception  to  the  contrary 
with  which  I  remember  to  have  met. 
One  of  the  commonest  signs  in  the 
German  streets  of  New  York  is  that  of 
the  shoemaker,  —  a  small  board  dis- 
playing a  male  boot,  usually  painted 
yellow,  resting  on  the  ground,  from  the 
intensely  blue  sky  over  which  the  fe- 
male boot  —  smaller  than  the  male,  but 
quite  as  yellow  —  is  seen  descending 
like  a  skylark  to  its  nest.  German 
bakers  often  hang  out  a  dingy  little 
sign-board  with  a  sheaf  of  wheat  paint- 
ed on  it.  In  the  same  quarters  the 
costumer  is  frequently  represented  by 
his  sign.  These  emblems  are  very  va- 
rious :  sometimes  a  grotesque  head, 
with  cap  and  bells  ;  sometimes  a  fe- 
male personage  of  half  life  size,  ex- 
tremely full-blown,  —  in  accordance 
with  the  German  idea  of  all  that  is 
lovely  in  woman,  —  and  dressed  in  a 
sort  of  hybrid  costume  between  that  of 
a  contadina  and  a  dtbardeuse,  but  al- 
ways with  a  black  mask  over  her  mys- 
terious brow.  Very  often  the  only  sign 
hung  out  by  the  provider  of  carnival 
costumes  is  a  huge  and  hideous  mask, 
or  a  false  nose  of  awful  proportions 
and  monstrous  form  ;  and  variations  of 
these  in  all  possible  degrees  of  deform- 
ity are  to  be  seen  in  the  shop  window. 

Far  more  characteristic  of  New  York, 
however,  than  any  of  the  signs  above 
enumerated  are  those  that  abound 
along  Broadway  almost  in  its  entire 
length,  as  well  as  in  the  Bowery  and 
main  avenues  of  the  city  generally. 
Among  these  the  tobacconists'  signs 
are  the  most  frequent  and  conspicuous  ; 
for  there  are  few  cities  in  which  the 
tobacco  business  flourishes  more  ex- 
tensively than  it  does  in  New  York. 
For  the  most  part  these  signs  are 
carved  out  of  wood,  and  they  vary 
from  life  size,  or  even  "  heroic  propor- 
tions," to  those  of  puppets  or  toy  dolls. 
Of  all  these  images,  by  far  the  com- 


8;o.] 


Signs  and  SJiow-Cases  in  New   York. 


529 


monest  is  the  Indian,  —  a  very  charac- 
teristic and  appropriate  emblem  of  the 
nicotine  weed  in  most  of  its  forms. 
Both  sexes  of  the  red  aboriginal  peo- 
ples are  here  represented,  and  if  you 
greet  the  grim  Powhatan  at  this  door- 
way, you  shall  certainly  meet  with 
Pocahontas  or  Minnehaha  before  you 
have  gone  many  steps  farther.  Some- 
times the  smiling,  slender-limbed  In- 
dian maiden,  clad  lightly  as  any  nymph 
of  modern  ballet  or  burlesque,  and 
poised  in  a  graceful  attitude,  holds 
aloft  in  one  hand  a  bunch  of  the  green- 
tobacco  leaves,  while  with  the  other 
she  proffers  a  bundle  of  prime  wooden 
cigars.  Quite  the  reverse  of  her  is  the 
painted  sachem,  who  is  generally  rep- 
resented as  a  muscular  savage  with  a 
very  discontented  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, the  corners  of  his  mouth  drawn 
down  to  an  angle  that  suggests  nothing 
but  tomahawk  and  torture.  Less  fre- 
quent as  a  tobacconist's  sign  than  the 
Indian  is  the  negro,  but  he,  too,  does 
duty  in  that  capacity.  The  tobacco- 
nist's wooden  negro  is  invariably  sculp- 
tured after  the  most  extravagant  Ethio- 
pian-minstrel pattern.  He  is  generally 
dressed  in  a  light  blue  coat  of  the  swal- 
low-tail cut,  yellow  breeches,  and  top- 
boots, —  a  style  not  usually  affected 
by  the  colored  gentleman  of  real  life. 
His  head  is  dignified  with  a  tall,  stee- 
ple-crowned hat;  and  as  for  shirt-col- 
lar, nothing  so  outrageous  as  his  could 
ever  have  really  been  manufactured  to 
meet  an  existing  demand.  A  very  curi- 
ous specimen  of  the  negro  as  a  sign  is 
to  be  seen  at  the  door  of  a  drinking- 
saloon  in  Broadway.  It  is  a  life-size 
carving  of  "  Jim  Crow,"  in  a  sadly  shat- 
tered condition,  and  a  card  suspended 
upon  it  sets  forth  that  it  was  executed 
by  the  late  T  D.  Rice,  —  better  known 
as  "  Daddy  "  Rice,  —  the  originator  of 
the  Jim  Crow  style  of  song  and  dance. 
A  tobacco  sign  often  to  be  met  with  is 
the  figure  of  a  magnificent  cavalier, 
also  carved  from  wood,  and  meant, 
doubtless,  to  represent  Raleigh.  He 
is  plumed  and  slashed  extravagantly, 
but  anachronism  is  perceptible  in  the 
cigar  so  gingerly  held  between  his  fin- 

VOL.  XXV.  —  NO.    151.  34 


ger  and  thumb.  Of  course  the  wood- 
en Turk  is  often  to  be  seen  as  a  sym- 
bol of  the  tobacconist's  trade,  turbaned 
and  slippered,  and  touching  the  tip  of 
a  very  long  pipe  to  his  lips.  Another 
figure-head  often  to  be  observed  on  the 
doorsteps  of  the  tobacconist  is  a  very 
obtrusive  one  of  "  Punch."  who  is  in- 
variably presented  of  most  obese  pro- 
portions, and  with  a  malignant,  lobster- 
claw-like  leer  upon  his  hideous  face. 
All  of  these  signs,  nearly,  are  mounted 
upon  little  platforms  that  run  on  roll- 
ers, so  as  to  be  readily  moved  when 
required,  and  they  are  for  the  most 
part  more  or  less  obstructive  to  per- 
sons passing  along  the  sidewalks. 
That  they  are  objects  of  derision  for 
boys  is  obvious  from  the  way  in  which 
many  of  them  are  mutilated.  I  know 
of  a  lovely  Pocahontas  in  a  by-street 
who  wants  her  right  arm,  which  has 
been  rudely  snapped  off  at  the  elbow 
by  some  scurrilous  child  of  the  pale- 
faces. The  stern  Indian  sachem  is 
often  to  be  seen  without  a  nose,  his 
features  adorned  with  a  coating  of 
surreptitious  war-paint  composed  of 
street  mud.  Like  his  prototype  of  the 
woods  and  plains,  however,  he  shall 
erelong  have  passed  away  to  other 
hunting-grounds,  haply  in  some  lum- 
ber-loft or  back  yard,  and  then  there 
will  be  "  none  left  to  care  for  Logan,  no, 
not  one." 

More  common  than  any  of  these  em- 
blems are  the  traditional  wooden  High- 
landers, so  often  to  be  seen  in  front  of 
tobacconists'  shops.  They  are  gener- 
ally of  large  proportions,  and  clad  in 
the  uniform  of  some  British  Highland 
regiment,  and  their  mission  appears  to 
be  connected  with  snuff  more  than  with 
tobacco  in  any  other  form,  as  they  are 
always  furnished  with  the  "mull"  or 
Scotch  snuff-box.  A  figure  that  has 
lately  become  common  in  New  York 
as  a  sign  is  the  carved,  life-size  image 
of  an  English  "  swell "  of  the  Dun- 
dreary type,  with  immense  auburn  whis- 
kers, and  an  imbecile  smile  on  its  florid 
face.  Sometimes  it  does  duty  at  a  to- 
bacconist's door  ;  sometimes  it  holds 
over  its  head  an  umbrella ;  sometimes 


530 


Signs  and  Show-Cases  in  New   York. 


[May, 


carries  a  patent  travelling-bag  in  its 
sulphur-colored  hand  ;  but  to  whatever 
use  it  may  be  put,  it  always  wears  upon 
its  features  the  same  conventional,  self- 
complacent  smile. 

Sometimes  tobacco  signs  are  painted 
on  boards,  and  of  such  a  curious  exam- 
ple is  to  be  seen  at  the  door  of  a  small 
establishment  bearing  the  sonorous 
name  of  the  "  Mephisto  cigar  store," 
in  a  western  street  of  the  city.  It  is  a 
representation  of  the  typical  stage  de- 
mon, dressed  in  crimson  tights,  and 
furnished  with  the  regulation  bat-like 
wings. 

Along  Broadway,  as  well  as  in  many 
of  the  streets  that  branch  from  it  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  city,  various  charac- 
teristic trade -signs  are  to  be  seen. 
Some  of  these  are  of  immense  size,  and 
very  conspicuously  placed.  High  up 
on  the  cornice  of  some  five-story  build- 
ing, for  instance,  may  be  seen  an  im- 
mense eagle  with  outspread  wings,  all 
glittering  with  gold-leaf,  and  holding 
in  its  beak  a  big  umbrella  or  basket  or 
whatever  else  may  be  emblematical  of 
the  trade  to  which  attention  is  directed. 
Cutting  sharply  against  the  sky  on  the 
roof  of  a  building  not  far  from  the  City 
Hall,  there  looms  a  titanic  skeleton 
skirt.  It  might  serve  as  a  cage  for  a 
rhinoceros  ;  and  if  its  removal  should 
ever  be  ordered  by  the  police,  the  zo- 
ological committee  of  Central  Park 
would  do  well  to  acquire  it.  Here  an 
immense  double-barrelled  gun  —  wood- 
en, of  course,  and  gilt  —  is  fixed  per- 
pendicularly to  the  wall  of  a  store  ;  and 
yonder  you  may  see  a  pipe-bowl  of 
proportionate  size,  quite  as  wooden  as 
the  gun,  and  quite  as  much  gilt.  Lately 
an  enormous  gilt  chandelier  has  been 
hung  out  by  a  manufacturer  of  gas- 
fittings  near  Central  Broadway.  It 
looks  as  though  suspended  by  a  thread, 
and  people  who  pass  under  it  may 
often  be  observed  to  hasten  their  steps, 
as  though  apprehensive  of  a  crash. 

Stuffed  animals  are  frequently  set  out 
by  furriers  as  signs.  A  very  common 
sign  of  this  kind  is  the  black  bear, 
which  is  sometimes  reared  upon  its 
hind  legs,  and  supported  by  a  rough 


pole.  Not  so  often  is  the  grizzly  bear 
to  be  seen  at  the  furrier's  door;  but 
in  a  large  show-case  near  Washington 
Market  there  is  a  very  fine  specimen, 
of  the  kind,  —  a  female  with  her  cub. 
For  a  long  time  in  Broadway  a  stuffed 
bison  did  duty  as  a  sign,  wearing  on 
its  shaggy  brow  a  placard  inscribed 
with  the  warning  "Hands  off!"  Of 
late  years  some  of  the  German  trades- 
people of  «Nevv  York  have  taken  the 
fancy  of  maintaining  enormous  blood- 
hounds of  the  Siberian  breed.  One  of 
these,  deceased,  has  been  utilized  by 
its  owner,  a  German  shoemaker  in  an 
eastern  street  of  the  city,  who  has 
placed  it,  stuffed,  in  his  window  for  a 
sign,  its  head  and  body  hung  all  over 
with  feminine  boots  and  shoes  of  the 
most  fanciful  patterns  and  gaudy  colors. 

Affixed  to  the  door-posts  of  restau- 
rants, shells  of  the  green  turtle  are 
often  used  as  signs,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion on  them,  in  gilt  letters,  "Turtle 
soup  and  steaks  every  day."  Indeed, 
the  living  turtle  itself  may  fairly  be 
reckoned  among  the  signs,  large  ones 
being  frequently  exposed  on  the  door- 
steps or  floors  of  restaurants,  with  slips 
of  paper  on  their  heaving  bosoms  an- 
nouncing that  they  are  to  be  served  up 
at  some  stated  time.  It  is  touching  to 
observe  the  solicitude  manifested  by 
the  restaurant  -  keepers  for  the  poor 
turtle,  under  whose  bewildered  head  it 
is  customary  to  place  an  old  cigar-box 
by  way  of  pillow. 

Among  the  miscellaneous  signs  that 
may  be  noted  during  a  ramble  through 
the  highways  and  byways  of  New  York, 
some  are  of  a  patriotic  character.  Such, 
for  instance,  is  one  displayed  over  the 
entrance  to  an  oyster-house  in  an  east- 
ern ward,  which  appears,  with  varia- 
tions, in  other  quarters  of  the  city. 
The  design  on  the  board  is  composed 
of  the  American,  German,  and  Irish 
flags  grouped  together,  with  the  motto 
"In  unity  there  is  strength."  The 
eagle  with  the  shield  is  also  to  be 
observed  on  the  sign-boards  of  various 
trades ;  and  I  know  of  one  tavern,  at 
least,  —  a  very  old  wooden  one,  for- 
merly much  frequented  by  theatrical  su- 


1 870.] 


and  SJiow-Cascs  in  Xciv   York. 


531 


pernumeraries,  —  over  the  door  of  which 
is  a  life-sized  eagle  with  outspread 
wings,  cleverly  carved  out  of  wood  and 
gilt.  The  Golden  Swan  is  also  a  sign 
occasionally  to  be  seen  over  the  doors 
of  public  houses  in  the  city  and  en- 
virons. Signs  carved  in  relief  are 
rather  exceptional ;  but  an  example  of 
these  is  displayed  over  the  entrance  to 
abasement  restaurant  in  Fourth  Street. 
It  is  a  large  panel  carved  with  figures 
of  deer  and  game-birds,  and  richly  gilt. 
Versified  mottoes  are  not  often  in- 
scribed on  the  sign-boards  of  New 
York,  though  some  instances  of  them 
occur.  One  of  these  poetical  effu- 
sions hangs  from  the  awning-rafters  in 
front  of  a  small  hardware  shop  near 
one  of  the  eastern  ferries,  —  a  very 
rustic  "  old  wooden  corner,"  which,  in 
summer,  is  made  to  look  fresh  and 
pleasant  with  festoons  of  climbing 
plants.  On  one  side  of  the  board  ap- 
pears, painted  in  rude  letters,  the  query 
"  Boys,  how  are  you  off  for  kite  twine  ?" 
while,  on  the  obverse,  the  following 
lines  are  legible  :  — 

"  Dear  boy,  if  you  your  kite  to  fly 

Should  want  a  good  long  string, 
Just  keep  this  corner  in  your  eye 
And  here  your  money  bring." 

The  name  over  the  door  of  this  es- 
tablishment is  not  a  German  one,  and, 
from  a  certain  thrift  by  which  its  ar- 
rangements are  marked,  as  well  as  by 
the  miscellaneous  nature  of  the  wares 
displayed  in  it,  not  to  mention  the 
affectionate  appeal  made  by  the  pro- 
prietor to  the  juvenile  element  of  the 
population,  one  might  readily  guess  it 
to  be  an  ambitious  offshoot  from  some 
New  England  country  town. 

In  a  city  like  New  York,  the  mixed 
population  of  which  is  so  much  given 
to  carnivals  and  processions,  social  as 
well  as  political,  the  banner,  of  course, 
holds  a  conspicuous  place,  and  may  be 
classed  among  the  signs.  Makers  of 
awnings  frequently  run  up  a  large  ban- 
ner to  a  mast  in  front  of  their  premises, 
by  way  of  sign.  Banners  are  chiefly 
used  in  this  way,  however,  by  the  ban- 
ner-painters themselves,  whose  occu- 
pation is  a  remunerative  one  in  New 


York.  In  front  of  the  places  where 
they  work,  large  banners  may  often  be 
seen  swung  across  the  street,  painted, 
in  general,  with  subjects  of  popular 
interest,  to  invite  custom.  Then  there 
are  the  curious  emblems  displayed  by 
the  artificers  who  deal  in  cut  and  turned 
devices  of  all  sorts.  One  of  these  es- 
tablishments is  very  conspicuous  in 
Broadway,  —  a  small  building,  the  front 
of  which  is  constellated  with  gilt  knick- 
knacks  in  great  variety.  Stars,  globes, 
horses,  deer,  hats,  boots,  capital  letters, 
and  sundry  other  things  cut  out  from 
wood  or  metal  and  gilt,  attest  here  the 
versatility  of  the  artist,  and  attract  the 
notice  of  passers.  ' 

The  projecting  clock  is  a  frequent 
sign  in  New  York,  and  a  convenience 
in  some  sense  to  the  public.  Some  of 
these,  instead  of  being  affixed  to  the 
houses,  are  mounted  upon  high  col- 
umns that  spring  from  the  outer  edge 
of  the  sidewalk. 

Coal -yards  have  their  signs,  too. 
For  a  long  while,  as  I  remember,  one 
of  these  had  for  its  appropriate  emblem 
a  gayly  painted  coal-scuttle  that  hung 
from  a  branch  of  an  old  tree  in  front 
of  the  premises.  A  sign  often  to  be 
seen  at  the  doors  or  in  the  windows 
of  coal-offices  is  a  figure  of  some  kind 
—  often  resembling  a  Hindoo  idol  — 
carved  from  a  block  of  coal.  One  of 
these  that  I  have  seen  was  sculptured 
with  considerable  skill,  and  a  label 
pasted  on  its  combustible  bosom  in- 
formed the  gazer  that  it  was  a  veritable 
statue  of  "  Old  King  Cole." 

Show-boards  painted  of  a  flaming 
red  color,  and  with  Chinese  characters 
inscribed  on  them,  are  often  set  out  in 
front  of  tea-stores  in  New  York  ;  and 
it  is  a  peculiarity  of  most  of  these  con- 
cerns that  all  their  wood-work  is  painted 
red,  sometimes  contrasted  with  pick- 
ings-out in  black  or  green.  Now  and 
then  an  old  tea-box  maybe  seen  affixed 
to  the  wall  of  a  house,  high  up,  with  a 
painted  wooden  sugar-loaf  in  it,  by  way 
of  a  sign. 

There  are  night  signs  to  be  observed 
here  and  there  in  the  city.  Among 
these  may  be  counted  illuminated 


532 


Signs  and  Show-Cases  in  New   York. 


[May, 


clocks,  and  the  brilliant  star  arrange- 
ments of  gas-jets  and  glass  to  be  seen 
over  the  entrances  to  some  of  the  the- 
atres. A  sign  got  up  with  effects  such 
as  these  shines  luminously  after  dark 
over  the  door  of  a  shirt-maker  in  Broad- 
way. It  is  a  veritable  "magic  shirt," 
all  woven  of  gas-jets  and  glass  prisms, 
and  as  gracefully  posed  as  it  is  possible 
for  an  unoccupied  shirt  to  be,  with  one 
sleeve  raised  as  in  the  act  of  attaching 
a  shirt-collar  to  the  star-spangled  neck. 
But  the  most  brilliant  device  of  this 
kind  to  be  seen  in  Broadway  is  the 
coruscating  mortar  set  up  by  an  adver- 
tising druggist  in  front  of  his  shop. 

Greater  obstacles  to  pedestrian' move- 
ments than  what  may  properly  be 
termed  signs,  and  equally  characteris- 
tic of  the  miscellaneous  tastes  and 
habits  of  social  New  York,  are  the  in- 
numerable show-cases  of  all  sorts  and 
sizes  that  stand  out  on  the  sidewalks 
beside  the  doors  of  shops.  Most  at- 
tractive to  the  fairer  sex  are  the  tempt- 
ing arrangements  of  this  kind  wherein 
milliners  display  examples  of  their 
wondrous  art.  Broadway  has  many 
brilliant  displays  of  this  sort,  and  even 
into  Fifth  Avenue  has  the  show-case 
of  the  milliner  worked  its  insinuating 
way.  But  by  far  the  most  character- 
istic show  in  the  city  is  to  be  seen  in 
Division  Street,  a  narrow  and  some- 
what dirty  way  branching  from  the 
Bowery  eastward.  One  side  of  this 
street,  for  a  good  distance,  is  exclu- 
sively occupied  by  milliners,  much  of 
whose  gay  work  may  be  recognized 
at  all  times  on  the  heads  of  the  female 
population  of  that  side  of  the  city. 
Here  the  24th  of  March,  recognized 
as  "opening  day"  by  all  the  leading 
modistes  of  New  York,  is  very  consci- 
entiously observed.  On  and  after  that 
day,  the  show-cases  that  stand  along- 
side of  every  threshold  are  set  out 
with  a  show  of  colors  and  form  that 
would  make  a  bed  of  tulips  sigh  •  for 
its  shortcomings,  or  a  white  camel- 
lia turn  to  a  blush-rose  in  despair. 
Botany  and  ornithology  have  been  laid 
under  contribution  to  furnish  the  won- 
derful devices  in  the  way  of  female 


head-gear  here  exhibited.  Not  one 
item  of  the  productions  exposed  to 
view  on  this  side  of  Division  Street 
seems  to  have  been  made  with  the 
slightest  reference  to  use.  All  is  for 
show ;  all  is  gauzy  and  zephyrine,  and 
gay  with  bird  of  paradise  feathers,  and 
with  artificial  flowers  that  would  mad- 
den with  fear  and  wonder  the  monkey 
denizens  of  a  South  American  jungle. 
And  at  eve,  as  the  crowds  of  work-girls 
pass  through  this  bazaar  of  tinsel  and 
trash,  on  their  way  to  the  eastern  fer- 
ries, knots  of  them  pause  before  the 
fascinating  glass  cases,  gazing  with 
longing  eyes  at  the  lovely  devices  of 
the  milliners'  taste  displayed  in  them. 
When  you  have  got  about  half-way 
along  the  show-case  block,  cast  a  look 
over  to  the  other  side  of  the  narrow 
street.  There,  staring  with  hollow  eyes 
from  a  window,  is  an  emblem  very  sig- 
nificant of  the  gay  temptations  of  the 
place  and  their  possible  results.  The 
window  is  that  of  a  toy-dealer  or  costu- 
mer,  and  the  most  prominent  object 
on  view  in  it  is  a  large  mask,  repre- 
senting the  traditional  Author  of  Sin, 
recalling  Pandemonium  with  his  de- 
mon leer,  and  Pan  with  the  short,  stub- 
by horns  that  sprout  from  his  villanous 
brow. 

Dentistry  is  very  largely  represented 
in  the  show-cases  of  New  York.  Many 
of  these  are  fitted  with  revolving  cush- 
ions, which,  as  they  go  slowly  round 
and  round,  reveal  to  the  wrapt  gazer 
inventions  of  various  kinds  for  the 
reconstruction  of  the  human  mouth: 
Here  are  entire  palates,  wrought  out 
of  some  roseate  material,  ribbed  and 
clasped  with  gold,  and  appearing  to  be, 
in  every  essential  respect,  far  more 
reliable  articles  than  the  natural  ones 
with  which  human  beings  are  apt  to 
have  so  much  trouble.  Along  with  these 
are  sets  of  beautiful  gums,  fitted  with 
teeth  that  may  haply  make  those  of 
the  beholder  ache  with  envy.  In  the 
centre  of  the  cushion  there  is  often  an 
immense  emblematical  tooth,  gilt  all 
over,  and  in  size  and  shape  much  re- 
sembling a  vertebra  from  the  spinal 
column  of  a  sixty-foot  whale.  Around 


Signs  and  SJiow-Casa 


533 


these  are  arranged  natural  teeth  of 
provoking  brilliancy  and  soundness, 
some  of  them,  with  their  digital  prongs, 
looking  like  delicate  fairy  hands  carved 
in  ivory.  Hideous  waxen  faces  of  men 
and  women  glare  at  one  from  the  backs 
of  some  of  these  show-cases.  These 
horrible  things  have  their  mouths  open  ; 
one  set  of  them  exemplifying  ladies 
and  gentlemen  whose  teeth  had  gone 
prematurely  to  ruin  and  decay,  and 
another  showing  them  as  they  appeared 
when  fitted  out  with  new  gums  and 
teeth  by  the  cunning  hand  of  the  den- 
tist. 

A  branch  of  mechanical  art,  to  which 
the  war  gave  a  great  impetus,  is  the 
manufacture  of  artificial  limbs,  speci- 
mens of  which,  in  every  variety,  are 
displayed  in  show-cases  and  painted 
upon  sign-boards.  Like  the  artificial 
work  of  the  dentist,  so  with  these. 
Their  symmetry  and  convenient  ar- 
rangements, freedom  from  gout,  rheu- 
matism, and  other  ailments,  added  to 
numerous  other  advantages  possessed 
by  them,  make  one  feet  dreadfully  nat- 
ural and  imperfect ;  and  set  one  to  pon- 
dering upon  the  superiority  of  gutta- 
percha  and  vulcanized  india-rubber  over 
mere  flesh  and  bone. 

It  would  take  much  space  to  enumer- 
ate the  fancy  manufactures  of  all  sorts 
that  are  set  forth  by  sample  in  the 
show-cases  throughout  the  city.  In 
some  of  them,  watches  «and  jewelry, 
mostly  of  a  cheap  description,  are  ar- 
ranged with  attractive  art.  Others  con- 
tain fancy  pipes  in  various  material. 
Here  is  one  in  which  a  prize  pumpkin 
of  ridiculous  obesity  is  displayed : 
while  early  strawberries  and  extrava- 
gant peaches,  in  their  proper  seasons, 
are  frequently  to  be  observed  in  the 
show-cases  that  fruiterers  cunningly 
arrange.  The  toy-dealers  are  very  ex- 
tensive and  miscellaneous  with  their 
show  of  goods  Before  the  door  of 
one  of  these,  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
city,  there  stands  an  image  of  Santa 
Claus,  holding  up  a  placard  that  an- 
nounces, "  Marbles  by  the  cask."  All 
the  latest  devices  in  india-rubber  and 
other  material,  all  the  newest  inven- 


tions contrived  for  the  pastime  of  young 
people,  are  displayed  here  in  endless 
variety.  Other  cases  contain  violins, 
guitars,  accordions,  and  brass  and  sil- 
ver wind  instruments  of  the  most  ap- 
proved patterns.  Patent  lamps,  with 
colored  glass  shades,  are  attractively 
displayed  in  many  of  them  ;  and  then 
there  are  specimens  without  limit  of 
bronzes,  clocks,  opera-glasses,  military 
accoutrements,  walking-canes,  umbrel- 
las, gold  pens,  fishing-tackle,  cutlery, 
and  everything  else  that  one  can  possi- 
bly think  of,  whether  for  use  or  show. 
The  least  ostentatious  show-case  that 
I  remember  to  have  seen  was  one  con- 
taining a  bushel  or  so  of  corks,  and  in 
the  upper  part  of  it  was  displayed  a 
wondrous  landscape  cut  out  from  cork 
with  a  tumble-down  cork  church  and 
dreadfully  formal  cork  trees  ranged  all 
in  a  row  like  the  bottles  that  appear  to 
be  the  natural  destination  of  the  buoy- 
ant material  in  question. 

From  the  list  of  signs  in  New  York 
it  would  be  remissness  to  omit  a  very 
peculiar  one  that  hangs  over  the  door 
of  a  cellar  near  Broadway,  in  which 
liquors  are  dispersed.  It  is  a  life-size 
painting  of  a  rather  gentlemanly  look- 
ing man,  who,  being  somewhat  out  of 
his  head,  perhaps,  has  taken  the  fancy 
to  hold  it  in  his  hand.  Inscribed  on 
the  board  is  the  legend,  "  The  honest 
lawyer  "  ;  but  this  gives  no  clew  to  the 
subtle  meaning  hidden  in  the  artist's 
work.  On  inquiring  of  a  soiled  youth 
who  lounged  on  the  cellar  steps,  how- 
ever, we  learned  that  "honest  when 
his  head  is  off"  is  the  idea  ;  in  which 
there  lurks  a  suggestion  that  the  land- 
lord of  the  tavern  may  have  been  a 
sufferer,  in  his  time,  from  the  wiles  and 
exactions  of  the  legal  profession. 

Another  tavern  sign  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned sort  marks  the  location  of  a  res- 
taurant west  of  Broadway,  much  fre- 
quented by  the  members  of  the  French 
operatic  and  theatrical  troupes.  It  is 
a  picture  intended  to  represent  Made- 
moiselle Tostde  of  the  opera  bouffc,  in 
her  well-known  character  of  "The 
Grand  Duchess  of  Gdrolstein  " ;  or  it 
may  haply  be  the  presentment  of 


534 


TJic  Channel  Islands. 


[May, 


Schneider,  the  original  sustainer  of  that 
role  in  Paris.  At  any  rate  it  has  an  at- 
tractive look  about  it,  especially  to  the 
poor  exiles  from  celestial  Paris  who 
nightly  crowd  the  well-kept  French 
hostelry  over  the  door  of  which  it- 
hangs. 

A  homoeopathic  druggist  in  Broad- 
way sets  up  on  the  front  of  his  estab- 
lishment an  immense  sign,  representing 
a  lady  reclining  upon  a  lion,  who  sub- 
mits with  great  complacency  to  the 
twi tchings  that  she  inflicts  on  his 
beard.  The  motto  here  is,  "  The  mild 
power  subdues "  ;  under  which  is  in- 
scribed the  siinilia  similibus  curantur 
with  which  that  branch  of  the  medical 
profession  proclaims  its  method  and 
belief.  Another  somewhat  conspicuous 
sign-board  on  the  same  thoroughfare  is 
that  hoisted  by  the  American  Society 
for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Ani- 
mals. The  subject  of  this  work  of  sym- 
bolic art  is  a  carter  belaboring  with  a 
club  the  head  of  his  prostrate  horse,  to 
the  defence  of  which  unhappy  animal 
there  comes  an  Angel  of  Mercy  with  a 
drawn  sword. 

If  stuffed  animals  are  sometimes  made 
use  of  by  manufacturers  and  dealers  as 
emblems  of  their  respective  callings, 
so  also  in  cosmopolitan  New  York  are 
live  men.  Queer  characters,  dressed 
up  in  fantastic  costumes  to  represent 
some  article  of  manufacture,  go  to  and 
fro  in  the  principal  business  streets, 
handing  printed  descriptions  of  the 
wares  advertised  by  them  to  the  pass- 


ers-by. One  of  these  lazy  obstructors 
of  the  sidewalk  is  dressed  in  striped 
stuff  to  represent  window -shades. 
Another  bears  on  his  seedy  old  hat 
a  placard  setting  forth  the  accomplish- 
ments of  an  "inimitable barber."  There 
is  one  whose  long  white  gaberdine  is 
stuck  all  over  with  patent  springs  for 
hoop-skirts.  Yet  another  perambulates 
with  a  blue  and  red  fools-cap  upon  his 
frowzy  head,  a  make-up  from  which  it 
is  not  easy  to  guess  at  the  wares  which 
he  is  intended  to  advertise.  Not  long 
since  there  was  opened,  near  Broadway, 
a  show  of  Alaskan  curiosities,  such  as 
costumes,  weapons,  and  other  such  ar- 
ticles of  savage  life.  In  front  of  the 
door  of  the  place  in  which  these  were 
exhibited  there  stood  a  wild  man  of 
alarming  mien,  dressed  up  in  some  kind 
of  Indian  costume,  and  with  his  long, 
tangled  locks  hanging  about  him  in  con- 
fusion. On  being  interrogated  he  would 
state,  in  an  accent  that  might  have  been 
that  of  Cork,  though  it  had  a  sugges- 
tion of  Limerick  about  it,  that  he  was 
the  sign  of  the  concern  within,  cata- 
logues of  the  curiosities  displayed  in 
which  he  was  employed  to  distribute. 
Theatrical  managers  are  accustomed 
to  set  out  large,  flaring  placards,  as 
signs,  in  front  of  their  houses ;  but  the 
only  regular  sign  to  be  seen  at  the  ves- 
tibule of  a  New  York  theatre  is  the 
carved,  life-size  image  of  a  celebrated 
pantomime  tlown,  which  stands  at  the 
entrance  of  the  theatre  on  Broadway  in 
which  he  is  performing. 


THE     CHANNEL     ISLANDS. 


IN  the  hurried  visit  paid  by  tourists 
to  foreign  countries,  some  of  the 
most  interesting,  if  not  the  most  noto- 
rious or  nationally  characteristic  things 
and  places  are  necessarily  overlooked. 
Hidden  away  in  corners,  where  the 
great  tide-wave  of  innovation  has  but 
languidly  flowed,  they  are  unimportant 
to  the  empire,  and  consequently  obscure 


and  unknown  to  the  outside '  world. 
But  they  are  the  richest  of  all  for  the 
student  and  observer,  for  the  lover  of 
nature  and  the  curious  collector  of  facts, 
Now  the  Channel  Islands  of  Great  Brit- 
ain are  places  which  few  Americans 
ever  see,  and  of  which,  therefore,  but 
little  is  known  on  this  vast  continent. 
At  a  distance  of  twelve  hours  from  Lon- 


8;o.] 


The  Channel  Islands. 


535 


don,  and  to  be  got  at  only  by  a  very 
troublesome  sea  passage,  where  the 
swirl  of  the  Atlantic  wave,  thrown  back- 
by  the  coast  of  the  Cotentin,  and  deflect- 
ed by  the  currents  which  sweep  round 
the  various  islands,  creates  a  sea  that 
is  rarely  calm  and  often  dangerous  ; 
with  no  relics  of  general  historical  in- 
terest when  got  at,  and  but  miniature 
"emporia  "  of  loneliness  at  the  best,  — 
we  can  scarcely  wonder  that  these  beau- 
tiful little  islands  are  unvisitcd  by  the 
ordinary  tourist  from  abroad,  or  that 
even  the  mass  of  the  English  them- 
selves personally  know  very  little  about 
them,  and  are  content  to  take  them  on 
trust  from  the  accounts  of  the  more 
adventurous  few.  Besides,  they  lie  out 
of  the  highway.  To  be  sure,  you  can 
go  from  Jersey  to  St.  Malo,  and  from 
Guernsey  and  Cherbourg  by  way  of 
Alderney ;  but  most  people  prefer  to 
get  to  France  from  England  by  Calais, 
Boulogne,  I  lavre,  or  Dieppe  ;  and  so  the 
St.  Malo  and  Cherbourg  ships  are  not 
on  the  list  of  the  favored  passage 
boats. 

And  yet  the  Channel  Islands  are 
worth  seeing.  The  magnificent  out- 
lines of  every  island  and  islet,  bristling 
with  sharp  rocks  and  formidable  cliffs, 
where  the  sea  breaks  with  a  terrible 
beauty  as  it  comes  surging  in  with  the 
wild  ocean  sweep  ;  the  exquisite  tender- 
ness of  the  inland  scenery  ;  the  strange 
peaks  which  wind  and  water  have 
wrought  on  granite  and  sand; — all 
make  the  Channel  Islands  places  of  ex- 
ceeding beauty  for  the  loving  observer 
of  nature  ;  while  quaint  old  customs,  ob- 
solete traditions,  and  a  quite  distinctive 
character  supply  the  human  element  to 
those  who  remain  long  enough  to  en- 
able them  to  enter  into  and  understand 
the  social  life  of  the  people. 

Of  the  four  chief  islands,  Jersey,  the 
most  protected  and  nearest  inland  of 
the  great  bay  of  which  Cherbourg  and 
Brest  are  the  two  extreme  points,  is 
the  largest,  the  softest,  the  richest; 
Guernsey,  the  foremost  of  the  group, 
lying  as  the  outpost  on  the  Atlantic,  is 
the  grandest ;  Alderney  is  the  most 
barren  of  beauty,  if  the  most  important 


in  geographical  position,  and  by  no 
means  despicable  in  produce  ;  and  Sark 
is  the  most  fantastically  picturesque,  — 
the  one  on  which  nature  and  the  ele- 
ments have  exercised  the  most  in- 
fluences and  the  largest  power.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  originally  all  these 
islands,  with  their  crowns  and  gir- 
dles of  related  rocks  and  islets,  were 
united  together  and  formed  part  of  the 
continent.  Geographically,  indeed,  they 
are  French,  and  ethnologically  Nor- 
man ;  though  they  had  an  early  people 
of  their  own  who  were  buried  with  food- 
urns  and  stone  implements,  and  who 
used  flint  arrow-heads  and  stone  ham- 
mers and  hatchets  and  shin-bone  skates, 
as  are  found  in  most  of  the  prehis- 
toric barrows  throughout  Europe  ;  and 
though,  before  the  Normans  held  them, 
the  Romans  had  come,  conquered,  and 
colonized,  —  colonized,  that  is,  in  their 
high-handed  military  way,  to  hold,  not 
to  people.  The  okl  name  of  Jersey  is 
Caesarea  ;  in  fact,  the  modern  name  is 
merely  a  corruption  of  the  ancient 
through  quick  and  slovenly  pronunci- 
ation ;  while  Guernsey  was  Sarnia ; 
Sark,  Sargia,  and  then  Sercq ;  and  Al- 
derney, Aurdgney.  Hermes  is  good 
French  for  a  barren  waste  of  land, 
which,  however,  the  little  island  of 
Herm  is  not  But  though  all  the  isl- 
ands were  once  part  of  France,  and  the 
people  were  Norman-French,  the  in- 
cessant work  of  the  sea,  beating  against 
the  tough  granite,  and  eating  out  the 
softer  veins  which  traverse  it  in  all 
directions,  has  broken  the  bonds  of 
union  with  the  mainland  ;  and  the  in- 
cessant influx  of  English  residents, 
English  ideas,  and  English  influence 
has  worn  away  much  of  the  earlier 
Norman  and  later  insular  character  of 
the  people,  till  soon  there  will  be  no 
ethnological  specialties  left  to  the  isl- 
anders, and  in  time  no  islands  in  the 
Channel  at  all.  For  the  same  causes 
of  disintegration  by  which  they  be- 
came separated  from  the  continent  are 
still  going  on,  and  in  some  notably, 
as  Herm,  they  are  going  on  visibly  and 
rapidly.  Sark,  too,  is  being  torn  to 
pieces  shred  by  shred ;  and  old  de- 


536 


T/ie  CJianncl  Islands. 


[May, 


crees  providing  for  the  reparation  of 
roads  in  Guernsey,  where  now  only  the 
sea  moans  over  barren  sand  and  dashes 
against  naked  rocks,  attest  the  loss  of 
valuable  land  here,  within  the  memory 
of  man. 

Very  beautiful,  if  very  dangerous,  are 
the  rocks  about  these  islands ;  and 
nowhere  in  England  is  there  such 
an  iron-bound  coast,  such  treacherous 
shoals,  such  rapid  currents.  Nowhere, 
either,  is  there  more  enchanting  loveli- 
ness. On  a  calm  day,  when  the  sea, 
lying  like  a  lake  over  the  sand,  is  of 
the  color  of  a  beryl,  over  the  hidden 
rocks  like  lapis-lazuli,  while  the  lofty 
cliffs  are  golden  with  gorse  and  purple 
with  heather,  and  the  rocks,  towering 
out  of  the  sea  above  high-water  mark, 
are  gold  and  green  and  crimson  and 
orange,  where  the  lichens  fleck  the 
old  gray  stone  with  broad  dashes  of 
color,  nothing  can  exceed  the  seduc- 
tive sweetness  of  the  sheltered  bays 
and  coves.  They  might  be  all  parts 
of  the  island  of  Calypso,  or  the  out- 
works of  Armida's  Garden.  You  may 
sit  there,  listening  to  the  tender  ripple 
of  the  waves,  and  weave  old-world  po- 
ems, till  you  lose  all  memory  of  histor- 
ic time  ;  and  you  seem  to  live  in  the 
days  when  the  gods  dwelt  on  Mount 
Olympus,  and  their  sons  and  their 
daughters  lived  among  men  in  such 
favored  spots  as  these.  But  in  the 
wild  weather,  when  the  fierce  Atlantic 
storms  come  tearing  through  sea  and 
sky,  and  the  waves  dash  up  against  the 
jagged  cliffs  as  if  they  would  grind 
them  peak  by  peak  to  powder,  and  pour 
in  turbulent  cascades  over  the  interven- 
ing rocks,  making  the  earth  vibrate  as 
they  thunder  against  her  old  granite 
bulwarks,  then  you  see  a  fulness  and 
majesty  of  the  sterner  powers  of  na- 
ture that  may  satisfy  the  most  craving. 
Inland,  both  in  Jersey  and  Guernsey, 
and  in  Sark,  too,  the  deep  leafy  Dev- 
onshire-like lanes,  with  their  arching 
framework  of  foliage  for  every  point 
of  the  view,  the  luxuriant  growth  of 
ferns,  the  wilderness  of  wild-flowers, 
the  numerous  picturesque  little  bits  of 
architecture,  though  nothing  more  state- 


ly than  a  well-trimmed  cottage  porch, 
a  mossy  wall,  an  ivy-covered  penthouse 
to  protect  a  spring  or  well,  an  ancient 
gateway,  proud  though  decayed,  make 
the  home  scenery  as  beautiful  in  its 
own  way  as  the  bolder  and  grander 
coast ;  so  that  literally  there  is  nothing 
more  complete,  though  much  that  is 
larger  than  the  Channel  Islands,  if 
studied  thoroughly  with  the  eye  of  an 
artist  and  the  love  of  a  naturalist. 

The  most  picturesque  things  are  to 
be  found  in  Sark,  "the  gem  of  the 
Channel  Islands,"  as  the  guide-books 
not  inaptly  call  it ;  and  of  these  the 
three  creux,  known  as  the  Creux  du 
Derrible  (vulgice  Terrible)  and  the  Lit- 
tle Creux  in  Greater  Sark,  and  the  Pot 
in  Little  Sark,  Coupe'e,  the  Guliot  Caves 
and  Les  Boutiques,  also  caves,  are  the 
most  notable.  These  creux  are  fun- 
nel-shaped abysses  which  open  at  the 
top  far  inland,  and  are  connected  by  a 
subterranean  way  with  the  sea  ;  so  that 
when  the  tide  comes  in,  the  waters 
rush  up  this  narrow  funnel  with  a  force 
and  violence  that  make  it  more  like  an 
aqueous  volcano  than  anything  else  to 
which  I  can  liken  it.  If  the  tide  is 
high  and  the  sea  stormy,  the  scene  is 
beyond  measure  appalling.  The  wa- 
ters surge  and  swell  and  roar  in  their 
rapid  rise  with  a  noise  like  imprisoned 
thunder ;  the  earth  beneath  your  feet 
quivers  with  the  passionate  tumult  of 
the  waters  within  ;  and  if  you  have 
nerve  enough  to  lean  over  the  unpro- 
tected mouth  and  look  into  the  boiling 
maelstrom,  where  a  moment's  giddi- 
ness or  the  treachery  of  the  root  you 
grasp  for  support  would  be  your  death-, 
you  may  see  there  what  Edgar  Poe 
could  alone  describe,  and  what  you  will 
never  forget,  and,  perhaps,  not  care  to 
see  again. 

Then  there  is  the  Coupee,  —  the  nar- 
row neck  of  land  connecting  the  two 
parts  of  the  island  by  a  slender  roadway 
three  hundred  and  eighty-four  feet 
above  the  sea,  with  a  sheer  precipice 
on  either  side  and  a  strong  wind  always 
blowing.  Before  1811  the  roadway  was 
only  two  feet  wide  ;  it  is  now  broadened 
to  five,  in  parts  to  eight.  But  though 


1 8;o.] 


The  Channel  Islands. 


537 


the  danger  of  being  blown  over,  once  so 
great  and  not  infrequent,  has  been  les- 
sened by  just  the  number  of  inches 
added,  enough  still  remains  to  make 
the  Coupee  a  by  no  means  desirable 
promenade  in  anything  stiffer  than  a 
ground  zephyr ;  for  even  a  ground 
zephyr  will  be  found  intensified  into 
sufficient  resemblance  to  a  gale  up 
above  to  make  the  Coupde  as  breezy 
as  a  pier  in  a  sou'wester,  and  not  quite 
so  safe. 

After  the  Creux  and  the  Coupee  come 
the  Guliot  Caves,  but  in  point  of  inter- 
est they  should  have  been  placed  first. 
The  specialty  of  the  Guliot  Caves  is 
not  the  rugged  way  by  which  you  have 
to  clamber  up  and  down  to  them, 
though  this  too  is  a  feat  of  which,  if 
you  have  accomplished  it,  you  may  feel 
reasonably  proud  ;  neither  is  it  the 
grand  views  of  the  Havre  Gosselin,  or 
of  that,  as  it  seems  to  us,  most  mel- 
ancholy isle  of  Brechou,*  which  Nature 
herself  frames  for  you  in  the  fantastic 
arabesques  and  arches  of  the  brown 
cave-lines  ;  but  in  the  zoophytes  which 
cover  the  wall,  the  rough  rock  floor- 
ing, and  the  roof  of  these  dark  nurseries 
of  life.  Limpets  and  barnacles  encrust 
the  lower  rocks  ;  sponges,  madrepores, 
and  corallines  line  the  walls  and  roof; 
while  those  strange  and  lovely  things 
we  call  generically  "  sea-anemones " 
are  set  against  the  walls  as  thick  as 
berries  on  an  elder-branch.  Of  all  col- 
ors are  they,  — ruby- red  and  emerald- 
green,  pale  flesh-color,  jasper-brown, 
Naples-yellow  ;  but  they  do  not  show 
themselves  in  their  full  beauty,  for,  the 
water  having  left  them,  they  are  close 
buttoned  up,  and  are  nothing  now  but 
wet  and  shining  gem-like  knobs.  You 
must  take  them  home  to  your  aquarium 
to  see  them  to  perfection  ;  but  one  can 
imagine  what  a  scene  that  cavern  would 

*  Tins  islet  is  a  precipitous  mass  of  rock  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  in  circumference,  separated  from  Sark 
by  a  rapid  channel  of  about  eighty  yards  in  width, 
and  famous  for  its  shipwrecks.  The  islet  supports 
about  a  dozen  people,  twenty  cattle,  and  a  few  sheep, 
and  is  well  stocked  with  rabbits,  by  which  its  doom, 
like  that  of  Herm,  is  to  come.  It  contains  a  small 
farm-house,  barns,  and  stabling,  and  has  about  sixty 
ver^ccs  in  cultivation.  A  vcrgee  is  about  2, 150  square 
yards  English. 


present  when  the  walls  are  alive  with 
the  moving  tentacles,  bright-beaded, 
fringed,  plumed,  and  of  all  colors,  as. 
they  open  their  flower-like  mouths  and 
rake  the  soft  sea  for  their  prey  !  What 
an  animated  flower-bed !  one  would 
almost  dare  the  fate  of  Hylas  for  one 
moment's  glimpse  of  such  strange 
beauty ! 

Then  there  are  the  Boutiques,  grand 
in  rugged  outline,  and  of  more  purely 
rocky  character  and  charm,  and  with- 
out the  zoophytes  of  the  neighboring 
guliots ;  and  there  are  Les  Autelets, 
the  odd  altar-like  rocks  by  the  Port 
du  Moulin  ;  and  the  Moie  de  Mouton, 
a  mass  of  inaccessible  crags,  where  a 
few  sheep  are  landed  every  now  and 
then,  and  left  to  find  their  way  from 
ledge  to  ledge  as  the  scanty  herbage 
tempts  them.  When  their  time  has 
come,  and  they  are  considered  to  be 
in  sufficiently  good  condition  for  food, 
a  boat  puts  off  for  the  base  of  the  rocks, 
a  man  fires  at  the  animal  he  fancies,  or 
that  is  most  conveniently  placed ;  and 
down  comes  the  poor  beast,  tumbling 
into  the  water,  whence  it  is  fished  up 
and  made  into  mutton  forthwith.  This, 
too,  is  a  primitive  trait  not  to  be  found 
on  every  highway  in  Europe. 

These,  though  the  chief,  are  by  no 
means  the  sole  attractions  of  Sark. 
Months  of  careful  study  would  not  ex- 
haust those  attractions  ;  for  is  not  even 
Sark,  this  small,  comparatively  un- 
known, and  obscure  island,  but  nine 
miles  in  circumference,  all  told,  in  its 
way  an  epitome  of  nature,  a  microcosm, 
where  the  sciences  may  be  studied 
and  more  thoroughly  mastered  ? 

Not  quite  so  fantastically  beautiful 
as  Sark,  Guernsey  has  yet  some  spe- 
cialties of  its  own  that  make  it  both 
delicious  and  tempting.  Its  bays  and 
points  or  promontories  are  many  and 
grand.  Moulin  Hurt,  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  of  all,  where  the  pretty 
"  Cradle  Rock,"  in  the  middle  of  the  bay, 
gets  its  fine-spun  dazzling  curtains  as 
the  tide  comes  in  and  pours  over  the 
Nord ;  Saints'  Bay,  where  the  magnifi- 
cent "  Old  Woman  "  rock  is  clothed  in 
a  garment  of  green  and  orange,  like 


538 


The  Channel  Islands. 


[May, 


nothing  woven  by  human  skill ;  Fer- 
main  Bay,  where  the  island  girls  bathe 
without  other  dressing-room  than  the 
friendly  rocks,  and  where  the  zoophytes 
and  algae  are  specially  fine,  with  the 
chance  of  a  stray  pieuvre  or  octopod  to 
give  a  not  too  pleasant  excitement  to 
the  silver-footed  Thetis  of  the  hour ; 
Tcart  Point,  where  there  is  an  old 
ruined  house  having  the  universal 
"rat"  tradition  attached  to  it,  of  a  man 
being  eaten  alive  by  rats,  and  where 
the  next  parish  is  America,  there  be- 
ing absolutely  no  intervening  point  of 
land  between  Tcart  and  the  United 
States ;  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  Gouffre, 
so  like  our  dear  old  English  Cumber- 
land, where  the  sharp  hillside  road 
leads  down  to  the  sea,  instead  of  to  a 
land-locked  lake,  with  the  restful  har- 
bor of  Bon  Repos  to  the  side,  giving 
the  fishermen  safe  anchorage  for  their 
boats  and  safe  storage  for  their  gear; 
Petit  Bot  Bay,  the  Creux  Malire,  a 
grand  and  glowing  cavern,  where  you 
must  submit  to  be  half  suffocated  with 
burning  furze  if  you  would  see  the 
glory  thereof,  and  which  burning  furze, 
with  dark-eyed  Guerne'siois  men  fling- 
ing it  up  and  about  on  their  pitchforks, 
gives  you  a  lively  image  of  that  world  to 
come  which  is  not  heaven  ;  Fleinmont, 
desolate  and  time-worn,  where  stands 
the  lone  house  of  which  the  island  lion, 
Victor  Hugo,  made  such  good  account 
in  his  "  Toilers  of  the  Sea,"  and  where 
the  Houvis  rocks  below  have  "perished 
many  a  bonny  boat,"  till  the  Trinity 
House  softened  its  heart  and  opened 
its  hand  and  built  the  lighthouse  which 
stands  on  them  now,  since  when  there 
has  been  but  one  wreck  on  them,  in- 
stead of  one  or  two  each  winter,  as  there 
used  to  be  ;  Rocquaine  Bay,  weird  and 
wild,  and  Cobo  Bay,  even  more  weird 
and  more  wild,  with  the  grand  rock 
forming  such  a  magnificent  point  of  re- 
sistance for  the  surging  waves  to  break 
against ;  the  "  water  caves,"  peculiar  to 
Guernsey,  small,  narrow,  winding  ways, 
where  a  little  rivulet  of  sweet,  clear  wa- 
ter, like  a  mountain  ghyll,  runs  clown  to 
the  sea,  while  hart's  tongue,  lastreas, 
and  other  ferns,  wild-flowers  and  sweet 


wholesome  herbs,  grow  on  the  banks 
and  trailing  hedges,  and  the  trees  meet 
overhead,  making  green  cloisters  where 
you  may  walk  in  the  shade  and  cool 
on  the  hottest  summer  noon  ;  —  these, 
which  are  just  a  rapid  roll-call  of  some 
of  the  principal  things  to  be  seen,  show 
that  Guernsey,  if  not  so  strangely  rich 
as  Sark,  is  yet  rich  enough  in  beauty  for 
any  tourist  who  will  be  contented  with 
less  than  the  Cordilleras  or  Niagara. 
To  be  sure,  on  all  these  islands  there 
is  the  danger  of  walking  over  the  edge 
in  the  dark,  as  the  Yankee  said  of  Eng- 
land, but  multum  in  parvo  is  both  good 
Latin  and  a  natural  fact. 

With  Jersey  the  tale  is  of  gardens ; 
rich  leafy  lanes  ;  pretty  houses  ;  softer 
bays,  mild,  sandy,  rounded,  not  peaked 
and  torn  and  jagged  ;  and  some  bold 
coast  scenery,  of  which  the  finest  is  the 
part  known  as  the  Corbiores  rocks. 
But  the  coast-lines  of  Jersey  are  de- 
cidedly inferior  to  those  of  Guernsey. 
The  one  is  the  sheltered  garden  of  the 
group;  the  other  the  bit  of  fell  land, 
half  garden,  half  waste.  Nothing  very 
striking  is  to  be  seen  at  Alderney.  It 
is  a  mere  sandy  hillock,  rising  bleak 
and  bare  out  of  the  sea,  strongly  forti- 
fied as  a  check  on  Cherbourg,  with  a 
few  fine  rocks,  specially  the  Sisters, 
and  fertile  as  a  farm  for  all  its  tree- 
less nakedness.  But  the  islands  are 
generally  fertile,  in  spite  of  the  slovenly 
farming  which  is  all  that  is  bestowed 
on  them.  And  truly  the  farming  is 
slovenly  !  Seven,  nine,  eleven  horses 
drag  one  huge  rude  plough,  which  just 
scratches  the  ground  it  is  trailed  over, 
doing  ill  what  two  light  ploughs  of  one 
or  two  horses  each  would  do  much  bet- 
ter. And  the  weeding  or  clearing  of 
the  ground,  what  it  gets  at  all,  is  as 
primitive  as  the  ploughing.  A  man  on 
his  knees  shoves  out  the  weeds  be- 
tween the  furrows  with  a  crooked, 
clumsy  hoe,  in  the  coarsest  style  of 
garden  culture.  Yet  the  land  is  kindly, 
and  gives  back  generously  for  its  nig- 
gardly tending.  The  manure  —  and 
wealth  —  of  the  islands  is  sea-weed, 
freshly  laid,  or  the  burnt  ashes  thereof; 
and  an  old  saying,  "Point  de  vraic 


1 870.] 


77/6-  Channel  Islands. 


539 


point  de  hautgant,"  —  No  sea-weed  no 
corn-yard, — shows  its  value.  It  is 
also  the  fuel  of  the  poorer  folk  ;  and 
among  the  characteristic  features  of 
the  Channel  Islands  is  the  clumsy  sea- 
weed-laden cart  lumbering  along  the 
narrow  lanes,  —  perhaps  drawn  by  a 
sleepy-looking  bullock  in  the  shafts, 
with  a  horse  for  the  leader,  —  and  the 
long  stretches  of  barren  land,  as  at 
Rocquaine  and  Cobo  Bays,  spread  out 
with  sea-weed  like  "scaled"  hay,  pur- 
ple, red,  or  gray,  drying  in  the  wind 
and  sun  for  fuel.  When  sufficiently 
hoary  and  dry,  it  is  stacked  up  in  piles, 
which  are  to  the  poor  fisherman's  cot 
what  cords  of  wood  and  bushels  of  coals 
are  to  richer  houses.  The  sea-weed 
cutting  is  allowed  only  twice  a  year 
for  the  vraic  scic ;  the  vraic  vcnant 
;s  unending.  I'raic  scic  is  the  living 
weed  cut  from  the  rocks,  chiefly  at 
Herm  for  Guernsey,  and  vraic  lunant 
is  drift-weed  thrown  up  by  the  tide,  and 
not  so  valuable  as  the  scic.  Herm  is 
about  twenty  minutes'  sail  from  Guern- 
sey, and,  besides  stores  of  vraic,  has  a 
creux,  and  a  "kitchen  midden,"  and  a 
curious  shell  shore  made  by  the  tail  of 
the  drift,  and  unique  in  its  way  ;  and  a 
seigneur,  who  owns  the  island  and  has 
lordly  rights  ;  and,  in  fact,  is  a  world  in 
miniature,  a  very  doll's  house  of  an  em- 
pire, beating  Liliput  and  Monaco  hol- 
low. 

What  would  strike  Americans  more 
than  anything  else  as  utterly  strange 
is  the  habit,  common  to  all  the  islands, 
of  tethering  the  cattle,  allowancing 
their  food,  and  circumscribing  their 
liberty  to  the  range  of  half  a  dozen  feet 
or  so.  All  the  animals  are  tethered, — 
cows,  horses,  apes,  goats  ;  and  the 
narrow  fields  are  eaten  away  in  semi- 
circular sweeps  as  cleatly  marked  as  if 
mown  by  the  hand.  The  farmers  say 
the  grass  is  so  rich,  that  the  short  com- 
mons on  which  the  poor  beasts  are 
kept  are  quite  enough  for  them,  want 
of  quantity  being  made  up  for  by  good- 
ness of  quality.  And,  to  be  sure,  the 
Channel  Islands'  milk  and  butter  are 
proverbial.  But,  to  men  accustomed  to 
the  boundless  lands  and  prodigality  of 


produce  of  the  New  World,  this  strict 
apportionment  of  native,  wild  daily  ra- 
tions must  look  chary  and  pitiful  be- 
yond expression.  Another  cause,  also, 
is  the  law  of  succession,  by  which  land 
is  divided  and  subdivided,  as  in  France, 
till  it  is  cut  up  into  such  small  holdings 
there  is  no  room  left  for  free  pasturage 
or  bovine  expatiation.  In  consequence 
of  this  habit  of  tethering  the  live  stock 
there  are  few,  if  any,  field  gates  in  the 
islands.  A  gap  is  left  in  tlie  hedge, 
and  a  crooked  bough  is  laid  across  it, 
but  a  gate,  as  we  have  them  in  England, 
is  a  rarity  almost  unknown. 

Thereis  one  peculiar  growth  here,  — 
the  cow-cabbage,  —  of  which  walking- 
sticks  are  made,  and  which,  specially 
in  Jersey,  grows  to  a  quite  majestic 
size.  By  stripping  off  all  the  lower 
leaves  in  succession,  as  covers  for  bas- 
kets for  fruit,  butter,  etc.,  the  succulent 
stalk  hardens  into  a  handsome  knotted 
wood,  which  takes  a  fine  polish  and 
answers  all  the  purposes  of  a  cane. 
Jersey  is  famous  for  these  cabbage 
walking-sticks,  and  they  are  to  be  found 
in  Guernsey  also.  The  gardens  are 
richly  stocked.  Magnolias  bloom  lux- 
uriantly ;  while  myrtles  and  fuchsias 
geraniums  and  camellias  attain  the 
dignity  of  trees.  Hydrangeas,  the  lem- 
on-plant, and  other  tender  plants,  which 
in  England  have  to  be  kept  under  shel- 
ter for  the  winter,  remain  here  in  the 
open  ground  all  the  year  round  ;  aloes 
and  semi-tropical  growths  flower  and 
do  well  in  chosen  places  ;  and  at  the 
Vallon,  one  of  the  loveliest  residences 
in  Guernsey,  are  magnificent  specimens 
of  the  Gitnnerascabra  of  South  America. 
All  of  which  speaks  well  for  the  mild- 
ness of  the  climate  and  the  (compara- 
tive) equableness  of  the  temperature. 

There  are  some  old  customs  and  su- 
perstitions left  in  the  islands,  eloquent 
of  the  origin  of  the  race,  and  to  be 
exactly  matched  in  both  Normandy  and 
Brittany  among  the  peasantry.  One  of 
these  superstitions  is,  that  all  water 
drawn  from  a  well  on  Christmas-eve 
turns  to  blood  ;  and  if  any  one  were  to 
go  into  a  cow-shed  exactly  at  midnight, 
also  on  Christmas-eve,  he  would  find 


540 


TJie  Channel  Islands. 


[May, 


all  the  cattle  on  their  knees.  But  as 
something  very  terrible  would  happen 
to  him  for  his  profane  peeping  and  pry- 
ing, no  one  ever  dares  go  in  to  verify 
the  belief.*  At  weddings  a  slice  of 
cheese  is  cut  into  four  square  portions, 
never  more  nor  less  on  the  plate  ;  and 
these,  together  with  a  peculiar  kind  of 
biscuit  (cracker)  made  of  fermented 
dough  and  butter,  and  a  glass  of 
mulled  wine,  are  handed  to  each  invited 
guest,  and  to  every  one  who  calls  at 
the  house  for  a  certain  period  after. 
Then  a  huge  currant-cake  is  made  four 
times  in  the  year,  at  Christmas,  Whit- 
suntide, Midsummer,  and  Michaelmas, 
and  every  servant  of  the  establishment 
has  about  two  pounds  of  it  given  to 
her.  I  say  her,  for  as  yet  men-servants 
are  rare  even  at  the  best  houses.  The 
dear  lady  of  the  Vallon,  where  the  Gun- 
nera  grows,  and  where,  by  the  by,  are 
two  willow-trees  from  slips  of  the  St. 
Helena  and  Napoleonic  willow,  keeps 
up  these  good  old  customs,  which  help 
so  much  in  the  color  of  society. 

But  indeed  this  color  is  rapidly  fad- 
ing from  the  islands,  and  they  are  be- 
coming as  much  like  England  as  if  no 
other  than  the  ordinary  British  ele- 
ment was  to  be  found  in  them.  In 
fact,  efforts  are  being  made  to  keep  up 
the  old  Norman- French  among  the  peo- 
ple, at  least  in  Guernsey ;  and  though 
by  law  the  church  services,  for  instance, 
are  performed  in  French  alternately 
with  English,  yet  a  Guernsey  peasant 
of  anything  like  education  will  feel 
affronted  at  being  spoken  to  in  French, 
and  holds  himself  entitled  to  use  the 
language  which  was  once  the  distinctive 
characteristic  of  the  upper  classes.  The 
servants,  too,  have  followed  suit  with 
the  rest ;  and  where  formerly  they  were 
called  les  basses,  the  base  or  low  ones, 
are  now  as  independent  as  English  do- 

*  Among  the  sayings  is  one  of  which  I  could  get 
no  explanation.  At  harvest-time,  if  a  sharp  wind 
comes  and  takes  off  the  tops  of  the  queer  little  corn 
and  hay  ricks  they  make  here,  the  people  say,  "  Voi- 
la  la  fille  d'Herodias  qui  passe."  But  what  the 
daughter  of  Herodias  has  to  do  with  a  harvest  blast 
of  wind  I  do  not  know.  Also  another  saying  adopt- 
ed here,  and  not  indigenous,  is  :  — 

"  Saturday's  moon  and  Sunday's  full 
Ne'er  did  good  and  never  wull." 


mestics,  and  make  service  more  and 
more  a  voluntary  profession,  and  not  an 
involuntary  servitude  as  it  used  to  be. 
For  this  we  may  thank  that  mysterious 
thing  called,  for  the  convenience  of  our 
ignorance,  "  the  spirit  of  the  age," 
whereby  individual  independence  and 
the  dignity  of  labor  have  taken  their 
fitting  place. 

The  fish  of  the  islands  are  as  pecu- 
liar as  anything  else  belonging  to  them. 
These  are  to  be  seen  best  in  the 
Guernsey  market,  which  is  one  of  the 
sights  of  the  place,  and  include  the 
long  nose  or  snipe  fish,  called  du  horfil 
by  the  people,  like  a  long,  thin,  mack- 
erel-colored ribbon,  with  grass -green 
bones  ;  cray  fish,  or  crabbe  a1  co ;  spider- 
crabs,  or  pain  closj  velvet  crabs,  called 
crabbe  or  gergeaise  (un  'ummgheigy 
means  a  crabbed,  ill-tempered  man) ; 
and  immense  crabs  proper,  magnificent 
fellows  called  chancres,  which,  together 
with  their  smaller  brethren  and  big 
black  lobsters,  are  to  be  seen  on  all 
the  fish-trays  in  the  market,  twiddling 
their  feelers  and  crawling  about  their 
beds  of  wet  moss  and  sea-weed  in  a 
confused  and  helpless  way.  Then  there 
are  rock  or  vraic  fish,  or  wrasse ;  and 
ormers  (a  corruption  for  oreilles  de  mer}, 
the  creatures  which  live  in  those  pretty 
mother-o'-pearl  shells  with  a  row  of 
holes  along  the  projection,  and  which, 
when  well  beaten  and  stewed  for  a 
great  many  hours,  taste  like  tough  veal- 
cutlets  dashed  with  sea-weed  sauce. 
And  there  are  conger-eels,  great  bits  of 
which,  raw  and  bleeding,  are  sold  for 
a  very  small  sum,  and  make  an  excel- 
lent addition  to  the  island  cabbage 
soup.  For  the  island  lives  on  cabbage 
soup.  It  is  its  pot  au  feu,  its  butter, 
milk,  and  potatoes,  its  porridge  and 
whiskey,  its  olfa  podrida,  its  roast-beef 
and  plum  -  pudding,  or  whatever  we 
choose  to  select  as  the  national  dish ; 
and  its  men  and  women  thrive  upon  it. 
But  not  too  well ;  the  islanders  are 
not  a  very  stalwart  race,  though  wiry 
and  with  good  "  staying  "  qualities.  And 
as  I  am  on  the  question  of  food,  I  may 
as  well  say  that  the  pigs  are  mostly  fed 
with  parsnips. 


1 8;o.] 


The  Channel  Islands. 


541 


It  is  a  misnomer  to  call  the  small 
short-horned  dun  cow  we  all  know  so 
well  "  an  Alderney "  ;  it  may  be  a 
Jersey  cow  or  a  Guernsey  one,  perhaps 
a  Sarkois  ;  for  each  island  has  its  own 
particular  if  allied  breed,  and  each  isl- 
and claims  to  have  the  best.  They  are 
not  allowed  to  mix  the  breeds  nor  to 
import  foreign  stock,  but  every  no\i 
and  then  one  comes  upon  a  black  or 
red  hided  beast,  which  shows  that  the 
decree  has  been  evaded  somehow,  and 
that  the  pure  blood  has  got  mixed, 
whether  to  the  advantage  or  disadvan- 
tage of  the  breed  I  cannot  say.  Of  the 
whole  family,  the  Jersey  cows  are  the 
smallest,  and  I  do  not  know  which  are 
considered  the  best  milkers ;  but  all  are 
first-rate  in  that  way,  and  produce  mag- 
nificent butter. 

Amongst  other  things  belonging  to 
the  islands  may  be  counted  green 
li/ards,  the  tree  locust,  the  pieuvre,  or 
octopod,  immortalized  by  Victor  Hugo  ; 
and  in  Guernsey,  Victor  Hugo  himself 
and  his  house.  And  if,  of  these,  the 
one  is  noble  and  to  be  deeply  rever- 
enced, the  other  is  decidedly  odd  and 
to  my  mind  ugly.  It  is  wonderfully 
ingenious  in  its  clever  adaptation  of  all 
sorts  of  things  for  all  manner  of  un- 
likely purposes.  Old  trap-nailed  chests 
and  coffers  make  stately  seats;  bar- 
baric ceinturcs  are  nailed  as  ornaments 
against  the  crimson  velvet  chimney- 
pieces.  Pieces  of  fine  old  tapestry, 
with  historical  interest  attached,  chairs 
and  tables  and  beds  and  china,  all  pos- 
sessing a  special  and  peculiar  value, 
and  with  pedigrees  and  traditions  be- 
longing, make  the  place  in  Its  way  a 
museum ;  but  of  household  comfort 
there  is  none,  so  at  least  I  should 
say,  in  those  gloomy,  crowded,  heavy 
rooms,  and  as  little  artistic  beauty. 
But  they  are  Victor  Hugo's  belongings. 
He  has  gathered  them  together,  and 
arranged  them,  and,  so  far  as  they  go, 
they  are  to  be  respected  as  the  ex- 
pression of  a  great  man's  mind  and 
fancies. 

The  islands  send  no  members  to 
Parliament.  Ecclesiastically  they  are 
under  the  sway  of  the  British  crozier, 


being  part  of  the  see  of  Winchester, 
and  strategically  they  are  strongholds 
of  the  British  Army  ;  but  their  internal 
government  is  individual  ;  and  a  Guer- 
ncsiois,  or  a  Sarkois,  or  an  Aurcgnois, 
is  always  a  man  of  Guernsey,  of  Sark, 
or  of  Alderney,  never  a  Briton,  still 
less  an  Englishman.  They  have  gov- 
ernors and  seigneurs  and  states  and 
jurats,  and  they  make  their  own  laws 
after  their  own  hearts  ;  each  island  be- 
ing iinpcrimn  in  impcrio,  and  scornfully 
indifferent  to  the  larger  empire  of  which 
it  forms  a  part,  —  the  coach  of  which  it 
is  the  fifth  wheel.  In  religion,  though 
by  law  Protestant,  there  are  a  few  Ro- 
man Catholics,  and  more  dissenters, 
among  the  islands ;  and  the  clerical 
tone  is.  decidedly  Low  Church,  not  to 
say  Calvinistic.  A  good  dash  of  Rit- 
ualism would  be  a  blessing  among 
them. 

The  winnowing  process  goes  on 
even  in  these  fixed  societies.  A  cer- 
tain family  called  Pipet,  of  St.  Andrew's, 
are  now  the  hereditary  paupers  of  the 
parish  ;  but  long  generations  ago  one 
of  the  ancestors,  then  wealthy  and  ma- 
norial lords,  left  a  field  to  the  Church 
(Catholic  in  those  days),  on  condition 
that  a  mass  was  said  every  year  for  the 
repose  of  the  Pipet  soul.  When  the 
Reformation  came  and  made  masses 
unlawful,  the  field  was  still  held  by  the 
Church,  but  the  condition  suppressed. 
The  present  clergyman,  however,  says 
a  loving  "  pater-noster "  in  his  own 
heart,  in  remembrance  of  the  donor, 
whose  descendants  beg  their  bread. 
The  Pipet  clan  are  beautiful  in  a  gypsy, 
dark-eyed  fashion,  and  of  late  one  man 
has  raised  himself  from  the  pauperiza- 
tion of  his  tribe,  and  has  become  self- 
supporting  and  independent. 

Guernsey  is  evidently  a  partially  holy 
isle  ;  there  are  no  toads  there,  though 
plenty  in  Jersey,  while  frogs,  slow- 
worms,  and  lizards  are  the  sole  repre- 
sentatives of  the  reptile  class  of  crea- 
tion ;  and  there  are  saints'  wells  and  holy 
places  in  almost  all  the  parishes.  In  fact, 
one  of  the  traditions  is  that  it  is  a  holy 
isle,  and  that  its  first  civilized  inhab- 
itants were  saints.  If  so,  their  descend- 


542 


My  Secretary sJiip. 


[May, 


ants  have  a  little  deteriorated  from  the 
piety  of  their  forefathers,  and,  indeed, 
that  piety  is  a  little  problematical,  at 
least  in  the  "middle  distance,"  seeing 
that  a  whole  large  clan  in  Guernsey  are 
the  acknowledged  posterity  of  a  Roman 
Catholic  archbishop.  One  peculiarity 
of  these  islands  is  the  universal  cousin- 
ship  of  the  upper  ten.  All  the  great 
families  are  so  related  and  interlaced 
by  marriages  of  all  allowable  degrees, 
that  it  is  impossible  for  a  stranger  to 
disentangle  the  complex  threads  and 
understand  distinctly  who  is  who,  and 
how  A  came  to*be  B's  cousin,  and  why 
C  is  obliged  to  go  into  mourning  when 
D  dies.  Even  the  married  stranger 
finds  it  difficult  to  learn  all  her  hus- 
band's relations  ;  and  you  may  hear  an 
Englishwoman  who  has  entered  a  nu- 
merous clan,  after  twenty  years  of  mar- 
riage, confess  she  has  not  learnt  her 
lesson  of  kinship  perfectly,  even  yet. 


It  is  very  strange  for  one  accustomed 
to  a  large  centre,  like  London,  or  for  an 
American,  used  only  to  such  a  free  range 
of  life  and  such  incessant  change  of 
circumstances  as  one  has  in  large  cen- 
tres and  new  countries,  to  come  to  one 
of  these  quiet  "cornered"  islands, 
where  life  moves  at  a  snail's  pace,  and 
passions,  in  their  broader  sense,  seem 
eliminated  altogether.  Havens  of  rest 
for  a  time  to  the  weary  are  they,  and 
beautiful  in  their  peace  and  stillness  ; 
but  only  for  a  time.  The  man  or  wo- 
man who  has  been  used  to  action 
would  soon  rust  out  here  ;  and  though 
the  Channel  Islands  may  be  lovely  as 
Calypso's  Isle  or  Armida's  Garden, 
yet,  like  those  sweet  sleeping-places 
for  brave  men,  they  are  to  be  visited 
only,  not  lived  in  permanently,  by  all 
who  have  work  yet  to  do  in  the  world, 
who  have  a  uurpose  to  fulfil  and  a  plan 
to  pursue. 


MY     SECRETARYSHIP. 


FROM  childhood  I  had  always  en- 
tertained a  nervous  dread  of  a 
doctor's  office :  it  seemed  to  me  such  a 
dark  field  of  mystery,  such  a  concen- 
trated abode  of  horrors,  while  the  pro- 
prietor himself  ranked  in  my  mind  as 
a  sort  of  genteel  executioner  ;  and  yet 
there  I  sat  in  just  such  a  lion's  den, 
waiting,  with  a  mingling  of  nervousness 
and  impatience,  for  the  return  of  Dr. 
Craig  from  his  morning  round  of  vis- 
its. 

My  business  with  the  Doctor  was  of 
a  peculiar  nature,  and  calculated  to 
make  me  feel  still  more  shaky  than  the 
character  of  patient  would  have  done. 
Beside  the  M.  D.'s  name  between  the 
windows,  there  was  another  sign  which 
read,  "  Examining  Surgeon  for  U.  S. 
Pensions  "  ;  and  it  was  this  with  which 
I  had  to  do,  but,  as  I  said  before, 
quite  in  a  peculiar  and  unexpected 
way. 


I  was  not  alone ;  the  friend  with 
whom  I  had  a  home,  and  who  had 
been  the  instigator  of  my  remarkable 
proceeding,  was  with  me,  and  was  us- 
ually known  as  Mrs.  Coleford ;  but, 
from  her  wonderful  powers  of  "  deport- 
ment," /called  her  "  Mrs.  Turveydrop." 
This  formidable  doctor,  whom  I  had 
never  seen,  was  an  old  friend  of  Mrs. 
Coleford's,  a  bachelor,  and  represented 
as  a  very  agreeable  personage.  My 
friend  had  lately  carried  on  a  corre- 
spondence with  him  on  my  account,  for 
we  lived  in  a  country  town  a  few  miles 
from  the  city;  and  this  correspondence 
culminated  in  a  request  from  Dr.  Craig 
that  I  should  present  myself  at  his 
office  as  soon  as  I  conveniently  could, 
to  confer  with  him  in  person. 

The  subject  of  our  proposed  confer- 
ence was  this  :  I  was  quite  a  deserving 
and  rather  ill-used  young  person,  with- 
out any  particular  object  in  life,  and 


1 870.] 


My  Secretaryship. 


543 


also  without  anything  in  particular  to 
live  upon.  Mrs.  Coleford  kindly  al- 
lowed me  to  teach  two  or  three  young 
children,  that  I  might  feel  independent 
in  her  very  pleasant  home;  but  this 
was  mere  play  for  an  able-bodied  dam- 
sel, and  I  felt  that  I  was  intended  for 
better  things.  I  knew,  too,  that  never, 
in  these  clays  of  ruffles  and  fringes 
and  sashes  and  double  skirts,  would  I 
be  able  to  get  a  suitable  spring  out- 
fit, unless  I  did  something  to  increase 
my  immoderately  small  means. 

Mrs.  Coleford  and  I  had  many  talks 
on  the  subject ;  and  how  women  do 
talk  when  they  sit  together  with  their 
sewing!  If  a  bevy  of  slow-thinking 
men  could  listen  unseen  at  such  a  sit- 
ting, their  brains  would  whirl  with 
sheer  amazement  at  the  plans  dis- 
cussed, perfected,  and  disposed  of,  in 
less  time  than  it  would  take  them  to 
get  ready  to  think. 

"  I  have  a  new  plan,  Rose,"  said 
my  friend,  one  morning,  hopefully  ;  "  I 
thought  it  out  last  night  when  I  was 
kept  awake  by  that  wretched  dog  howl- 
ing next  door.  You  know  that  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  government  writing 
given  out  to  people,  who  are  paid  well 
for  it,  and  many  of  these  people  are 
ladies.  You  write  such  a  clear,  legible 
hand,  that  you  would  be  the  very  one 
to  do  it ;  and,  as  it  is  necessary  to 
have  a  friend  at  court,  I  will  send  a 
note  at  once  to  Dr.  Craig,  of  whom  you 
have  heard  me  speak,  and  ask  him  to 
use  his  influence.  He  was  in  the  army, 
you  know,  and  is  now  examining  sur- 
geon for  pensions.  I  really  believe  that 
he  could  help  you  ;  and  he  is  very  kind, 
and  always  ready  to  oblige  a  lady.  J 
should  be  delighted  to  see  you  with  a 
nice  little  income  of  your  own  ;  and  of 
late  years,  it  is  quite  common  for  ladies 
to  do  such  things. 

My  heart  beat  high  with  hope  ;  and 
I  placed  myself  meekly  in  "  Mrs.  Tur- 
veydrop's "  hands,  with  unfaltering 
trust  that  her  "'  deportment "  would 
bring  about  whatever  was  desired. 

Dr.  Craig  responded  promptly,  and 
said  that,  if  the  lady  in  question  wrote 
a  clear  hand,  and  would  kindly  under- 


take the  task,  he  had  writing  of  his 
own  that  needed  copying,  and  he 
would  be  delighted  to  secure  her  ser- 
vices for  himself.  Query  from  Mrs. 
Coleford  as  to  the  nature  of  the  writing, 
and  whether  it  would  be  done  away 
from  the  office.  No  answer  from  the 
doctor,  but  a  petition  that  the  secre- 
tary elect  would  come  and  be  looked  at, 
and  talked  to,  as  speedily  as  possible  ; 
and  this,  it  was  that  brought  me,  under 
4<  Mrs.  Turveydrop's  "  protection,  to  Dr. 
Craig's  office. 

Two  or  three  poor  fellows  in  fatigue- 
caps,  and  cloaks  of  that  peculiarly  ugly 
army -blue,  with  pale  faces,  and  an 
empty  sleeve  or  a  crutch,  were  also 
waiting  for  the  examining  surgeon  ;  and 
I  heartily  hoped  that  every  one  of  them 
would  receive  a  generous  pension. 

Doors  opened  and  closed,  and  peo- 
ple came  and  went,  for  the  space  of  an 
hour ;  but  when  a  latch-key  turned  in 
the  door,  and  a  firm  step  approached, 
I  began  to  tremble  with  a  sort  of  un- 
defined dread,  as  though  I  expected 
to  depart  minus  a  tooth  or  a  limb.  My 
errand  seemed  almost  improper,  and  I 
envied  Mrs.  Coleford  her  serenity. 

The  Doctor  was  not  so  very  formid- 
able, apart  from  his  being  a  doctor ;  a 
fine,  frank  face,  and  six  feet  or  so  of 
height.  He  welcomed  Mrs.  Coleford 
warmly,  and  was  very  benevolent  in 
his  manner  to  me,  kind  to  the  blue- 
coats  in  waiting,  and  then  evidently 
puzzled  what  to  do  with  us  all. 

"  Step  in  here,  please,"  said  he, 
presently,  "  until  I  can  despatch  these 
army  fellows  "  ;  and,  opening  a  folding- 
door,  he  ushered  us  into  what  was 
evidently  his  sleeping-room,  and  shut 
us  in. 

It  was  rather  a  funny  position,  and 
I  glanced  in  some  bewilderment  at 
Mrs.  Coleford. 

"  Alone,  you  know,"  she  whispered, 
apologetically  ;  "  has  just  the  two  rooms, 
and  it  is  very  evident  that  he  means  to 
be  comfortable.  Look  at  that  bed,  with 
its  fine  linen  and  ruffled  pillow-cases  ; 
Brussels  carpet,  good  enough  for  any 
one's  parlor ;  luxurious  washstand  and 
appointments  —  " 


544 


My  Secretaryship. 


[May, 


"  And  only  think,"  said  I,  with  a  bit 
of  feminine  malice,  "  of  wasting  such  a 
dressing-bureau  and  glass  as  this  on  a 
man!  —  a  being  who  has  no  back  hair, 
and  no  skirts,  and  to  whom  the  contem- 
plation of  the  lower  plaids  of  his  trou- 
sers cannot  be  a  matter  of  any  moment 
whatever." 

"  Some  young  lady  has  worked  him 
that  pincushion,"  continued  my  friend, 
as  her  quick  eyes  discovered  -an  elab- 
orate affair  of  blue  floss  and  crystal 
beads,  then  a  watch-case  to  match,  and 
various  little  knickknacks  that  no  man 
could  ever  have  gotten  together. 

A  pair  of  slippers,  also  embroidered 
by  some  fairy  hands,  and  a  bootjack, 
were  visible  in  one  corner  ;  and  I  think 
it  gave  us  quite  a  defrauded  feeling  to 
contemplate  the  comfortable  retreat  in 
which  this  doctor  indulged  in  such 
slumbers  as  his  patients  would  allow 
him.  We  had  ample  time  to  study  the 
apartment  before  we  were  recalled  to 
the  office ;  and  then,  pushing  "  Mrs. 
Turveydrop"  forward,  I  insisted  upon 
her  opening  the  conference. 

She  did  it  very  nicely;  but  I  felt 
desirous  of  escaping  somewhere,  and 
made  half-witted  replies  to  various 
questions,  until  it  seemed  a  perfect 
farce  to  suppose  that  the  very  sensible- 
looking  man  at  the  table  would  think  of 
'entering  into  any  business  arrangement 
Avith  such  an  idiot.  The  only  respect- 
able thing  I  said  was  when  the  Doctor 
had  kindly  remarked  that  he  feared  I 
should  not  find  the  task  a  very  agree- 
able one,  I  managed  to  reply  that  I  was 
not  taking  it  up  for  amusement. 

He  bowed  and  smiled,  and  plunged 
into  the  depths  of  a  huge  waste-paper 
basket  beside  him. 

"  I  feel  quite  ashamed  of  myself," 
said  he  to  Mrs.  Coleford,  "for  I  had 
to  keep  the  army  records  to  arrange 
the  pensions,  and  you  know  what  a 
careless  fellow  I  am.  I  write  a  deplor- 
able hand,  too  ;  and  if  Miss  Redingocle 
can  make  it  out  from  these  scrawls,  she 
will  do  more  than  /can." 

"  But  what  is  it  all  for  ?  "  I  asked,  in 
great  bewilderment  ;  "  and  what  am  I 
to  do  ? " 


For  my  would  -  be  employer  was 
dragging  forth  rolls  of  thick  yellow 
wrapping-paper,  on  which  were  scrawled 
hieroglyphics  in  faint  pencil -marks, 
while  other  sheets  looked  like  a  mad 
tarantula  dance  in  pale  ink,  with  great 
splashes  of  that  untransparent  fluid  by 
way  of  ornament,  while  stray  slips  of 
white  paper,  with  more  hieroglyphics 
and  splashes,  and  even  old  visiting- 
cards,  thickly  scrawled  over,  were  added 
to  the  collection. 

"  Pardon  me,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  for- 
get that  you  are  not  acquainted  with  my 
habits  and  occupations.  If  you  could 
look  a  shade  less  amazed.,  Miss  Red- 
ingode,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  my 
feelings.  But  I  may  as  well  own  at 
once  my  weakness,  my  evil  behavior, 
by  confessing  that  this  is  the  disgrace- 
ful style  in  which  I  have  kept  the  army 
register ;  my  only  excuse  being  that 
it  was  done,  under  a  heavy  pressure  of 
work,  at  odd  moments  ;  and  very  odd, 
indeed,  were  the  moments  in  which  I 
could  take  my  ease  sufficiently  to  write. 
These  crazy-looking  documents  are 
really  important,"  continued  the  Doc- 
tor, opening  a  huge  blank-book  on  the 
table  before  him,  "and  should  all  be 
copied  neatly  in  this  volume.  Will  you 
kindly  undertake  the  work  ?  There  are 
a  few  pages  already  written,  which  you 
will  find  useful  to  guide  you  ;  they  were 
done  by  a  very  clever  Irishman,  who 
would  have  stolen  the  very  coat  from 
my  back  if  I  had  kept  him  much  long- 
er." 

I  had  already  opened  my  mouth  to 
decline  the  task,  when  I  caught  Mrs. 
Coleford's  eye  with  a  world  of  meaning 
in  it. 

Her  glance  said  plainly,  "  Try  it, 
I  will  help  you  "  ;  and  in  looking  over 
the  book  she  seemed  to  grasp  the 
matter  so  readily,  that  I  felt  encour- 
aged to  undertake  the  work.  The 
thought  of  my  pressing  needs  also 
strengthened  me ;  and  having  ascer- 
tained that  I  could  carry  the  treasures 
home  with  me,  I  boldly  accepted  the 
position  of  private  secretary  to  Dr. 
Robert  Craig,  U.  S.  A. 

"  Should  there  be  any  words  that  you 


8;o.] 


My  Secretaryship. 


545 


cannot  make  out,"  said  my  employer, 
benevolently,  as  though  the  thought  had 
just  struck  him  that  such  a  thing  might 
occur,  "just  mark  them,  if  you  please, 
and  I  will  insert  them  afterward." 

I  tried  to  conceal  a  smile,  as  I  sur- 
veyed his  appalling  chirography,  but 
was  not  very  successful. 

"  That  is  to  be  translated,  '  One  long 
mark,  then,  for  every  page,'  "  said  the 
Doctor,  gravely.  "  I  admire  your  hero- 
ism, Miss  Redingode,  in  attempting 
such  a  task ;  and  perhaps  the  thought 
that  you  are  advancing  the  interests  of 
many  poor  maimed  fellows,  who  have 
deserved  well  of  their  country,  will  aid 
you  in  reducing  these  irregular  gam- 
bols of  pen  and  pencil  to  something 
like  system.  I  wish  you  every  success, 
and  beg  in  return — your  charity." 

I  grasped  the  heavy  book  which  I 
persisted  in  shouldering,  figuratively, 
although  the  Doctor  had  proposed 
sending  it  to  me;  while  Mrs.  Coleford 
secured  a  formidable  roll  of  the  yellow 
paper.  I  felt  quite  triumphant  and 
hopeful  ;  it  would  be  a  decided  victory 
to  master  this  hopeless-looking  task. 
It  would  be  pleasant,  too,  to  work  in 
some  way  for  the  poor  soldiers  ;  I  had 
never  done  anything  but  one  batch  of 
Havelocks,  that  were  no  sooner  com- 
pleted and  sent  off  than  I  heard  that 
the  soldiers  could  not  endure  them, 
and  had  desired  that  no  more  should 
be  sent. 

Dreaming  vaguely  of  the  future,  and 
quite  oblivious  of  the  present,  I  walked 
on,  until  the  heavy  book  which  had 
been  gradually  slipping  from  my  arm 
fell  to  the  ground,  and  sprawled  wide 
open.  A  gentleman  in  a  fatigue-cap, 
and  with  a  sort  of  undress,  military  air, 
sprang  forward  and  restored  the  vol- 
ume before  I  could  stoop  for  it;  an 
action  common  enough  in  itself,  but 
the  manner  of  doing  it,  the  lifting  of 
the  cap  just  at  the  right  moment,  and 
the  smile  disclosing  dazzling  teeth,  were 
full  of  a  peculiar,  fascinating  grace. 

The  stranger  was  tall  and  handsome, 
and  wonderfully  like  the  officer  in 
Rogers's  beautiful  clay  group,  "  Taking 
the  Oath."  Especially,  as  he  raised 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  15!.  35 


his  cap,  was  I  struck  with  the  similari- 
ty of  attitude  ;  but  he  was  gone  almost 
before  these  thoughts  had  flashed 
through  my  mind. 

Ten  A.  M.  next  day  found  me  armed 
with  book,  papers,  and  writing-appara- 
tus, at  Mrs.  Coleford's  escritoire  in  the 
pleasant  up-stairs  sitting-room  ;  while 
my  friend,  sewing  in  hand,  established 
herself  on  the  lounge  opposite,  to  en- 
courage me  with  her  presence  and  ad- 
vice. 

The  yellow  roll  was  tastefully  tied 
together  with  a  piece  of  pink  tape ; 
this  I  unfastened  with  a  certain  degree 
of  awe,  and  carefully  examined  the  first 
sheet  of  paper  that  came  to  hand.  It 
was  nearly  empty ;  but  a  few  marks  in 
pencil  put  me  in  possession  of  the 
pleasing  fact  that,  at  some  time  in  the 
past,  Dr.  Craig  had  sent  to  his  laun- 
dress six  shirts,  seven  handkerchiefs, 
three  pairs  of  drawers,  eight  pairs  of 
stockings,  and  some  other  articles,  of 
which  the  names  were  not  quite  so 
distinct. 

I  glanced  at  the  roll  in  dismay.  "  He 
has  certainly  made  a  mistake,"  I  ex- 
claimed, "and  I  will  investigate  no 
further,  lest  I  come  into  a  knowledge 
of  all  his  private  affairs." 

Mrs.  Coleford  quietly  examined  the 
papers.  "  Quite  inoffensive,"  said  she, 
smiling,  "and  none  the  less  so  that 
many  of  them  might  almost  as  well 
have  been  written  in  Chinese.  I  am 
afraid  that  your  eyes  will  be  twisted 
out  of  your  head,  Rose,  in  trying  to 
decipher  such  letters.  It  is  really  a 
shame  in  Robert  to  be  so  careless  in 
business  matters." 

"  And  that  man,"  I  exclaimed,  vin- 
dictively, "  is  placed  in  a  position  of 
responsibility,  and  receives  a  liberal 
salary  for  keeping  his  affairs  in  a  mess 
that  would  disgrace  a  child's  doll-house  ! 
and  just  because  he  is  a  man  !  I  think 
it 's  too  bad  !  " 

"  What  is  too  bad  ?  "asked  my  friend, 
—  "  that  he  is  a  man,  or  that  he  does  not 
keep  his  accounts  in  better  order  ?  If 
he  did,  Miss  Rose  Redingode  would 
not  have  the  opportunity  of  untangling 


546 


My  Secretaryship. 


[May, 


them,  to  the  manifest  advantage  of  her 
spring  wardrobe." 

"  But  just  look  at  these  snarls !  he 
might,  at  least,  have  made  his  letters  a 
little  straighten" 

"  He  might,  —  only,  to  misquote  Dr. 
Watts  as  usual,  it  is  n't  his  nature  to. 
Now,  Rose,  attend ;  it  will  be  a  great 
help  in  this  business  to  ascertain,  in 
the  first  place,  what  we  are  expected 
to  find  in  these  scrawls ;  and  here  is 
the  work  of  the  thieving  Irishman  as 
our  guide.  You  see  that  the  soldiers' 
names  are  alphabetically  arranged ; 
and  opposite  them,  on  the  same  page, 
age,  place  of  nativity,  place  of  resi- 
dence, occupation,  number  of  regiment, 
date  of  enlisting  and  discharge,  nature 
of  wound,  and  time  and  place  where  it 
-was  received.  Then,  in  the  back  part 
.of  the  book,  is  a  detailed  account 
•of  each  case,  under  its  proper  name, 
.and  the  amount  of  pension  awarded. 
•Here  is  a  case  that  I  think  we  can 
make  out,"  catching  up  one  of  the 
•papers,  and  squinting  her  eyes  to  en- 
hance their  powers  of  vision,  " '  Wil- 
liam Wilt'  —  <  Well'  —  'Webb  '  — 
<  Wall?  I  think :  « William  Wall,  age 
eighty'  —  " 

"Nonsense!"  I  interrupted;  "a sol- 
dier 'aged  eighty'  !" 

"  It  must  be  fifty,  then,  or  thirty, 
perhaps,"  was  the  reply.  "  Really,  Dr. 
Robert,  you  are  a  trial,  and  you. did 
well  to  beg  the  charity  of  your  secre- 
tary in  advance." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  or  so  we  had 
decided  that  William  Wall  (if  he  was 
Wall)  was  aged  thirty  (unless  it  meant 
fifty),  that  he  was  born  in  America  (un- 
less it  was  Australia),  that  his  profes- 
sion was  that  of  tinman  (unless  it  was 
librarian),  that  he  lived  in  Newark 
(unless  it  was  New  York),  and  that  "he 
received  a  gunshot  round  of  thibet, 
(whatever  that  might  be),  and  a  shell  in 
•the  centre  of  his  right  eye." 

For  the  benefit  of  the  curious,  it  may 
be  as  well  to  state  here  that,  when 
things  were  straightened  out,  the  man 
Wall  proved  to  be  Mill,  —  for  the  Doc- 
tor did  n't  believe  in  dotting  his  z's, 
nor  crossing  his  ^s,  nor  turning  his 


w's  the  right  way,  —  thirty-eight  years 
old,  born  in  Valparaiso,  and  living  in 
New  Haven ;  and  he  received  a  gun- 
shot wound  of  the  left  tibia,  and  a  frag- 
ment of  shell  entered  his  right  eye. 
As  this  was  one  of  the  most  legible 
accounts,  it  will  give  some  idea  of  our 
labors. 

I  jotted  down  the  nonsense  recorded 
above  with  a  satisfied  feeling  that  I  was 
really  getting  to  understand  the  busi- 
ness ;  and  Mrs.  Coleford  settled  her- 
self serenely  to  the  consciousness  of 
having  fairly  succeeded  in  launching 
me.  She  did  not  speak,  for  fear  of 
breaking  the  spell  that  seemed  to  be 
guiding  my  pen  to  wonderful  feats 
among  the  shoals  and  quicksands  of 
those  irregular  items  ;  but  suddenly  I 
asked,  in  a  half-dazed  way,  "  Do  you 
think,  Cornelia,  that  any  man  could 
have  such  a  name  as  '  Wild  Rats  '  ?  " 

My  friend  took  it  calmly.  "  If  he  is 
a  German,  and  it  is  spelled  with  a  z. 
Perhaps,  the  first  name  is  Will." 

"  It  is  n't  spelled  with  a  z?  I  re- 
plied, "  nor  with  anything  else  that 
looks  like  a  rational  letter.  I  wish  to 
know  if  any  human  being  could  have 
his  *  head  torn  away  with  a  cannon- 
ball'  and  live?" 

"  Hardly,  I  think." 

"  Well,  according  to  Dr.  Craig,  (I  'd 
like  to  dip  him  in  a  tub  of  ink  ! )  Wild 
Rats  had  his  head  torn  away  with  a 
cannon-ball,  and  was  afterward  put  on 
full  pension.  I  think  he  earned  it, 
don't  you  ? " 

We  could  make  nothing  of  it,  and  I 
drew  a  line  under  the  whole  thing. 
The  next  paper  had  an  immense  blotch 
of  ink  over  the  entire  name  ;  and  after 
consultation  with  my  oracle,  I  wrote  it 
down  "John  Smith,"  until  we  could 
discover  what  it  was  intended  for. 

Suddenly  I  stopped,  struck  with  a 
new  idea.  (My  eyes  were  twisted 
every  way,  for  each  separate  word  in 
those  horrible  papers  seemed  to  be 
tied  up  in  a  hard  knot,  and  my  head 
throbbed  painfully  with  the  effort  to 
extract  some  kind  of  sense  from  Dr. 
Craig's  chaotic  accounts.)  This  idea 
was  a  small  magnifying-glass,  and  Mrs. 


iS/o.] 


My  Secretaryship. 


547 


Coleford  responded  admiringly  to  the 
suggestion  ;  while  I  seized  hat  and 
shawl,  and  darted  off  to  the  little  lame 
watchmaker  who  kept  our  timepieces 
in  order ;  and  whom  I  found  hard  at 
work,  with  the  very  article  that  I  cov- 
eted stuck  on  one  eye. 

He  had  none  for  sale,  he  said, 
but  could  get  me  one  from  town  in  a 
day  or  two. 

I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  snatch- 
ing his  own  property  away  from  him  ; 
for  I  was  exasperated  at  his  taking-it- 
for-granted  way  that  delay  could  be  of 
no  consequence  to  ///<?,  a  woman,  and 
might  even  prove  wholesome  disci- 
pline. Men  never  can  seem  to  under- 
stand why  women  should  be  in  a  hurry 
for  anything  ;  and  even  this  wretched 
little  watchmaker  looked  calmly  down 
from  an  imaginary  height  on  my  excite- 
ment. 

I  probably  succeeded  in  making  my 
feelings  intelligible,  however  ;  for,  pres- 
ently, he  hobbled  around  with  some 
show  of  earnestness,  and  producing  an 
ugly  little  affair,  like  a  deep,  black 
muffin-ring,  he  benevolently  offered  it 
to  me  as  a  loan,  until  the  other  one 
should  arrive.  I  grasped  it  with  grate- 
ful acknowledgment ;  and  the  solemn- 
looking  little  man  gazed  after  me  in 
evident  bewilderment  ;  while  I  shot 
clown  the  street  with  my  treasure,  and 
presented  myself,  breathless  and  tri- 
umphant, in  the  sitting-room  with  a 
clew  to  all  my  difficulties. 

It  was  a  great  help,  certainly ;  and 
with  our  combined  genius  we  accom- 
plished wonders  in  an  incredibly  short 
space  of  time,  and  succeeded  in  con- 
verting "Wild  Rats"  into  "Walter 
Bates,"  being  much  relieved  to  dis- 
cover that,  instead  of  having  his  head 
torn  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  his  hip- 
joint  was  injured  in  some  unintelligible 
manner  by  that  clumsy  missile,  and  one 
foot  shot  away.  Poor  fellows  !  I  began 
to  realize  what  they  had  suffered. 

I  became  deeply  interested  in  my 
work  ;  and  it  had  a  very  neat  appear- 
ance, arranged  in  those  orderly  col- 
umns ;  but  suddenly  a  great  splash  of 
ink  fell  from  my  pen,  and  spread  over 


nearly  a  quarter  of  the  page  with  mali- 
cious celerity.  I  felt  disgraced,  and 
almost  cried  to  see  my  work  disfigured 
in  this  way ;  but  when  I  glanced  at  the 
doctor's  performances,  I  did  not  see 
how  he  could  well  complain. 

"  Why  does  he  call  so  many  of  them 
'  Pat,' "  said  I,  "  when  they  are  not 
Pat  at  all  t  He  says,  '  Pat  much  dis- 
abled,' '  Pat  progressing,' «  Pat  in  hos- 
pital ' ;  do  you  suppose  he  really  means 
'Pat'  by  this  word?" 

My  friend  turned  it  critically  to  the 
light.  "It  may  be  a  V,"  she  said, 
"and  mean  some  sort  of  medical  term  ; 
but  it  certainly  looks  like  P." 

"  I  shall  put  it  down  «  Pat,'  "  I  said, 
"  though  it  seems  perfectly  senseless, 
and  the  Doctor  can  arrange  it  to  suit 
himself." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Coleford,  as  she 
turned  down  a  hem  reflectively,  "that 
I  could  make  out  what  '  Double  Impe- 
rial Hemorrhage '  is ;  it  sounds  like 
something  dreadful.  Perhaps  we  have 
made  a  mistake." 

"  I  should  be  thankful  to  get  off  with 
one  mistake,"  I  replied.  "  I  dread 
meeting  Dr.  Craig  after  he  has  received 
the  book  ;  and  yet  I  think  that  my  in- 
dignation at  his  abominable  handwrit- 
ing will  keep  me  up  a  little." 

In  two  or  three  days  of  close  appli- 
cation the  yellow  roll' was  quite  ex- 
hausted ;  and,  according  to  agreement, 
we  must  make  a  second  visit  to  the 
Doctor's  office,  to  have  the  work  ex- 
amined and  commented  upon,  and  ob- 
tain a  fresh  relay  of  documents.  We 
examined  those  columns  critically  be- 
fore consigning  the  book  to  the  express- 
office  for  its  journey  to  town  ;  and 
while  wondering  for  the  twentieth  time 
over  some  very  queer  injuries  and  com- 
plaints that  had  to  be  copied  letter  by 
letter  as  the  Doctor  seemed  to  have 
written  them,  and  which  in  their  best 
estate  would  have  been  Latin  and 
Greek  to  us,  we  felt,  on  the  whole,  that 
the  task  had  been  accomplished  in  a 
very  praiseworthy  manner. 

I  saw  at  a  glance,  after  the  first 
greeting,  that  every  part  of  Dr.  Craig's 


548 


My  Secretaryship. 


[May, 


face  was  laughing,  except  his  mouth. 
The  book,  which  had  arrived  an  hour 
or  two  before  us,  was  open  on  the  table, 
—  open,  too,  just  at  that  horrible  blot ; 
and  with  sudden  courage,  I  remarked  : 
"  I  copied  your  work  as  accurately  as 
I  could,  even  to  the  blotting." 

He  was  evidently  glad  of  some  ex- 
cuse for  laughing  ;  and  replied,  as  he 
turned  over  the  leaves,  "  You  believe, 
then,  in  the  Chinese  style  of  following 
a  pattern  ?  But,  really,  Miss  Redin- 
gode,"  he  continued,  "  I  scarcely  know 
what  to  say.  I  am  overwhelmed  with 
astonishment  and  gratitude.  You  must 
have  found  the  task  a  fearful  one." 

"It  was  not  so  bad  after  I  began  to 
use  the  magnifying-glass,"  said  I,  re- 
solved to  punish  him  for  that  aggra- 
vatingly  amused  expression  of  counte- 
nance. "  I  should  like  to  know,"  said 
I  to  myself,  "  how  he  can  expect  wo- 
men to  understand  army  matters  and 
surgical  terms." 

"  '  Magnifying-glass'  ?  "  repeated  the 
Doctor,  glancing  at  Mrs.  Coleford  in  a 
sort  of  comical  distress.  "  Really,"  he 
added,  coloring  and  laughing,  as  he 
buried  his  head  in  the  book,  "you 
ladies  are  too  hard  upon  me." 

*  But  this  is  no  joke,  Doctor,"  con- 
tinued Mrs,  Coleford  ;  "a  magnifying- 
glass  was  really  procured  ;  and  you  do 
not  know  what  a  help  we  found  it." 

"  *  Anchovy  of  hip-joint,'  "  read  the 
Doctor,  by  way  of  screening  himself, 
"  that  should  be  *  Anchylosis.' " 

My  face  was  burning  painfully  ;  and 
I  wished  the  ponderous  volume  safely 
lodged  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  Dr. 
Craig  glanced  kindly  at  me,  and 
praised  the  work  and  the  penmanship, 
as  he  produced  a  fresh  roll  of  docu- 
ments, and  asked  if  I  would  kindly 
continue  to  help  him  out  of  his  di- 
lemma. 

"  I  have  business  in  L ,"  said  he, 

"and  will  bring  you  the  book  and 
papers  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  I  had  almost  given  you  up  as  a 
visitor,"  said  Mrs.  Coleford,  reproach- 
fully, "and  had  resolved  never  to  ask 
you  again." 

"  You  will  soon  see,"  was  the  reply, 


"  that  I  did  not  come  because  I  knew 
that  if  I  began  I  should  not  have  sense 
enough  to  stop." 

"  He  does  not  want  his  book  spoiled," 
thought  I,  "and  intends  to  watch  the 
progress  of  my  work." 

Just  as  we  passed  out  of  the  door 
the  handsome  officer  who  picked  up 
my  book  ran  up  the  steps,  politely  bow- 
ing as  he  passed  us.  From  Dr.  Craig's 
warm  welcome,  they  were  evidently 
old  cronies.  I  felt  quite  provoked  at 
myself  for  letting  my  thoughts  dwell 
on  him,  and  tried  to  become  practical 
by  saying  "anchylosis"  a  number  of 
times. 

"  Rose,"  said  my  friend,  impressively, 
when  we  were  fairly'out  of  the  office, 
"  I  have  a  settled  conviction  that  Dr. 
Craig  is  at  this  moment  rolling  on  the 
floor  with  long-suppressed  laughter.  If 
'  anchovy  of  hip-joint '  is  a  fair  speci- 
men, what  work  we  must  have  made  of 
the  poor  fellows  generally.  We  spent 
a  good  hour  over  that  word  '  anchovy,' 
too." 

'  Dr.  Craig  made  us  a  very  pleasant 
evening  visit,  and  brought  the  book 
and  papers  with  him.  We  had  a  great 
deal  of  laughing  and  jesting  over  the 
matter  ;  and,  separated  from  the  hor- 
rors of  his  office,  I  began  to  think  the 
Doctor  very  agreeable.  Cornelia  played 
"  Mrs.  Turveydrop  "  to  perfection  ;  but 
I  feared  that  she  was  arranging  some 
little  plans  of  her  own  that  threatened 
to  swallow  up  my  secretaryship,  and 
this  made  me  a  trifle  stiff  and  ungra- 
cious to  our  visitor. 

The  Doctor  kindly  gave  me  a  lesson 
in  anatomy,  that  I  might  understand 
his  scrawls  a  little  better ;  and,  em- 
boldened by  this  condescension,  Mrs. 
Coleford  desired  to  know  what "  Double 
Imperial  Hemorrhage  "  might  be. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !  " 
was  the  astonished  reply. 

The  book  was  opened  at  once,  and 
the  puzzling  passage  pointed  out  in 
black  and  white.  The  Doctor's  face 
was  a  study. 

"  It  sounds  like  a  flower  label,"  said 
he,  "but  it  should \)£  'frequent  internal 


8;o.] 


My  Secretaryship. 


549 


hemorrhage.'  I  really  did  not  know 
that  my  writing  was  so  atrociously 
illegible'" 

The  second  roll  was,  if  possible, 
worse  than  the  first  ;  more  ink-blotches, 
more  faint  pencil-marks,  and  various 
foreign  matters  of  a  private  nature 
thrown  promiscuously  in. 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  I  to  Mrs. 
Coleford,  after  puzzling  out  one  poor 
fellow's  case  with  a  great  deal  of  inter- 
est, "of  calling  a  man  with  one  leg 
and  one  eye,  jaw-bone  shot  away,  and 
various  other  mutilations,  ' partly  disa- 
bled,' and  giving  him  half-pension  ?  Is 
not  that  outrageous  ?  I  intend  to  write 
him  clown  '  a  total  wreck  '  and  give  him 
full  pension." 

My  friend  looked  frightened.  "  That 
will  scarcely  do,"  she  said  ;  "it  might 
get  the  Doctor  into  trouble.  Where 
does  the  man  live  ?  " 

"Why,  right  here!"  I  replied  in 
delight.  "  Here  is  his  address,  — « Pat- 
rick Doyle,  No.  10  Lime  Street';  let 
us  go  and  see  him." 

Lime  Street  was  not  a  pleasant  re- 
gion, but  we  went  that  very  afternoon, 
and  found  the  poor  fellow  entirely  alone 
in  the  neatest  little  mite  of  a  house. 
Afrs.  Patrick  was  out  at  carpet-weaving, 
by  which  she  supported  the  family,  part 
of  whom  worked  with  her  ;  while  the 
invalid  soldier  "kept  house,"  as  he 
called  it,  that  is,  sat  and  stared  at  the 
fire,  for  he  seemed  too  weak  to  move 
about. 

He  assured  us  that  he  had  been 
"blown  to  pieces  intirely,"  and  ex- 
pressed his  willingness  to  have  the 
process  repeated  for  such  an  "  illigant 
counthry."  Poor,  patient  fellow  !  if 
my  hands  had  only  been  filled  with 
pensions,  that  I  might  have  showered 
them  upon  him  !  one  full  pension, 
even,  was  such  a  miserable  pittance. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "they  told  him  he 
ought  to  have  had  full  pension,  and  the 
Major,  mebbe,  would  have  got  it  for 
him  ;  but  he  was  living  in  the  big  city, 
and  he  could  n't  see  him,  and  it  was 
hard,  any  way,  for  the  poor  to  get  their 
rights." 


"  What  is  your  Major's  name  ?  "  I 
asked,  fired  with  a  sudden  determina- 
tion to  bring  this  matter  about;  "and 
where  does  he  live  ?  " 

Shure  and  did  n't  the  leddy  know 
Major  Hames,  the  nice  gentleman  who 
had  a  pleasant  word  for  every  one,  and 
who  had  been  just  like  a  father  to  him 
in  the  army  ?  Patrick  had  his  number 
and  street  on  a  dirty  bit  of  paper, 
that,  mebbe,  the  leddy  would  n't  care 
to  touch,  but  he  had  never  liked  to 
trouble  the  Major. 

And,  taking  out  an  old  pocket-book, 
the  poor  remnant  of  a  man  and  a  broth- 
er produced  a  scrap  of  paper  uninviting 
enough  ;  but  "  the  leddy "  did  touch 
it,  and  found  that  the  Major  who  had 
been  a  father  to  the  maimed  private 
lived  in  a  very  accessible  region  of  the 
city  which  I  frequently  visited.  I  did 
not  wish,  however,  to  raise  false  hopes, 
so  I  said  nothing  to  Patrick  of  my  in- 
tention ;  but  I  was  fully  resolved  to 
attack  this  fatherly  Major,  and  lay  be- 
fore him  the  case  of  the  poor  helpless 
soldier  whom  Dr.  Craig  pronounced 
"partly  disabled."  It  would  be  such  a 
triumph  to  get  him  a  full  pension,  and 
show  the  Doctor  that  if  I  did  make 
mistakes  in  surgical  terms,  (thanks  to 
his  outrageous  handwriting !)  I  under- 
stood some  things  better  than  he  did. 

Patrick  Doyle  was  very  grateful  for 
our  visit,  and  impressed  upon  us  to 
the  very  last  that  Major  Hames  had 
been  a  father  to  him. 

"  I  shall  certainly  make  the  old  gen- 
tleman a  visit,"  said  I,  as  we  emerged 
from  Lime  Street;  "you  know  that  I 
have  to  go  to  town  to-morrow  ;  and 
perhaps  by  stating  his  case  fully  to  this 
Major,  I  may  get  a  few  dollars  more 
for  poor  Patrick.  '  Partly  disabled,' 
indeed  !  I  should  like  to  know  what  he 
can  do  with  the  fragment  of  body  that 's 
left  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Coleford  quite  approved  of  my 
intention  ;  and,  full  of  enterprise  and 
resolution,  I  set  forth  on  my  mission, 
and  rang  the  bell  at  a  handsome  house 
in  a  very  fashionable  situation. 

"  Tell  Major  Hames,"  said  I  to  the 
servant  who  ushered  me  into  the  draw- 


550 


My  Secretaryship. 


[May, 


ing-room,  "  that  a  lady  wishes  to  see 
him  on  business." 

I  had  pictured  the  thin  elderly  gen- 
tleman with  gray  whiskers,  who  was  to 
enter  the  room  with  dignified  elegance, 
and  listen  to  my  narrative  in  the  fa- 
therly manner  that  had  made  such  an 
impression  on  Patrick  Doyle ;  but 
when  the  real  Major  Hames  stood  be- 
fore me  I  scarcely  suppressed  a  scream, 
and  meditated  a  wild  retreat  through 
one  of  the  windows.  It  was  the  officer 
in  Rogers's  group,  —  the  very  individ- 
ual who  had  picked  up  that  miserable 
book  for  me,  and  who,  as  he  was  evi- 
dently a  friend  of  Dr.  Craig's,  had 
probably  ascertained  my  singular  con- 
nection with  that  gentleman. 

I  tried  to  speak,  but  only  stammered, 
and  my  face  seemed  on  fire ;  I  did 
not  dare  to  look  at  him,  and  I  suppose 
he  was  amazed  at  my  conduct,  for 
presently  he  said,  in  a  very  bland  tone  : 
"  Pardon  me,  I  understood  that  you 
had  asked  for  Major  Hames  ?  " 

Out  I  cam:,  with  the  very  thing  I 
should  not  have  said,  and  told  him 
clumsily  enough  that  I  had  expected  to 
see  an  elderly  gentleman. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  —  "  he  began  ;  but 
the  utter  absurdity  of  his  being  sorry 
that  he  was  not  an  elderly  gentleman 
struck  us  both,  and  we  laughed  in  con- 
cert. 

"  I  am  Miss  Redingode,"  said  I,  as 
I  suddenly  remembered  that  this  fright- 
fully youthful  father  of  Patrick  Doyle's 
would  not  know  what  to  call  me. 

The  handsome  face  before  me  fairly 
beamed  with  delight. 

"Miss  Redingode!"  he  repeated, 
with  a  quick  movement  toward  me; 
"  that  was  my  mother's  name,  and  it  is 
also  mine.  It  is  so  very  uncommon 
that  I  think  we  must  be  related.  May 
I  ask  if  you  have  relatives  in  Ken- 
tucky ? " 

"  I  was  born  there,"  I  replied,  "  but 
I  do  not  think  I  have  any  relatives 
any  where." 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,"  said  the 
gentleman,  "  you  must  see  my  sister  "  ; 
and  he  left  me  in  a  tumultuous  whirl 
of  excitement  over  the  prospect  of  com- 


ing all  of  a  sudden  upon  some  delight- 
ful cousins. 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Fay,"  said  the  Major, 
returning  with  a  young  and  very  charm- 
ing personage  ;  "  but  I  hope  she  will 
soon  succeed  in  establishing  her  right 
to  a  less  formal  title  from  you." 

"  I  do  hope  you  are  a  cousin,"  said 
the  lady,  warmly ;  "  we  are  dreadfully 
alone  in  the  world,  Clarence  and  I. 
To  be  sure,  I  have  my  husband." 

"A  trifling  appendage,"  remarked 
her  brother. 

"  Now,  Clarence,  be  quiet !  Miss 
Redingode  does  not  know  you  yet. 
But  let  us  overhaul  the  family  records 
as  speedily  as  possible,  and  see  how 
near  we  can  come  in  our  relationship." 

We  did  an  immense  amount  of  talk- 
ing, and  persuaded  ourselves  into  the 
firm  conviction  that  we  were  second  or 
third  cousins. 

It  seemed  like  a  fairy-tale  ;  and  my 
newly  found  cousins  were  perfect  treas- 
ures. They  desired  to  take  immediate 
possession  of  me  ;  and  after  a  visit  of 
an  hour  or  two,  I  could  scarcely  get 
away.  Mrs.  Fay  called  me  "  Rose  " 
in  the  most  natural  manner,  and  I  found 
myself  addressing  her  as  "  Cousin  Nan- 
nie." Her  brother  assured  me  that  no 
such  person  as  "  Major  Hames  "  ex- 
isted for  me,  but  I  did  not  get  on  quite 
so  easily  with  him ;  and  by  a  sort  of 
tacit  arrangement,  we  did  not  call  each 
other  anything. 

I  knew  that  Cornelia  would  wonder 
what  had  become  of  me,  as  I  had  prom- 
ised to  return  to  dinner ;  and  after 
tracing  the  Redingodes  back  to  an  old 
Tory  great-grandfather,  discussing  them 
root  and  branch,  and  mourning  over 
the  rapid  extinction  of  the  race,  I  fairly 
tore  myself  away,  with  promises  of 
speedy  and  more  satisfactory  visits  on 
both  sides,  and  was  accompanied  to 
the  cars  by  Major  Clarence  Redingode 
Hames. 

Mrs.  Coleford  was  quite  uneasy  at 
my  long  absence  ;  but  when  I  entered, 
full  of  excitement  and  adventures,  I 
found  a  ready  and  sympathizing  lis- 
tener. 

"  I   suppose,  then,"  said  my  friend, 


8;o.] 


My  Secretaryship. 


551 


when  I  had  paused  to  take  breath, 
"that  you  found  no  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining the  Major's  aid  for  Patrick 
Doyle?" 

" « Patrick  Doyle '  /  "  I  repeated  wild- 
ly, —  "I  never  thought  of  him  !  " 

My  companion  looked  amazed.  "How, 
then,  did  you  .explain  your  visit  to  Ma- 
jor Hames  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  explain  it  at  all,"  said  I, 
hanging  my  diminished  head,  "  except 
to  tell  him  that  I  had  expected  him  to 
be  an  elderly  gentleman." 

Mrs.  Coleford  laughed  merrily. 

"Then  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
you  had  a  habit  of  calling  promiscuously 
upon  elderly  gentlemen  !  O  Rose  ! 
Rose  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you  ! " 

"ZfcaV/"  said  I,  in  despair.  "All 
that  you  say,  I  think;  and  I  could 
shake  myself  with  right  good- will. 
What  must  my  Kentucky  cousins  think 
of  me,  when  they  come  to  talk  the  mat- 
ter over  in  cool  blood  ?  " 

As  the  novelists  say,  no  description 
could  do  justice  to  my  feelings ;  and 
with  my  brain  in  a  whirl,  I  made  such 
absurd  mistakes  in  the  army  records 
that  I  flung  the  book  down  in  despair, 
and  would  have  given  anything  to  dis- 
cover that  I  had  only  been  dreaming 
of  my  visit  to  Major  Hames. 

Dr.  Craig  seemed  to  have  a  great 

deal  of  business  in  L ,  and  speedily 

followed  up  his  first  visit  with  several 
others.  Every  time  he  came  there  was 
fresh  laughing  over  my  work  ;  and 
when  we  gravely  inquired  why  he 
called  so  many  of  the  soldiers  "  Pat," 
or  if  he  meant  "  Pat  "  at  all,  it  seemed 
almost  an  impossibility  for  him  to  re- 
gain his  self-control. 

"  Then  you  never  would  have  guess- 
ed," said  he,  finally,  "that  it  was  in- 
tended for  'patient"1  ?" 

Cornelia  and  I  were  disgusted  with 
our  own  stupidity  ;  and  we  resolved 
that  no  amount  of  curiosity  should  in- 
duce us  to  ask  any  questions  in  the 
future. 

The  very  day  but  one  after  my  raid 
upon  the  Major  that  gentleman's  card 
and  his  sister's  were  brought  to  me  ; 


and  down  I  went  to  explain  my  singu- 
lar conduct  as  I  best  could. 

Cousin  Nannie  looked  lovely,  and 
was  attired  as  bewitchingly  as  people  of 
taste,  and  the  wherewithal  to  gratify  it, 
can  attire  themselves  ;  and  her  ex- 
quisite toilet  made  me  feel  indescriba- 
bly shabby.  But  mine  was  coming  ;  a 
few  more  yellow  rolls  would  make  me 
quite  independent. 

These  cousins  of  mine  seemed  to 
feel  as  if  they  had  known  me  all  their 
lives  ;  and  it  was  really  delightful  for  a 
poor,  stray  waif  like  myself  to  be  taken 
at  once  into  the  bosom  of  the  family. 

"What  did  you  think  I  came  for  ?  " 
said  I,  as  soon  as  I  could  find  a  chance 
to  introduce  the  subject ;  "  I  totally  for- 
got my  errand  to  Major  Hames,  which 
was  not  to  tell  him  that  I  supposed  him 
to  be  an  elderly  gentleman  ;  and  when, 
I  recovered'  my  senses,  I  was.  over- 
whelmed with  mortification.  It  must 
have  seemed  so  very  queer  to  you." 

Cousin  Nannie  looked  at  her  brother, 
and  laughed. 

"  We  did  think  of  it,  after  you  left," 
said  she,  "  and  wondered  a  little  how 
you  got  there,  as  you  did  not  know  that 
you  were  visiting  relatives ;  but  we 
concluded  that  you  would  be  able  to 
explain  it  in  a  perfectly  rational  man- 
ner. I  am  sure  we  are  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  coming ;  and  now, 
Rose,"  with  an  irresistible  caress,  "  you 
must  go  home  with  me  at  once.  I  never 
had  a  sister,  and  you  can't  think  how. 
lonely  I  am  !  " 

This  was  real  Kentucky  hospitality, 
and  very  pleasant  to  receive ;  but  I 
was  not  disposed  to  avail  myself  of  it. 

"  Nannie  is  a  most  unfortunate  be- 
ing," said  the  Major,  gravely  ;  "  she  has 
a  husband  and  a  brother  perfectly  de- 
voted to  her,  and  every  wish  gratified. 
I  think  her  case  appeals  eloquently  to 
the  sympathies  of  the  benevolent.  I 
hope  you  are  benevolent,  Cousin 
Rose?" 

My  embarrassment  at  this  address 
was  not  calmed  by  Mrs.  Fay's  rather 
irrelevant  remark  :  "  I  do  think  Rose 
is  a  lovely  name  !  and  it  suits  you  ad- 
mirably. You  are  always  in  a  sort  of 


552 


My  Secretaryship. 


[May, 


flush,  like  the  beautiful  shades  of  color 
on  some  of  those  velvety  petals.  But 
do  forgive  me  !  I  did  not  mean  to 
make  a  damask  Rose  of  you." 

I  rushed  after  Mrs.  Coleford,  to 
change  the  conversation ;  and  took 
much  pleasure  in  introducing  my 
sweet-looking  friend  to  my  very  charm- 
ing cousins.  They  were  mutually  at- 
tracted ;  but  Cornelia  would  not  listen 
to  the  proposed  change  of  my  quarters. 
I  was  engaged  to  her,  at  least,  for  the 
summer,  she  said;  but  I  promised  a 
speedy  visit,  and  with  this  Cousin 
Nannie  declared  herself  only  partly 
satisfied. 

"  Now,"  said  my  friend,  when  we 
were  alone  again,  "  what  about  Patrick 
Doyle  ? " 

I  laughed  outright ;  it  seemed  very 
unfeeling,  but  I  really  could  not  help  it. 

"  They  do  not  yet  know,"  said  I, 
thinking  of  my  cousins  instead  of  Pat- 
rick, "  what  took  me  to  Mrs.  Fay's 
house  last  Tuesday  !  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Coleford,  "  I 
am  very  glad  that  /  do  not  depend  on 
you  for  a  pension.  Don't  talk  of  the 
Doctor,  after  such  proceedings  !  " 

"  I  will  tell  the  Major,  the  next  time 
I  see  him,"  said  I,  resolutely ;  "what 
must  he  think  of  me  !  " 

"  I  have  not  the  least  doubt,"  re- 
marked my  friend,  dryly,  "that  his  sen- 
timents are  quite  favorable." 

I  felt  like  a  damask  Rose  again  ; 
and  I  tried  to  be  provoked  with  Cor- 
nelia, but  there  really  seemed  to  be  no 
use  in  it. 

"  I  have  come  so  soon  again,"  said 
Major  Hames,  one  evening,  "that  I 
am  afraid  you  will  scarcely  know  wheth- 
er this  was  the  other  visit  continued  or 
a  new  one." 

"  Have  you  the  slightest  idea,"  said 
I,  in  reply,  "what  took  me  to  see  you 
the  other  day  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  my  cousin,  "  I  am  sat- 
isfied with  the  fact." 

"  But  /  am  not,"  I  continued,  warmly, 
"  and  I  must  request  your  patience  for 
quite  a  lengthy  story.  Do  you  know  a 
man  named  Patrick  Doyle  ? " 


I  could  scarcely  conceal  my  vexation 
at  the  inopportune  appearance  of  Dr. 
Craig. 

The  Major's  face  was  a  mixture  of 
annoyance  and  suppressed  laughter,  as 
he  returned  the  Doctor's  astonished 
greeting  :  "  Why,  I  did  n't  expect  to 
see  you  here,  old  fellow!"  with  the 
equally  flattering  remark  :  "  I  had  cer- 
tainly no  idea  of  meeting  you  !  " 

Then  turning  to  me  :  "  He  deserves 
to  be  exposed,  Miss  Redingode.  I  al- 
most begged  him  on  my  knees  to  tell 
me  your  name  the  day  I  met  you  on 
his  front  steps,  but  he  was  perfectly 
callous  to  all  my  supplications.  This 
young  lady,  Robert,  turns  out  to  be  my 
cousin  ;  I  should  think  you  would  have 
known  that  two  persons  with  such  a 
name  as  ours  must  belong  to  the  same 
family." 

"  I  had  forgotten  all  about  your 
name,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  great  em- 
barrassment ;  "  I  hope  that  Miss  Red- 
ingode will  excuse  me." 

"  She  will  excuse  you  far  more  read- 
ily than  /  shall,"  returned  his  friend. 
"  However,  as  no  harm  can  come  of 
your  selfishness,  I  suppose  that  I  can 
afford  to  be  generous." 

I  scarcely  knew  which  way  to  look  ; 
and  Cornelia  appeared  to  enjoy  it  all 
very  much.  Our  visitors  stayed  quite 
late,  for  each  seemed  resolved  not  to 
desert  Mr.  Micawber ;  but  they  were 
somewhat  constrained  with  each  other, 
and  it  was  not  half  so  easy  to  entertain 
them  as  when  they  came  singly. 

Mrs.  Coleford  asked  me  again  if  I 
had  told  the  Major  about  Patrick 
Doyle. 

"No,"  I  replied,  "there  is  a  sort 
of  spell  upon  that  narrative,  and  I 
begin  to  doubt  whether  I  ever  shall 
tell  it." 

I  did  tell  my  story,  however,  and 
Cousin  Nannie  heard  it,  too ;  they 
laughed  at  the  Irishman's  declaration 
that  Major  Hames  had  been  a  father 
to  him,  as  Patrick  was  a"b'y"  of  at 
least  forty  summers ;  but  his  case  was 
taken  up  with  the  kindest  interest,  and 
resulted  in  my  having  the  satisfaction 


My  Secretaryship. 


553 


of  writing  him  down  "a  total  wreck" 
(although  the  term  was  quite  unprofes- 
sional), and  obtaining  for  him  a  full 
pension. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Major,  with  quite  a 
business-like  air,  when  these  results 
had  been  duly  laid  before  me,  "/have 
a  favor  to  ask." 

We  were  in  the  conservatory,  and  I 
was  rather  alarmed  to  see  Cousin  Nan- 
nie flit  off  among  the  orange-trees,  and 
disappear  through  the  door.  I  thought 
of  following  her  ;  but  my  other  cousin 
had  secured  me  by  one  hand,  as  he 
whispered:  "  Rosa  miindi! — May  I 
say,  Rosa  mine  ?  " 

I  have  no  recollection  of  saying  any- 
thing whatever  ;  but  the  Major  had  the 
effrontery  to  assure  his  sister  that  I 
was  engaged  to  him,  and  this  soon 
came  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  settled 
thing.  I  did  mention  something  about 
the  unsatisfactoriness  of  discovering 
cousins  who  would  not  stay  cousins  ; 
on  which  Nannie  told  me,  with  the 
most  charming  frankness,  that  she  had 


made  up  her  mind,  as  soon  as  she  saw 
me,  that  I  should  marry  Clarence. 

Mrs.  Coleford  managed  to  mix  up 
some  allusion  to  Dr.  Craig's  disap- 
pointment with  her  congratulations; 
but  I  informed  her  gravely  that  I  fully 
intended  to  complete  the  documents. 
As  to  any  other  disappointment,  it 
seemed  entirely  foreign  to  his  comfort- 
able appearance,  and  fresh,  English 
color.  He  never  told  his  "love,  but 
neither  did  any  worm  prey  upon  his 
damask  cheek  ;  and  when  the  writing 
was  accomplished,  I  received  a  fabu- 
lous check  for  my  work,  which  the 
Doctor  assured  me  I  had  fully  earned, 
as  the  rescued  documents  were  of  great 
value  to  him. 

I  did  not  get  much  of  a  spring  outfit 
after  all,  as  Cornelia  advised  me  to 
save  up  my  resources  for  the  autumn, 
when  she  seemed  to  think  I  would 
need  them  particularly ;  but  I  had,  at 
least,  the  consolation  of  which  Dr. 
Johnson  speaks,  that  I  had  endeavored 
well. 


MAY    GROWN    A-COLD. 

O  CERTAINLY,  no  month  this  is  but  May! 
Sweet  earth  and  sky,  sweet  birds  of  happy  song, 
Do  make  thee  happy  now,  and  thou  art  strong, 
And  many  a  tear  thy  love  shall  wipe  away 
And  make  the  dark  night  merrier  than  the  day, 
Straighten  the  crooked  paths  and  right  the  wrong, 
And  tangle  bliss  so  that  it  tarry  long. 
Go  cry  aloud  the  hope  the  Heavens  do  say ! 


Nay,  what  is  this  ?  and  wherefore  lingerest  thou  ? 
Why  sayest  thou  the  sky  is  hard  as  stone? 
Why  sayest  thou  the  thrushes  sob  and  moan  ? 
Why  sayest  thou  the  east  tears  bloom  and  bough? 
Why  seem  the  sons  of  man  so  hopeless  now  ? 
Thy  love  is  gone,  poor  wretch,  thou  art  alone ! 


554 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [May, 


THE   ENGLISH   GOVERNESS   AT  THE  SIAMESE   COURT. 

II. 


A  SECOND  or  subordinate  king- 
ship is  an  anomalous  device  or 
provision  of  sovereignty  peculiar  to 
Siam,  Cambodia,  and  Laos.  Inferior 
in  station  to  the  supreme  king  only, 
and  apparently  deriving  from  the  throne 
of  the  Phra-batts,  to  which  he  may 
approach  so  near,  a  reflected  majesty 
and  prestige  not  clearly  understood  by 
his  subjects  nor  easily  defined  by  for- 
eigners, the  second  king  seems  to 
be,  nevertheless,  belittled  by  the  very 
significance  of  the  one  exclusive  priv- 
ilege that  should  distinguish  him,  — 
that  of  exemption  from  the  customary 
prostrations  before  the  first  king,  whom 
he  may  salute  by  simply  raising  his 
hands  and  joining  them  above  his 
head.  Here  his  proper  right  of  royalty 
begins  and  ends.  The  part  that  he 
may  play  in  the  drama  of  government 
is  cast  to  him  in  the  necessity,  discre- 
tion, or  caprice  of  his  absolute  chief 
next,  and  yet  so  far,  above  him ;  it 
may  be  important,  insignificant,  or 
wholly  omitted.  Like  any  lesser  ducus 
of  the  realm,  he  must  appear  before 
his  lord  twice  a  year  to  renew  his  oath 
of  allegiance.  In  law,  he  is  as  mere 
a  subject  as  the  slave  who  bears  his 
betel-box,  or  that  other  slave  who,  on 
his  knees,  and  with  averted  face,  pre- 
sents his  spittoon.  In  history,  he  shall 
be  what  circumstance  or  his  own  mind 
may  make  him,  the  shadow  or  the 
soul  of  sovereignty,  even  as  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  weakness  or  strength 
may  have  been  apportioned  between 
him  and  his  colleague.  From  his  rank 
he  derives  no  advantage  but  the  chance. 
Somdetch  Phra  Pawarendr'  Ramesr 
Mahiswarer,  the  subordinate  King  of 
Siam,  who  died  on  the  29th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1865,  was  the  legitimate  son  of  the 
supreme  king,  second  of  his  dynasty, 
who  reigned  from  1809  to  1824.  His 
father  had  been  second  king  to  his 
grandfather,  "grand  supreme"  of  Siam, 


and  first  of  the  reigning  line.  His 
mother  was  "lawful  first  queen  con- 
sort " ;  and  the  late  first  or  major 
king,  Somdetch-Phra  Paramendr  Maha 
Mongkut,  was  his  elder  full  brother. 
Being  alike  legitimate  offspring  of  the 
first  queen,  these  two  lads  were  styled 
Somdetch  Chowfas,  "Celestial  Royal 
Princes  " ;  and  during  the  second  and 
third  reigns  they  were  distinguished  by 
the  titles  of  courtesy  pertaining  to  their 
royal  status  and  relation,  the  elder  as 
Chowfa  Mongkut,  the  younger  as  Chow- 
fa  Chudha-Mani :  Mongkut  signifying 
"  Royal  Crown,"  and  Chudha  -  Mani 
"  Royal  Hair-pin." 

On  the  death  of  their  father  (in  1824), 
and  the  accession,  by  intrigue,  of  their 
elder  half-brother,  the  Chowfa  Mongkut 
entered  the  Buddhist  priesthood ;  but 
his  brother,  more  ardent,  inquisitive, 
and  restless,  took  active  service  with 
the  king,  in  the  military  as  well  as 
in  the  diplomatic  department  of  gov- 
ernment. He  was  appointed  Super- 
intendent of  Artillery  and  Malayan  In- 
fantry on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the 
other,  Translator  of  English  Docu- 
ments and  Secretary  for  English  Cor- 
respondence. 

In  a  cautious  and  verbose  sketch  of 
his  character  and  services,  written  after 
his  death  by  his  jealous  brother,  the 
priest  king,  wherein  he  is,  by  turns, 
meanly  disparaged  and  damned  with 
faint  praise,  we  find  this  curious  state- 
ment :  — 

"After  that  time  (1821)  he  became 
acquainted  with  certain  parties  of  Eng- 
lish and  East  Indian  merchants,  who 
made  their  appearance  or  first  com- 
menced trading  on  late  of  the  second 
reign,  after  the  former  trade  with  Siam 
which  had  been  stopped  or  postponed 
several  years  in  consequence  of  some 
misunderstanding  before.  He  became 
acquainted  with  certain  parts  of  Eng- 
lish language  and  literature,  and  cer- 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


555 


tain  parts  of  Hindoo  or  Bengali  lan- 
guage, as  sufficient  for  some  unimpor- 
tant conversation  with  English  and 
Indian  strangers  who  were  visitors  of 
Siam,  upon  the  latter  part  of  the  reign 
of  his  royal  father ;  but  his  royal  father 
did  not  know  that  he  possessed  such 
knowledge  of  foreign  language,  which 
had  been  concealed  to  the  native  per- 
sons in  republic  affairs,  whose  jeal- 
ousy seemed  to  be  strong  against 
strangers,  so  he  was  not  employed  in 
any  terms  with  those  strangers  foreign 
affairs,"  —  that  is,  during  the  life  of  his 
father,  at  whose  death  he  was  just 
sixteen  years  old. 

Early  in  the  third  reign  he  was  sent 
to  Meeklong  to  superintend  the  con- 
struction of  important  works  of  defence 
near  the  mouth  of  the  Meeklong  River. 
He  pushed  this  work  with  vigor,  and 
completed  it  in  1835.  In  J^42  ne 
commanded  successfully  an  expedition 
against  the  Cochin-Chinese,  and  in  re- 
turning brought  with  him  to  Siam  many 
families  of  refugees  from  the  eastern 
coast.  Then  he  was  commissioned  by 
the  king  to  reconstruct,  "  after  Western 
models,"  the  ancient  fortifications  at 
Paknam  ;  and  having  to  this  end  en- 
gaged a  corps  of  European  engineers 
and  artisans,  he  eagerly  seized  the  ad- 
vantage the  situation  afforded  him,  by 
free  and  intelligent  intercourse  with  his 
foreign  assistants,  to  master  the  Eng- 
lish language,  so  that,  at  his  death,  he 
notably  excelled  the  first  king  in  the 
facility  with  which  he  spoke,  read,  and 
wrote  it ;  and  to  improve  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Western  sciences  and 
arts  of  navigation,  naval  construction 
and  armament,  coast  and  inland  de- 
fence, engineering,  transportation,  and 
telegraphy,  the  working  and  casting 
of  iron,  etc. 

On  the  26th  of  May,  1851,  twelve 
days  after  the  coronation  of  his  elder 
brother,  the  student  and  priest  Maha 
Mongkut,  he  was  called  by  the  unani- 
mous voice  of  "  the  king  and  council" 
to  be  second  king  ;  and  throughout  his 
subordinate  reign  his  sagacious  and 
alert  inquiry,  his  quick  apprehension, 
his  energetic  and  liberal  spirit  of  im- 


provement, engaged  the  admiration  of 
foreigners  ;  whilst  his  handsome  per- 
son, his  generous  temper,  his  gallant 
preference  for  the  skilful  and  the  brave, 
his  enthusiasm  and  princely  profusion 
in  sports  and  shows,  endeared  him 
more  and  more  to  his  people.  Maha 
Mongkut  —  at  no  time  inclined  to 
praise  him  beyond  his  deserts,  and 
least  of  all  in  the  latter  years  of  his 
life,  embittered  to  both  by  mutual  jeal- 
ousy and  distrust  —  wrote  almost  hand- 
somely of  him  under  the  pressure  of 
this  public  opinion. 

"  He  made  everything  new  and  beau- 
tiful, and  of  curious  appearance,  and  of 
a  good  style  of  architecture,  and  much 
stronger  than  they  had  formerly  been 
constructed,  by  his  three  predecessors, 
the  second  kings  of  the  last  three 
reigns,  for  the  space  of  time  that  he 
was  second  king.  He  had  introduced 
and  collected  many  and  many  things, 
being  articles  of  great  curiosity,  and 
things  useful  for  various  purposes  of 
military  acts  and  affairs,  from  Europe 
and  America,  China  and  other  states, 
and  placed  them  in  various  departments 
and  rooms  or  buildings  suitable  for 
those  articles,  and  placed  officers  for 
maintaining  and  preserving  the  various 
things  neatly  and  carefully.  He  has 
constructed  several  buildings  in  Euro- 
pean fashion  and  Chinese  fashion,  and 
ornamented  them  with  various  useful 
ornaments  for  his  pleasure,  and  has 
constructed  two  steamers  in  manner 
of  men-of-war,  and  two  steam-yachts, 
and  several  rowing  state-boats  in  Si- 
amese and  Cochin-Chinese  fashion,  for 
his  pleasure  at  sea  and  rivers  of  Siam, 
and  caused  several  articles  of  gold  and 
silver  being  vessels  and  various  wares 
and  weapons  to  be  made  up  by  the 
Siamese  and  Malayan  goldsmiths,  for 
employ  and  dress  of  himself  and  his 
family,  by  his  direction  and  skilful  con- 
trivance and  ability.  He  became  cel- 
ebrated and  spread  out  more  and  more 
to  various  regions  of  the  Siamese  king- 
dom, adjacent  States  around,  and  far- 
famed  to  foreign  countries,  even  at  far 
distance,  as  he  became  acquainted  with 
many  and  many  foreigners,  who  came 


556 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [May, 


from  various  quarters  of  the  world 
where  his  name  became  known  to  most 
as  a  very  clever  and  bravest  Prince  of 
Sium 

"  As  he  pleased  mostly  with  firing  of 
cannon  and  acts  of  Marine  power  and 
seamen,  which  he  has  imitated  to  his 
steamers  which  were  made  in  manner 
of  the  man-of-war,  after  he  has  seen 
various  things  curious  and  useful,  and 
learned  Marine  customs  on  board  the 
foreign  vessels  of  war,  his  steamers 
conveyed  him  to  sea,  where  he  has 
enjoyed  playing  of  firing  in  cannon 
very  often 

"  He  pleased  very  much  in  and  was 
playful  of  almost  everything,  some  im- 
portant and  some  unimportant,  as  rid- 
ing on  Elephants  and  Horses  and 
Ponies,  racing  of  them  and  racing  of 
rowing  boats,  firing  on  birds  and  beasts 
of  prey,  dancing  and  singing  in  various 
ways  pleasantly,  and  various  curiosity 
of  almost  everything,  and  music  of 
every  description,  and  in  taming  of 
dogs,  monkeys,  &c.,  &c.,  that  is  to  say 
briefly  that  he  has  tested  almost  every- 
thing eatable  except  entirely  testing 
of  Opium  and  play. 

"  Also  he  has  visited  regions  of  North- 
eastern Province  of  Sarapury  and  Go- 
rath  very  often  for  enjoyment  of  pleas- 
ant riding  on  Elephants  and  Horses,  at 
forests  in  chasing  animals  of  prey, 
fowling,  and  playing  music  and  singing 
with  Laos  people  of  that  region  and 
obtaining  young  wives  from  there." 

What  follows  is  not  more  curious 
as  to  its  form  of  expression  than  sus- 
picious as  to  its  meaning  and  motive. 
To  all  who  know  with  what  pusilla- 
nimity at  times  the  first  king  shrank 
from  the  reproach  of  Christian  foreign- 
ers, —  especially  the  French  priests,  — 
with  what  servility  in  his  moody  way 
he  courted  their  favor,  it  will  appear  of 
very  doubtful  sincerity.  To  those  who 
are  familiar  with  the  circumstances  un- 
der which  it  was  written,  and  to  whom 
the  attitude  of  jealous  reserve  that  the 
brothers  occupied  toward  each  other  at 
the  time  of  the  second  king's  death  was 
no  secret,  it  may  seem  (even  after  due 
allowance  is  made  for  the  prejudices  or 


the  obligations  of  the  priest)  to  cover 
an  insidious,  though  scarcely  adroit 
design  to  undermine  the  honorable 
reputation  the  younger  enjoyed  among 
the  missionaries,  and  the  cordial  friend- 
ship with  which  he  had  been  regarded 
by  several  of  the  purest  of  them.  Cer- 
tainly it  is  suspiciously  "of  a  piece" 
with  other  passages,  quoted  further  on, 
in  which  the  king's  purpose  to  dispar- 
age the  merits  of  his  brother,  and  clam- 
age  the  influence  of  his  name  abroad,  is 
sufficiently  transparent.  In  this  con- 
nection the  reader  may  derive  a  ray  of 
light  from  the  fact  that  on  the  birth  of 
the  second  king's  first  son,  an  Ameri- 
can missionary,  who  was  on  terms  of 
intimacy  with  the  father,  named  the 
child  '  George  Washington  ' ;  and  that 
child,  the  Prince  George  Washington 
Krom-mu'n  Pawarwijaygan,  is  the  pres- 
ent second  king  of  Siam.  But  to  Maha 
Mongkut,  and  his  "art  of  putting 
things  "  :  — 

"  He  was  rumored  to  be  baptized  or 
near  to  be  baptized  in  Christianity,  but 
the  fact  it  is  false.  He  was  a  Buddhist, 
but  his  faith  and  belief  changed  very 
often  in  favor  of  various  sects  of  Budd- 
hism by  the  association  of  his  wives  of 
various  families  and  of  persons  who 
were  believers  in  various  sects  of  the 
established  religion  of  the  Siamese  and 
Laos,  Peguan  and  Burmese  countries. 
Why  should  he  become  a  Christian  ? 
when  his  pleasures  consisted  in  polyg- 
amy and  enjoyment,  and  with  young 
women  who  were  practised  in  pleasant 
dancing  and  singing,  and  who  could 
not  be  easily  given  up  at  any  time. 
He  was  very  desirous  of  having  his 
sons  to  be  English  scholars  and  to  be 
learned  the  art  of  speaking,  reading 
and  writing  in  English  well  like  him- 
self, but  he  said  he  cannot  allow  his 
sons  to  enter  the  Christian  Missionary- 
School,  as  he  feared  his  descendants 
might  be  induced  to  the  Christianity 
in  which  he  did  not  please  to  be- 
lieve." 

Pawarendr  Ramesr  had  ever  been 
the  favorite  and  darling  of  his  mother, 
and  it  was  in  his  infancy  that  the  seeds 
of  that  ignoble  jealousy  were  sown  be- 


1870.]          The  English  Governess  at  tJic  Siamese  Court. 


557 


twcen  the  royal  brothers,  which  flour- 
ished so  rankly  and  bore  such  noxious 
fruit  in  their  manhood.  From  his  ten- 
derest  years  the  younger  prince  was 
remarkable  for  his  personal  beauty  and 
his  bright  intelligence,  and  before  his 
thirteenth  birthday  had  already  learned 
all  that  his  several  masters  could  teach 
him.  From  an  old  priest,  named  Phra 
Naitt,  I  gathered  many  pleasant  anec- 
dotes of  his  childhood. 

For  example,  he  related  with  pecu- 
liar pride  how  the  young  prince,  then 
but  twelve  years  old,  being  borne  one 
day  in  state  through  the  eastern  gate  of 
the  city  to  visit  his  mother's  lotos-gar- 
dens, observed  an  old  man,  half  blind, 
resting  by  the  roadside.  Command- 
ing his  bearers  to  halt,  he  alighted  from 
his  sedan  and  kindly  accosted  the  poor 
creature.  Finding  him  destitute  and 
helpless,  a  stranger  and  a  wayfarer  in 
the  land,  he  caused  him  to  be  seated  in 
his  own  sedan,  and  borne  to  the  gar- 
dens, while  he  followed  on  foot.  Here 
he  had  the  old  man  bathed,  clad  in 
fresh  linen,  and  entertained  with  a  sub- 
stantial meal ;  and  afterward  he  took 
his  astonished  client  into  his  service, 
as  keeper  of  his  cattle. 

Later  in  life  the  generous  and  roman- 
tic prince  diverted  himself  with  the 
adventurous  beneficence  of  Haroun  al 
Raschid,  visiting  the  poor  in  disguise, 
listening  to  the  recital  of  their  suffer- 
ings and  wrongs,  and  relieving  them 
with  ready  largesse  of  charity  and  jus- 
tice ;  and  nothing  so  pleased  and  flat- 
tered him  as  to  be  called,  in  his  as- 
sumed name  of  Nak  Peatt,  "  the  wise," 
to  take  part  in  their  sports  and  fetes. 
The  affectionate  enthusiasm  with  which 
the  venerable  poonghee  remembered 
his  royal  pupil  was  inspiring  ;  and  to 
see  his  eyes  sparkle  and  his  face  glow 
with  sympathetic  triumph,  as  he  de- 
scribed the  lad's  exploits  of  strength 
or  skill,  in  riding,  fencing,  boxing,  was 
a  fine  sight.  But  it  was  with  sad- 
dened look  and  tone  that  he  whispered 
to  me  that,  at  the  prince's  birth,  the 
astrologer  who  cast  his  horoscope  had 
foretold  for  him  an  unnatural  death. 
This,  he  said,  was  the  secret  of  the 


watchful  devotion  and  imprudent  par- 
tiality his  mother  had  always  mani- 
fested for  him. 

For  such  a  prince,  to  come  into  even 
the  empty  name  of  power  was  to  be- 
come subject  to  the  evil  eye  of  his  fra- 
ternal lord  and  rival,  for  whose  favor 
officious  friends  and  superservicable 
lackeys  contended  in  scandalous  and 
treacherous  spyings  of  the  second  king's 
every  action.  Yet,  meanly  beset  as  he 
was,  he  contrived  to  find  means  and 
opportunity  to  enlarge  his  understand- 
ing and  multiply  his  attainments  ;  and 
in  the  end  his  proficiency  in  languages, 
European  and  Oriental,  became  as  re- 
markable as  it  was  laudable.  It  was 
by  Mr.  Hunter,  secretary  to  the  Prime 
Minister,  that  he  was  introduced  to  the 
study  of  the  English  language  and  lit- 
erature, and  by  this  gentleman's  in- 
telligent aid  he  procured  the  text-books 
which  constituted  the  foundation  of  his 
educational  course. 

In  person  he  was  handsome,  for  a 
Siamese  ;  of  medium  stature,  compact 
and  symmetrical  figure,  and  rather 
dark  complexion.  His  conversation 
and  deportment  denoted  the  cultiva- 
tion, delicacy,  and  graceful  poise  of 
an  accomplished  gentleman  ;  and  he 
delivered  his  English  with  a  correct- 
ness and  fluency  very  noticeably  free 
from  the  peculiar  spasmodic  effort  that 
marked  his  royal  brother's  exploits  in 
the  language  of  Shakespeare. 

In  his  palace,  which  he  had  rebuilt 
after  the  model  of  an  English  noble- 
man's residence,  he  led  the  life  of  a 
healthy,  practical,  and  systematic  stu- 
dent. His  library,  more  judiciously 
selected  than  that  of  his  brother, 
abounded  in  works  of  science,  embra- 
cing the  latest  discoveries.  Here  he 
passed  many  hours,  cultivating  a  sound 
acquaintance  with  the  results  of  inves- 
tigation and  experiment  in  the  West- 
ern world.  His  partiality  for  English 
literature  in  all  its  branches  was  ex- 
treme. The  freshest  publications  of 
London  found  their  way  to  his  tables, 
and  he  heartily  enjoyed  the  creations 
of  Dickens. 

For   robust  and  exhilarating  enjoy- 


558 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [May, 


ment,  however,  he  had  recourse  to 
hunting  expeditions,  and  martial  ex- 
ercises in  the  drilling  of  his  private 
troops.  Punctually  at  daybreak  every 
morning  he  appeared  on  the  parade- 
ground,  and  proceeded  to  review  his 
little  army  with  scrupulous  precision, 
according  to  European  tactics ;  after 
which  he  led  his  well-trained  files  to 
their  barracks  within  the  palace  walls, 
where  the  soldiers  exchanged  their 
uniform  for  a  working-dress.  Then 
he  marched  them  to  the  armory,  where 
muskets,  bayonets,  and  sabres  were 
brought  out  and  severely  scoured. 
That  done,  the  men  were  dismissed  till 
the  morrow. 

Among  his  courtiers  were  several 
gentlemen  of  Siam  and  Laos,  who  had 
acquired  such  a  smattering  of  English 
as  qualified  them  to  assist  the  prince 
in  his  scientific  diversions.  Opposite 
the  armory  stood  a  pretty  little  cottage, 
quite  English-looking,  lighted  with  glass 
windows,  and  equipped  with  European 
furniture.  Over  the  entrance  to  this 
quaint  tenement  hung  a  painted  sign, 
in  triumphant  English,  "  WATCHES 
AND  CLOCKS  MADE  AND  REPAIRED 
HERE  " ;  and  hither  came  frequently 
the  second  king  and  his  favorites,  to 
pursue  assiduously  their  harmless  occu- 
pation of  horlogerie.  Sometimes  this 
eccentric  entertainment  was  diversi- 
fied with  music,  in  which  his  Majesty 
took  a  leading  part,  playing  with  taste 
and  skill  on  the  flute,  and  several  in- 
struments of  the  Laos^people. 

Such  a  prince  should  have  been 
happy,  in  the  innocence  of  his  pastimes 
and  the  dignity  of  his  pursuits.  But 
the  same  accident  of  birth  and  station 
to  which  he  owed  his  privileges  and  his 
opportunities  imposed  its  peculiar  dis- 
abilities and  hindrances.  His  troubles 
were  the  troubles  of  a  second  king, 
who  chanced  to  be  also  an  ardent  and 
aspiring  man.  Weary  with  disappoint- 
ment, disheartened  in  his  honorable 
longing  for  just  appreciation,  vexed 
with  the  caprice  and  suspicions  of  his 
elder  brother  ;  oppressed  by  the  ever- 
present  tyranny  of  the  thought  —  so 
hard  for  such  a  man  to  bear  —  that  the 


woman  he  loved  best  in  the  land  he 
was  inexorably  forbidden  to  marry,  be- 
cause, being^  a  princess  of  the  first 
rank,  she  might  be  offered  and  accepted 
to  grace  the  harem  of  his  brother  ;  a 
mere  prisoner  of  state,  watched  by  the 
baleful  eye  of  jealousy,  and  traduced  by 
the  venal  tongues  of  courtiers  ;  dwelling 
in  a  torment  of  uncertainty  as  to  the  fate 
to  which  his  brother's  explosive  temper 
and  irresponsible  power  might  devote 
him,  hoping  for  no  repose  or  safety  but 
in  his  funeral-urn,  —  he  began  to  grow 
hard  and  defiant,  and  that  which,  in 
the  native  freedom  of  his  soul,  should 
have  been  his  noble  steadfastness  de- 
generated into  ignoble  obstinacy. 

Among  the  innumerable  mean  tor- 
ments with  which  his  pride  was  perse- 
cuted was  the  continual  presence  of 
a  certain  doctor,  who,  by  the  king's 
command,  attended  him  at  all  times 
and  places,  compelling  him  to  use 
remedies  that  were  most  distasteful  to 
him. 

He  was  gallantly  kind  and  courteous 
toward  women  ;  no  act  of  cruelty  to  any 
woman  was  ever  attributed  to  him. 
His  children  he  ruled  wisely,  though 
somewhat  sternly,  rendering  his  occa- 
sional tenderness  and  indulgence  so 
much  the  more  precious  and  delightful 
to  them.  Never  had  Siam  a  more  pop- 
ular prince.  He  was  the  embodiment 
of  the  most  hopeful  qualities,  moral  and 
intellectual,  of  his  nation ;  especially 
was  he  the  exponent  and  promise  of 
its  most  progressive  tendencies ;  and 
his  people  regarded  him  with  love  and 
reverence,  as  their  trusty  stay  and  sup- 
port. His  talents  as  a  statesman  com- 
manded the  unqualified  admiration  of 
foreigners  ;  and  it  was  simply  the  jeal- 
ous and  tyrannical  temper  of  Maha 
Mongkut  that  forced  him  to  retire  from 
all  participation  in  the  affairs  of  gov- 
ernment. 

At  last  the  mutual  reserve  and  dis- 
trust of  the  royal  brothers  broke  out  in 
open  quarrel,  provoked  by  the  refusal 
of  the  first  king  to  permit  the  second  to 
borrow  from  the  royal  treasury  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money.  On  the  day 
after  his  order  was  dishonored,  the 


1870.]  The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


559 


prince  set  out  with  his  congenial  and 
confidential  courtiers  on  a  hunting  ex- 
pedition to  the  Laos  province  of  Chieng- 
mai,  scornfully  threatening  to  entrap 
one  of  the  royal  white  elephants,  and 
sell  it  to  his  Supreme  Majesty  for  the 
sum  he  would  not  loan. 

At  Chiengmai  he  was  regally  enter- 
tained by  the  tributary  prince  of  that 
province  ;  and  no  sooner  was  his  griev- 
ance known,  than  the  money  he  re- 
quired was  l^aid  at  his  feet.  Too  manly 
to  accept  the  entire  sum,  he  borrowed 
but  a  portion  of  it ;  and  instead  of  tak- 
ing it  out  of  the  country,  decided  to 
sojourn  there  for  a  time,  that  he  might 
spend  it  to  the  advantage  of  the  people. 
To  this  end  he  selected  a  lovely  spot 
in  the  vicinity  of  Chiengmai,  called 
Saraburee,  itself  a  city  of  some  consid- 
eration, where  bamboo  houses  line  the 
banks  of  a  beautiful  river,  that  trav- 
erses teak  forests  alive  with  large  game. 
On  an  elevation  near  at  hand  the  sec- 
ond king  erected  a  palace  substantially 
fortified,  which  he  named  Ban  Sitha 
(the  Home  of  the  Goddess  Sitha),  and 
caused  a  canal  to  be  cut  to  the  eastern 
slope. 

Here  he  indulged  freely,  and  on  an 
imposing  scale,  in  his  favorite  pastime 
of  hunting,  and  privately  took  to  wife 
the  daughter  of  the  king  of  Chiengmai, 
the  princess  Sunartha  Vicineta.  And 
here  he  was  happy,  only  returning  to 
Bangkok  .when  called  thither  by  affairs 
of  state,  or  to  take  the  semi-annual 
oath  of  allegiance. 

Among  the  prince's  concubines  at 
this  time  was  a  woman  named  Klieb, 
envious,  intriguing,  and  ambitious,  who 
by  consummate  arts  had  obtained  con- 
trol of  his  Majesty's  cuisine,  —  an  ap- 
pointment of  peculiar  importance  and 
trust  in  the  household  of  an  Oriental 
prince.  Finding  that  by  no  feminine 
devices  could  she  procure  the  influence 
she  coveted  over  her  master's  mind 
and  affections,  she  finally  had  recourse 
to  an  old  and  infamous  sorcerer,  styled 
Khoon  Hate-nah  ("  Lord  of  future 
events  "),  an  adept  of  the  black  art 
much  consulted  by  women  of  rank  from 
all  parts  of  the  country ;  and  he,  in  con- 


sideration of  an  extraordinary  fee,  pre- 
pared for  her  a  variety  of  charms,  in- 
cantations, philters,  to  be  administered 
to  the  prince,  in  whose  food  daily,  for 
years,  she  mixed  the  abominable  nos- 
trums. The  poison  did  its  work  slowly 
but  surely,  and  his  sturdy  life  was 
gradually  undermined.  His  strength 
quite  gone,  and  his  spirit  broken,  his 
despondency  became  so  profound  that 
he  lost  all  taste  for  the  occupations  and 
diversions  that  had  once  delighted  him, 
and  sought  relief  in  restless  changing 
from  one  palace  to  another,  and  in  con- 
sulting every  physician  he  could  find. 

It  was  during  a  visit  to  his  favorite 
residence  at  Saraburee  that  the  signs 
of  approaching  dissolution  appeared, 
and  the  king's  physician,  fearing  he 
might  die  there,  took  hurried  steps  to 
remove  him  to  his  palace  at  Bangkok. 
He  was  bound  in  a  sedan,  and  lowered 
from  his  high  chamber  in  the  castle 
into  his  barge  on  the  canal  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff;  and  so,  with  all  his  house- 
hold in  train,  transported  to  the  palace 
of  Krom  Hluang  Wongsah,  physician 
to  the  king  and  one  of  his  half-brothers. 
Now  miserably  unnerved,  the  prince, 
once  so  patient,  brave,  and  proud,  threw 
his  arms  round  his  kinsman's  neck, 
and,  weeping  bitterly,  implored  him  to 
save  him.  But  he  was  presently  re- 
moved to  his  own  palace,  and  laid  in  a 
chamber  looking  to  the  east. 

That  night  the  prince  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  his  royal  brother.  The  king 
hastened  to  his  bedside  in  company 
with  his  Excellency  Chow  Phya  Sri 
Sury-wongse,  the  Kralahome,  or  Prime 
Minister  ;  and  then  and  there  a  silent 
and  solemn  reconciliation  took  place. 
No  words  were  spoken  ;  only  the 
brothers  embraced  each  other,  and  the 
elder  wept  bitterly.  But  from  the  facts 
brought  to  light  in  that  impressive 
meeting  and  parting,  it  was  made  plain 
that  the  second  king  died  by  slow  poi- 
son, administered  by  the  woman  Klieb 
—  plain  to  all  but  the  second  king  him- 
self, who  died  in  ignorance  of  the  means 
by  which  the  tragic  prophecy  of  his 
horoscope  had  been  made  good. 

In  the  very  full  account  of  his  broth- 


560 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [May, 


er's  death  which  Mali  a  Mongkut  thought 
it  necessary  to  write,  he  was  careful  to 
conceal  from  the  public  the  true  cause 
of  the  calamity,  fearing  the  foreign  pop- 
ulace, and,  most  of  all,  the  Laotians 
and  Peguans,  who  were  devoted  to  the 
prince,  and  might  attach  suspicion  to 
himself,  on  the  ground  of  his  notori- 
ous jealousy  of  the  second  king.  The 
royal  physicians  and  the  Supreme 
Council  were  sworn  to  secrecy ;  and . 
the  woman  Klieb,  and  her  accomplice 
Khoon  Hate-nah,  together  with  -nine  fe- 
male slaves,  were  tortured  and  publicly 
paraded  through  the  environs  of  Bang- 
kok, though  their  crime  was  never 
openly  named.  Afterward  they  were 
thrown  into  an  open  boat,  towed  out  on 
the  Gulf  of  Siam,  and  there  abandoned 
to  the  mercy  of  winds  and  waves,  or 
death  by  starvation.  Among  the  wo- 
men of  the  palace  the  current  report 
was  that  celestial  avengers,  had  slain 
the  murderous  crew  with  arrows  of 
lightning  and  spears  of  fire. 

In  his  Majesty's  account  of  the  last 
days  of  his  royal  brother,  we  have  the 
characteristic  queerness  of  his  English, 
and  a  scarcely  less  characteristic  pas- 
sage of  Pecksniffian  cant :  — 

"The  lamentable  patient  Second 
King  ascertained  himself  that  his  ap- 
proaching death  was  inevitable;  it  was 
great  misfortune  to  him  and  his  family 
indeed.  His  eldest  son  Prince  George  * 
Krom  Mu'n  Pawarwijaygan,  aged  27 
years  on  that  time,  became  very  sick 
of  painful  rheumatism  by  which  he  has 
his  body  almost  steady  on  his  seat  and 
bed,  immovable  to  and  fro,  himself, 
since  the  month  of  October,  1865,  when 
his  father  was  absent  from  Bangkok, 
being  at  Ban  Sitha  as  foresaid.  When 
his  royal  father  returned  from  Ban  Sitha 
he  arrived  at  his  palace  at  Bangkok  on 
6th  December.  He  can  only  being 
lifted  by  two  or  three  men  and  placed 
in  the  presence  of  his  father  who  was 
very  ill,  but  the  eldest  son  forenamed 
prince  was  little  better,  so  before  death 
of  his  father  as  he  can  be  raised  to  be 
stood  by  two  men  and  can  cribble  slow- 
ly on  even  or  level  surface,  by  securing 

*  George  Washington. 


and  supporting  of  two   men   on   both 
sides. 

"When  his  father  became  worse  and 
approaching  the  point  of  death,  upon 
that  time  his  father  can  see  him  scarce- 
ly ;  wherefore  the  Second  King,  on  his 
being  worse,  has  said  to  his  eldest  and 
second  daughters,  the  half  sisters  of 
the  eldest  son,  distempered  so  as  he 
cannot  be  in  the  presence  of  his  father 
without  difficulty,  that  he  (the  Second 
King)  forenamed  on  that  time  was 
hopeless  and  that  he  could  not  live 
more  than  a  few  days.  He  did  not  wish 
to  do  his  last  will  regarding  his  family 
and  property,  particularly  as  he  was 
strenthless  to  speak  much,  and  consid- 
er anything  deeply  and  accurately  :  he 
beg'd  to  entreat  all  his  sons,  daughters, 
and  wives  that  none  should  be  sorry 
for  his  death,  which  comes  by  natural 
course,  and  should  not  fear  for  misery 
of  difficulty  after  his  demise.  All  should 
tJirow  themselves  under  their  faithful 
and  affectionate  uncle,  the  Supreme 
King  of  Siam,  for  protection,  in  whom 
he  had  heartfelt  confidence  that  he  will 
do  well  to  his  family  after  his  death,  as 
such  the  action  or  good  protection  to 
several  families  of  other  princes  and 
princesses  in  the  royalty,  who  deceased 
before.  He  beg'd  only  to  recommend 
his  sons  and  daughters,  that  they  should 
be  always  honest  and  faithful  to  his 
elder  full  brother,  the  Supreme  King 
of  Siam,  by  the  same  affection  as  to 
himself,  and  that  they  should  have  much 
more  affection  and  respect  toward  Pa- 
ternal relative  persons  in  royalty,  than 
toward  their  maternal  relative  persons, 
who  are  not  royal  descendants  of  his 

ancestors 

"  On  the  29th  December  1865,  in  the 
afternoon,  the  Second  King  invited  His 
Majesty  the  Supreme  King,  his  elder 
full  brother,  and  his  Excellency  Chau 
Phya  Sri  Sury-wongse  Samuha  Phra- 
Kralahome,  the  Prime  Minister,  who  is 
the  principal  head  of  the  Government 
and  royal  cousin,  to  seat  themselves 
near  to  his  side  on  his  bedstead  where 
he  lay,  and  other  principals  of  royalty 
and  nobility,  to  seat  themselves  in  that 
room  where  he  was  lying,  that  they 


1870.]  The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


561 


might  be  able  to  ascertain  his  speech 
by  hearing.  Then  he  delivered  his 
family  and  followers  and  the  whole  of 
his  property  to  His  Majesty  and  His 
Excellency  for  protection  and  good 
decision,  according  to  consequences 
which  they  would  well  observe." 

Not  a  word  of  that  royal  reconcile- 
ment, of  that  remorseful  passion  of 
tears,  of  that  mute  mystery  of  human- 
ity, the  secret  spell  of  a  burdened 
mother's  love  working  too  late  in  the 
hearts  of  her  headstrong  boys  !  Not  a 
word  of  that  crowning  embrace,  which 
made  the  subordinate  king  supreme,  by 
the  grace  of  dying  and  forgiving  ! 

After  the  death  of  the  prince,  the 
king  behaved  very  disgracefully.  1 1  was 
well  known  that  the  ladies  of  the  sec- 
ond king's  harem  were  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  women  of  Laos,  Pegu, 
and  Birmah  ;  above  all,  the  Princess 
of  Chiengmai  was  famed  for  her  mani- 
fold graces  of  person  and  character. 
Etiquette  forbade  the  royal  brothers 
to  pry  into  the  constitution  of  each 
other's  scrail ;  but,  by  means  most  un- 
worthy of  his  station,  and  regardless 
of  the  privilege  of  his  brother,  Maha 
Mongkut  was  aware  of  the  acquisition 
to  the  second  king's  establishment  of 
this  celebrated  and  coveted  beauty ; 
and  although  she  was  now  his  legitimate 
sister-in-law,  privately  married  to  the 
prince,  he  was  not  restrained,  by  any 
scruple  of  morality  or  delicacy,  from 
manifesting  his  jealousy  and  pique. 
Moreover,  this  unworthy  feeling  was 
fostered  by  other  considerations  than 
those  of  mere  sensuality  or  ostentation. 
Her  father,  the  tributary  ruler  of 
Chiengmai,  had  on  several  Occasions 
confronted  his  aggressive  authority  with 
a  haughty  and  intrepid  spirit;  and 
once,  when  Maha  Mongkut  required 
that  he  should  send  his  eldest  son  to 
Bangkok,  as  a  hostage  for  the  father's 
loyalty  and  good  conduct,  the  unterrified 
chief  replied  that  he  would  be  his  own 
hostage.  On  the  summons  being  re- 
peated, in  imperative  terms,  the  young 
prince  fled  from  his  father's  court 
and-  took 'refuge  with  the  second  king 
in  his  stronghold  of  Ban  Sitha,  where 

VOL.  XXV.  —  NO.    151.  36 


he  was  most  courteously  received  and 
entertained,  until  he  found  it  expedient 
to  seek  some  securer  or  less  compro- 
mising place  of  refuge. 

The  friendship  thus  founded  between 
two  proud  and  daring  princes  soon  be- 
came strong  and  enduring,  and  re- 
sulted in  the  marriage  of  the  princess 
Sunartha  Vicineta  (very  willingly  on  her 
part)  to  the  second  king,  about  a  year 
before  his  death. 

The  son  of  the  king  of  Chiengmai 
never  made  his  appearance  at  the 
Court  of  Siam  ;  but  the  stout  old  chief, 
attended  by  trusty  followers,  boldly 
brought  his  own  "  hostage  "  thither  ; 
and  Maha  Mongkut,  though  secretly 
chafing,  accepted  the  situation  with  a 
show  of  graciousness,  and  overlooked 
the  absence  of  the  younger  vassal. 

With  the  remembrance  of  these 
floutings  still  galling  him,  the  supreme 
king  frequently  repaired  to  the  second 
king's  palace,  on  the  pretext  of  arrang- 
ing certain  "family  affairs"  intrusted 
to  him  by  his  late  brother  ;  but  in  real- 
ity to  acquaint  himself  with  the  charms 
of  several  female  members  of  the 
prince's  household  ;  and,  scandalous 
as  it  should  have  seemed  even  to  Siam- 
ese notions  of  the  divine  right  of  kings, 
the  most  attractive  and  accomplished 
of  those  women  were  quietly  transferred 
to  his  own  harem.  For  some  lime  I 
heard  nothing  more  of  the  Princess  of 
Chiengmai  ;  but  it  was  curious,  even 
amusing,  to  observe  the  serene  con- 
tempt with  which  the  "interlopers" 
were  received  by  the  rival  incumbents 
of  the-royal  gynaeceum  —  especially  the 
Laotian  women,  who  are  of  a  finer  type 
and  much  handsomer  than  their  Siam- 
ese sisters. 

Meantime,  his  Majesty  took  up  his 
abode  for  a  fortnight  at  the  second  king's 
palace,  thereby  provoking  dangerous 
gossip  in  his  own  establishment;  so 
that  his  "  head  wife,"  the  Lady  Thieng, 
even  made  bold  to  hint  that  he  might 
come  to  the  fate  of  his  brother,  and  die 
by  slow  poison.  His  harem  was  agi- 
tated and  excited  throughout,  —  some 
of  the  women  abandoning  themselves 
to  unaccustomed  and  unnatural  gayety, 


562 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [May, 


while  others  sent  their  confidential 
slaves  to  consult  the  astrologers  and 
soothsayers  of  the  court  ;  and  by  the 
aid  of  significant  glances  and  shrug- 
ging of  shoulders,  and  interchange  of 
signs  and  whispers,  with  feminine  tele- 
graphy and  secret  service,  most  of  those 
interested  arrived  at  the  sage  conclu- 
sion that  their  lord  had  fallen  under  the 
i  spells  of  a  witch  or  enchantress. 

Such  was  the  domestic  situation 
when  his  Majesty  suddenly  and  with- 
out warning  returned  to  his  palace, 
but  in  a  mood  so  perplexing  as  to  sur- 
pass all  precedent  and  baffle  all  tact. 
I  had  for  some  time  performed  with 
surprising  success  a  leading  part  in  a 
pretty  little  court  play,  of  which  the 
well-meant  plot  had  been  devised  by 
the  Lady  Thieng.  Whenever  the  king 
should  be  dangerously  enraged,  and 
ready  to  let  loose  upon  some  tender 
culprit  of  the  harem  the  monstrous  lash 
or  chain,  or  "  question  "forte  et  dure,  I 
—  at  a  secret  cue  from  the  head  wife  — 
was  to  enter  upon  his  Majesty,  book 
in  hand,  to  consult  his  infallibility  in 
a  pressing  predicament  of  translation, 
into  Sanskrit,  Siamese,  or  English. 
Absurdly  transparent  as  it  was,  —  per- 
haps the  happier  for  its  very  childish- 
ness, —  under  cover  of  this  naive  device, 
from  time  to  time  a  hapless  girl  escaped 
the  fatal  burst  of  his  wrath.  Midway 
in  the  rising  storm  of  curses  and  abuse, 
he  would  turn  with  comical  abruptness 
to  the  attractive  interruption  with  all 
the  zest  of  a  scholar.  I  often  trembled 
lest  he  should  see  through  the  thinly 
covered  trick,  but  he  never  did.  On 
his  return  from  the  prince's  palace, 
however,  even  this  innocent  stratagem 
failed  us  ;  and  on  one  occasion  of  my 
having  recourse  to  it,  he  peremptorily 
ordered  me  away,  and  forbade  my  com- 
ing into  his  presence  again  unless  sent 
for.  Daily,  after  this,  one  or  more 
of  the  women  suffered  from  his  petty 
tyranny,  cruelty,  and  spite.  On  every 
hand  I  heard  sighs  and  sobs,  from 
young  and  old  ;  and  not  a  woman  there 
but  believed  he  was  bewitched  and 
beside  himself. 

I  had  struggled  through  many  exact- 


ing tasks  since  I  came  to  Siam,  but 
never  any  that  so  taxed  my  powers  of 
endurance  as  my  duties  at  this  time,  in 
the  capacity  of  private  secretary  to  his 
Majesty.  His  moods  were  so  fickle 
and  unjust,  his  temper  so  tyrannical, 
that  it  seemed  impossible  to  please 
him  ;  from  one  hour  to  another  I  never 
knew  what  to  expect.  And  yet  he  per- 
severed in  his  studies,  especially  in 
his  English  correspondence,  which  was 
ever  his  solace,  his  pleasure,  and  his 
pride.  To  an  interested  observer  it 
might  have  afforded  rare  entertainment 
to  note  how  fluently,  though  oddly,  he 
spoke  and  wrote  in  a  foreign  language, 
but  for  his  caprices  —  which  at  times 
were  so  ridiculous,  however,  as  to  be 
scarcely  disagreeable.  He  would  indite 
letters,  sign  them,  affix  his  seal,  and 
despatch  them  in  his  own  mail-bags  to 
Europe,  America,  or  elsewhere ;  and 
months  afterward  insist  on  my  writing 
to  the  parties  addressed,  to  say  that 
the  instructions  they  contained  were 
my  mistake,  —  errors  of  translation, 
transcription,  anything  but  his  inten- 
tion. In  one  or  two  instances,  finding 
that  the  case  really  admitted  of  expla- 
nation or  apology  from  his  Majesty,  I 
slyly  so  worded  my  letter  that,  with- 
out compromising  him,  I  yet  managed 
to  repair  the  mischief  he  had  done. 
But  I  felt  this  could  not  continue  long. 
Always,  on  foreign  mail  days,  I  spent 
from  eight  to  ten  hours  in  this  most 
delicate  and  vexatious  work.  At  length 
the  crash  came. 

The  king  had  promised  to  Sir  John 
Bowring  the  appointment  of  Plenipo- 
tentiary to  the  Court  of  France,  to  ne- 
gotiate on  behalf  of  Siam  new  treaties 
concerning  the  Cambodian  posses- 
sions. With  characteristic  irresolution 
he  changed  his  mind,  and  decided  to 
send  a  Siamese  Embassy,  headed  by 
his  Lordship  Phra-na-Why,  now  known 
as  his  Excellency  Chow  Phya  Sri  Sur- 
ry-wongse.  No  sooner  had  he  enter- 
tained this  fancy  than  he  sent  for  me, 
and  coolly  directed  me  to  write  and 
explain  the  matter  to  Sir  John,  if  pos- 
sible attributing  his  new  views  .and 
purpose  to  the  advice  of  Her  Britannic 


1870.]  The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


563 


Majesty's  Consul ;  or,  if  I  had  scruples 
on  that  head,  I  might  say  the  advice 
was  my  own,  —  or  "anything  I  liked," 
so  that  I  justified  his  conduct. 

At  this  distance  of  time  I  cannot 
clearly  recall  all  the  effect  upon  my 
feelings  of  so  outrageous  a  proposition  ; 
but  I  do  remember  that  I  found  myself 
emphatically  declining  to  do  "  anything 
of  the  kind."  Then,  warned  by  his 
gathering  rage,  I  added  that  I  would 
express  to  Sir  John  his  Majesty's  re- 
grets ;  but  to  attribute  the  blame  to 
those  who  had  had  no  part  in  the  mat- 
ter, that  I  could  never  do.  At  this  his 
fury  was  grotesque.  His  talent  for  in- 
vective was  always  formidable,  and  he 
tried  to  overpower  me  with  threats. 
But  a  kindred  spirit  of  resistance  was 
aroused  in  me.  I  withdrew  from  the 
palace  and  patiently  abided  the  issue, 
resolved,  in  any  event,  to  be  firm. 

His  Majesty's  anger  was  without 
bounds  ;  and  in  the  interval  so  fraught 
with  anxiety  and  apprehension  to  me, 
when  I  knew  that  a  considerable  party 
in  the  palace — judges,  magistrates, 
and  officers  about  the  person  of  the 
king  —  regarded  me  as  an  eminently 
proper  person  to  behead  or  drown,  he 
condescended  to  accuse  me  of  abstract- 
ing a  book  that  he  chanced  just  then 
to  miss  from  his  library;  and  also  of 
honoring  and  favoring  the  British  Con- 
sul at  the  expense  of  his  American 
colleague,  then  resident  at  Bangkok. 
In  support  of  the  latter  charge,  he  al- 
leged that  I  had  written  the  American 
Consul's  name  at  the  bottom  of  a  royal 
circular,  after  carefully  displaying  my 
own  and  the  British  functionary's  at 
the  top  of  it. 

The  circular  in  question,  which  had 
given  just  umbrage  to  the  American 
official,  was  fortunately  in  the  keeping 
of  the  Honorable  *  Mr.  Bush,  and  was 
written  by  the  king's  own  hand,  as  was 
well  known  to  all  whom  it  concerned. 
These  charges,  with  others  of  a  more 
frivolous  nature, — such  as  disobeying, 
thwarting,  scolding  his  Majesty,  treat- 
ing him  with  disrespect,  as  by  standing 
while  he  was  seated,  thinking  evil  of 
*  Here  the  title  is  Siamese. 


him,  slandering  him,  and  calling  him 
wicked,  —  the  king  caused  to  be  reduced 
to  writing  and  sent  to  me,  with  an  inti- 
mation that  I  must  forthwith  acknowl- 
edge my  ingratitude  and  guilt,  and 
make  atonement  by  prompt  compliance 
with  his  wishes.  The  secretary  who 
brought  the  document  to  my  house  was 
accompanied  by  a  number  of  the  fe- 
male slaves  of  the  palace,  who  be- 
sought me,  in  the  name  of  their  mis- 
tresses, the  wives  of  the  "  Celestial 
Supreme,"  to  yield,  and  do  all  that 
might  be  required  of  me. 

Seeing  this  shaft  miss  its  mark,  the 
secretary,  being  a  man  of  resources, 
produced  the  other  string  to  his  bow. 
He  offered  to  bribe  me,  and  actually 
spent  two  hours  in  that  respectable 
business  ;  but  finally  departed  in  de- 
spair, convinced  that  the  amount  was 
inadequate  to  the  cupidity  of  an  insatia- 
ble European,  and  mourning  for  himself 
that  he  must  return  discomfited  to  the 
king. 

Next  morning,  my  boy  and  I  pre- 
sented ourselves  as  usual  at  the  inner 
gate  of  the  palace  leading  to  the 
school,  and  were  confronted  there  by  a 
party  of  rude  fellows  and  soldiers,  who 
thrust  us  back  with  threats,  and  even 
took  up  stones  to  throw  at  us.  I  dare 
not  think  what  might  have  been  our 
fate,  but  for  the  generous  rescue  of  a 
crowd  of  the  poorest  slaves  who  at  that 
hour  were  waiting  for  the  opening  of 
the  gate.  These  rallied  round  us,  and 
guarded  us  back  to  our  home.  It  was, 
indeed,  a  time  of  terror  for  us.  I  felt 
that  my  life  was  in  great  danger ;  and 
so  difficult  did  I  find  it  to  prevent  the 
continual  intrusion  of  the  rabble,  both 
men  and  women,  into  my  house,  that  I 
had  at  length  to  bar  my  doors  and  win- 
dows, and  have  double  locks  and  fas- 
tenings added.  I  became  nervous  and 
excited  as  I  had  never  been  before. 

My  first  impulse  Was  to  write  to  the 
British  Consul,  and  invoke  his  protec- 
tion ;  but  that  looked  cowardly.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  did  prepare  the  letter, 
ready  to  be  despatched  at  the  first  at- 
tempt upon  our  lives  or  liberty.  I 
wrote  also  to  Mr.  Bush,  asking  him  to 


564 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [May, 


find  without  delay  the  obnoxious  cir- 
cular, and  bring  it  to  my  house.  He 
came  that  very  evening,  the  paper  in 
his  hand.  With  infinite  difficulty  I 
persuaded  the  native  secretary,  whom 
I  had  again  and  again  befriended  in 
like  extremities,  to  procure  for  him  an 
audience  with  the  king. 

On  coming  into  the  presence  of  his 
Majesty,  Mr.  Bush  simply  handed  him 
the  circular,  saying,  "Mam  tells  me 
you  wish  to  see  this."  The  moment 
the  caption  of  the  document  met  his 
eye,  his  Majesty's  countenance  assumed 
a  blank,  bewildered  expression  pecu- 
liar to  it,  and  he  seemed  to  look  to 
my  friend  for  an  explanation  ;  but  that 
gentleman  had  none  to  offer,  for  I  had 
made  none  to  him. 

And  to  crown  all,  even  as  the  King 
was  pointing  to  his  brow  to  signify  that 
he  had  forgotten  having  written  it,  one 
of  the  little  princesses  came  crouching 
and  crawling  into  the  room  with  the 
missing  volume  in  her  hand.  It  had 
been  found  in  one  of  the  numerous 
sleeping-apartments  of  the  king,  beside 
his  pillow,  just  in  time  ! 

Mr.  Bush  soon  returned,  bringing 
me  assurances  of  his  Majesty's  cordial 
reconciliation ;  but  I  still  doubted  his 
sincerity,  and  for  weeks  did  not  offer 
to  enter  the  palace.  When,  however, 
on  the  arrival  of  the  "  Chow  Phya " 
steamer  with  the  mail,  I  was  formally 
summoned  by  the  king  to  return  to  my 
duties,  I  quietly  obeyed,  making  no  allu- 
sion to  my  "  by-gones." 

As  I  sat  at  my  familiar  table,  copy- 
ing, his  Majesty  approached,  and  ad- 
dressed me  in  these  words  :  — 

"  Mam  !  you  are  one  great  difficulty. 
I  have  much  pleasure  and  favor  on 
you,  but  —  you  are  too  obstinate.  You 
are  not  wise.  Wherefore  are  you  so 
difficult  ?  You  are  only  a  woman.  It 
is  very  bad  you  can  be  so  strong-head- 
ed. Will  you  now  haye  any  objection 
to  write  to  Sir  John,  and  tell  him  I  am 
his  very  good  friend  ?  " 

"None  whatever,"  I  replied,  "if  it 
is  to  be  simply  a  letter  of  good  wishes 
on  the  part  of  your  Majesty." 

I  wrote  the  letter,  and  handed  it  to 


him  for  perusal.  He  was  hardly  satis- 
fied, for  with  only  a  significant  grunt 
he  returned  it  to  me,  and  left  the  apart- 
ment at  once  —  to  vent  his  spite  on 
some  one  who  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter. 

In  due  time  the  following  very  con- 
siderate but  significant  reply  (addressed 
to  his  Majesty's  "  one  great  difficulty  ") 
was  received  from  Sir  John  Bowring :  — 

CLAREMONT,  EXETER, 
30  June,  1867. 

DEAR  MADAM  :  —  Your  letter  of  1 2th 
May  demands  from  me  the  attention 
of  a  courteous  reply.  I  am  quite  sure 
the  ancient  friendship  of  the  king  of 
Siam  would  never  allow  a  slight,  or 
indeed  an  unkindness,  to  me,  and  I 
hope  to  have  opportunities  of  showing 
his  Majesty  that  I  feel  a  deep  interest 
in  his  welfare. 

As  regards  the  diplomacy  of  Euro- 
pean courts,  it  is  but  natural  that  those 
associated  with  them  should  be  more 
at  home  and  better  able  to  direct 
their  course  than  strangers  from  a  dis- 
tance, however  personally  estimable ; 
and  though,  in  the  case  in  question, 
the  mission  of  a  Siamese  Ambassador 
to  Paris  was  no  doubt  well  intended, 
and  could  never  have  been  meant  to 
give  me  annoyance,  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  he  would  be  placed  in  that 
position  of  free  and  confidential  inter- 
course which  my  long  acquaintance 
with  public  life  would  enable  me  to 
occupy.  In  remote  regions,  people 
with  little  knowledge  of  official  matters 
in  high  quarters  often  take  upon  them- 
selves to  give  advice  in  great  ignorance 
of  facts,  and  speak  very  unadvisedly  on 
topics  on  which  their  opinions  are 
worthless  and  their  influence  valueless. 

As  regards  M.  Aubaret's  offensive 
proceedings,  I  doubt  not  he  .has  re- 
ceived a  caution  *  on  my  representa- 
tion, and  that  he,  and  others  of  his 
nation,  would  not  be  very  willing  that 
the  Emperor  —  an  old  acquaintance  of 
mine  —  should  hear  from  my  lips  what 
I  might  have  to  say.  The  will  of  the 

*  Aubaret,  French  Consul  .at  Bangkok,  whose 
overbearing  conduct  has  been  described  in  the  pa- 
per preceding  this. 


The  L  an  son  Tragedy. 


565 


Emperor  is  supreme,  and  I  am  afraid 
the  Cambodian  question  is  now  referred 
back  to  Siam.  It  might  have  been 
better  for  me  to  have  discussed  it  with 
his  Imperial  Majesty.  However,  the 
past  is  past.  Personal  influence,  as 
you  are  aware,  is  not  transferable  ;  but 
when  by  the  proper  powers  I  am  placed 
in  a  position  to  act,  his  Majesty  may 


be  assured  —  as  I  have  assured  him- 
self—  that  his  interests  will  not  suffer 
in  my  hands. 

I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  manner 
in  which  you  have  conveyed  to  me  his 
Majesty's  gracious  expressions. 
And  you  will  believe  me  to  be 
Yours  ve.ry  truly, 

JOHN  BOWRIXG. 


THE    LAUSON     TRAGEDY. 


II. 


THE  search  for  the  missing  Aunt 
Mercy  continued  until  it  aroused 
the  interest  and  temper  of  Squire  Lau- 
son.  Determined  to  find  his  daughter 
once  that  he  had  set  about  it,  and  petu- 
lant at  the  failure  of  one  line  of  investi- 
gation after  another,  the  hard  old  gen- 
tleman stumped  noisily  about  the  house, 
his  thick  shoes  squeaking  down  the 
passages  like  two  bands  ofmusic,'and 
his  peeled  hickory  cane  punching  open 
doors  and  upsetting  furniture.  When 
he  returned  to  the  sitting-room  from 
one  of  these  boisterous  expeditions,  he 
found  his  wife  sitting  in  the  light  of  the 
kerosene  lamp,  and  sewing  with  an 
impatient,  an  almost  spiteful  rapidity, 
as  was  her  custom  when  her  nerves 
were  unbearably  irritated. 

"  Where  's  Mercy  ? "  he  trumpeted. 
"  Where  is  the  old  gal  ?  Has  anybody 
eloped  with  her  ?  I  saw  Deacon  Jones 
about  this  afternoon." 

This  jest  was  meant  to  amuse  and 
perhaps  to  conciliate  Mrs.  Lauson,  for 
whom  he  sometimes  seemed  to  have  a 
rough  pity,  as  hard  to  bear  as  down- 
right hostility.  He  had  now  and  then 
a  way  of  joking  with  her  and  forcing 
her  to  smile  by  looking  her  steadily  in 
the  eye.  But  this  time  his  moral  des- 
potism failed  ;  she  answered  his  gaze 
with  a  defiant  glare,  and  remained  sul- 
len ;  after  another  moment  she  rushed 
out  of  the  room,  as  if  craving  relief 
from  his  domineering  presence. 

Apparently  the  Squire  would  have 
called  her  back,  had  not  his  attention 


been  diverted  by  the  entry  of  his  grand- 
daughter. 

"  I  say,  Bessie,  have  you  looked  in 
the  garden  ? "  he  demanded.  "  Why 
the  Devil  have  n't  you  ?  Don't  you 
know  Mercy's  hole  where  she  medi- 
tates ?  Go  there  and  hunt  for  her." 

As  the  girl  disappeared  he  turned  to 
the  door  through  which  his  wife  had 
fled,  as  if  he  still  had  a  savage  mind  to 
roar  for  her  reappearance.  But  after 
pondering  a  moment,  and  deciding  that 
he  was  more  comfortable  in  solitude, 
he  sat  slowly  down  in  his  usual  elbow- 
chair,  and  broke  out  in  a  growling 
soliloquy  :  — 

"There's   no   comfort    like   making 

one's  self  miserable.     It 's  a sight 

better  than  making  the  best  of  it.  We  're 
all  having  a  devilish  fine  time.  Wre  're 
as  happy  as  bugs  in  a  rug.  Hey  diddle 
diddle,  the  cat's  in  the  fiddle  — " 

The  continuity  of  his  rough-laid  stone- 
wall sarcasm  was  interrupted  by  Bessie, 
who  rushed  into  the  sitting-room  with  a 
low  shriek  and  a  pallid  face. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  he  de- 
manded. "  Has  the  cow  jumped  over 
the  moon  ?  " 

4<  O  grandfather  !  "  she  gasped.  "  I 
Ve  found  Aunt  Mercy.  I  'm  afraid 
she  's  dead." 

"  Hey  !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  start- 
ing up  eagerly  as  he  remembered  that 
Aunt  Mercy  was  his  own  child.  <-  You 
don't  say  so  !  Where  is  she  ?  " 

Bessie  turned  and  reeled  out  of  the 
house  ;  the  old  man  thumped  after  her 


566 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[May, 


on  his  cane.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
garden  was  a  small,  neglected  arbor, 
thickly  overgrown  with  grape-vines  in 
unpruned  leaf,  whither  Aunt  Mercy  was 
accustomed  to  repair  in  her  seasons  of 
unusual  perplexity  or  gloom,  there  to 
seek  guidance  or  relief  in  meditation 
and  prayer.  In  this  arbor  they  found 
her,  seated  crouchingly  on  a  bench 
near  the  doorway,  her  arms  stretched 
over  a  little  table  in  front  of  her,  and 
her  head  lying  between  them  with  the 
face  turned  from  the  gazers.  The 
moon  glared  in  a  ghastly  way  upon  her 
ominously  white  hands,  and  disclosed 
a  dark  yet  gleaming  stain,  seemingly 
a  drying  pool,  which  spread  out  from 
beneath  her  forehead. 

"Good  Lord  !  "  groaned  Squire  Lau- 
son. "  Mercy  !  I  say,  Mercy  !  " 

He  seized  her  hand,  but  he  had 
scarcely  touched  it  ere  he  dropped  it,  for 
it  was  the  icy,  repulsive,  alarming  hand 
of  a  corpse.  We  must  compress  our 
description  of  this  scene  of  horrible  dis- 
covery. Miss  Mercy  Lauson  was  dead, 
the  victim  of  a  brutal  assassination, 
her  right  temple  opened  by  a  gash  two 
inches  deep,  her  blood  already  clotted 
in  pools  or  dried  upon  her  face  and  fin- 
gers. It  must  have  been  an  hour,  or 
perhaps  two  hours,  since  the  blow  had 
been  dealt.  At  her  feet  was  the  fatal 
weapon,  —  an  old  hatchet  which  had 
long  lain  about  the  garden,  and  which 
offered  no  suggestion  as  to  who  was 
the  murderer. 

When  it  first  became  clear  to  Squire 
Lauson  that  his  daughter  was  dead, 
and  had  been  murdered,  he  uttered  a 
sound  between  a  gasp  and  a  sob ;  but 
almost  immediately  afterward  he  spoke 
in  his  habitually  vigorous  and  rasping 
voice,  and  his  words  showed  that  he 
had  not  lost  his  iron  self-possession. 

"  Bessie,  run  into  the  house,"  he 
said.  "  Call  the  hired  men,  and  bring 
a  lantern  with  you." 

When  she  returned  he  took  the  lan- 
tern, threw  'the  gleam  of  it  over  his 
dead  daughter's  face,  groaned,  shook 
his  head,  and  then,  leaning  on  his  cane, 
commenced  examining  the  earth,  evi- 
dently in  search  of  footmarks. 


"  There 's  your  print,  Bessie,"  he 
mumbled.  "And  there's  my  print. 
But  whose  print 's  that  ?  That 's  the 
man.  That 's  a  long  slim  foot,  with 
nails  across  the  ball.  That 's  the  man. 
Don't  disturb  those  tracks.  I  '11  set 
the  lantern  down  there.  Don't  you 
disturb  'em." 

There  were  several  of  these  strange 
tracks ;  the  clayey  soil  of  the  walk,  . 
slightly  tempered  with  sand,  had  pre- 
served them  with  fatal  distinctness  ;  it 
showed  them  advancing  to  the  arbor 
and  halting  close  by  the  murdered  wo- 
man. As  Bessie  stared  at  them,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  they  were  fearfully 
familiar,  though  where  she  had  seen 
them  before  she  could  not  say. 

"  Keep  away  from  those  tracks,"  re- 
peated Squire  Lauson  as  the  two  labor- 
ers who  lived  with  him  came  down  the 
garden.  "  Now,  then,  what  are  you 
staring  at  ?  She  's  dead.  Take  her  up 
—  O,  for  God's  sake,  be  gentle  about 
it !  —  take  her  up,  I  tell  you.  There  ! 
Now,  carry  her  along." 

As  the  men  moved  on  with  the  body 
he  turned  to  Bessie  and  said  :  "  Leave 
the  lantern  just  there.  And  don't  you 
touch  those  tracks.  Go  on  into  the 
house." 

With  his  own  hands  he  aided  to  lay 
out  his  daughter  on  a  table,  and  drew 
her  cap  from  her  temples  so  as  to  ex- 
pose the  bloody  gash  to  view.  There, 
was  a  little  natural  agony  in  the  tremu- 
lousness  of  his  stubbly  and  grizzly  chin  ; 
but  in  the  glitter  of  his  gray  eyes  there 
was  an  expression  which  was  not  so 
much  sorrow  as  revenge. 

"That's  a  pretty  job,"  he  said  at 
last,  glaring  at  the  mangled  gray  head. 
"  I  should  like  to  Tarn  who  did  it." 

It  was  not  known  till  the  day  follow- 
ing how  he  passed  the  next  half-hour. 
It  seems  that,  some  little  time  previous, 
this  man  of  over  ninety  years  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  repairing  with  his 
own  hands  the  cracked  wall  of  his  par- 
lor, and  had  for  that  purpose  bought  a 
quantity  of  plaster  of  Paris  and  com- 
menced a  series  of  patient  experiments 
in  mixing  and  applying  it.  Furnished 
with  a  basin  of  his  prepared  material, 


8;o.] 


The  Lauson   Tragedy. 


567 


he  stalked  out  to  the  arbor  and  busied 
himself  with  taking  a  mould  of  the 
strange  footstep  to  which  he  had  called 
Bessie's  attention,  succeeding  in  his 
labor  so  well  as  to  be  able  to  show 
next  day  an  exact  counterpart  of  the 
sole  which  had  made  the  track. 

Shortly  after  he  had  left  the  house, 
and  glancing  cautiously  about  as  if  to 
make  sure  that  he  had  indeed  left  it, 
his  wife  entered  the  room  where  lay 
the  dead  body.  She  came  slowly  up 
to  the  table,  and  looked  at  the  ghastly 
face  for  some  moments  in  silence,  with 
precisely  that  staid,  slightly  shudder- 
ing air  which  one  often  sees  at  funerals, 
and  without  any  sign  of  the  excitement 
which  one  naturally  expects  in  the  wit- 
nesses of  a  mortal  tragedy.  In  any  or- 
dinary person,  in  any  one  who  was  not, 
like  her,  denaturalized  by  the  egotism 
of  shattered  nerves,  such  mere  wonder 
and  repugnance  would  have  appeared 
incomprehensibly  brutal.  But  Mrs. 
Lauson  had  a  character  of  her  own  ; 
she  could  be  different  from  others  with- 
out exciting  prolonged  or  specially  se- 
vere comment  ;  people  said  to  them- 
selves, "  Just  like  her,"  and  made  no 
further  criticism,  and  almost  certainly 
no  remonstrance.  Bessie  herself,  the 
moment  she  had  exclaimed,  "  O  grand- 
mother !  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  felt  how 
absurd  it  was  to  address  such  an  appeal 
to  such  a  person. 

Mrs.  Lauson  'replied  by  a  glance 
which  expressed  weakness,  alarm,  and 
aversion,  and  which  demanded,  as 
plainly  as  words  could  say  it,  "  How 
can  you  ask  me?"  Then  without  ut- 
tering a  syllable,  without  attempting  to 
render  any  service  or  funereal  courtesy, 
bearing  herself  like  one  who  had  been 
mysteriously  absolved  from  the  duties 
of  sympathy  and  decorum,  she  turned 
her  back  on  the  body  of  her  step-daugh- 
ter with  a  start  of  disgust,  and  walked 
hastily  from  the  room. 

Of  course  there  was  a  gathering  of 
the  neighbors,  a  hasty  and  useless 
search  after  the  murderer,  a  medical 
examination  of  the  victim,  and  a  legal 
inquest  at  the  earliest  practicable  mo- 
ment, the  verdict  being  "death  by  the 


hand  of  some  person  unknown."  Even 
the  funeral  passed,  with  its  mighty 
crowd  and  its  solemn  excitement ;  and 
still  public  suspicion  had  not  dared  to 
single  out  any  one  as  the  criminal.  It 
seemed  for  a  day  or  two  as  if  the  family 
life  might  shortly  settle  into  its  old 
tenor,  the  same  narroyv  routine  of  quiet 
discontent  or  irrational  bickerings,  with 
no  change  but  the  loss  of  such  inflam- 
mation as  formerly  arose  from  Aunt 
Mercy's  well-meant,  but  irritating  sense 
of  duty.  The  Squire,  however,  was  per- 
manently and  greatly  changed  :  not  that 
he  had  lost  the  spirit  of  petty  dicta- 
tion which  led  him  to  interfere  in  every 
household  act,  even  to  the  boiling  of 
the  pot,  but  he  had  acquired  a  new 
object  in  life,  and  one  which  seemed 
to  restore  all  his  youthful  energy ;  he 
was  more  restlessly  and  distressingly 
vital  than  he  had  been  for  years.  No 
Indian  was  ever  more  intent  on  aveng- 
ing a  debt  of  blood  than  was  he  on 
hunting  down  the  murderer  of  his 
daughter.  This  terrible  old  man  has 
a  strong  attraction  for  us  :  we  feel  that 
we  have  not  thus  far  done  him  justice  : 
he  imperiously  demands  further  de- 
scription. 

Squire  Lauson  was  at  this  time  nine- 
ty-three years  of  age.  The  fact  ap- 
peared incredible,  because  he  had  pre- 
served, almost  unimpaired,  not  only  his 
moral  energy  and  intellectual  faculties, 
but  also  his  physical  senses,  and  even 
to  an  extraordinary  degree  his  muscu- 
lar strength.  His  long  and  carelessly 
worn  hair  was  not  white,  but  merely 
gray ;  and  his  only  baldness  was  a 
shining  hand's-breadth,  prolonging  the 
height  of  his  forehead.  His  face  was 
deeply  wrinkled,  but  more  apparently 
with  thought  and  passion  than  from  de- 
cay, for  the  flesh  was  still  well  under  con- 
trol of  the  muscles,  and  the  expression 
was  so  vigorous  that  one  was  tempted 
to  call  it  robust.  There  was  nothing 
of  that  insipid  and  almost  babyish  tran- 
quillity which  is  commonly  observable 
in  the  countenances  of  the  extremely 
aged.  The  cheekbones  were  heavy, 
though  the  healthy  fulness  of  the 
cheeks  prevented  them  from  being 


568 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[May, 


pointed ;  the  jaws,  not  yet  attenuated 
by  the  loss  of  many  teeth,  were  un- 
usually prominent  and  muscular  ;  the 
heavy  Roman  nose  still  stood  high 
above  the  projecting  chin.  In  general, 
it  was  a  long,  large  face,  grimly  and 
ruggedly  massive,  of  a  uniform  grayish 
color,  and  reminding  you  of  a  visage 
carved  in  granite. 

In  figure  the  Squire  was  of  medium 
height,  with  a  deep  chest  and  heavy 
limbs.  He  did  not  stand  quite  upright, 
but  the  stoop  was  in  his  shoulders  and 
not  in  his  loins,  and  arose  from  a 
slouching  habit  of  carrying  himself 
much  more  than  from  weakness.  He 
walked  with  a  cane,  but  his  step,  though 
rather  short,  was  strong  and  rapid,  and 
he  could  get  over  the  ground  at  the 
rate  of  three  miles  an  hour.  At  times 
he  seemed  a  little  deaf,  but  it  was 
mainly  from  absorption  of  mind  and 
inattention,  and  he  could  hear  perfect- 
ly when  he  was  interested.  The  great 
gray  eyes  under  his  bushy,  pepper-and- 
salt  eyebrows  were  still  so  sound  that 
he  only  used  spectacles  in  reading.  As 
for  voice,  there  was  hardly  such  an- 
other in  the  neighborhood  ;  it  was  a 
strong,  rasping,  dictatorial  caw,  like 
the  utterance  of  a  gigantic  crow  ;  it 
might  have  served  the  needs  of  a  sea- 
captain  in  a  tempest.  A  jocose  neigh- 
bor related  that  he  had  in  a  dream  de- 
scended into  hell,  and  that  in  trying  to 
find  his  way  out  he  had  lost  his  reck- 
oning, until,  hearing  a  tremendous  vol- 
ley of  oaths  on  the  surface  of  the  earth 
over  his  head,  he  knew  that  he  was  un- 
der the  hills  of  Barham,  and  that  Squire 
Lauson  was  swearing  at  his  oxen. 

Squire  Lauson  was  immense ;  you 
might  travel  over  him  for  a  week  with- 
out discovering  half  his  wonders  ;  he 
was  a  continent,  and  he  must  remain 
for  the  most  part  an  unknown  conti- 
nent. Bringing  to  a  close  our-  explora- 
tions into  his  character  and  past  life, 
we  will  follow  him  up  simply  as  one 
of  the  personages  of  this  tragedy.  He 
was  at  the  present  time  very  active,  but 
also  to  a  certain  extent  inexplicable. 
It  was  known  that  he  had  interviews 
with  various  officials  of  justice,  that  he 


furnished  them  with  his  plaster  cast  of 
the  strange  footprint  which  had  been 
found  in  the  garden,  and  that  he  ear- 
nestly impressed  upon  them  the  value 
of  this  object  for  the  purpose  of  track- 
ing out  the  murderer.  But  he  had  other 
lines  of  investigation  in  his  steady  old 
hands,  as  was  discoverable  later. 

His  manner  towards  his  granddaugh- 
ter and  his  wife  changed  noticeably. 
Instead  of  treating  the  first  with  neg- 
lect and  the  second  with  persistent  hos- 
tility or  derision,  he  became  assiduous- 
ly attentive  to  them,  addressed  them 
frequently  in  conversation,  and  sought 
to  win  their  confidence.  With  Bessie 
this  task  was  easy,  for  she  was  one  of 
those  natural,  unspoiled  women,  who 
long  for  sympathy,  and  she  inclined 
toward  her  grandfather  the  moment  she 
saw  any  kindness  in  his  eyes.  They 
had  long  talks  about  the  murdered  rela- 
tive, about  every  event  or  suspicion, 
which  seemed  to  relate  to  her  death, 
about  the  property  which  she  had  left 
to  Bessie,  and  about  the  girl's  pros- 
pects in  life. 

Not  so  with  Mrs.  Lauson.  Even  the 
horror  which  had  entered  the  family 
life  could  not  open  the  hard  crust 
which  disease  and  disappointment  had 
formed  over  her  nature,  and  she  met 
the  old  man's  attempts  to  make  her 
communicative  with  her  usual  sulky 
or  pettish  reticence.  There  never  was 
such  an  unreasonable  creature  as  this 
wretched  wife,  who,  while  she  remained 
unmarried,  had  striven  so  hard  to  be 
agreeable  to  the  other  sex.  It  was  not 
with  her  husband  alone  that  she  fought, 
but  with  every  one,  whether  man  or 
woman,  who  came  near  her.  Whoever 
entered  the  house,  whether  it  were 
some  gossiping  neighbor  or  the  cler- 
gyman or  the  doctor,  she  flew  out  of 
it  on  discovering  their  approach,  and 
wandered  alone  about  the  fields  until 
they  departed.  This  absence  she 
would  perhaps  employ  in  eating  green 
fruit,  hoping,  as  she  said,  to  make  her- 
self sick  and  die,  or,  at  least,  to  make 
herself  sick  enough  to  plague  her  hus- 
band. At  meals  she  generally  sat  in 
glum  silence,  although  once  or  twice 


i  S/o.] 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


569 


she  burst  out  in  violent  tirades,  scoff- 
ing at  the  Squire's  management  of  the 
place,  defying  him  to  strike  her,  etc. 

Her  appearance  at  this  time  was  mis- 
erable and  little  less  than  disgusting. 
Her  skin  was  thick  and  yellow ;  her 
eyes  were  bloodshot  and  watery  ;  her 
nose  was  reddened  with  frequent  cry- 
ing ;  her  form  was  of  an  almost  skele- 
ton thinness  ;  her  manner  was  full  of 
strange  starts  and  gaspings.  It  was 
curious  to  note  the  contrast  between 
her  perfect  wretchedness  of  aspect  and 
the  unfeeling  coolness  with  which  the 
Squire  watched  and  studied  her. 

In  this  woful  way  was  the  Lauson 
family  getting  on  when  the  country 
around  was  electrified  by  an  event 
which  almost  threw  the  murder  itself 
into  the  shade.  Henry  Foster,  the  ac- 
cepted lover  of  Bessie  Barren,  a  pro- 
fessor in  the  Scientific  College  of 
Hampstead,  was  suddenly  arrested  as 
the  assassin  of  Miss  Mercy  Lauson. 

"  What  does  this  mean  !  "  was  his 
perfectly  natural  exclamation,  when 
seized  by  the  officers  of  justice  ;  but  it 
was  uttered  with  a  sudden  pallor  which 
awakened  in  the  bystanders  a  strong 
suspicion  of  his  guilt.  No  definite  an- 
swer was  made  to  his  question  until  he 
was  closeted  with  the  lawyer  whom  he 
immediately  retained  in  his  defence. 

"  I  should  like  to  get  at  the  whole  of 
your  case,  Mr.  Foster,"  said  the  legal 
gentleman.  "  I  must  beg  you,  for  your 
own  sake,  to  be  entirely  frank  with  me." 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  know  nothing 
about  the  murder,"  was  the  firm  reply. 
"  I  don't  so  much  as  understand  why  I 
should  be  suspected  of  the  horrible 
business." 

The  lawyer,  Mr.  Adams  Patterson, 
after  studying  Foster  in  a  furtive  way, 
as  if  doubtful  whether  there  had  been 
perfect  honesty  in  his  assertion  of  in- 
nocence, went  on  to  state  what  he  sup- 
posed would  be  the  case  of  the  prose- 
cution. 

u  The  evidence  against  you,"  he  said, 
"  so  far  at  least  as  I  can  now  discover, 
will  all  be  circumstantial.  They  will 
endeavor  to  prove  your  presence  at  the 
scene  of  the  tragedy  by  your  tracks. 


Footmarks,  said  to  correspond  to  yours, 
were  found  passing  the  door  of  the  ar- 
bor, returning  to  it  and  going  away 
from  it." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Foster.  «  I  re- 
member, —  I  did  pass  there.  I  will 
tell  you  how.  It  was  in  the  afternoon. 
I  was  in  the  house  during  a  thunder- 
storm which  happened  that  day,  and 
left  it  shortly  after  the  shower  ended. 
I  went  out  through  the  garden  because 
that  was  the  nearest  way  to  the  rivulet 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  I  wished 
to  make  some  examinations  into  the 
structure  of  the  water-bed.  A  part  of 
the  garden  walk  is  gravelled,  and  on 
that  I  suppose  my  tracks  did  not  show. 
But  near  the  arbor  the  gravel  ceases, 
and  there  I  remember  stepping  into  the 
damp  mould.  I  did  pass  the  arbor, 
and  I  did  return  to  it.  I  returned  to 
it  because  it  had  been  a  heavenly  place 
to  me.  It  was  there  that  I  proposed 
to  Miss  Barren,  and  that  she  accepted 
me.  The  moment  that  I  had  passed 
it  I  reproached  myself  for  doing  so.  I 
went  back,  looked  at  the  little  spot  for 
a  moment,  and  left  a  kiss  on  the  table. 
It  was  on  that  table  that  her  hand  had 
rested  when  I  first  dared  to  take  it  in 
mine." 

His  voice  broke  for  an  instant  with 
an  emotion  which  every  one  who  has 
ever  loved  can  at  least  partially  under- 
stand. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  to  think  that  such 
an  impulse  should  entangle  me  in  such 
a  charge  ! "  he  added,  when  he  could 
speak  again. 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  after  a  long 
sigh,  "  I  left  the  arbor,  —  my  heart  as 
innocent  and  happy  as  any  heart  in  the 
world,  —  I  climbed  over  the  fence  and 
went  down  the  hill.  That  is  the  last 
time  that  I  was  in  those  grounds  that 
day.  That  is  the  whole  truth,  so  help 
me  God ! " 

The  lawyer  seemed  touched.  Even 
then,  however,  he  was  saying  to  him- 
self, "  They  always  keep  back  some- 
thing, if  not  everything."  After  medi- 
tating for  a  few  seconds,  he  resumed 
his  interrogatory. 

"  Did  any  one   see   you  ?  did    Miss 


570 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[May, 


Barren  see  you,  as  you  passed  through 
the  garden  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  Some  one  called  her 
just  as  I  left  her,  and  she  went,  I  be- 
lieve, up  stairs." 

"  Did  you  see  the  person  who  called? 
Did  you  see  any  one  ? " 

"  No  one.  But  the  voice  was  a  wo- 
man's voice.  I  took  it  to  be  that  of  a 
servant." 

.-  Mr.  Patterson  fell  into  a  thoughtful 
silence,  his  arms  resting  on  the  elbows 
of  his  chair,  and  his  anxious  eyes  wan- 
dering over  the  floor. 

"  But  what  motive  ?  "  broke  out  Fos- 
ter, addressing  the  lawyer  as  if  he  were 
an  accuser  and  an  enemy,  —  "  what 
sufficient  motive  had  I  for  such  a  hide- 
ous crime  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  just  it.  The  motive  ! 
They  will  make  a  great  deal  of  that. 
Why,  you  must  be  able  to  guess  what 
is  alleged.  Miss  Lauson  had  made  a 
will  in  her  niece's  favor,  but  had  threat- 
ened to  disinherit  her  if  she  married 
you.  This  fact, — as  has  been  made 
known  by  an  incautious  admission  of 
Miss  Bessie  Barron,  —  this  fact  you 
were  aware  of.  The  death  came  just 
in  time  to  prevent  a  change  in  the  will. 
Don't  you  see  the  obvious  inference  of 
the  prosecution  ? " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Fos- 
ter, springing  up  and  pacing  his  cell. 
"  I  murder  a  woman,  —  murder  my 
wife's  aunt,  —  for  money,  —  for  twenty 
thousand  dollars  !  Am  I  held  so  low 
as  that  ?  Why,  it  is  a  sum  that  any 
clever  man  can  earn  in  this  country  in 
a  few  years.  We  could  have  done  with- 
out it.  I  would  not  have  asked  for  it, 
much  less  murdered  for  it.  Tell  me, 
Mr.  Patterson,  do  you  suppose  me  ca- 
pable of  such  degrading  as  well  as  such 
horrible  guilt  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Foster,"  replied  the  lawyer, 
with  impressive  deliberation,  "  I  shall 
go  into  this  case  with  a  confidence  that 
you  are  absolutely  innocent." 

"  Thank  you,"  murmured  the  young 
man,  grasping  Patterson's  hand  vio- 
lently, and  then  turning  away  to  wipe 
a  tear,  which  had  been  too  quick  for 
him. 


"Excuse  my  weakness,"  he  said, 
presently.  "  But  I  don't  believe  any 
worthy  man  is  strong  enough  to  bear 
the  insult  that  the  world  has  put  upon 
me,  without  showing  his  suffering." 

Certainly,  Foster's  bearing  and  the 
sentiments  which  he  expressed  had 
the  nobility  and  pathos  of  injured  inno- 
cence. Were  it  not  that  innocence  can 
be  counterfeited,  as  also  that  a  fine  de- 
meanor and  touching  utterance  are  not 
points  in  law,  no  alarming  doubt  would 
seem  to  overshadow  the  result  of  the 
trial.  And  yet,  strange  as  it  must  seem 
to  those  whom  my  narrative  may  have 
impressed  in  favor  of  Foster,  the  se- 
date, Puritanic  population  of  Barham 
and  its  vicinity  inclined  more  and  more 
toward  the  presumption  of  his  guilt. 

For  this  there  were  two  reasons.  In 
the  first  place,  who  but  he  had  any 
cause  of  spite  against  Mercy  Lauson, 
or  could  hope  to  draw  any  profit  from 
her  death  ?  There  had  been  no  rob- 
bery;  there  was  not  a  sign  that  the  vic- 
tim's clothing  had  been  searched  ;  the 
murder  had  clearly  not  been  the  work 
of  a  burglar  or  a  thief.  But  Foster,  if 
he  indeed  assassinated  this  woman, 
had  thereby  removed  an  obstacle  to 
his  marriage,  and  had  secured  to  his 
future  wife  a  considerable  fortune. 

In  the  second  place,  Foster  was  such 
a  man  as  the  narrowly  scrupulous  and 
orthodox  world  of  Barham  would  natu- 
rally regard  with  suspicion.  Graduate 
of  a  German  university,  he  had  brought 
back  to  America,  not  only  a  superb 
scientific  education,  but  also  what 
passed,  in  the  region  where  he  had  set- 
tled, for  a  laxity  of  morals.  Professor 
as  he  was  in  the  austere  college  of 
Hampstead,  and  expected,  therefore, 
to  set  a  luminously  correct  example  in 
both  theoretical  and  practical  ethics,  he 
held  theological  opinions  which  were 
too  modern  to  be  considered  sound, 
and  he  even  neglected  church  to  an  ex- 
tent which  his  position  rendered  scan- 
dalous. In  spite  of  the  strict  prohib- 
itory law  of  Massachusetts,  he  made 
use  of  lager-beer  and  other  still  strong- 
er fluids  ;  and,  although  he  was  never 
known  to  drink  to  excess,  the  mere 


8;o.] 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


571 


fact  of  breaking  the  statute  was  a  suffi- 
cient offence  to  rouse  prejudice.  It 
was  also  reported  of  him,  to  the  honest 
horror  of  many  serious  minds,  that  he. 
had  been  detected  in  geologizing  on 
Sunday,  and  that  he  was  fond  of  whist. 

How  apt  we  are  to  infer  that  a  man 
who  violates  our  code  of  morals  will 
also  violate  his  own  code  !  Of  course 
this  Germanized  American  could  not  be- 
lieve that  murder  was  right ;  but  then 
he  played  cards  and  drank  beer,  which 
we  of  Barham  knew  to  be  wrong  ;  and 
if  he  would  do  one  wrong  thing,  why 
not  another  ? 

Meantime  how  was  it  with  Bessie  ? 
How  is  it  always  with  women  when 
those  whom  they  love  are  charged 
with  unworthiness  ?  Do  they  exhibit 
the  "judicial  mind"?  Do  they  cau- 
tiously weigh  the  evidence  and  decide 
according  to  it  ?  The  girl  did  not  en- 
tertain the  faintest  supposition  that  her 
lover  could  be  guilty  ;  she  was  no  more 
capable  of  blackening  his  character 
than  she  was  capable  of  taking  his  life. 
She  would  not  speak  to  people  who 
showed  by  word  or  look  that  they 
doubted  his  innocence.  She  raged  at 
a  world  which  could  be  so  stupid,  so 
unjust,  and  so  wicked  as  to  slander  the 
good  fame  and  threaten  the  life  of 
one  whom  her  heart  had  crowned  with 
more  than  human  perfections. 

But  what  availed  all  her  confidence 
in  his  purity  ?  There  was  the  finger 
of  public  suspicion  pointed  at  him,  and 
there  was  the  hangman  lying  in  wait 
for  his  precious  life.  She  was  almost 
mad  with  shame,  indignation,  grief,  and 
terror.  She  rose  as  pale  as  a  ghost 
from  sleepless  nights,  during  which  she 
had  striven  in  vain  to  unravel  this  ter- 
rible mystery,  and  prayed  in  vain  that 
Heaven  would  revoke  this  unbearable 
calamity.  Day  by  day  she  visited  her 
betrothed  in  his  cell,  and  cheered  him 
with  the  sympathy  of  her  trusting 
and  loving  soul.  The  conversations 
which  took  place  on  these  occasions 
were  so  naive  and  childlike  in  their  hon- 
est utterance  of  emotion  that  I  almost 
dread  to  record  them,  lest  the  deliber- 
ate, unpalpitating  sense  of  criticism 


should  pronounce  them  sickening,  and 
mark  them  for  ridicule. 

"  Darling,"  she  once  said  to  him, 
"  we  must  be  married.  Whether  you  are 
to  live  or  to  die,  I  must  be  your  wife." 

He  knelt  down  and  kissed  the  hem 
of  her  dress  in  adoration  of  such  self- 
sacrifice. 

"Ah,  my  love,  I  never  before  knew 
what  you  were,"  he  whispered,  as  she 
leaned  forward,  caught  his  head  in  her 
hands,  dragged  it  into  her  lap,  and  cov- 
ered it  with  kisses  and  tears.  "  Ah,  my 
love,  you  are  too  good.  I  cannot  accept 
such  a  sacrifice.  When  I  am  cleared 
publicly  of  this  horrible  charge,  then 
I  will  ask  you  once  more  if  you  dare 
be  my  wife." 

"  Dare  !  O,  how  can  you  say  such 
things  !  "  she  sobbed.  "  Don't  you 
know  that  you  are  more  to  me  than  the 
whole  universe  ?  Don't  you  know  that 
I  would  marry  you,  even  if  I  knew  you 
were  guilty  ?  " 

There  is  no  reasoning  with  this  sub- 
lime passion  of  love,  when  it  is  truly 
itself.  There  is  no  reasoning  with  it ; 
and  Heaven  be  thanked  that  it  is  so ! 
It  is  well  to  have  one  impulse  in  the 
world  which  has  no  egoism,  which  re- 
joices in  self-immolation  for  the  sake 
of  its  object,  which  is  among  emotions 
what  a  martyr  is  among  men. 

Foster's  response  was  worthy  of  the 
girl's  declaration.  "  My  love,"  he 
whispered,  "  I  have  been  bemoaning 
my  ruined  life,  but  I  must  bemoan  it 
no  more.  It  is  success  enough  for 
any  man  to  be  loved  by  you,  and  as  you 
love  me." 

"  No,  no !  "  protested  Bessie.  "  It  is 
not  success  enough  for  you.  No  suc- 
cess is  enough  for  you.  You  deserve 
everything  that  ever  man  did  deserve. 
And  here  you  are  insulted,  trampled 
upon,  and  threatened.  O,  it  is  shame- 
ful and  horrible  !  " 

"  My  child,  you  must  not  help  to 
break  me  down,"  implored  Foster,  feel- 
ing that  he  was  turning  weak  under 
the  thought  of  his  calamity. 

She  started  towards  him  in  a  spasm 
of  remorse  ;  it  was  as  if  she  had  sud- 
denly become  aware  that  she  had 


572 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


[May, 


stabbed  him  ;  her  face  and  her  attitude 
were  full  of  self-reproach. 

"  O  my  darling,  do  I  make  you  more 
wretched  ?"  she  asked,  "when  I  would 
die  for  you  !  when  you  are  my  all  !  O, 
there  is  not  a  minute  when  I  am  wor- 
thy of  you." 

These  interviews  left  Foster  pos- 
sessed of  a  few  minutes  of  consolation 
and  peace,  which  would  soon  change 
into  an  increased  poverty  of  despair 
and  rage.  For  the  first  few  days  of  his 
imprisonment  his  prevalent  feeling  was 
anger.  He  could  not  in  the  least  ac- 
cept his  position ;  he  would  not  look 
upon  himself  as  one  who  was  suspected 
with  justice,  or  even  with  the  slightest 
show  of  probability  ;  he  would  not  ad- 
mit that  society  was  pardonable  for  its 
doubts  of  him.  He  was  not  satisfied 
with  mere  hope  of  escape  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  considered  his  accusers  shame- 
fully and  wickedly  blameworthy ;  he 
was  angry  at  them,  and  wanted  to 
wreak  upon  them  a  stern  vengeance. 

As  the  imprisonment  dragged  on, 
however,  and  his  mind  lost  its  tension 
under  the  pressure  of  trouble  ;  there 
came  moments  when  he  did  not  quite 
know  himself.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
this  man,  who  was  charged  \vithf  mur- 
der, was  some  one  else,  for  whose 
character  he  could  not  stand  security, 
and  who  might  be  guilty.  He  almost 
looked  upon  him  with  suspicion  ;  he 
half  joined  the  public  in  condemning 
him  unheard.  Perhaps  this  mental  con- 
fusion was  the  foreshadowing  of  that 
insane  state  of  mind  in  which  prison- 
ers have  confessed  themselves  guilty 
of  murders  which  they  had  not  com- 
mitted, and  which  have  been  eventually 
brought  home  to  others.  There  are 
twilights  between  reason  and  unreason. 
YThe  descent  from  the  one  condition  to 
the  other  is  oftener  a  slope  than  a 
precipice. 

Meanwhile  Bessie  had,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  plans  for  saving  her  lover ; 
and  these  plans,  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course  too,  were  mainly  impracticable. 
As  with  all  young  people  and  almost 
all  women,  she  rebelled  against  the 
fixed  procedures  of  society  when  they 


seemed  likely  to  trample  on  the  dic- 
tates of  her  affections.  Now  that  it 
was  her  lover  who  was  under  suspicion 
of  murder,  it  did  not  seem  a  necessity 
to  her  that  the  law  should  take  its 
course,  and,  on  the  contrary,  it  seemed 
to  her  an  atrocity.  She  knew  that  he 
was  guiltless  ;  she  knew  that  he  was 
suffering ;  why  should  he  be  tried  ? 
When  told  that  he  must  have  every 
legal  advantage,  she  assented  to  it  ea- 
gerly, and  drove  at  once  to  see  Mr. 
Patterson,  and  overwhelmed  him  with 
tearful  implorations  "  to  do  everything 

—  to  do  everything  that  could  be  done, 

—  yes,    in   short,   to    do    everything." 
But  still   she  could  not  feel  that  any- 
thing ought  to  be  done,  except  to  re- 
lease at  once  this  beautiful  and  blame- 
less  victim,  and   to   make   him   every 
conceivable  apology.     As  for  bringing 
him  before  a  court,  to  answer  with  his 
life  whether  he  were  innocent  or  guilty, 
it  was    an    injustice   and   an    outrage 
which  she  rebelled  against  with  all  the 
energy  of  her  ardent  nature. 

Who  could  prevent  this  infamy  ?  In 
her  ignorance  of  the  machinery  of  jus- 
tice, it  seemed  to  her  that  her  grand- 
father might.  Notwithstanding  the 
little  sympathy  that  there  had  been  be- 
tween them,  she  went  to  the  grim  old 
man  with  her  sorrows  and  her  plans, 
proposing  to  him  to  arrest  the  trial. 
In  her  love  and  her  simplicity  she 
would  have  appealed  to  a  mountain  or 
to  a  tiger. 

"  What !  "  roared  the  Squire.  "  Stop 
the  trial  ?  Can't  do  it.  I  'm  not  the 
prosecutor.  The  State's  attorney  is 
the  prosecutor." 

"But  can't  you  say  that  you  think 
the  proof  against  him  is  insufficient  ?  "' 
urged  Bessie.  "  Can't  you  go  to  them 
and  say  that  ?  Won't  that  do  it  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  "  replied  Squire 
Lauson,  staring  in  wonder  at  such  igno- 
rance, and  dimly  conscious  of  the  love 
and  sorrow  which  made  it  utter  its  sim- 
plicities. 

"  O  grandfather !  do  have  pity  on 
him  and  on  me  !  "  pleaded  Bessie. 

He  gave  her  a  kinder  glance  than 
she  had  ever  received  from  him  before 


1 870.] 


The  Lauson  Tragedy. 


573 


in  her  life.  It  occurred  to  him,  as  if  it 
were  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was 
very  sweet  and  helpless,  and  that  she 
was  his  own  grandchild.  He  had 
hated  her  father.  O,  how  he  had  hated 
the  conceited  city  upstart,  with  his 
pert,  positive  ways  !  how  he  had  re- 
joiced over  his  bankruptcy,  if  not  over 
his  death  !  The  girl  he  had  taken  to 
his  home,  because,  after  all,  she  was  a 
Lauson  by  blood,  and  it  would  be  a 
family  shame  to  let  her  go  begging  her 
bread  of  strangers.  But  she  had  not 
won  upon  him  ;  she  looked  too  much 
like  that  "damn  jackanapes,"  her  fa- 
ther ;  moreover,  she  had  contemptible 
city  accomplishments,  and  she  moped  in 
the  seclusion  of  Barham.  He  had  been 
glad  when  she  became  engaged  to  that 
other  "  damn  jackanapes,"  Foster  ;  and 
'  it  had  been  agreeable  to  think  that  her 
marriage  would  take  her  out  of  his 
sight.  Mercy  had  made  a  will  in  her 
favor  ;  he  had  sniffed  and  hooted  at 
Mercy  for  her  folly  ;  but,  after  all,  he 
had  in  his  heart  consented  to  the  will ; 
it  saved  him  from  leaving  any  of  his 
money  to  a  Barren. 

Of  late,  however,  there  had  been  a 
softening  in  the  Squire  ;  he  could  him- 
self hardly  believe  that  it  was  in  his 
heart  ;  he  half  suspected  at  times  that 
it  was  in  his  brain.  A  man  who  lives 
to  ninety-three  is  exposed  to  this  dan- 
ger, that  he  may  survive  all  his  chil- 
dren. The  Squire  had  walked  to  one 
grave  after  another,  until  he  had  buried 
his  last  son  and  his  last  daughter.  Af- 
ter Mercy  Lauson,  there  were  no  more 
children  for  him  to  see  underground  ; 
and  that  fact,  coupled  with  the  shock- 
ing nature  of  her  death,  had  strangely 
shaken  him  ;  it  had  produced  that  sin- 
gular softening  which  we  have  men- 
tioned, and  which  seemed  to  him  like 
a  malady.  No\v,  a  little  shattered,  no 
longer  the  man  that  he  so  long  had 
been,  he  was  face  to  face  with  his  only 
living  descendant. 

He  reached  out  his  gray,  hard  hand, 
and  hid  it  on  her  glossy,  curly  hair. 
She  started  with  surprise  at  the  unac- 
customed touch,  and  looked  up  in  his 
face  with  a  tearful  sparkle  of  hope. 


"  Be  quiet,  Bessie,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
which  was  less  like  a  caw  than  usual. 

"  O  grandfather  !  what  do  you 
mean  ? "  she  sobbed,  guessing  that 
deliverance  might  be  nigh,  and  yet 
fearing  to  fall  back  into  despair. 

"  Don't  cry,"  was  the  only  response 
of  this  close  -  mouthed,  imperturbable 
old  man. 

"O,  was  it  any  one  else?"  she  de- 
manded. "  Who  do  you  think  did  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  he  admitted,  after 
staring  at  her  steadily,  as  if  to  im- 
press caution.  "  But  keep  quiet.  We  '11 
see." 

"  You  know  it  could  n't  be  he  that 
did  it,"  urged  Bessie.  "  Don't  you 
know  it  could  n't  ?  He  's  too'  good." 

The  Squire  laughed.  "  Why,  some 
folks  laid  it  to  you,"  he  said.  "  If  he 
should  be  cleared,  they  might  lay  it  to 
you  again.  There  's  no  telling  who  '11 
do  such  things,  and  there  's  no  telling 
who  '11  be  suspected." 

"  And  you  will  do  something  ?  "  she 
resumed.  "  You  will  follow  it  up  ? 
You  will  save  him  ? " 

"  Keep  quiet,"  grimly  answered  the 
Squire.  "  I  'm  watching.  But  keep 
quiet.  Not  a  word  to  a  living  soul." 

Close  on  this  scene  came  another, 
which  proved  to  be  the  unravelling  of 
the  drama.  That  evening  Bessie  went 
early,  as  usual,  to  her  solitary  room, 
and  prepared  for  one  of  those  nights 
which  are  not  a  rest  to  the  weary. 
She  had  become  very  religious  since 
her  trouble  had  come  upon  her  ;  she 
read  several  chapters  in  the  Bible,  and 
then  she  prayed  long  and  fervently ; 
and,  after  a  sob  or  two  over  her  own 
shortcomings,  the  prayer  was  all  for 
Foster.  Such  is  human  devotion  :  the 
voice  of  distress  is  far  more  fervent 
than  the  voice  of  worship  ;  the  weak 
and  sorrowful  are  the  true  suppliants. 

Her  prayer  ended,  if  ever  it  could  be 
said  to  end  while  she  waked,  she  strove 
anew  to  disentangle  the  mystery  which 
threatened  her  lover,  meanwhile  hear- 
ing, half  unawares,  the  noises  of  the 
night.  Darkness  has  its  speech,  its  still 
small  whisperings  and  mutterings,  a 
language  which  cannot  be  heard  during 


574 


The  L  aus on  Tragedy. 


[May, 


the  clamor  of  day,  but  which  to  those 
who  must  listen  to  it  is  painfully  audi- 
ble, and  which  rarely  has  pleasant 
things  to  say,  but  threatens  rather,  or 
warns.  For  a  long  time,  disturbed  by 
fingers  that  tapped  at  her  window,  by 
hands  that  stole  along  her  wall,  by  feet 
that  glided  through  the  dark  halls, 
Bessie  could  not  sleep.  She  lost  her- 
self; then  she  came  back  to  conscious- 
ness with  the  start  of  a  swimmer  strug- 
gling toward  the  surface;  then  she 
recommenced  praying  for  Foster,  and 
once  more  lost  herself. 

At  last,  half  dozing,  and  yet  half 
aware  that  she  was  weeping,  she  was 
suddenly  and  sharply  roused  by  a  dis- 
tinct creak  in  the  floor  of  her  room. 
Bessie  had  in  one  respect  inherited 
somewhat  of  her  grandfather's  iron  na- 
ture, being  so  far  from  habitually  tim- 
orous that  she  was  noted  among  her 
girlish  acquaintance  for  courage.  But 
her  nerves  had  been  seriously  shaken 
by  the  late  tragedy,  by  anxiety,  and  by 
sleeplessness  ;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
there  was  in  the  air  a  warning  of  great 
danger ;  she  was  half  paralyzed  by 
fright. 

Struggling  against  her  terror,  she 
sprang  out  of  bed  and  made  a  rush 
toward  her  door,  meaning  to  close  and 
lock  it.  Instantly  there  was  a  collision  ; 
she  had  thrown  herself  against  some 
advancing  form ;  in  the  next  breath 
she  was  engaged  in  a  struggle.  Half 
out  of  her  senses,  she  did  not  scream, 
did  not  query  whether  her  assailant 
were  man  or  woman,  did  not  indeed 
use  her  intelligence  in  any  distinct 
fashion,  but  only  pushed  and  pulled  in 
blind  instinct  of  escape. 

Once  she  had  a  sensation  of  being 
cut  with  some  sharp  instrument.  Then 
she  struck ;  the  blow  told,  and  her 
antagonist  fell  heavily ;  the  fall  was 
succeeded  by  a  short  shriek  in  a  wo- 
man's voice.  Bessie  did  not  stop  to 
wonder  that  any  one  engaged  in  an  at- 
tempt at  assassination  should  utter  an 
outcry  which  would  almost  necessarily 
insure  discovery  and  seizure.  The 
shock  of  the  sound  seemed  to  restore 
her  own  powers  of 'speech,  and  she 


burst  into  a  succession  of  loud  screams, 
calling  on  her  grandfather  for  help. 

In  the  same  moment  the  hope  which 
abides  in  light  fell  under  her  hand. 
Reeling  against  her  dressing-table,  her 
fingers  touched  a  box  of  waxen  matches, 
and  she  quickly  drew  one  of  them 
against  the  wood,  sending  a  faint  glim- 
mer through  the  chamber.  She  was 
not  horror-stricken,  she  did  not  grasp 
a  comprehension  of  the  true  nature  of 
the  scene ;  she  simply  stared  in  trem- 
bling wonder  when  she  recognized 
Mrs.  Lauson. 

"  You  there,  grandmother  !  "  gasped 
Bessie.  "  What  has  happened  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lauson,  attired  in  an  old  morn- 
ing-gown, was  sitting  on  the  floor,  par- 
tially supported  by  one  hand,  while  the 
other  was  moving  about  as  if  in  search 
of  some  object.  The  object  was  a' 
carving-knife  ;  she  saw  it,  clutched  it, 
and  rose  to  her  feet ;  then  for  the  first 
time  she  looked  at  Bessie.  "  What  do 
you  lie  awake  and  pray  for  ?  "  she  de- 
manded, in  a  furious  mutter.  "  You  lie 
awake  and  pray  every  night.  I  've 
listened  in  the  hall  time  and  again,  and 
heard  you.  I  won't  have  it.  I  '11  give 
you  just  three  minutes  to  get  to  sleep." 

Bessie  did  not  think  ;  it  did  not 
occur  to  her,  at  least  not  in  any  clear 
manner,  that  this  was  lunacy  ;  she  in- 
stinctively sprang  behind  a  large  chair 
and  uttered  another  scream. 

"  I  say,  will  you  go  to  sleep  ?  "  in- 
sisted Mrs.  Lauson,  advancing  and 
raising  her  knife. 

Just  in  the  moment  of  need  there 
were  steps  in  the  hall ;  the  still  vig- 
orous and  courageous  old  Squire  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene  ;  after  a  violent 
struggle  the  maniac  was  disarmed  and 
bound.  She  lay  upon  Bessie's  bed, 
staring  at  her  husband  with  bloodshot, 
watery  eyes,  and  seemingly  unconscious 
of  anything  but  a  sense  of  ill-treatment. 
The  girl,  meanwhile,  had  discovered  a 
slight  gash  on  her  left  arm,  and  had 
shown  it  to  the  Squire. 

"  Sallie,"  demanded  the  cold-blooded 
old  man,  "  what  have  you  been  trying 
to  knife  Bessie  for  ? " 

"  Because  she  lay  awake  and  prayed," 


1 8/0.] 


A  May-time  Pastoral. 


575 


was  the  ready  and  firm  response  of 
downright  mania. 

"  Look  here,  Sallie,  what  did  you  kill 
Mercy  for  ? "  continued  the  Squire, 
without  changing  a  muscle  of  his  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Because  she  sat  up  and  prayed," 
responded  Mrs.  Lauson.  "  She  sat  up 
in  the  garden  and  prayed  against  me. 
Ever  so  many  people  sit  up  and  lie 
awake  to  pray  against  me.  I  won't 
have  it." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Do  you 
hear  that,  Bessie  ?  Remember  it,  so 
as  to  say  it  upon  your  oath." 

After  a  second  or  two  he  added,  with 
something  like  a  twinkle  of  his  char- 
acteristic humor  in  his  hard,  gray  eyes, 
"  So  I  saved  my  life  by  not  praying  !  " 

Thus  ended  the  extraordinary  scene 
which  brought  to  light  the  murderer 


of  Miss  Mercy  Lauson.  It  is  almost 
needless  to  add  that  on  the  day  following 
the  maniac  was  conveyed  to  the  State 
Lunatic  Asylum,  and  that  shortly  after- 
ward Bessie  opened  the  prison  gates 
of  Henry  Foster,  and  told  him  of  his 
absolution  from  charge  of  crime. 

"  And  now  I  want  the  whole  world 
to  get  on  its  knees  and  ask  your  par- 
don," she  said,  after  a  long  scene  of 
tenderer  words  than  must  be  reported. 

"  If  the  world  should  ask.  pardon  for 
all  its  blunders,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  it  would  pass  its  whole  time  in  pen- 
ance, and  would  n't  make  its  living. 
Human  life  is  like  science,  a  sequence 
of  mistakes,  with  generally  a  true  di- 
rection." 

One  must  stick  to  one's  character. 
A  philosopher  is  nothing  if  not  philo- 
sophical. 


A    MAY-TIME     PASTORAL. 

I. 

YES,  it  is  May  !  though  not  that  the  young  leaf  pushes  its  velvet 
Out  of  the  sheath,  that  the  stubbornest  sprays  are  beginning  to  bourgeon, 
Larks  responding  aloft  to  the  mellow  flute  of  the  bluebird, 
Nor  that  song  and  sunshine  and  odors  of  life  are  immingled 
Even  as  wines  in  a  cup ;  but  that  May,  with  her  delicate  philtres 
Drenches  the  veins  and  the  valves  of  the  heart, — a  double  possession, 
Touching  the  sleepy  sense  with  sweet,  irresistible  languor, 
Piercing,  in  turn,  the  languor  with  flame :  as  the  spirit,  requickened, 
Stirred  in  the  womb  of  the  world,  foreboding  a  birth  and  a  being ! 

II. 

Who  can  hide  from  her  magic,  break  her  insensible  thraldom, 
Clothing  the  wings  of  eager  delight  as  with  plumage  of  trouble? 
Sweeter,  perchance,  the  embryo  Spring,  forerunner  of  April, 
When  on  banks  that  slope  to  the  south  the  saxifrage  wakens, 
When,  beside  the  dentils  of  frost  that  cornice  the  roadside, 
Weeds  are  a  promise,  and  woods  betray  the  trailing  arbutus. 
Once  is  the  sudden  miracle  seen,  the  truth  and  its  rapture 
Felt,  and  the  pulse  of  the  possible  May  is  throbbing  already. 
Thus  unto  me,  a  boy,  the  clod  that  was  warm  in  the  sunshine, 
Murmurs  of  thaw,  and  imagined  jostling  of  growth  in  the  herbage, 
Airs  from  over  the  southern  hills,  —  and  something  within  me 
Catching  a  deeper  sign  from  these  than  ever  the  senses, — 
Came  as  a  call:  I  awoke,  and  heard,  and  endeavored  to  answer. 
Whence  should  fall  in  my  lap  the  sweet,  impossible  marvel? 


A  May -time  Pastoral.  [May, 

When  would  the  silver  fay  appear  from  the  willowy  thicket? 
When  from  the  yielding  rock  the  gnome  with  his  basket  of  jewels  ? 
"  When,  ah  when  ? "  I  cried,  on  the  steepest  perch  of  the  hillside 
Standing  with  arms  outspread,  and  waiting  a  wind  that  should  bear  me 
Over  the  apple-tree  tops  and  over  the  farms  of  the  valley. 

III. 

Something,  I  think,  of  fresher  happiness  comes  to  the  people ; 

Something  blooms  in  the  daffodil,  something  sings  in  the  robin. 

He  in  the  neighboring  field,  a  clown  in  all  but  his  garments, 

Watching  the  sprouting  corn  and  planting  his  beggarly  scarecrow, 

Feels,  methinks,  unblushing,  the  tenderer  side  of  his  nature. 

Yonder,  surely,  the  woman,  stooped  at  the  foot  of  her  garden, 

Setting  the  infant  seeds  with  the  thrust  of  her  motherly  finger, 

Dreams  of  the  past  or  the  future,  —  the  children,  or  children  that  may  be. 

Happy  are  both,  obeying  the  absolute  law  of  the  season, 

Simply  accepting  its  bliss,  not  guessing  the  why  or  the  wherefore. 

IV. 

He,  that  will,  let  him  backward  set  the  stream  of  his  fancy, 

So  to  evoke  a  dream  from  the  ruined  world  of  his  boyhood  ! 

Lo,  it  is  easy !     Yonder,  lapped  in  the  folds  of  the  uplands, 

Bickers  the  brook,  to  warmer  hollows  southerly  creeping, 

Where  the  veronica's  eyes  are  blue,  the  buttercup  brightens, 

Where  the  anemones  blush,  the  coils  of  fern  are  unrolling 

Hour  by  hour,  and  over  them  gather  the  sprinkles  of  shadow. 

There  shall  I  lie  and  dangle  my  naked  feet  in  the  water, 

Watching  the  sleepy  buds  as  one  after  one  they  awaken, 

Seeking  a  lesson  in  each,  a  brookside  primrose  of  Wordsworth?  — 

Lie  in  the  lap  of  May,  as  a  babe  that  loveth  the  cradle, 

I,  whom  her  eye  inspires,  whom  the  breath  of  her  passion  arouses  ? 

Say,  shall  I  stray  with  bended  head  to  look  for  her  posies, 

When  with  other  wings  than  the  coveted  lift  of  the  breezes 

Far  I  am  borne,  at  her  call :  and  the  pearly  abysses  are  parted 

Under  my  flight :  the  glimmering  edge  of  the  planet,  receding, 

Rounds  to  the  splendider  sun  and  ripens  to  glory  of  color. 

Veering  at  will,  I  view  from  a  crest  of  the  jungled  Antilles 

Sparkling,  limitless  billows  of  greenness,  falling  and  flowing 

Into  fringes  of  palm  and  the  foam  of  the  blossoming  coffee, — 

Cratered  isles  in  the  offing,  milky  blurs  of  the  coral 

Keys,  and  vast,  beyond,  the  purple  arc  of  the  ocean : 

Or,  in  the  fanning  furnace-winds  of  the  tenantless  Pampas, 

Hear  the  great  leaves  clash,  the  shiver  and  hiss  of  the  reed-beds. 

Thus  for  the  crowded  fulness  of  life  I  leave  its  beginnings, 

Not  content  to  feel  the  sting  of  an  exquisite  promise 

Ever  renewed  and  accepted,  and  ever  freshly  forgotten. 

V. 

Wherefore,  now,  recall  the  pictures  of  memory  ?    Wherefore 
Yearn  for  a  fairer  seat  of  life  than  this  I  have  chosen? 
Ah,  while  my  quiver  of  wandering  years  was  yet  unexhausted, 
Treading  the  lands,  a  truant  that  wasted  the  gifts  of  his  freedom, 


1870.]  A  May-time  Pastoral.  577 

Sweet  was  the  sight  of  a  home  —  or  tent,  or  cottage,  or  castle, — 

Sweet  unto  pain ;  and  never  beheld  I  a  Highlander's  shieling, 

Never  a  Flemish  hut  by  a  lazy  canal  and  its  pollards, 

Never  the  snowy  gleam  of  a  porch  through  the  Apennine  orchards, 

Never  a  nest  of  life  on  the  hoary  hills  of  Judaea, 

Dropped  on  the  steppes  of  the  Don,  or  hidden  in  valleys  of  Norway, 

But,  with  the  fond  and  foolish  trick  of  a  heart  that  was  homeless, 

Each  was  mine,  as  I  passed  :  I  entered  in  and  possessed  it, 

Looked,  in  fancy,  forth,  and  adjusted  my  life  to  the  landscape. 

Easy  it  seemed,  to  shift  the  habit  of  blood  as  a  mantle, 

Fable  a  Past,  and  lightly  take  the  form  of  the  Future, 

So  that  a  rest  were  won,  a  hold  for  the  filaments,  floating 

Loose  in  the  winds  of  Life.     Here,  now,  behold  it  accomplished! 

Nay,  but  the  restless  Fate,  the  certain  Nemesis  follows, 

As  to  the  bird  the  voice  that  bids  him  prepare  for  his  passage, 

Saying :  "  Not  this  is  the  whole,  not  these,  nor  any,  the  borders 

Set  for  thy  being  ;  this  measured,  slow  repetition  of  Nature, 

Painting,  effacing,  in  turn,  with  hardly  a  variant  outline, 

Cannot  replace  for  thee  the  Earth's  magnificent  frescos  ! 

Art  thou  content  to  inhabit  a  simple  pastoral  chamber, 

Leaving  the  endless  halls  of  her  grandeur  and  glory  untrodden  ? " 

VI. 

Man,  I  answer,  is  more  :  I  am  glutted  with  physical  beauty 

Born  of  the  suns  and  rains  and  the  plastic  throes  of  the  ages. 

Man  is  more ;  but  neither  dwarfed  like  a  tree  of  the  Arctic 

Vales,  nor  clipped  into  shape  as  a  yew  in  the  gardens  of  princes. 

Give  me  to  know  him,  here,  where  inherited  laws  and  disguises 

Hide  him  at  times  from  himself,  —  where  his  thought  is  chiefly  collective, 

Where,  with  numberless  others  fettered  like  slaves  in  a  coffle, 

Each  insists  he  is  free,  inasmuch  'as  his  bondage  is  willing. 

Who  hath  rent  from  the  babe  the  primitive  rights  of  his  nature  ? 

Who  hath  fashioned  his  yoke  ?  who  patterned  beforehand  his  manhood  ? 

Say,  shall  never  a  soul  be  moved  to  challenge  its  portion, 

Seek  for  a  wider  heritage  lost,  a  new  disenthralment, 

Sending  a  root  to  be  fed  from  the  deep  original  sources, 

So  that  the  fibres  wax  till  they  split  the  obdurate  granite  ? 

Surely,  starting  alike  at  birth  from  the  ignorant  Adam, 

Every  type  of  the  race  were  here  indistinctly  repeated, 

Hinted  in  hopes  and  desires,  and  harmless  divergence  of  habit, 

Save  that  the  law  of  the  common  mind  is  invisibly  written 

Even  on  our  germs,  and  Life  but  warms  into  color  the  letters. 

VII. 

Thence,  it  may  be,  accustomed  to  dwell  in  a  moving  horizon, 
Here,  alas  !  the  steadfast  circle  of  things  is  a  weary 
Round  of  monotonous  forms  :   I  am  haunted  by  livelier  visions. 
Linking  men  and  their  homes,  endowing  both  with  the  language, 
Sweeter  than  speech,  the  soul  detects  in  a  natural  picture, 
I  to  my  varying  moods  the  fair  remembrances  summon, 
Glad  that  once  and  somewhere  each  was  a  perfect  possession. 
Two  will  I  paint,  the  forms  of  the  double  passion  of  May-time,  — 
VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  15!.  37 


A  May-time  Pastoral  [May, 

Rest  and  activity,  indolent  calm  and  the  sweep  of  the  senses. 
One,  the  soft  green  lap  of  a  deep  Dalecarlian  valley, 
Sheltered  by  piny  hills  and  the  distant  porphyry  mountains ; 
Low  and  red  the  house,  and  the  meadow  spotted  with  cattle  ; 
All  things  fair  and  clear  in  the  light  of  the  midsummer  Sabbath, 
Touching,  beyond  the  steel-blue  lake  and  the  twinkle  of  birch-trees, 
Houses  that  nestle  like  chicks  around  the  motherly  church-roof. 
There,  I  know,  there  is  innocence,  ancient  duty  and  honor, 
Love  that  looks  from  the  eye  and  truth  that  sits  on  the  forehead, 
Pure,  sweet  blood  of  health,  and  the  harmless  freedom  of  nature, 
Witless  of  blame  ;  for  the  heart  is  safe  in  inviolate  childhood. 
Dear  is  the  scene,  but  it  fades :  I  see,  with  a  leap  of  the  pulses, 
Tawny  under  the  lidless  sun  the  sand  of  the  Desert, 
Fiery  solemn  hills,  and  the  burning  green  of  the  date-trees 
Belting  the  Nile  :  the  tramp  of  the  curvetting  stallions  is  muffled ; 
Brilliantly  stamped  on  the  blue  are  the  white  and  scarlet  of  turbans ; 
Lances  prick  the  sky  with  a  starry  glitter  ;  the  fulness, 
Joy,  and  delight  of  life  are  sure  of  the  day  and  the  morrow, 
Certain  the  gifts  of  sense,  and  the  simplest  order  suffices. 
Breathing  again,  as  once,  the  perfect  air  of  the  Desert, 
Good  it  seems  to  escape  from  the  endless  menace  of  duty, 
There,  where  the  will  is  free,  and  wilfully  plays  with  its  freedom, 
And  the  lack  of  will  for  the  evil  thing  is  a  virtue. 
Scarce  shall  it  be  that  I  ever  outgrow  the  potent  infection  : 
Allah,  il  Allah!  rings  in  my  heart:   I  rock  on  the  camel, 
Sated  with  light  and  warmth,  and  dazzling  abundance  of  color, 
Happy  to  live,  and  living  in  happy  submission  to  Allah. 

VIII. 

Man  is  more,  I  have  said  :  but  the  subject  mood  is  a  fashion 
Wrought  of  his  lighter  mind  and  dyed  with  the  hues  of  his  senses. 
Then  to  be  truly  more,  to  be  verily  free,  to  be  master 
As  beseems  to  the  haughty  soul  that  is  lifted  by  knowledge 
Over  the  multitude's  law,  enforcing  their  own  acquiescence, — 
Lifted  to  longing  and  will,  in  its  satisfied  loneliness  centred, — 
This  prohibits  the  cry  of  the  nerves,  the  weak  lamentation 
Shaming  my  song :  for  I  know  whence  cometh  its  languishing  burden. 
Impotent  all  I  have  dreamed,  —  and  the  calmer  vision  assures  me 
Such  were  barren,  and  vapid  the  taste  of  joy  that  is  skin-deep. 
None  the  less  are  certain  the  needs  of  the  life  that  surrounds  me  ; 
So  is  there  greater  need  for  the  strength  that  spurneth  subjection, 
Summoning  all  the  shows  of  the  earth  to  answer  its  lordship, 
Absolute  here  as  there,  accepting  the  phlox  or  the  lotus, 
Citron  or  barberry,  maple  or  tamarind,  banyan  or  dogwood. 
Better  the  nest  than  the  wandering  wing,  the  loving  possession, 
Intimate,  ever-renewed,  than  the  circle  of  shallower  changes. 


1870.] 


'Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


579 


AMONG    THE    ISLES    OF    SHOALS. 


IV. 


IT  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  wit- 
ness but  few  wrecks  at  the  Shoals. 
The  disasters  of  which  we  hear  faintly 
from  the  past  were  many  and  dreadful, 
but  since  the  building  of  the  lighthouse 
on  White  Island,  and  also  on  Boone 
Island  (which  seems  like  a  neighbor, 
though  fifteen  miles  distant),  the  danger 
of  the  place  is  much  lessened.  A  resi- 
dent of  Star  Island  told  me  of  a  wreck 
which  took  place  forty-seven  years  ago, 
during  a  heavy  storm  from  the  east- 
ward. It  blew  so  that  all  the  doors 
in  the  house  opened  as  fast  as  they 
shut  them,  and  in  the  night  a  vessel 
drove  against  "  Hog  Island  Head," 
which  fronts  the  village  on  Star.  She 
went  to  pieces  utterly.  In  the  morn- 
ing the  islanders  perceived  the  beach 
at  Londoners  heaped  with  some  kind  of 
drift ;  they  could  not  make  out  what  it 
was,  but,  as  soon  as  the  sea  subsided, 
went  to  examine  and  found  a  mass  of 
oranges  and  picture-frames,  with  which 
the  vessel  had  been  freighted.  Not  a 
soul  was  saved.  "She  struck  with 
such  force  that  she  drove  a  large  spike 
out  of  her  forefoot "  into  a  crevice  in 
the  rock,  which  was  plainly  to  be  seen 
till  a  few  years  ago.  My  informant 
also  told  me  that  she  remembered  the 
wreck  of  the  Sagunto,  in  1813,  that  the 
beaches  were  strewn  with  "almond- 
nuts  "  long  after,  and  that  she  picked 
up  curiously  embroidered  vests  and 
"  work-bags "  in  all  directions  along 
the  shores. 

During  a  storm  in  1839,  while  living 
at  White  Island,  we  were  startled  by 
the  heavy  booming  of  guns  through 
the  roar  of  the  tempest,  —  a  sound  that 
drew  nearer  and  nearer,  till  at  last, 
through  a  sudden  break  in  the  mist 
and  spray,  we  saw  the  heavily  rolling 
hull  of  a  large  vessel  driving  by  to 
her  sure  destruction  toward  the  coast. 
It  was  as  if  the  wind  had  torn  the 
vapor  apart  on  purpose  to  show  us 


this  piteous  sight ;  and  I  well  remem- 
ber the  hand  on  my  shoulder  which 
held  me  firmly,  shuddering  child  that 
I  was,  and  forced  me  to  look  in  spite 
of  myself.  What  a  day  of  pain  it  was  ! 
how  dreadful  the  sound  of  those  sig- 
nal-guns, and  how  much  more  dread- 
ful the  certainty,  when  they  ceased, 
that  all  was  over  !  We  learned  after- 
ward that  it  was  the  brig  Pocahontas, 
homeward  bound  from  Spain,  and  that 
the  vessel  and  all  her  crew  were  lost. 
In  later  years  a  few  coasters  and  fish- 
ermen have  gone  ashore  at  the  isl- 
ands, generally  upon  the  hidden  ledges 
at  Duck.  Many  of  these  have  been  load- 
ed with  lime,  a  most  perilous  freight,  for 
as  soon  as  the  water  touches  it  there 
is  a  double  danger ;  and  between  fire 
and  water  there  is  little  chance  of  es- 
cape. 

Boone  Island  is  the  forlornest  place 
that  can  be  imagined.  The  Isles  of 
Shoals,  barren  as  they  are,  seem  like 
gardens  of  Eden  in  comparison.  I 
chanced  to  hear  last  summer  of  a  per- 
son who  had  been  born  and  brought 
up  there  ;  he  described  the  loneliness 
as  something  absolutely  fearful,  and 
declared  it  had  pursued  him  all  through 
his  life.  He  lived  there  till  fourteen  or 
fifteen  years  old,  when  his  family  moved 
to  York.  While  living  on  the  island 
he  discovered  some  human  remains 
which  had  lain  there  thirty  years.  A 
carpenter  and  his  assistants,  having 
finished  some  building,  were  capsized 
in  getting  off,  and  all  were  drowned, 
except  the  master.  One  body  floated 
to  Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Merrimack  ;  the  others  the  master  se- 
cured, made  a  box  for  them,  —  all  alone 
the  while,  — and  buried  them  in  a  cleft 
and  covered  them  with  stones.  These 
stones  the  sea  washed  away,  and  thirty 
years  after  they  were  buried  the  boy 
found  the  bones,  which  were  removed 
to  York  and  there  buried  again.  It  was 


580 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals.' 


[May, 


on  board  a  steamer  bound  to  Portland 
that  the  man  told  his  story.  Boone 
Island  Light  was  shining  in  the  dis- 
tance. He  spoke  with  bitterness  of 
his  life  in  that  terrible  solitude,  and  of 
"the  loneliness  which  had  pursued  him 
ever  since."  All  his  relatives  were 
dead,  he  said,  and  he  had  no  human  tie 
in  the  wide  world  except  his  wife.  He 
ended  by  anathematizing  all  islands, 
and,  vanishing  into  the  darkness,  was 
not  to  be  found  again  ;  nor  did  his 
name  or  any  trace  of  him  transpire, 
though  he  was  sought  for  in  the  morn- 
ing all  about  the  vessel. 

One  of  the  most  shocking  stories  of 
shipwreck  I  remember  to  have  heard 
is  that  of  the  Nottingham  Galley, 
wrecked  on  this  island  in  the  year 
1710.  There  is  a  narrative  of  this 
shipwreck  existing,  written  by  "John 
Deane,  then  commander  of  said  Galley, 
but  for  many  years  after  his  Majesty's 
consul  for  the  ports  of  Flanders,  resid- 
ing at  Ostend,"  printed  in  1762.  The 
ship,  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  tons, 
carrying  ten-guns,  with  a  crew  of  four- 
teen men,  loaded  partly  in  England 
and  partly  in  Ireland,  and  sailed  for 
Boston  on  the  25th  of  September,  1710. 
She  made  land  on  the  nth  of  Decem- 
ber, and  was  wrecked  on  that  fatal 
rock.  At  first  the  unhappy  crew 
"  treated  each  other  with  kindness  and 
condolence,  and  prayed  to  God  for  re- 
lief." The  only  things  saved  from  the 
wreck  were  a  bit  of  canvas  and  half  a 
cheese.  The  men  made  a  triangular  tent 
of  the  bit  of  canvas,  and  all  lay  close 
together  beneath  it,  sideways  ;  none 
could  turn  without  the  general  concur- 
rence :  they  turned  once  in  two  hours 
upon  public  notice.  They  had  no  fire, 
and  lived  upon  kelp  and  rockweed,  and 
mussels,  three  a  day  to  a  man.  Star- 
vation and  suffering  soon  produced  a 
curious  loss  of  memory.  The  fourth 
day  the  cook  died.  When  they  had 
been  there  upwards  of  a  week  they  saw 
three  sails  in  the  southwest,  but  no 
boat  came  near  them.  They  built  a 
rude  boat  of  such  materials  as  they 
could  gather  from  the  wreck,  but  she 
was  lost  in  launching.  One  of  the  men, 


a  Swede,  is  particularly  mentioned  ;  he 
seems  to  have  been  full  of  energy  ; 
with  help  from  the  others  he  built  a 
raft;  in  launching  this  they  overset 
it.  Again  they  saw  a  sail,  this  time 
coming  out  from  the  Piscataqua  Riv- 
er ;  it  was  soon  out  of  sight.  The 
Swede  was  determined  to  make  an 
effort  to  reach  the  shore,  and  persuad- 
ed another  man  to  make  the  attempt 
with  him.  At  sunset  they  were  seen 
half-  way  to  the  land ;  the  raft  was 
found  on  shore  with  the  body  of  one 
man  ;  the  Swede  was  never  seen  more. 
A  hide  was  thrown  on  the  rocks  at 
Boone  Island  by  the  sea  ;  this  the  poor 
sailors  ate  raw,  minced.  About  the 
end  of  December  the  carpenter  died, 
and,  driven  to  madness  by  hunger,  they 
devoured  the  flesh  of  their  dead  com- 
rade. The  captain,  being  the  strongest 
of  the  party,  dragged  the  body  away 
and  hid  it,  and  dealt  small  portions 
of  it  daily  to  the  men.  Immediately 
their  dispositions  underwent  a  horrible 
change.  They  became  fierce  and  reck- 
less, and  were  the  most  pitiable  objects 
of  despair,  when,  on  January  4,  1711, 
they  were  discovered  and  taken  off.  It 
was  evening  when  they  entered  the  Pis- 
cataqua River,  and  eight  o'clock  when 
they  landed.  Discovering  a  house 
through  the  darkness,  the  master  rushed 
into  it,  frightening  the  gentlewoman  and 
children  desperately,  and,  making  his 
way  to  the  kitchen,  snatched  the  pot 
wherein  some  food  was  cooking  off  the 
fire,  and  began  to  eat  voraciously.  This 
old  record  mentions  John  Plaisted  and 
John  Wentworth  as  being  most  "for- 
ward in  benevolence "  to  these  poor 
fellows. 

When  visiting  the  island  for  the  first 
time,  a  few  years  ago,  I  was  shown  the 
shallow  gorge  where  the  unfortunates 
tried  to  shelter  themselves.  It  was  the 
serenest  of  summer  days  ;  everything 
smiled  and  shone  as  I  stood  looking 
down  into  that  rocky  hollow.  Near 
by  the  lighthouse  sprang  —  a  splendid 
piece  of  masonry  —  over  a  hundred  feet 
into  the  air,  to  hold  its  warning  aloft. 
About  its  base  some  gentle  thought 
had  caused  morning-glories  to  climb 


8;o.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


581 


and  unfold  their  violet,  white,  and  rosy 
bells  against  the  smooth  dark  stone. 
I  thought  I  had  never  seen  flowers  so 
beautiful.  There  was  hardly  a  handful 
of  grass  on  the  island,  hardly  soil 
enough  to  hold  a  root ;  therefore  it 
seemed  the  more  wonderful  to  be- 
hold this  lovely  apparition.  With  my 
mind  full  of  the  story  of  the  Notting- 
ham Galley,  I  looked  at  the  delicate 
bells,  the  cool  green  leaves,  the  whole 
airy  grace  of  the  wandering  vines,  and 
it  was  as  if  a  hand  were  stretched  out 
to  pluck  me  away  from  the  awful  ques- 
tions never  to  be  answered  this  side 
the  grave,  that  pressed  so  heavily  while 
I  thought  how  poor  humanity  had  here 
suffered  the  utmost  misery  that  it  is 
possible  to  endure. 

The  aspect  of  this  island  from  the 
Shoals  is  very  striking,  so  lonely  it  lies 
on  the  eastern  horizon,  its  tall  light- 
house like  a  slender  column  against 
the  sky.  It  is  easily  mistaken  for  the 
smoke-stack  of  a  steamer  by  unaccus- 
tomed eyes,  and  sometimes  the  watcher 
most  familiar  with  its  appearance  can 
hardly  distinguish  it  from  the  distant 
white  sails  that  steal  by  it,  to  and  fro. 
Sometimes  it  looms  colossal  in  the 
mirage  of  summer,  in  winter  it  lies 
blurred  and  ghostly  at  the  edge  of 
chilly  sea  and  pallid  sky.  In  the  sad, 
strange  light  of  winter  sunsets  its  faith- 
ful star  blazes  suddenly  from  the  dark- 
ening east  and  sends  a  friendly  ray 
across  to  its  neighbor  at  the  Shoals, 
waiting  as  it  also  waits,  ice-bound, 
storm-swept,  and  solitary,  for  gentler 
days  to  come.  And  "  winter's  rains 
and  ruins  "  have  an  end  at  last. 

In  the  latter  part  of  February,  after 
ten  days  perhaps  of  the  northwester, 
bringing  across  to  the  islands  all  the 
chill  of  the  snow-covered  hills  of  the 
continent,  some  happy  evening  it  dies 
into  a  reasonable  breeze,  and  while  the 
sun  sets  you  climb  the  snowy  height 
and  sweep  with  your  eyes  the  whole 
circle  of  the  horizon,  with  nothing  to 
impede  the  view.  Ah  !  how  sad  it  looks 
in  the  dying  light  !  Star  Island  close 
by  with  its  silent  little  ^village  and  the 
sails  of  belated  fishing-boats  hurrying 


in  over  the  dark  water  to  the  moorings. 
White  Island  afar  off  "kindling  its 
great  red  star  "  on  every  side  the  long 
bleached  points  of  granite  stretching 
out  into  the  sea,  so  cold  and  bleak, 
the  line  of  coast  sad  purple,  and  the 
few  schooners  leaden  and  gray  in  the 
distance.  Yet  there  is  a  hopeful  glow 
where  the  sun  went  down  suggestive 
of  the  spring,  and  before  the  ruddy 
sweetness  of  the  western  sky  the  mel- 
ancholy east  is  flushed'with  violet,  and 
up  into  the  delicious  color  rolls  a  grad- 
ual moon,  mellow  and  golden  as  in 
harvest-time,  while  high  above  her  the 
great  star  Jupiter  begins  to  glitter  clear. 
On  such  an  evening  some  subtle  in- 
fluence of  the  coming  spring  steals  to 
the  heart,  and  eyes  that  have  watched 
the  winter  skies  so  patiently,  grow 
wistful  with  the  thought  of  summer 
days  to  come.  On  shore  in  these  last 
weeks  of  winter  one  becomes  aware, 
by  various  delicate  tokens,  of  the  beau- 
tiful change  at  hand,  —  by  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  golden  willow  wands  into  a 
more  living  color,  and  by  their  silvery 
buds,  which  in  favored  spots  burst  the 
brown  sheaths  ;  by  the  reddening  of 
bare  maple-trees,  as  if  with  promise  of 
future  crimson  flowers  ;  by  the  sweet 
cry  of  the  returning  bluebird ;  by  the 
alders  at  the  river's  edge.  If  the  sea- 
son is  mild,  the  catkins  begin  to  un- 
wind their  tawny  tresses  in  the  first 
weeks  of  March.  But  here  are  no  trees, 
and  no  bluebirds  come  till  April.  Per- 
haps some  day  the  delightful  clangor 
of  the  wild  geese  is  heard,  and  looking 
upward,  lo !  the  long  floating  ribbon 
streaming  northward  across  the  sky. 
What  joy  they  bring  to  hearts  so  weary 
with  waiting  !  Truly  a  wondrous  con- 
tent is  shaken  down  with  their  wild 
clamors  out  of  the  cloudy  heights, 
and  a  courage  and  vigor  lurk  in  these 
strong  voices,  that  touch  the  listener 
with  something  better  than  gladness, 
while  he  traces  eagerly  the  wavering 
lines  that  seek  the  north  with  steady, 
measured  flight. 

Gradually  the  bitter  winds  abate,  early 
in  March  the  first  flocks  of  crows  arrive, 
and  they  soar  finely  above  the  coves, 


582 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[May, 


and  perch  on  the  flukes  of  stranded 
anchors  or  the  tops  of  kellock-sticks 
that  lie  about  the  water's  edge.  They 
are  most  welcome,  for  they  are  never 
seen  in  winter;  and  pleasant  it  is  to 
watch  them  beating  their  black  ragged 
pinions  in  the  blue,  while  the  gulls 
swim  on  beyond  them  serenely,  shin- 
ing still  whiter  for  their  sable  color. 
No  other  birds  come  till  about  the 
27th  of  March,  and  then  all  at  once 
the  islands  are  alive  with  song-spar- 
rows, and  these  sing  from  morning  till 
'night  so  beautifully,  that  dull  and  weary 
indeed  must  be  the  mortal  who  can 
resist  the  charm  of  their  fresh  music. 
There  is  a  matchless  sweetness  and 
good  cheer  in  this  brave  bird.  The 
nightingale  singing  with  its  breast 
against  a  thorn  may  be  divine,  yet 
would  I  turn  away  from  its  tender  mel- 
ody to  listen  to  the  fresh,  cheerful, 
healthy  song  of  this  dauntless  and 
happy  little  creature.  They  come  in 
flocks  to  be  fed  every  morning  the 
whole  summer  long,  tame  and  charm- 
ing, with  their  warm  brown  and  gray 
feathers,  striped  and  freaked  with  wood- 
color  and  little  brown  knots  at  each 
pretty  throat !  They  build  their  nests 
and  remain  till  the  snow  falls ;  fre- 
quently they  remain  all  winter  ;  some- 
times they  come  into  the  house  for 
shelter;  once  one  fluttered  in  and  en- 
tered the  canaries'  cage  voluntarily,  and 
stayed  there  singing  like  a  voice  from 
heaven  all  winter.  Robins  and  black- 
birds appear  with  the  sparrows  ;  a  few  ' 
blackbirds  build  and  remain  ;  the  rob- 
ins, finding  no  trees,  flit  across  to  the 
mainland.  Yellow-birds  and  kingbirds 
occasionally  build  here,  but  very  rarely. 
By  the  first  of  April  the  snow  is  gone, 
and  our  bit  of  earth  is  free  from  that 
dead  white  mask.  How  lovely  then 
the  gentle  neutral  tints  of  tawny  inter- 
vals of  dead  grass  and  brown  bushes 
and  varying  stone  appear,  set  in  the 
living  sea !  There  is  hardly  a  square 
foot  of  the  bare  rock  that  is  n't  pre- 
cious for  its  soft  coloring,  and  freshly 
beautiful  are  the  uncovered  lichens  that 
with  patient  fingering  have  ornamented 
the  rough  surfaces  with  their  wonder- 


ful embroideries.  They  flourish  with 
the  greatest  vigor  by  the  sea ;  whole 
houses  at  Star  used  to  be  covered  with 
the  orange-colored  variety,  and  I  have 
noticed  the  same  thing  in  the  pretty 
fishing  village  of  Newcastle  and  on 
some  of  the  old  buildings  by  the 
river-side  in  sleepy  Portsmouth  city. 
Through  April  the  weather  softens 
daily,  and  by  the  2oth  come  gray,  quiet 
days  with  mild  northeast  wind;  in  the 
hollows  the  grass  has  greened,  and 
now  the  gentle  color  seems  to  brim 
over  and  spread  out  upon  the  ground 
in  faint  and  fainter  gradations.  A 
refreshing  odor  springs  from  the  moist 
earth,  from  the  short  sweet  turf,  which 
the  cattle  crop  so  gladly,  —  a  musky  fra- 
grance unlike  that  of  inland  pastures, 
and  with  this  is  mingled  the  pure  sea- 
breeze,  a  most  reviving  combination. 
The  turfy  gorges,  boulder-strewn  and 
still,  remind  one  of  Alexander  Smith's 
descriptions  of  his  summer  in  Skye, 
of  those  quiet,  lonely  glens,  — just 
such  a  grassy  carpet  was  spread  in 
their  hollows.  By  the  23d  of  April 
come  the  first  swallow  and  flocks  of 
martins,  golden -winged  and  downy 
woodpeckers,  the  tiny  ruby-crowned 
wren,  and  troops  of  many  other  kinds 
of  birds ;  kingfishers  that  perch  on 
stranded  kellocks,  little  nuthatches  that 
peck  among  the  shingles  for  hidden 
spiders,  and  gladden  the  morning  with 
sweet,  quaint  cries,  so  busy  and  bright 
and  friendly  !  All  these  tarry  only 
awhile  in  their  passage  to  the  main- 
land. 

But  though  the  birds  come  and  the 
sky  has  relented  and  grown  tender  with 
its  melting  clouds,  the  weather  in  New 
England  has  a  fashion  of  leaping  back 
into  midwinter  in  the  space  of  an  hour, 
and  all  at  once  comes  half  a  hurricane 
from  the  northwest,  charged  with  the 
breath  of  all  the  remaining  snow-heaps 
on  the  far  mountain  ranges,  —  a  "  white- 
sea  roarin'  wind  "  that  takes  you  back 
to  January.  In  the  afternoon,  through 
the  cold  transparent  heaven,  a  pale  half- 
moon  glides  slowly  over ;  there  is  a 
splendor  of  wild  clouds  at  sunset,  dusk 
heaps  with  scarlet  fringes,  scattered 


i  S/o.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


flecks  of  flame  in  a  clear  crimson  air 
above  the  fallen  sun  ;  then  cold  moon- 
light over  the  black  sea,  with  the  flash 
and  gleam  of  white  waves  the  whole 
night  long. 

But  the  potent  spirit  of  the  spring 
triumphs  at  last.  When  the  sun  in  its 
journey  north  passes  a  certain  group 
of  lofty  pine-trees  standing  out  dis- 
tinctly against  the  sky  on  Breakfast 
Hill  in  Greenland,  New  Hampshire, 
which  l^es  midway  in  the  coast  line  ; 
then  the  Shoalers  are  happy  in  the 
conviction  that  there  will  be  "  settled 
weather,"  and  they  put  no  trust  in  any 
relenting  of  the  elements  before  that 
time.  After  this  there  soon  come  days 
when  to  be  alive  is  quite  enough  joy, 
—  clays  when  it  is  bliss  only  to  watch 
and  feel  how 

"  God  renews 
His  ancient  rapture,"  — 

days  when  the  sea  lies,  colored  like  a 
turquoise,  blue  and  still,  and  from  the 
south  a  band  of  warm  gray-purple  haze 
steals  down  on  the  horizon  like  an  en- 
circling arm  about  the  happy  world. 
The  lightest  film  encroaches  upon  the 
sea,  only  made  perceptible  by  the  shim- 
mering of  far-off  sails.  A  kind  of  bloom, 
inexpressibly  lovely,  softens  over  the 
white  canvas  of  nearer  vessels,  like  a 
delicate  veil.  There  is  a  fascination  in 
the  motion  of  these  slender  schooners, 
a  wondrous  grace,  as  they  glide  before 
a  gentle  wind,  slowly  bowing,  bending, 
turning,  with  curving  canvas  just  filled 
with  the  breeze,  and  shadows  falling 
soft  from  sail  to  sail.  They  are  all  so 
picturesque,  so  suggestive,  from  the 
small  tanned  sprit-sail  some  young  isl- 
ander spreads  to  flit  to  and  fro  among 
the  rocks  and  ledges,  to  the  stately  col- 
umn" of  canvas  that  bears  the  great  ship 
round  the  world.  The  variety  of  their 
aspects  is  endless  and  ever  beautiful, 
whether  you  watch  them  from  the  light- 
house top,  dreaming  afar  on  the  hori- 
zon, or  at  the  water's  edge,  —  whether 
they  are  drowned  in  the  flood  of  sun- 
shine on  the  waves,  or  glide  darkly 
through  the  track  of  the  moonlight,  or 
fly  toward  you  full  of  promise,  wing  and 
wing,  like  some  magnificent  bird,  or 


steal  away  reddening  in  the  sunset  as 
if  to 

"  Sink  with  all  you  love  below  the  verge." 

I  know  nothing  sadder  than  their  as- 
pect in  the  light  of  the  winter  sunsets, 
as  they  vanish  away  in  the  cold  east, 
blushing  for  a  fleeting  moment,  sweetly, 
faintly,   under   the   last  touch    of   the. 
dropping  day.     To  a  child's   imagina- 
tion  they   are   all    full   of   charm   and 
of   mystery,   freighted    with    heavenly 
dreams.     v<  The  thoughts  of  youth  are 
long,  long  thoughts,"  and  the  watching 
of  the  sails  filled  the  lonely,  lovely  sum- 
mer days  of  one  young  Shoaler  with 
joy  enough  and  to  spare.     How  many 
pictures  linger  in  my  mind,  — splendid 
stately  apparitions  of  full-rigged,  slen- 
der schooners,  passing  very  near  early 
in  the  breezy  mornings  of  spring,  every 
inch  of  canvas  in  a  blaze  of  white  light, 
and  the  whole  vessel  alive  from  keel  to 
topmast.     And  well  I  remember  on  soft 
May  evenings  how  they  came  dropping 
down  from  Cape  Ann,  while  the  sunset 
streaming  through   low  bars  of  cloud 
just  touched  them  with  pale  gold,  and 
made   them    half   luminous   and   alto- 
gether lovely.     And  how  the  fog  clung 
in   silver   strips   to  the  dark  wet  sails 
of  vessels  lying  becalmed  when  all  the 
air  about  was  clear  and  free  from  mist ! 
how    the    mackerel    fleet    surrounded 
the  islands,  five   hundred   craft   some- 
times   between    the    islands    and    the 
coast,  so  that  one  might  almost  walk 
on  shore  from  deck   to  deck.     It  was 
wonderful  to  wake  on  some  midsummer 
morning  and  find   the  sea  gray-green, 
like   translucent  chrysoprase,  and  the 
somewhat  stormy  sunrise  painting  the 
sails  bright  flame-color  as  they  flew  be- 
fore  the   warm   wild  wind    that    blew 
strongly   from   the    south.      At    night 
sometimes  in  a  glory  of  moonlight  a 
vessel  passed  close  in  with  all  sail  set, 
and   only  just   air   enough   to   fill  the 
canvas,  enough  murmur   from  the  full 
tide  to  drown  the  sound  of  her  move- 
ment, —  a  beautiful  ghost  stealing  softly 
by,   and   passing    in    mysterious   light 
beyond  the   glimmering  headland   out 
of  sight.     Here  was  suggestion  enough 
for  a  night  full  of  visions  !     Then  the 


584 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[May, 


scudding  of  sails  before  a  storm,  —  how 
the  ships  came  rushing  in  from  the  far, 
dim  sea-line,  racing  by  to  Portsmouth 
Harbor,  close  reefed,  or  under  darkened 
mainsail  and  jib  only,  leaping  over  the 
long  swell,  and  plunging  their  sharp 
bowsprits  into  a  cloud  of  snowy  spray 
at  every  leap  !  Then  when  the  storm 
had  spent  itself,  how  beautiful  to  see 
them  stealing  tranquilly  forth  from  the 
river's  mouth,  flocking  seaward  again, 
shining  white  in  the  peaceful  morning 
sunshine  !  Watching  them  in  all  their 
endless  variety,  coming  and  going, 
dreaming,  drifting,  or  flying,  many  a 
time  these  quaint  old  rhymes  occurred 
to  me :  — 

"  Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you 
What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting, 

What 's  your  end  and  aim  ? 
Some  go  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lad- 
ing. 

Halloo  !  my  faucie,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ?  " 

As  the  winter  is  doubly  hard,  so  are 
the  gentler  seasons  doubly  sweet  and 
delightful,  when  one  is  shut  out  with 
them,  as  it  were,  and  forced  to  observe 
all  their  changes  and  peculiarities  with 
so  few  human  interests  to  interrupt 
one's  intercourse  with  nature.  The 
rainy  days  in  May  at  the  Isles  of 
Shoals  have  seemed  to  me  more  lovely 
than  the  sunshine  in  Paradise  could 
be,  so  charming  it  was  to  walk  in  the 
warm  showers  over  the  island,  and  note 
all  the  mosses  and  lichens  drenched 
and  bright  with  the  moisture,  thick, 
sweet  buds  on  the  bayberry  bushes, 
rich  green  leaves  unfolding  here  and 
there  among  the  tangled  vines,  and 
bright  anemones  growing  up  between. 
The  lovely  eyebright  glimmers  every- 
where. The  rain,  if  it  continues  for 
several  days,  bleaches  the  sea-weed 
about  the  shores  to  a  lighter  and  more 
golden  brown  ;  the  sea  is  gray  and  the 
sky  lowers,  but  all  these  neutral  tints 
are  gentle  and  refreshing.  The  coast- 
ers rock  lazily  on  the  long  swell  toward 
Cape  Ann,  dim  through  low-hanging 
clouds  ;  clearly  the  sandpipers  call,  and 


always  the  song-sparrows  freshly  sur- 
prise you  with  their  outburst  of  cheer- 
ful music.  In  the  last  weeks  of  May 
comes  a  period  of  balmy  days  with  a 
gentle,  incessant  southwest  wind,  the 
sea  a  wonderful  gray-blue,  with  the 
faint  impalpable  haze  lying  over  sails, 
islands,  sea,  and  coast.  A  brooding 
warmth  is  everywhere.  The  sky  is 
cloudless,  but  opaque,  —  a  kind  of  milky 
effect  in  the  atmosphere,  through  which 
the  sun  is  seen  as  through  smoked 
glass,  and  long  before  it  sets  one  can 
bear  to  look  at  the  crimson  ball  slow 
sinking  in  the  rich  red  west ;  and  the 
moon  is  like  copper,  throwing  no  light 
on  the  water.  The  islanders  call  this 
a  "smoky  sou'wester."  Now  come  de- 
licious twilights,  with  silence  broken 
only  by  mysterious  murmurs  from  the 
waves,  and  sweet,  full  cries  from  the 
sandpipers  fluttering  about  their  nests 
on  the  margin  of  the  beaches,  —  ten- 
der, happy  notes  that  thrill  the  balmy 
air,  and  echo,  softly  about  the  silent 
moonlit  coves.  Sails  in  this  twilight 
atmosphere  gather  the  dusk  within 
their  folds  ;  if  the  warm  wind  is  blow- 
ing softly,  there  is  enchantment  in  the 
sound  of  the  lazily  flapping  canvas 
and  in  the  long  creak  of  the  mast.  A 
human  voice  borne  through  this  breath- 
ing wind  comes  like  a  waft  of  music 
faintly  heard  across  the  water.  The 
mornings  now  are  exquisite,  the  deli- 
cate flush  of  the  sunrise  through  this 
beautiful  haze  is  indescribable.  The 
island  is  indeed  like 

"  A  precious  stone  sec  in  the  silver  sea," 

so  freshly  green,  so  flower-strewn  and 
fragrant,  so  musical  with  birds,  and 
with  the  continual  caressing  of  summer 
waves.  Now  and  then  a  bobolink  pays 
us  a  flying  visit,  and,  tilting  on  a  black- 
berry spray,  pours  out  his  intoxicating 
song  ;  some  morning  is  heard  the  fairy 
bugling  of  an  oriole ;  a  scarlet  tanager 
honors  the  place  with  half  a  day's  so- 
journ, to  be  the  wonder  of  all  eyes  ; 
but  commonly  the  swallows  hold  it  in 
undisputed  possession.  The  air  is 
woven  through  and  through  with  the 
gleam  of  their  burnished  wings  and 
their  clear  happy  cries.  They  are  so 


1870.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Skoals. 


585 


tame,  knowing  how  well  they  are  be- 
loved, that  they  gather  on  the  window- 
sills,  twittering  and  fluttering,  gay  and 
graceful,  turning  their  heads  this  way 
and  that,  eying  you  askance  without  a 
trace  of  fear.  All  day  they  build  their 
nests  about  the  eaves,  nor  heed  how  lov- 
ing eyes  do  watch  their  charming  toil. 
Walking  abroad  in  these  pleasant  even- 
ings, many  a  little  sparrow's  nest  one 
finds,  low  down  in  the  bayberry-bushes, 
smooth  brown  cups  of  woven  grass, 
wherein  lie  the  five  speckled  eggs,  each 
full  of  silent  music,  each  dumb  miracle 
waiting  for  the  finger  of  God  to  wake, 
to  be  alive,  to  drink  the  sunshine  and 
the  breeze,  to  fill  the  air  with  blissful 
sound.  At  the  water's  edge  one  finds 
the  long  ledges  covered  with  barnacles, 
and  from  each  rough  shell  a  tiny  brown 
filmy  hand  is  thrust  out,  opening  and 
shutting  in  gladness  beneath  the  com- 
ing tide,  feeling  the  freshness  of  the 
flowing  water.  The  shore  teems  with 
life  in  manifold  forms.  As  the  dark- 
ness gathers,  the  ripples  begin  to  break 
in  pale  flame  against  the  rocks  ;  if  the 
tide  is  low  enough,  it  is  charming  to 
steal  down  in  the  shadow,  and,  drawing 
aside  the  curtain  of  coarse  sea- weed  that 
drapes  the  face  of  some  smooth  rock, 
to  write  on  the  surface  beneath.  The 
strange  fire  follows  your  finger,  and 
there  is  your  name  in  weird  flame,  all 
alive,  quivering  and  trembling,  and 
finally  fading  and  disappearing.  In  a 
still  pool  you  drop  a  stone  or  touch 
the  water  with  your  hand,  instantly 
a  thousand  stars  break  out  and  burn 
and  vanish  in  a  moment  !  It  used 
to  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  bring  a  piece 
of  drift-wood,  water-soaked  and  shag- 
gy with  fine  sea-weed,  up  from  the 
shore,  and  from  some  dark  corner  sud- 
denly sweep  my  hand  across  it ;  a 
sheet  of  white  flame  followed,  startling 
the  beholder. 

June  is  of  course  the  most  delightful 
month  here,  everything  is  yet  so  fresh  ; 
later  the  hot  sun  dries  and  scorches 
the  thin  soil,  and  partially  destroys  the 
little  vegetation  which  finds  room  upon 
the  island.  But  through  this  month 
the  ground  is  beautiful  with  starry  pur- 


ple stonewort ;  like  little  suns  the 
blossoms  of  the  lion's-foot  shine  in  the 
thinnest  of  the  soil ;  herb-robert  blos- 
soms ;  the  slender  arenaria  steals  up 
among  the  bushes,  lifting  a  little  white 
flower  to  the  sun  ;  here  and  there  the 
sorrel  lies  in  crimson  stains  ;  in  wet 
places  sturdy  clumps  of  fern  unroll 
their  golden  green  with  splendid  vigor 
of  growth,  and  from  the  swamp  the 
rushes  rise  in  ranks,  like  a  faint  green 
vapor,  slowly,  day  by  day.  The  few 
wild-cherry  bushes  have  each  its  in- 
evitable caterpillars'  nest ;  one  can  but 
wonder  how  caterpillars  and  canker- 
worms  find  their  way  across  the  water. 
The  presence  of  green  snakes  on  these 
rocks  may  be  explained  by  their  having 
been  found  coiled  on  a  piece  of  drift- 
wood many  miles  out  at  sea.  Bees  find 
their  way  out  from  the  land  in  compa- 
nies, seeking  the  white  clover-blossoms 
that  rise  in  cool,  creamy,  fragrant  globes 
through  the  dark  leaves  and  grass. 
The  clover  here  is  peculiarly  rich. 
Many  varieties  of  butterflies  abound, 
the  handsome  moth  of  the  American 
silkworm  among  them.  One  night  in 
June,  at  sunset,  we  were  kindling  the 
lamps  in  the  lighthouse,  and  because 
it  was  so  mild  and  still  outside,  the 
little  iron  door  of  the  lantern  was  left 
open.  No  breeze  came  in  to  stir  the 
flame  that  quivered  in  the  centre  of 
each  shining  reflector,  but  presently 
glided  through  the  door  the  pale  green, 
exquisite  Luna  moth,  with  its  wonderful 
crescents,  its  lines  of  velvet  brown,  and 
long  under  wings  drawn  out  like  the 
tail  of  a  swallow.  It  sailed  slowly 
round  and  round  the  dome  above  the 
lamps  at  first,  but  soon  became  agitated 
and  would  have  dashed  itself  against 
the  flames,  but  that  I  caught  it.  What 
a  marvel  it  was  !  I  never  dreamed  of 
the  existence  of  so  beautiful  a  creature. 
Titania  herself  could  not  have  been 
more  interesting  to  me. 

In  the  quiet  little  coves  troops  of 
butterflies  are  often  seen,  anchored  for 
the  night,  clinging  to  the  thistle-blos- 
soms to  be  safe  from  assailing  winds. 
Crickets  are  never  heard  here  till  after 
the  ist  of  August.  On  the  mainland 


586 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[May, 


they  begin  about  the  28th  of  May,  a 
sad  and  gentle  autumnal  undertone 
which  from  that  time  accompanies  the 
jubilant  chorus  of  summer  in  a  gradual 
crescendo,  till  finally  the  days  pass  on 
to  no  other  music  save  their  sweet  mel- 
ancholy chirrup.  In  August  comes 
the  ruby-throated  humming-bird,  and 
several  pairs  flutter  about  the  little 
gardens  for  weeks.  By  the  ist  of 
July  the  wild  roses  blossom,  and  every 
bit  of  swampy  ground  is  alive  with  the 
waving  flags  of  the  iris,  each  flower 
of  which  is  full  of  exquisite  variety  of 
tint  and  shade  of  gold  and  violet.  All 
over  the  island  patches  of  it  diversify 
the  surface,  set  like  amethysts  in  the 
rich  greens  and  browns  of  turf  and 
mossy  spaces.  Through  the  tangle 
of  leaves  and  grasses  the  spikes  of 
golden  -  rod  make  their  way  upward 
slowly  day  by  day,  to  be  ready  at  the 
first  beckoning  of  Autumn's  finger  to 
light  their  torches  and  join  the  fair 
procession.  The  pimpernel  is  awake, 
and  the  heavy,  stout  stalks  of  the  mul- 
leins uprear  their  woolly  buds,  that 
soon  will  break  into  squares  of  pallid 
gold.  The  world  is  at  high  tide  of  de- 
light. Along  the  coast  line  the  mirage 
races  in  flowing  undulations  of  heat, 
changing  the  hill  ranges  into  a  solid 
wall,  to  dissolve  them  and  again  re- 
unite them  into  clusters  of  gigantic 
towers  and  battlements ;  trees,  spires, 
chimneys,  lighthouses,  become  roofs 
and  minarets  and  domes  of  some  state- 
ly city  of  the  clouds,  and  these  melt 
in  their  turn,  and  the  whole  coast 
shrinks  away  to  the  merest  line  on  the 
horizon  immeasurably  removed.  Each 
of  these  changes,  and  the  various  as- 
pects of  their  little  world,  are  of  inesti- 
mable value  to  the  lonely  children  living 
always  in  that  solitude.  Nothing  is  too 
slight  to  be  precious,  —  the  flashing  of 
an  oar-blade  in  the  morning  light ;  the 
twinkling  of  a  gull's  wings  afar  off,  like  a 
star  in  the  yellow  sunshine  of  the  drow- 
sy summer  afternoon  ;  the  water-spout 
waltzing  away  before  the  wild  wind 
that  cleaves  the  sea  from  the  advancing 
thunder  -  cloud  ;  the  distant  showers 
that  march  about  the  horizon,  trailing 


their  dusky  fringes  of  falling  rain  over 
sea  and  land ;  every  phase  of  the 
great  thunder-storms  that  make  glori- 
ous the  weeks  of  July  and  August, 
from  the  first  floating  film  of  cloud 
that  rises  in  the  sky  till  the  scattered 
fragments  of  the  storm  stream  east- 
ward to  form  a  background  for  the 
rainbow;  —  all  these  things  are  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  dwellers  at  the 
Isles  of  Shoals.  There  is  something 
especially  delightful  in  the  perfumes 
which  stream  across  the  sea  after 
showers,  like  a  heavenly  greeting 
from  the  land  ;  scents  of  hay  and  of 
clover,  spice  of  pine  woods,  balm 
of  flowers,  come  floating  over  the 
cool  waves  on  the  wings  of  the  west- 
wind,  and  touch  one  like  a  breath  from 
Paradise.  Few  sounds  from  the  shore 
reach  the  islands  ;  the  booming  of  guns 
is  audible,  and  sometimes,  with  a  west 
wind,  the  air  is  pierced  with  distant  car- 
whistles,  so  very  remote,  however,  that 
they  are  hardly  to  be  recognized  except 
by  a  practised  ear. 

There  is  a  superstition  among  the 
islanders  that  Philip  Babb,  or  some 
evil-minded  descendant  of  his,  still 
haunts  Appledore,  and  no  considera- 
tion would  induce  the  more  timid  to 
walk  alone  after  dark  over  a  certain 
shingly  beach  on  that  island,  at  the 
top  of  a  cove  bearing  Babb's  name, 
for  there  the  uneasy  spirit  is  oftenest 
seen.  He  is  supposed  to  have  been 
so  desperately  wicked  when  alive, 
that  there  is  no  rest  for  him  in  his 
grave.  His  dress  is  a  coarse,  striped 
butcher's  frock,  with  a  leather  belt,  to 
which  is  attached  a  sheath  containing 
a  ghostly  knife,  sharp  and  glittering, 
which  it  is  his  delight  to  brandish  in 
the  face  of  terrified  humanity.  One  of 
the  Shoalers  is  perfectly  certain  that  he 
and  Babb  have  met,  and  he  shudders 
with  real  horror,  recalling  the  meet- 
ing. This  is  his  story.  It  was  after 
sunset  (of  course),  and  he  was  coming 
round  the  corner  of  a  work-shop,  when 
he  saw  a  wild  and  dreadful  figure  ad- 
vancing toward  him  ;  his  first  thought 
was  that  some  one  wished  to  make  him 


8;o.] 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


587 


the  victim  of  a  practical  joke,  and  he 
called  out  something  to  the  effect  that 
he  "  was  n't  afraid  "  ;  but  the  thing  came 
near  with  ghastly  face  and  hollow  eyes, 
and,  assuming  a  fiendish  expression, 
took  out  the  knife  from  its  belt  and 
flourished  it  in  the  face  of  the  Shoal- 
er,  who  fled  to  the  house  and  en- 
tered breathless,  calling  for  the  per- 
son whom  he  supposed  had  tried  to 
frighten  him.  That  person  was  quietly 
eating  his  supper,  and  when  the  poor 
fellow  saw  him  he  was  much  agitated, 
and  his  belief  in  Babb  fixed  more  firm- 
ly than  ever.  One  spring  night  some 
one  was  sitting  on  the  broad  piazza  at 
sunset ;  it  was  calm  and  mild,  the  sea 
murmured  a  little  ;  birds  twittered  soft- 
ly; there  was  hardly  a  waft  of  wind  in 
the  still  atmosphere.  Glancing  toward 
Babb's  Cove,  he  saw  a  figure  slowly 
crossing  the  shingle  to  the  path  which 
led  to  the  house.  After  watching  it  a 
moment  he  called  to  it,  but  there  was 
no  reply  ;  again  he  called,  still  no  an- 
swer ;  but  the  dark  figure  came  slowly 
on,  and  then  he  reflected  that  he  had 
heard  no  step  on  the  loose  shingle 
that  was  wont  to  give  back  every  foot- 
fall, and,  somewhat  puzzled,  he  slowly 
descended  the  steps  of  the  piazza  and 
went  to  meet  it.  It  was  not  so  dark 
but  that  he  could  see  the  face  and  rec- 
ognize the  butcher's  frock  and  leather 
belt  of  Babb,  but  he  was  not  prepared 
for  the  devilish  expression  of  malice 
in  that  hollow  face,  and  spite  of  his 
prosaic  turn  of  mind  he  was  chilled  to 
the  marrow  at  the  sight.  The  white 
stripes  in  the  frock  gleamed  like  phos- 
phorescent light,  so  did  the  awful  eyes. 
Again  he  called  aloud,  "  Who  are  you  ? 
What  do  you  want  ?  "  and  still  advanced, 
when  suddenly  the  shape  grew  indis- 
tinct, first  thick  and  cloudy,  then  thin, 
dissolving  quite  away,  and,  much 
amazed,  he  turned  and  went  back  to 
the  house,  perplexed  and  thoroughly 
dissatisfied.  These  tales  I  tell  as  they 
were  told  to  me.  I  never  saw  Babb, 
nor  ever  could,  I  think.  The  whole  Babb 
family  are  buried  in  the  valley  of  Ap- . 
pledore  where  the  houses  stand,  and 
till  this  year  a  bowling-alley  stood  upon 


the  spot,  and  all  the  balls  rolled  over 
the  bones  of  all  the  Babbs ;  that  may 
have  been  one  reason  why  the  head  of 
the  family  was  so  restless  ;  since  the 
last  equinoctial  gale  blew  down  the 
building,  perhaps  he  may  rest  more 
peacefully.  Babb's  is,  I  believe,  the 
only  real  ghost  that  haunts  the  islands ; 
though  in  the  loft  at  the  parsonage  on 
Star  (a  mere  creep  -  hole  under  the 
eaves,  unattainable  by  any  steps  or 
ladder)  there  is  (in  windy  weather)  the 
most  extraordinary  combination  of 
sounds,  as  if  two  bluff  old  fellows  were 
swearing  at  each  other,  gruffly,  harshly, 
continually,  with  a  perseverance  worthy 
of  a  better  cause.  Really,  it  is  a  most 
disagreeable  racket !  A  lean,  brown, 
hollow-eyed  old  woman  from  Star  used 
to  tell  how  her  daughter-in-law  died, 
in  a  way  that  took  the  color  out  of 
childish  cheeks  to  hear,  for  the  dying 
woman  thought  the  ghosts  were  scratch- 
ing for  her  outside,  against  the  house. 
"  Ma'y  Hahner  "  (Mary  Hannah),  she 
said  to  me,  "a  whisperin',  says  she, 
*  Who 's  that  scratching,  tearing  the 
house  clown  underneath  the  window  ?  ' 
'  No,  it  ain't  nothin','  says  I  ;  '  Ma'y 
Hahner,  there  ain't  nobody  a  tearin' 
the  house  down  underneath  the  win- 
der.' 'Yes,  yes,  there  is,'  says  she, 
'  there  is  !  I  hear  'em  scratching, 
scratching,  tearing  the  house  down 
underneath  the  winder  ! '  And  then  I 
know'd  Ma'y  Hahner  was  goin'  to  die, 
and  so  she  di'd  afore  mornin." 

There  is  a  superstition  here  and  along 
the  coast  to  this  effect.  A  man  gath- 
ering drift-wood  or  whatever  it  may  be, 
sees  a  spade  stuck  in  the  ground  as  if 
inviting  him  to  dig.  He  is  n't  quite 
ready,  goes  and  empties  his  basket 
first,  then  comes  back  to  investigate, 
and  lo  !  there  's  nothing  there  !  and  he 
is  tormented  the  rest  of  his  life  with 
the  thought  that  probably  untold  wealth 
lay  beneath  that  spade,  which  he  might 
have  possessed  had  he  only  been  wise 
enough  to  seize  the  treasure  when  it 
offered  itself.  A  certain  man  named 
William  Mace,  living  at  Star  long,  long 
ago,  swore  that  he  had  had  this  experi- 
ence, and  there  's  a  dim  tradition  that 


588 


Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 


[May, 


another  person  seeing  the  spade  passed 
by  about  his  business,  but  hastening 
back,  arrived  just  in  time  to  see  the 
last  of  the  sinking  tool,  and  to  perceive 
also  a  golden  flat-iron  disappearing  into 
the  earth.  This  he  seized,  but  no  hu- 
man power  could  extricate  it  from  the 
ground,  and  he  was  forced  to  let  go  his 
hold  and  see  it  sink  out  of  his  longing 
ken- 

Some  young  people,  camping  on  the 
south  side  of  Appledore,  one  summer, 
among  the  ancient  graves,  dug  up  a 
skeleton  ;  the  bones  crumbled  to  dust, 
but  the  skull  remained  intact,  and  I 
kept  it  for  a  long  time.  The  Shoalers 
shook  their  heads.  "  Hog  Island  would 
have  no  'luck'  while  that  skull  re- 
mained aboveground."  It  had  lain  so 
long  in  the  earth  that  it  was  no  more 
repulsive  than  a  bit  of  stone,  yet  a 
nameless  dread  invested  it.  At  last  I 
took  it  in  my  hands  and  pored  over  it 
till  the  shudder  passed  away  forever, 
and  then  I  was  never  weary  of  studying 
it.  Sitting  by  the  drift-wood  blaze  late 
into  the  still  autumn  nights  alone  at 
my  desk,  it  kept  me  company,  —  a  vase 
of  brilliant  flowers  on  one  side,  the 
skull  on  the  other,  and  the  shaded 
lamp  between,  equally  lighting  both. 
A  curious  head  it  was,  thick  as  an 
Ethiop's,  with  no  space  above  the  eyes, 
high  above  the  ears,  and  heavy  behind 
them.  But  O,  those  hollows  where  the 
eyes  once  looked  out,  beholding  the 
same  sea  and  sky  we  see  to-day ! 
Those  great,  melancholy,  empty  hol- 
lows, —  what  sort  of  creature  gazed 
from  them  ?  Cunning  and  malice,  an- 
ger and  hate,  may  have  burned  within 
them  in  sullen  flame  ;  who  shall  say  if 
any  beauty  ever  illumined  them  ?  If 


hate  smouldered  here,  did  love  ever 
look  out  and  transfigure  the  poor,  dull 
face  ?  did  any  spark  from  the  far  heav- 
en ever  brighten  it  ?  any  touch  of  lofty 
thought  or  aspiration  turn  the  clay  to 
fire  ?  And  when  so  many  years  ago 
this  being  glided  away  from  behind 
these  awful  windows  and  left  them 
empty  for  ever  and  ever,  did  he  find 
what  in  his  life  here  he  could  not  have 
possessed,  with  this  head,  which  he  did 
not  make,  and  therefore  was  not  re- 
sponsible for  ?  Many  and  many  a 
question  I  put  silently  to  the  silent 
casket  which  had  held  a  human  soul ; 
there  was  no  sound  to  answer  me  save 
only  the  great,  gentle  whisper  of  the 
sea  without  the  windows,  and  now  and 
then  a  sigh  from  the  autumn  wind. 
There  came  to  me  a  sense  of  the  pa- 
thos of  the  infinite  patience  of  human- 
ity, waiting  so  helplessly  and  blindly 
for  the  unravelling  of  the  riddle  that 
has  troubled  every  thoughtful  soul  since 
the  beginning  of  time.  Little  roots  of 
plants  were  clasped  about  the  temples. 
Behind  the  right  ear  were  three  inden- 
tations, as  if  made  by  some  sharp  in- 
strument, suggesting  foul  play.  An 
Indian  tomahawk  might  have  made 
those  marks,  or  a  pirate's  cutlass,  who 
can  say  ?  What  matter  is  it  now  ?  I 
kept  the  relic  for  months,  till  it  crum- 
bled so  fast  when  I  daily  dusted  it  that 
I  feared  it  would  disappear  entirely ; 
so  I  carried  it  quietly  back  and  laid  it 
in  the  grave  from  which  it  had  been 
taken,  wondering,  as  I  drew  the  shal- 
low earth  over  it,  who  had  stood  round 
about  when  it  was  buried  for  the  first 
time,  centuries  ago,  what  manner  of 
people,  and  were  they  afraid  or  sorry. 
But  there  was  no  voice  to  answer  me. 


1870.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal.  589 


THE    LEGEND    OF    JUBAL. 

WHEN  Cain  was  driven  from  Jehovah's  land 
He  wandered  eastward,  seeking  some  far  strand 
Ruled  by  kind  gods  who  asked  no  offerings. 
Save  pure  field-fruits,  as  aromatic  things 
To  feed  the  subtler  sense  of  frames  divine 
That  lived  on  fragrance  for  their  food  and  wine  : 
Wild  joyous  gods,  who  winked  at  faults  and  folly, 
And  could  be  pitiful  and  melancholy. 
He  never  had  a  doubt  that  such  gods  were  ; 
He  looked  within,  and  saw  them  mirrored  there. 
Some  think  he  came  at  last  to  Tartary, 
And  some  to  Ind ;  but,  howsoe'er  it  .be, 
His  staff  he  planted  where  sweet  waters  ran 
And  in  that  home  of  Cain  the  Arts  began. 

Man's  life  was  spacious  in  the  early  world: 

It  paused,  like  some  slow  ship  with  sail  unfurled 

Waiting  in  seas  by  scarce  a  wavelet  curled ; 

Beheld  the  slow  star-paces  of  the  skies, 

And  grew  from  strength  to  strength  through  centuries ; 

Saw  infant  trees  fill  out  their  giant  limbs, 

And  heard  a  thousand  times  the  sweet  birds'  marriage  hymns. 

In  Cain's  young  city  none  had  heard  of  Death 

Save  him,  the  founder ;  and  it  was  his  faith 

That  here,  away  from  harsh  Jehovah's  law, 

Man  was  immortal,  since  no  halt  or  flaw 

In  Cain's  own  frame  betrayed  six  hundred  years, 

But  dark  as  pines  that  autumn  never  sears 

His  locks  thronged  backward  as  he  ran,  his  frame 

Rose  like  the  orbe'd  sun  each  morn  the  same, 

Lake-mirrored  to  his  gaze  ;  and  that  red  brand, 

The  scorching  impress  of  Jehovah's  hand, 

Was  still  clear-edged  to  his  unwearied  eye, 

Its  secret  firm  in  time-fraught  memory. 

He  said,  "  My  happy  offspring  shall  not  know 

That  the  red  life  from  out  a  man  may  flow 

When  smitten  by  his  brother."     True,  his  race 

Bore  each  one  stamped  upon  his  new-born  face 

A  copy  of  the  brand  no  whit  less  clear  ; 

But  every  mother  held  that  little  copy  dear. 

Thus  generations  in  glad  idlesse  throve, 

Nor  h-unted  prey,  nor  with  each  other  strove ; 

For  clearest  springs  were  plenteous  in  the  land, 

And  gourds  for  cups  ;  the  ripe  fruits  sought  the  hand, 

Bending  the  laden  boughs  with  fragrant  gold  ; 

And  for  their  roofs  and  garments  wealth  untold 


The  Legend  of  Jubal  [May, 

Lay  everywhere  in  grasses  and  broad  leaves : 

They  labored  gently,  as  a  maid  who  weaves 

Her  hair  in  mimic  mats,-  and  pauses  oft 

And  strokes  across  her  hand  the  tresses  soft, 

Then  peeps  to  watch  the  poisdd  butterfly, 

Or  little  burthened  ants  that  homeward  hie. 

Time  was  but  leisure  to  their  lingering  thought, 

There  was  no  need  for  haste  to  finish  aught; 

But  sweet  beginnings  were  repeated  still 

Like  infant  babblings  that  no  task  fulfil; 

For  love,  that  loved  not  change,  constrained  the  simple  wilL 

Till  hurling  stones  in  mere  athletic  joy 

Strong  Lamech  struck  and  killed  his  fairest  boy, 

And  tried  to  wake  him  with  the  tenderest  cries, 

And  fetched  and  held  before  the  glaze'd  eyes 

The  things  they  best  had  loved  to  look  upon ; 

But  never  glance  or  smile  or  sigh  he  won. 

The  generations  stood  around  those  twain 

Helplessly  gazing,  till  their  father  Cain 

Parted  the  press,  and  said,  "  He  will  not  wake ; 

This  is  the  endless  sleep,  and  we  must  make 

A  bed  deep  down  for  him  beneath  the  sod; 

For  know,  my  sons,  there  is  a  mighty  God ) 

Angry  with  all  man's  race,  but  most  with  mjfc. 

I  fled  from  out  his  land  in  vain  !  —  't  is  he 

Who  came  and  slew  the  lad,  for  he  has  found 

This  home  of  ours,  and  we  shall  all  be  bound 

By  the  harsh  bands  of  his  most  cruel  will, 

Which  any  moment  may  some  dear  one  kill. 

Nay,  though  we  live  for  countless  moons,  at  last 

We  and  all  ours  shall  die  like  summers  past. 

This  is  Jehovah's  will,  and  he  is  strong; 

I  thought  the  way  I  travelled  was  too  long 

For  him  to  follow  me  :  my  thought  was  vain ! 

He  walks  unseen,  but  leaves  a  track  of  pain, 

Pale  Death  his  footprint  is,  and  he  will  come  again  ! " 

And  a  new  spirit  from  that  hour  came  o'er 

The  race  of  Cain  :  soft  icllesse  was  no  more, 

But  even  the  sunshine  had  a  heart  of  care, 

Smiling  with  hidden  dread,  —  a  mother  fair 

Who  folding  to  her  breast  a  dying  child 

Beams  with  feigned  joy  that  but  makes  sadness  mild. 

Death  was  now  lord  of  life,  and  at  his  word 

Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred, 

With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 

Throbbing  through  all  things  to  some  unknown  close. 

Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 

And  Work  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 

It  seemed  the  light  was  never  loved  before, 

Now  each  man  said,  "'Twill  go  and  come  no  more." 

No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook, 


1 8 ;o.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal.  591 

No  form,  no  shadow,  but  new  dearness  took 
From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end; 
And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 
Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bliss, 
Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 
Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine, 
That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 
Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves, 
And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves, 
No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  all; 
Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coming  at  each  call, 
With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand, 
And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  responsive  hand. 

Thus  to  Cain's  race  death  was  tear-watered  seed 

Of  various  life  and  action-shaping  need. 

But  chief  the  sons  of  Lamech  felt  the  stings 

Of  new  ambition,  and  the  force  that  springs 

In  passion  beating  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

They  said,  "There  comes  a  night  when  all  too  late 

The  mind  shall  long  to  prompt  the  achieving  hand, 

The  eager  thought  behind  closed  portals  stand, 

And  the  last  wishes  to  the  mute  lips  press 

Buried  ere  death  in  silent  helplessness. 

Then  while  the  soul  its  way  with  sound  can  cleave, 

And  while  the  arm  is  strong  to  strike  and  heave 

Let  soul  and  arm  give  shape  that  will  abide 

And  rule  above  our  graves,  and  power  divide 

With  that  great  god  of  day,  whose  rays  must  bend 

As  we  shall  make  the  moving  shadows  tend. 

Come,  let  us  fashion  acts  that  are  to  be, 

When  we  shall  lie  in  darkness  silently, 

As  our  young  brother  doth,  whom  yet  we  see 

Fallen  and  slain,  but  reigning  in  our  will 

By  that  one  image  of  him  pale  and  still." 

For  Lamech's  sons  were  heroes  of  their  race : 

Jabal,  the  eldest,  bore  upon  his  face 

The  look  of  that  calm  river-god,  the  Nile, 

Mildly  secure  in  power  that  needs  not  guile. 

But  Tubal-Cain  was  restless  as  the  fire 

That  glows  and  spreads  and  leaps  from  high  to  higher 

Where'er  is  aught  to  sei/e  or  to  subdue ; 

Strong  as  a  storm  he  lifted  or  o'erthrew, 

His  urgent  limbs  like  granite  boulders  grew, 

Such  boulders  as  the  plunging  torrent  wears 

And  roaring  rolls  around  through  countless  years. 

But  strength  that  still  on  movement  must  be  fed, 

Inspiring  thought  of  change,  devices  bred, 

And  urged  his  mind  through  earth  and  air  to  rove 

For  force  that  he  could  conquer  if  he  strove, 

For  lurking  forms  that  might  new  tasks  fulfil 

And  yiejd  unwilling  to  his  stronger  will. 

Such  Tubal-Cain.     But  Jubal  had  a  frame 


The  Legend  of  Jubal.  [May, 

Fashioned  to  finer  senses,  which  became 

A  yearning  for  some  hidden  soul  of  things, 

Some  outward  touch  complete  on  inner  springs 

That  vaguely  moving  bred  a  lonely  pain, 

A  want  that  did  but  stronger  grow  with  gain 

Of  all  good  else,  as  spirits  might  be  sad 

For  lack  of  speech  to  tell  us  they  are  glad. 

Now  Jabal  learned  to  tame  the  lowing  kine, 

And  from  their  udders  drew  the  snow-white  wine 

That  stirs  the  innocent  joy,  and  makes  the  stream 

Of  elemental  life  with  fulness  teem  ; 

The  star-browed  calves  he  nursed  with  feeding  hand, 

And  sheltered  them,  till  all  the  little  band 

Stood  mustered  gazing  at  the  sunset  way 

Whence  he  would  come  with  store  at  close  of  day. 

He  soothed  the  silly  sheep  with  friendly  tone 

And  reared  their  staggering  lambs  that,  older  grown, 

Followed  his  steps  with  sense-taught  memory ; 

Till  he,  their  shepherd,  could  their  leader  be 

And  guide  them  through  the  pastures  as  he  would, 

With  sway  that  grew  from  ministry  of  good. 

He  spread  his  tents  upon  the  grassy  plain 

That,  eastward  widening  like  the  open  main, 

Showed  the  first  whiteness  'neath  the  morning  star ; 

Near  him  his  sister,  deft,  as  women  are, 

Plied  her  quick  skill  in  sequence  to  his  thought 

Till  the  hid  treasures  of  the  milk  she  caught 

Revealed  like  pollen  'mid  the  petals  white, 

The  golden  pollen,  virgin  to  the  light. 

Even  the  she-wolf  with  young,  on  rapine  bent, 

He  caught  and  tethered  in  his  mat-walled  tent, 

And  cherished  all  her  little  sharp-nosed  young 

Till  the  small  race  with  hope  and  terror  clung 

About  his  footsteps,  till  each  new-reared  brood, 

Remoter  from  the  memories  of  the  wood, 

More  glad  discerned  their  common  home  with  man. 

This  was  the  work  of  Jabal :  he  began 

The  pastoral  life,  and,  sire  of  joys  to  be, 

Spread  the  sweet  ties  that  bind  the  family 

O'er  dear  dumb  souls  that  thrilled  at  man's  caress, 

And  shared  his  pains  with  patient  helpfulness. 

But  Tubal-Cain  had  caught  and  yoked  the  fire, 
Yoked  it  with  stones  that  bent  the  flaming  spire 
And  made  it  roar  in  prisoned  servitude 
Within  the  furnace,  till  with  force  subdued 
It  changed  all  forms  he  willed  to  work  upon, 
Till  hard  from  soft,  and  soft  from  hard,  he  won. 
The  pliant  clay  he  moulded  as  he  would, 
And  laughed  with  joy  when  'mid  the  heat  it  stood 
Shaped  as  his  hand  had  chosen,  while  the  mass   . 
That  from  his  hold,  dark,  obstinate,  would  pass, 


1870.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal. 

He  drew  all  glowing  from  the  busy  heat, 

All  breathing  as  with  life  that  he  could  beat 

With  thundering  hammer,  making  it  obey 

His  will  creative,  like  the  pale  soft  clay. 

Each  day  he  wrought  and  better  than  he  planned, 

Shape  breeding  shape  beneath  his  restless  hand. 

(The  soul  without  still  helps  the  soul  within, 

And  its  deft  magic  ends  what  we  begin.) 

Nay,  in  his  dreams  his  hammer  he  would  wield 

And  seem  to  see  a  myriad  types  revealed, 

Then  spring  with  wondering  triumphant  cry, 

And,  lest  the  inspiring  vision  should  go  by, 

Would  rush  to  labor  with  that  plastic  zeal 

Which  all  the  passion  of  our  life  can  steal 

For  force  to  work  with.     Each  day  saw  the  birth 

Of  various  forms  which,  flung  upon  the  earth, 

Seemed  harmless  toys  to  cheat  the  exacting  hour, 

But  were  as  seeds  instinct  with  hidden  power. 

The  axe,  the  club,  the  spikdd  wheel,  the  chain, 

Held  silently  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  pain, 

And  near  them  latent  lay  in  share  and  spade, 

In  the  strong  bar,  the  saw,  and  deep-curved  blade, 

Glad  voices  of  the  hearth  and  harvest-home, 

The  social  good,  and  all  earth's  joy  to  come. 

Thus  to  mixed  ends  wrought  Tubal ;  and  they  say, 

Some  things  he  made  have  lasted  to  this  day  ; 

As,  thirty  silver  pieces  that  were  found 

By  Noah's  children  buried  in  the  ground. 

He  made  them  from  mere  hunger  of  device, 

Those  small  white  disks  ;  but  they  became  the  price 

The  traitor  Judas  sold  his  Master  for ; 

And  men  still  handling  them  in  peace  and  war 

Catch  foul  disease,  that  comes  as  appetite, 

And  lurks  and  clings  as  withering,  damning  blight. 

But  Tubal-Cain  wot  not  of  treachery, 

Or  greedy  lust,  or  any  ill  to  be, 

Save  the  one  ill  of  sinking  into  nought, 

Banished  from  action  and  act-shaping  thought. 

He  was  the  sire  of  swift-transforming  skill, 

Which  arms  for  conquest  man's  ambitious  will ; 

And  round  him  gladly,  as  his  hammer  rung, 

Gathered  the  elders  and  the  growing  young: 

These  handled  vaguely  and  those  plied  the  tools, 

Till,  happy  chance  begetting  conscious  rules, 

The  home  of  Cain  with  industry  was  rife, 

And  glimpses  of  a  strong  persistent  life, 

Panting  through  generations  as  one  breath, 

And  filling  with  its  soul  the  blank  of  death. 

Jubal,  too,  watched  the  hammer,  till  his  eyes, 
No  longer  following  its  fall  or  rise, 
Seemed  glad  with  something  that  they  could  not  see, 
But  only  listened  to,  —  some  melody, 
VOL.  XXV.  — NO.   151.  38 


594  The  Legend  of  Jubal.  [May, 

Wherein  dumb  longings  inward  speech  had  found, 

Won  from  the  common  store  of  struggling  sound. 

Then,  as  the  metal  shapes  more  various  grew, 

And,  hurled  upon  each  other,  resonance  drew, 

Each  gave  new  tones,  the  revelations  dim 

Of  some  external  soul  that  spoke  for  him  : 

The  hollow  vessel's  clang,  the  clash,  the  boom, 

Like  light  that  makes  wide  spiritual  room 

And  skyey  spaces  in  the  spaceless  thought, 

To  Jubal  such  enlarged  passion  brought 

That  love,  hope,  rage,  and  all  experience, 

Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 

Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries 

That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 

Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 

Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man's  brief  age. 

Then  with  such  blissful  trouble  and  glad  care 

For  growth  within  unborn  as  mothers  bear, 

To  the  far  woods  he  wandered,  listening, 

And  heard  the  birds  their  little  stories  sing 

In  notes  whose  rise  and  fall  seem  melted  speech  — 

Melted  with  tears,  smiles,  glances  —  that  can  reach 

More  quickly  through  our  frame's  deep-winding  night, 

And  without  thought  raise  thought's  best  fruit,  delight. 

Pondering,  he  sought  his  home  again  and  heard 

The  fluctuant  changes  of  the  spoken  word : 

The  deep  remonstrance  and  the  argued  want, 

Insistent  first  in  close  monotonous  chant, 

Next  leaping  upward  to  defiant  stand 

Or  downward  beating  like  the  resolute  hand  ; 

The  mother's  call,  the  children's  answering  cry, 

The  laugh's  light  cataract  tumbling  from  on  high; 

To  suasive  repetitions  Jabal  taught, 

That  timid  browsing  cattle  homeward  brought; 

The  clear-winged  fugue  of  echoes  vanishing ; 

And  through  them  all  the  hammer's  rhythmic  ring. 

Jubal  sat  lonely,  all  around  was  dim, 

Yet  his  face  glowed  with  light  revealed  to  him : 

For  as  the  delicate  stream  of  odor  wakes 

The  thought-wed  sentience  and  some  image  makes 

From  out  the  mingled  fragments  of  the  past, 

Finely  compact  in  wholeness  that  will  last, 

So  streamed  as  from  the  body  of  each  sound 

Subtler  pulsations,  swift  as  warmth,  which  found 

All  prisoned  germs  and  all  their  powers  unbound, 

Till  thought  self-luminous  flamed  from  memory, 

And  in  creative  vision  wandered  free. 

Then  Jubal,  standing,  rapturous  arms  upraised, 

And  on  the  dark  with  eager  eyes  he  gazed, 

As  had  some  manifested  god  been  there  : 

It  was  his  thought  he  saw ;  the  presence  fair 


1870.]  The  Lege^  of  Jubal  595 

Of  unachieved  achievement,  the  high  task, 
The  mighty  unborn  spirit  that  doth  ask 
With  irresistible  cry  for  blood  and  breath, 
Till  feeding  its  great  life  we  sink  in  death. 

He  said :  "  Were»now  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 

That  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise, 

Those  groans  of  some  great  travail  heard  from  far, 

Some  power  at  wrestle  with  the  things  that  are, 

Those  sounds  which  vary  with  the  varying  form 

Of  clay  and  metal,  and  in  sightless  swarm 

Fill  the  wide  space  with  tremors :  were  those  wed 

To  human  voices  with  such  passion  fed 

As  does  but  glimmer  in  our  common  speech, 

But  might  flame  out  in  tones  whose  changing  reach, 

Surpassing  meagre  need,  informs  the  sense 

With  fuller  union,  finer  difference, — 

Were  this  great  vision,  now  obscurely  bright 

As  morning  hills  that  melt  in  new-poured  light, 

Wrought  into  solid  form  and  living  sound, 

Moving  with  ordered  throb  and  sure  rebound, 

Then  —  Nay,  I  Jubal  will  that  work  begin  ! 

The  generations  of  our  race  shall  win 

New  life,  that  grows  from  out  the  heart  of  this, 

As  spring  from  winter,  or  as  lovers'  bliss 

From  out  the  dull  unknown  of  unwaked  energies." 

Thus  he  resolved,  and  in  the  soul-fed  light 
Of  coming  ages  waited  through  the  night, 
Watching  for  that  near  dawn  whose  chiller  ray] 
Showed  but  the  unchanged  world  of  yesterday ; 
Where  all  the  order  of  his  dream  divine 
Lay  like  Olympian  forms  within  the  mine  ; 
Where  fervor  that  could  fill  the  earthly  round 
With  thronged  joys  of  form-begotten  sound 
Must  shrink  intense  within  the  patient  power 
That  lonely  labors  through  the  niggard  hour. 
Such  patience  have  the  heroes  who  begin, 
Sailing  the  first  toward  lands  which  others  win. 
Jubal  must  dare  as  great  beginners  dare, 
Strike  form's  first  way  in  matter  rude  and  bare, 
And  yearning  vaguely  toward  the  plenteous  quire 
Of  the  world's  harvest,  make  one  poor  small  lyre. 

He  made  it,  and  from  out  its  measured  frame 
Drew  the  harmonic  soul,  whose  answers  came 
With  guidance  sweet  and  lessons  of  delight 
Teaching  to  ear  and  hand  the  blissful  Right, 
Where  strictest  law  is  gladness  to  the  sense, 
And  all  desire  bends  toward  obedience. 
Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song, — 
The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 


Legend^  of  JubaL  [May, 


As  radiance  streams  from  smallest  things  that  burn 

Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 

And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 

In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  with  lip. 

Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 

His  winge'd  song  ;  then  with  adoring  jjride 

And  bridegroom's  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride, 

He  said,  "  This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 

This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound, 

Shall  forthwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race 

And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space  : 

The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do, 

And  I  will  teach  our  youth  with  skill  to  woo 

This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  secret  will, 

Its  fine  division  of  the  good  and  ill. 

So  shall  men  call  me  sire  of  harmony, 

And  where  great  Song  is,  there  my  life  shall  be." 

Thus  glorying  as  a  god  beneficent, 

Forth  from  his  solitary  joy  he  went 

To  bless  mankind.     It  was  at  evening, 

When  shadows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 

When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine 

And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  decline. 

The  fruit-trees  wore  their  studded  coronal, 

Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival, 

Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent,  — 

Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  in  sweet  warm  radiance  blent. 

The  tribe  of  Cain  was  resting  on  the  ground, 

The  various  ages  wreathed  in  one  broad  round. 

Here  lay,  while  children  peeped  o'er  his  huge  thighs, 

The  sinewy  man  embrowned  by  centuries  ; 

Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 

Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o'er  the  throng 

Of  young  lithe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too,  — 

Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew, 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 

Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh, 

And  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circling  went, 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  father  Cain 

Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jabal  sat  circled  with  a  playful  ring 

Of  children,  lambs  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling, 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dimpled  feet, 

Made  barks,  bleats,  laughs,  in  pretty  hubbub  meet. 

But  Tubal's  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday, 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast, 

For  of  all  hardship  work  he  counted  least  ; 


1870.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal. 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 
Made  his  repose  more  potent  action  seem. 

Yet  with  health's  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent, 

The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent, 

The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power, 

Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being's  flower. 

After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes, 

The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 

Then  from  the  east,  with  glory  on  his  head 

Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn-waves  spread, 

Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre  :  there  'mid  the  throng, 

Where  the  blank  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song, 

Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 

And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob, 

Exult  and  cry,  and  search  the  inmost  deep 

Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleep. 

Joy  took  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul, 

Embracing  them  in  one  entrancdd  whole, 

Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends, 

As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creatures  sends 

Or  rage  or  tenderness  ;  more  plenteous  life 

Here  breeding  dread,  and  there  a  fiercer  strife. 

He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries,     . 

Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees 

In  hoary  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze, 

Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  days 

Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 

That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one ; 

Knew  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past, 

The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  vast, 

And  in  that  heaven  wept.     But  younger  limbs 

Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which  swims 

In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays, 

Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 

And  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  influence, 

Sweetly  o'ercharging  the  delighted  sense, 

Flowed  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spread 

Enlarging,  till  in  tidal  union  led 

The  youths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed, 

By  grace  inspiring  melody  possessed, 

Rose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 

Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  many  a  melting  curve 

Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm :    * 

Then  Jubat  poured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 

The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance, 

The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countenance, 

Till  all  the  circling  tribe  arose  and  stood 

With  glad  yet  awful  shock  of  that  mysterious  good. 

Even  Tubal  caught  the  sound,  and  wondering  came, 
Urging  his  sooty  bulk  like  smoke-wrapt  flame 
Till  he  could  see  his  brother  with  the  lyre, 


597 


598  The  Legend  of  Jubal.  [May, 

The  work  for  which  he  lent  his  furnace-fire 
And  diligent  hammer,  witting  nought  of  this, — 
This  power  in  metal  shape  which  made  strange  bliss, 
Entering  within  him  like  a  dream  full-fraught 
With  new  creations  finished  in  a  thought. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  but  music  still  was  there, 

And  when  this  ceased,  still  triumph  filled  the  air : 

It  seemed  the  stars  were  shining  with  delight 

And  that  no  night  was  ever  like  this  night. 

All  clung  with  praise  to  Jubal :  some  besought 

That  he  would  teach  them  his  new  skill ;  some  caught, 

Swiftly  as  smiles  are  caught  in  looks  that  meet, 

The  tone's  melodic  change  and  rhythmic  beat : 

'T  was  easy  following  where  -invention  trod,  — 

All  eyes  can  see  when  light  flows  out  from  God. 

And  thus  did  Jubal  to  his  race  reveal 

Music  their  larger  soul,  where  woe  and  weal 

Filling  the  resonant  chords,  the  song,  the  dance, 

Moved  with  a  wider-wingdd  utterance. 

Now  many  a  lyre  was  fashioned,  many  a  song 

Raised  echoes  new,  old  echoes  to  prolong, 

Till  things  of  JubaPs  making  were  so  rife, 

"  Hearing  myself,"  he  said,  "  hems  in  my  life, 

And  I  will  get  me  to  some  far-off  land, 

Where  higher  mountains  under  heaven  stand, 

And  touch  the  blue  at  rising  of  the  stars, 

Whose  song  they  hear  where  no  rough  mingling  mars 

The  great  clear  voices.     Such  lands  there  must  be, 

Where  varying  forms  make  varying  symphony,  — 

Where  other  thunders  roll  amid  the  hills, 

Some  mightier  wind  a  mightier  forest  fills 

With  other  strains  through  other-shapen  boughs  ; 

Where  bees  and  birds  and  beasts  that  hunt  or  browse 

Will  teach  me  songs  I  know  not.     Listening  there 

My  life  shall  grow  like  trees  both  tall  and  fair 

That  spread  and  rise  and  bloom  toward  fuller  fruit  each  year." 

He  took  a  raft,  and  travelled  with  the  stream 
Southward  for  many  a  league,  till  he  might  deem 
He  saw  at  last  the  pillars  of  the  sky, 
Beholding  mountains  whose  white 'majesty 
Rushed  through  him  as  new  awe,  and  made  new  song 
That  swept  with  fuller  wave  the  chords  along, 
Weighting  his  voice  with  deep  religious  chime, 
The  iteration  of  slow  chant  sublime. 

It  was  the  region  long  inhabited 

By  all  the  race  of  Seth,  and  Jubal  said  : 

"  Here  have  I  found  my  thirsty  soul's  desire, 

Eastward  the  hills  touch  heaven,  and  evening's  fire 

Flames  through  deep  waters  ;  I  will  take  my  rest, 


1870.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal. 

And  feed  anew  from  my  great  mother's  breast, 
The  sky-clasped  Earth,  whose  voices  nurture  me 
As  the  flowers'  sweetness  doth  the  honey-bee." 
He  lingered  wandering  for  many  an  age, 
And  sowing  music  made  high  heritage 
For  generations  far  beyond  the  Flood,  — 
For  the  poor  late-begotten  human  brood 
Born  to  life's  weary  brevity  and  perilous  good. 

And  ever  as  he  travelled  he  would  climb 

The  farthest  mountain,  yet  the  heavenly  chime, 

The  mighty  tolling  of  the  far-off  spheres 

Beating  their  pathway,  never  touched  his  ears. 

But  wheresoe'er  he  rose  the  heavens  rose, 

And  the  far-gazing  mountain  could  disclose 

Nought  but  a  wider  earth  ;  until  one  height 

Showed  him  the  ocean  stretched  in  liquid  light, 

And  he  could  hear  its  multitudinous  roar, 

Its  plunge  and  hiss  upon  the  pebbled  shore  : 

Then  Jubal  silent  sat,  and  touched  his  lyre  no  more. 

He  thought,  "  The  world  is  great,  but  I  am  weak, 
And  where  the  sky  bends  is  no  solid  peak 
For  me  to  stand  on,  but  this  panting  sea 
Which  sobs  as  if  it  stored  all  life  to  be. 
New  voices  come  to  me  where'er  I  roam, 
My  heart  too  widens  with  its  widening  home  : 
But  song  grows  weaker,  and  the  heart  must  break 
For  lack  of  voice,  or  fingers  that  can  wake 
The  lyre's  full  answer;  nay,  these  chords  would  be 
Too  poor  to  speak  the  gathering  mystery. 
The  former  songs  seem  little,  yet  no  more 
Can  soul,  hand,  voice,  with  interchanging  lore 
•  Tell  what  the  earth  is  saying  unto  me : 
The  secret  is  too  great,  I  hear  confusedly. 

"  No  farther  will  I  travel :  once  again 

My  brethren  I  will  see,  and  that  fair  plain 

Where  I  and  Song  were  born.     There  fresh-voiced  youth 

Will  pour  my  strains  with  all  the  early  truth 

Which  now  abides  not  in  my  voice  and  hands, 

But  only  in  the  soul,  the  will  that  stands 

Helpless  to  move.     My  tribe  will  welcome  me, 

Jubal,  the  sire  of  all  their  melody."  . 

The  way  was  weary.     Many  a  date-palm  grew, 
And  shook  out  clustered  gold  against  the  blue, 
While  Jubal,  guided  by  the  steadfast  spheres, 
Sought  the  dear  home  of  those  first  eager  years, 
When,  with  fresh  vision  fed,  the  fuller  will 
Took  living  outward  shape  in  pliant  skill ; 
For  still  he  hoped  to  find  the  former  things, 
And  the  warm  gladness  recognition  brings. 


599 


6oo  The  Legend  of  Jubal  [May, 

His  footsteps  erred  among  the  mazy  woods 

And  long  illusive  sameness  of  the  floods, 

Winding  and  wandering.     Through  far  regions,  strange 

With  Gentile  homes  and  faces,  did  he  range, 

And  left  his  music  in  their  memory, 

And  left  at  last,  when  nought  besides  would  free 

His  homeward  steps  from  clinging  hands  and  cries, 

The  ancient  lyre.     And  now  in  ignorant  eyes 

No  sign  remained  of  Jubal,  Lamech's  son, 

That  mortal  frame  wherein  was  first  begun 

The  immortal  life  of  song.     His  withered  brow 

Pressed  over  eyes  that  held  no  fire-orbs  now, 

His  locks  streamed  whiteness  on  the  hurrying  air? 

The  unresting  soul  had  worn  itself  quite  bare 

Of  beauteous  token,  as  the  outworn  might 

Of  oaks  slow  dying,  gaunt  in  summer's  light. 

His  full  deep  voice  toward  thinnest  treble  ran: 

He  was  the  rune-writ  story  of  a  man. 

And  so  at  last  he  neared  the  well-known  land, 
Could  see  the  hills  in  ancient  order  stand 
With  friendly  faces  whose  familiar  gaze 
Looked  through  the  sunshine  of  his  childish  days, 
Knew  the  deep-shadowed  folds  of  hanging  woods, 
And  seemed  to  see  the  selfsame  insect  broods 
Whirling  and  quivering  o'er  the  flowers,  to  hear 
The  selfsame  cuckoo  making  distance  near. 
Yea,  the  dear  Earth,  with  mother's  constancy, 
Met  and  embraced  him,  and  said :  "  Thou  art  he  ! 
This  was  thy  cradle,  here  my  breast  was  thine, 
Where  feeding,  thou  didst  all  thy  life  entwine 
With  my  sky-wedded  life  in  heritage  divine." 

But  wending  ever  through  the  watered  plain, 

Firm  not  to  rest  save  in  the  home  of  Cain, 

He  saw  dread  Change,  with  dubious  face  and  cold 

That  never  kept  a  welcome  for  the  old, 

Like  some  strange  heir  upon  the  hearth,  arise 

Saying,  "  This  home  is  mine."     He  thought  his  eyes 

Mocked  all  deep  memories,  as  things  new  made, 

Usurping  sense,  make  old  things  shrink  and  fade 

And  seem  ashamed  to  meet  the  staring  day. 

His  memory  saw  a  small  foot-trodden  way, 

His  eyes  a  Broad  far-stretching  paven  road 

Bordered  with  many  a  tomb  and  fair  abode  ; 

The  little  city  that  once  nestled  low 

As  buzzing  groups  about  some  central  glow, 

Spread  like  a  murmuring  crowd  o'er  plain  and  steep. 

Or  monster  huge  in  heavy-breathing  sleep.. 

His  heart  grew  faint,  and  tremblingly  he  sank 

Close  by  the  wayside  on  a  weed-grown  bank, 

Not  far  from  where  a  new-raised  temple  stood, 


1 8/0.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal. 

Sky-roofed,  and  fragrant  with  wrought  cedar-wood. 

The  morning  sun  was  high  ;  his  rays  fell  hot 

On  this  hap-chosen,  dusty,  common  spot, 

On  the  dry  withered  grass  and  withered  man : 

The  wondrous  frame  where  melody  began 

Lay  as  a  tomb  defaced  that  no  eye  cared  to  scan. 

But  while  he  sank  far  music  reached  his  ear. 

He  listened  until  wonder  silenced  fear 

And  gladness  wonder  ;  for  the  broadening  stream 

Of  sound  advancing  was  his  early  dream, 

Brought  like  fulfilment  of  forgotten  prayer ; 

As  if  his  soul,  breathed  out  upon  the  air, 

Had  held  the  invisible  seeds  of  harmony 

Quick  with  the  various  strains  of  life  to  be. 

He  listened  :  the  sweet  mingled  difference 

With  charm  alternate  took  the  meeting  sense  ;1 

Then  bursting  like  some  shield-broad  lily  red, 

Sudden  and  near  the  trumpet's  notes  outspread, 

And  soon  his  eyes  could  see  the  metal  flower, 

Shining  upturned,  out  on  the  morning  pour 

Its  incense  audible  ;  could  see  a  train 

From  out  the  street  slow-winding  on  the  plain 

With  lyres  and  cymbals,  flutes  and  psalteries, 

While  men,  youths,  maids,  in  concert  sang  to  these 

With  various  throat,  or  in  succession  poured, 

Or  in  full  volume  mingled.     But  one  word 

Ruled  each  recurrent  rise  and  answering  fall, 

As  when  the  multitudes  adoring  call 

On  some  great  name  divine,  their  common  soul,1 

The  common  need,  love,  joy,  that  knits  them  in  one  whole. 

The  word  was  "Jubal!"  ....  "Jubal"  filled  the  air 

And  seemed  to  ride  aloft,  a  spirit  there, 

Creator  of  the  quire,  the  full-fraught  strain 

That  grateful  rolled  itself  to  him  again. 

The  aged  man  adust  upon  the  bank  — 

Whom  no  eye  saw  —  at  first  with  rapture  drank 

The  bliss  of  music,  then,  with  swelling  heart, 

Felt,  this  was  his  own  being's  greater  part, 

The  universal  joy  once  born  in  him. 

But  when  the  train,  with  living  face  and  limb 

And  vocal  breath,  came  nearer  and  more  near, 

The  longing  grew  that  they  should  hold  him  dear ; 

Him,  Lamech's  son,  whom  all  their  fathers  knew, 

The  breathing  Jubal,— him,  to  whom  their  love  was  due. 

All  was  forgotten  but  the  burning  need 
To  claim  his  fuller  self,  to  claim  the  deed 
That  lived  away  from  him,  and  grew  apart, 
While  he  as  from  a  tomb,  with  lonely  heart, 
Warmed  by  no  meeting  glance,  no  hand  that  pressed, 


601 


602  The  Legend  of  Jubal.  [May, 

Lay  chill  amid  the  life  his  life  had  blessed. 

What  though  his  song  should  spread  from  man's  small  race 

Out  through  the  myriad  worlds  that  people  space, 

And  make  the  heavens  one  joy-diffusing  quire  ?  — 

Still  'mid  that  vast  would  throb  the  keen  desire 

Of  this  poor  aged  flesh,  this  eventide, 

This  twilight  soon  in  darkness  to  subside, 

This  little  pulse  of  self  that,  having  glowed 

Through  thrice  three  centuries,  and  divinely  strowed  * 

The  light  of  music  through  the  vague  of  sound, 

Ached  smallness  still  in  good  that  had  no  bound. 

For  no  eye  saw  him,  while  with  loving  pride 
Each  voice  with  each  in  praise  of  Jubal  vied. 
Must  he  in  conscious  trance,  dumb,  helpless  lie 
While  all  that  ardent  kindred  passed  him  by  ? 
His  flesh  cried  out  to  live  with  living  men 
And  join  that  soul  which  to  the  inward  ken 
Of  all  the  hymning  train  was  present  there. 
Strong  passion's  daring  sees  not  aught  to  dare  : 
The  frost-locked  starkness  of  his  frame  low-bent, 
His  voice's  penury  of  tones  long  spent, 
He  felt  not ;  all  his  being  leaped  in  flame 
To  meet  his  kindred  as  they  onward  came 
Slackening  and  wheeling  toward  the  temple's  face : 
He  rushed  before  them  to  the  glittering  space, 
And,  with  a  strength  that  was  but  strong  desire, 
Cried,  "  I  am  Jubal,  !!....!  made  the  lyre  ! " 

The  tones  amid  a  lake  of  silence  fell 

Broken  and  strained,  as  if  a  feeble  bell 

Had  tuneless  pealed  the  triumph  of  a  land 

To  listening  crowds  in  expectation  spanned. 

Sudden  came  showers  of  laughter  on  that  lake; 

They  spread  along  the  train  from  front  to  wake 

In  one  great  storm  of  merriment,  while  he 

Shrank  doubting  whether  he  could  Jubal  be, 

And  not  a  dream  of  Jubal,  whose  rich  vein 

Of  passionate  music  came  with  that  dream-pain, 

Wherein  the  sense  slips  off  from  each  loved  thing, 

And  all  appearance  is  mere  vanishing. 

But  ere  the  laughter  died  from  out  the  rear, 

Anger  in  front  saw  profanation  near ; 

Jubal  was  but  a  name  in  each  man's  faith 

For  glorious  power  untouched  by  that  slow  death 

Which  creeps  with  creeping  time  ;  this  too,  the  spot, 

And  this  the  day,  it  must  be  crime  to  blot, 

Even  with  scoffing  at  a  madman's  lie  : 

Jubal  was  not  a  name  to  wed  with  mockery. 

Two  rushed  upon  him  :  two,  the  most  devout 
In  honor  of  great  Jubal,  thrust  him  out, 


1870.]  The  Legend  of  Jubal. 

And  beat  him  with  their  flutes.     'T  was  little  need  ; 

He  strove  not,  cried  not,  but  with  tottering  speed, 

As  if  the  scorn  and  howls  were  driving  wind 

That  urged  his  body,  serving  so  the  mind 

Which  could  but  shrink  and  yearn,  he  sought  the  screen 

Of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. 

The  immortal  name  of  Jubal  filled  the  sky, 

While  Jubal  lonely  laid  him  down  to  die. 

He  said  within  his  soul,  "This  is  the  end: 

O'er  all  the  earth  to  where  the  heavens  bend 

And  hem  men's  travel,  I  have  breathed  my  soul: 

I  lie  here  now  the  remnant  of  that  whole, 

The  embers  of  a  life,  a  lonely  pain; 

As  far-off  rivers  to  my  thirst  were  vain, 

So  of  my  mighty  years  nought  comes  to  me  again. 

"  Is  the  day  sinking  ?     Softest  coolness  springs 
From  something  round  me  :  dewy  shadowy  wings 
Enclose  me  all  around  —  no,  not  above  — 
Is  moonlight  there  ?     I  see  a  face  of  love, 
Fair  as  sweet  music  when  my  heart  was  strong: 
Yea, — art  thou  come  again  to  me,  great  Song?'- 

The  face  bent  over  him  like  silver  night 

In  long-remembered  summers  ;  that  calm  light 

Of  days  which  shine  in  firmaments  of  thought, 

That  past  unchangeable,  from  change  still  wrought. 

And  there  were  tones  that  with  the  vision  blent : 

He  knew  not  if  that  gaze  the  music  sent, 

Or  music  that  calm  gaze  :  to  hear,  to  see, 

Was  but  one  undivided  ecstasy : 

The  raptured  senses  melted  into  one, 

And  parting  life  a  moment's  freedom  won 

From  in  and  outer,  as  a  little  child 

Sits  on  a  bank  and  sees  blue  heavens  mild 

Down  in  the  water,  and  forgets  its  limbs, 

And  knoweth  nought  save  the  blue  heaven  that  swims. 


"  Jubal,"  the  face  said,  "  I  am  thy  loved  Past, 

The  soul  that  makes  thee  one  from  first  to  last. 

I  am  the  angel  of  thy  life  and  death, 

Thy  outbreathed  being  drawing  its*  last  breath. 

Am  I  not  thine  alone,  a  dear  dead  bride 

Who  blest  thy  lot  above  all  men's  beside  ? 

Thy  bride  whom  thou  woulclst  never  change,  nor  ta.ke 

Any  bride  living,  for  that  dead  one's  sake  ? 

Was  I  not  all  thy  yearning  and  delight, 

Thy  chosen  search,  thy  senses'  beauteous  Right, 

Which  still  had  been  the  hunger  of  thy  frame 

In  central  heaven,  hadst  thou  been  still  the  same  ? 

Wouldst  thou  have  asked  aught  else  from  any  god, 


604  Th*  Legend  of  Jubal.  [May, 

Whether  with  gleaming  feet  on  earth  he  trod 
Or  thundered  through  the  skies,  as  other  share 
Of  mortal  good,  than  in  thy  soul  to  bear 
The  growth  of  song,  and  feel  the  sweet  unrest 
Of  the  world's  spring-tide  in  thy  conscious  breast  ? 
No,  thou  hadst  grasped  thy  lot  with  all  its  pain, 
Nor  loosed  it  any  painless  lot  to  gain 
Where  music's  voice  was  silent;  for  thy  fate 
Was  human  music's  self  incorporate  : 
Thy  senses'  keenness  and  thy  passionate  strife 
Were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  her  womb  of  life. 
And  greatly  hast  thou  lived,  for  not  alone 
With  hidden  raptures  were  her  secrets  shown, 
Buried  within  thee,  as  the  purple  light 
Of  gems  may  sleep  in  solitary  night  ; 
But  thy  expanding  joy  was  still  to  give, 
And  with  the  generous  air  in  song  to  live, 
Feeding  the  wave  of  ever-widening  bliss 
Where  fellowship  means  equal  perfectness. 
And  on  the  mountains  in  thy  wandering 
Thy  feet  were  beautiful  as  blossomed  spring, 
That  turns  the  leafless  wood  to  love's  glad  home, 
For  with  thy  coming  melody  was  come. 
This  was  thy  lot,  to  feel,  create,  bestow, 
And  that  immeasurable  life  to  know 
From  which  the  fleshly  self  falls  shrivelled,  dead, 
A  seed  primeval  that  has  forests  bred. 
It  is  the  glory  of  the  heritage 
Thy  life  has  left,  that  makes  thy  outcast  age  : 
Thy  limbs  shall  lie  dark,  tombless  on  this  sod, 
Because  thou  shinest  in  man's  soul,  a  god, 
Who  found  and  gave  new  passion  and  new  joy,  , 
That  nought  but  Earth's  destruction  can  destroy, 
Thy  gifts  to  give  was  thine  of  men  alone  : 
'Twas  but  in  giving  that  thou  couldst  atone 
For  too  much  wealth  amid  their  poverty." 

The  words  seemed  melting  into  symphony, 
The  wings  upbore  him,  and  the  gazing  song 
Was  floating  him  the  heavenly  space  along, 
Where  mighty  harmonies  all  gently  fell 
Through  veiling  vastness,  like  the  far-off  bell, 
Till,  ever  onward  through  the  choral  blue, 
He  heard  more  faintly  and  more  faintly  knew, 
Quitting  mortality,  a  quenched  sun-wave, 
The  All-creating  Presence  for  his  grave. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


1 870.] 


A    Week  at  Duluth. 


605 


A    WEEK    AT    DULUTH. 


AS  the  two  little  steamers  found 
their  way  out  from  among  the 
windings  of  the  St.  Louis  River  (where 
half  the  time  one  boat  appeared,  to 
those  on  board  the  other,  to  be  gliding 
about,  not  on  any  stream,  but  breast- 
deep  in  a  grassy  sea  of  flat  meadows), 
and  desperately  puffing  and  panting, 
put  their  noses  into  the  white  teeth  of 
an  easterly  gale  on  St.  Louis  Bay,  a 
bleak  cluster  of  new-looking  wooden 
houses,  on  a  southward-fronting  hill- 
side, was  pointed  out  to  us  as  the 
Mecca  of  our  pilgrimage. 

The  first  sight,  to  us  shivering  on 
deck,  was  not  particularly  cheering. 
But  as  we  passed  on  into  Superior 
Bay,  and  a  stroke  of  light  from  a  rift 
in  the  clouds  fell  like  a  prophetic  fin- 
ger on  the  little  checkered  spot  bright- 
ening in  the  wilderness,  the  view  be- 
came more  interesting.  The  town  lies 
on  the  lower  terraces  of  wooded  hills 
which  rise  from  the  water's  edge,  by 
easy  grades,  to  the  distant  background 
of  a  magnificent  mountain  range,  — 
a  truly  imposing  site,  to  one  who  can 
look  beyond  those  cheap  wooden  frames, 
—  the  staging  whereby  the  real  city 
is  built,  —  and  see  the  civilization  of  the 
future  clustering  along  the  shore,  and 
hanging  upon  the  benches  of  that  am- 
ple amphitheatre. 

The  two  bays  were  evidently  once  an 
open  basin  of  the  lake,  from  which 
they  have  been  cut  off,  one  after  the 
other,  by  points  of  land  formed  by  the 
action  of  its  waves  meeting  the  current 
of  the  river.  Between  the  lake  and 
Superior  Bay  is  Minnesota  Point,  —  an 
enormous  bar  seven  miles  in  length, 
covered  by  a  long  procession  of  trees 
and  bushes,  wfyich  appear  to  be  march- 
ing in  solid  column,  after  their  captain, 
the  lighthouse,  across  the  head  of  the 
lake,  towards  the  land  of  Wisconsin. 
It  is  like  a  mighty  arm  thrust  down 
from  the  north  shore  to  take  the  fury 
of  the  lake  storms  on  one  side,  and 


to  protect  the  haven  thus  formed  on 
the  other.  Seated  on  the  rocky  shoul- 
der of  this  arm,  with  one  foot  on 
the  lake,  and  the  other  on  the  bay,  is 
the  infant  city  of  Duluth. 

Approaching  a  wharf  on  the  bay  side 
of  the  narrow  peninsula,  we  perceive 
a  very  large  crowd  for  so  small  a  town 
awaiting  our  arrival.  On  landing,  we 
are  made  fully  aware  of  the  hospitable 
intent  of  the  citizens.  They  not  only 
sent  the  two  steamers  up  the  river  to 
fetch  us,  but  here  they  are  crowding 
to  welcome  and  carry  us  off  to  their 
homes.  As  there  is  no  hotel  in  the 
place  (though  spacious  ones  are  build- 
ing), we  are  glad  to  fall  into  the  hands 
of  these  new  friends,  some  of  whom 
have  hastened  the  completion  of  their 
summer-built  houses  on  our  account. 
We  are  regarded  as  no  ordinary  guests, 
the  real  fathers  of  the  city  being  of  our 
party.  A  few  papers  signed  in  Phila- 
delphia have  made  a  great  Northwest- 
ern port  and  market  possible  —  nay,  in- 
evitable—  at  this  point.  The  idea  of 
such  a  city  had  long  been  in  the  air  ; 
but  it  was  these  men  who  caught  the 
floating  germ  and  planted  it  here.  In 
other  words,  it  is  the  Lake  Superior 
and  Mississippi  Railroad  that  builds 
Duluth,  and  they  are  the  builders  of 
the  railroad. 

The  "avenue  "  laid  out  on  Minnesota 
Point  is  not  yet  the  remarkably  fine 
thing  it  looks  on  paper,  and  is  no  doubt 
destined  to  be  in  the  future,  —  a  grand 
thoroughfare  extending  some  seven 
miles  along  this  natural  breakwater, 
betwixt  lake  and  bay.  At  present  one 
sees  but  a  rough,  pebbly  road,  which 
looks  more  like  a  line  of  very  tremen- 
dous handwriting,  italicized  by  a  wooden 
sidewalk  drawn  under  it.  It  is  flanked 
by  a  few  stores,  dwellings,  and  Indian 
huts,  and  by  a  good  many  trees  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  wharf;  and  it 
leads  up  thence  to  the  real  city  front, 
half  or  three  quarters  of  a  mile  above. 


6o6 


A    Week  at  Duluth. 


[May, 


As  we  walk  up  thither  (that  is,  such  of 
us  as  are  not  lodged  on  the  Point),  under 
a  strong  escort  of  citizens  on  foot  (car- 
riages are  still  scarce  in  Duluth),  we 
can  hear  the  roar  of  the  great  lake  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bar,  and  catch 
glimpses  of  its  white  breakers  and  blue 
distance  through  openings  among  the 
trees. 

Civilization  is  attracted  to  the  line 
of  a  railroad  like  steel  -  filings  to  a 
magnet ;  and  here  appears  to  be  the 
point  of  a  magnet  of  more  than  ordinary 
power.  "  Four  months  ago,"  our  guide 
tells  us,  as  we  mount  the  wooden  steps 
which  lead  up  to  Superior  Street,  "  there 
were  only  half  a  dozen  houses  in  Du- 
luth ;  now  there  are  over  a  hundred." 
These  are  not  mere  shanties  either,  but 
substantial  wooden  buildings,  for  the 
most  part.  We  look  up  and  down  Su- 
perior Street,  and  see  stores,  shops, 
dwellings,  a  church,  a  school-house,  a 
post-office,  a  bank,  a  big  hotel,  and, 
strangest  sight  of  all,  a  large  jewelry 
store  going  up  in  the  woods.  In  the 
midst  of  all  which  visible  preparations 
for  an  early  influx  of  trade  an  aston- 
ishing quiet  reigns.  There  are  un- 
finished roofs  and  open  house-sides  all 
round  us,  yet  not  a  sound  is  heard. 

Our  first  thought  was  that  business 
had  been  suspended  in  honor  of  our  ar- 
rival. Then  we  remembered  that  it 
was  Sunday,  —  a  fact  which  had  been 
constantly  jostled  out  of  our  conscious- 
ness by  the  secular  circumstance  of 
travel  on  that  day,  and  of  which  we  had 
been  particularly  reminded,  I  think,  but 
once ;  that  was,  when  a  smile  was 
raised  by  a  worthy  elderly  gentleman 
going  about  in  a  very  public  manner,  on 
the  steamboat,  innocently  inquiring  for 
a  euchre  pack. 

Two  of  us  are  taken  into  custody  by 
a  dealer  in  hardware  ;  and  it  is  like 
getting  home,  after  our  journey  through 
the  wilderness,  to  find  ourselves  in 
comfortable  quarters,  with  the  prospect 
of  a  real  bed  to  sleep  in,  dinner  await- 
ing us,  and  the  kind  faces  of  Mr.  N 

and  his  sister  beaming  upon  us  as  if  we 
were  old  friends,  for  whom  enough  can- 
not be  done.  We  have  front  rooms, 


the  windows  of  which  command  a  view 
that  can  hardly  be  beaten  by  any  win- 
dows in  the  world ;  on  the  left,  the 
stormy  lake  tumbling  shoreward  its 
white  surges  ;  and  in  front,  just  across 
the  dividing  bar  of  Minnesota  Point, 
the  comparatively  tranquil  bay,  studded 
with  "  floating  islands,"  and  stretching 
far  off  yonder,  between  forest-fringed 
shores,  to  Superior  City,  in  Wisconsin, 
eight  miles  away. 

The  next  morning  (Monday,  August 
i6th)  shows  a  changed  aspect  of  things. 
The  wind  has  gone  down,  the  weather 
is  inviting,  and  we  go  out  to  view  the 
town,  which,  so  quiet  the  day  before,  is 
ringing  now  with  the  noise  of  axes 
and  hammers  and  saws,  and  clanking 
wheels,  and  flapping  boards  flung  down, 
and  scenes  of  busy  life  on  every  side. 
Wood-choppers  are  cutting  trees,  pil- 
ing sticks  and  brush,  and  burning  log- 
heaps,  —  clearing  the  land,  not  for  wheat 
and  potatoes,  but  for  the  planting  of  a 
city.  The  streets  have  not  yet  been 
graded,  but  the  rude  wagon-tracks  go 
curving  over  hillocks  and  through  hol- 
lows, amid  rocks  and  stumps  and 
stones,  and  the  plank  sidewalks  span 
many  a  deep  gully  and  trickling  stream. 

The  plan  of  the  town  well  befits  its 
really  superb  situation.  Superior  Street 
occupies  the  front  of  the  lower  terrace 
of  the  hills.  Behind  this,  and  parallel 
with  it,  are  the  numbered  streets, — 
First,  Second,  Third,  and  so  on,  —  ris- 
ing step  by  step  on  the  gentle  acclivity. 
Crossing  the  streets  are  the  avenues, 
which  go  cutting  their  tremendous 
gaps  through  the  dense  forest  growth, 
up  the  wild  mountain-side. 

Going  down  to  the  lake  shore,  I  am 
surprised  to  find  under  the  cliff  an  old 
wharf  and  warehouse  in  the  angle 
formed  by  Minnesota  Point.  I  after- 
wards meet  the  owner  and  learn  of  him 
how  they  came  here.  Included  in  what 
is  now  Duluth  is  the  old  town  of  Port- 
land, which  had  a  name  and  a  location 
at  this  point,  but  never  any  real  exist- 
ence. Here  was  an  Indian  agency, 
and  that  was  about  all.  Good  maps  of 
the  States  show  several  such  towns 
scattered  along  the  north  shore,  —  Clif- 


1 870.] 


A    Week  at  Dulnth. 


607 


ton,  Buchanan,  Burlington,  —  like  flies 
on  the  back  of  that  monstrous  forefin- 
ger of  the  lake,  which  is  seen  pointing 
in  a  southwesterly  direction  across  the 
continent.  Of  these  paper  towns 
Portland  was  always  deemed  the  most 
important.  Situated  at  the  western  ex- 
tremity of  the  grandest  lake  and  river 
chain  in  the  world,  —  that  vast  fresh- 
water Mediterranean  which  reaches 
from  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence  almost 
to  the  centre  of  North  America,  — it  re- 
quired no  great  degree  of  sagacity  to 
perceive  that  here  was  to  be  the  key 
to  the  quarter  of  a  hemisphere,  —  here 
or  hereabouts.  Wherever  was  estab- 
lished the  practical  head  of  navigation 
between  the  northern  range  of  States 
and  the  vastly  more  extensive  undevel- 
oped region  beyond,  there  must  be  an- 
other and  perhaps  even  a  greater  Chi- 
cago. 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  L ,  "looked  to 

me  to  be  the  spot.  There 's  no  good 
natural  harbor  here  ;  neither  is  there 
anywhere  about  the  end  of  the  lake. 
But  here  is  the  best  chance  to  make  a 
harbor.  Superior  Bay  is  deep  enough 
for  small  vessels,  and  dredging  will 
make  it  deep  enough  for  large  ones. 
On  the  lake  side  of  the  Point  we  have 
depth  of  water  enough  to  float  a  navy  ; 
and  it  only  needs  a  breakwater  thrown 
out  from  the  north  shore,  parallel  with 
the  Point,  to  make  as  much  of  a  haven 
as  is  wanted.  There  are  rocks  on  the 
hills  that  will  dump  themselves  into  the 
lake,  only  help  'em  a  little.  I  knew  the 
expense  of  the  thing  was  n't  going  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  a  good  harbor  here 
many  years.  My  mistake  was  in  think- 
ing the  millennium  was  coming  so 
soon.  There  began  to  be  talk  of  a 
railroad  here  fifteen  years  ago,  and  I 
thought  we  were  going  to  have  it  right 
away.  So  I  went  to  work  and  built  a 
wharf  and  warehouse.  I  expected  great 
quantities  of  lumber  would  be  shipped 
and  supplies  landed  at  once.  But  the 
railroad  did  n't  come,  and  the  lumber 
did  n't  go.  It  cost  me  two  hundred 
dollars  a  year  to  keep  my  wharf  in  re- 
pair, exposed,  as  you  see  it,  to  the  lake 
storms,  and  I  never  got  a  cent  for  it." 


Then  it  appeared  that  the  railroad 
was  not  coming  to  the  north  shore  at 
all,  but  to  the  other  end  of  Superior 
Bay,  in  the  State  of  Wisconsin.  This 
was  the  project  of  Breckenridge  and 
his  Southern  associates,  who  got  a  land- 
grant  through  Congress,  and  founded 
Superior  City,  and  were  going  to  have 
a  stronghold  of  the  slave  power  in  the 
enemy's  country,  —  a  Northern  metrop- 
olis to  which  they  could  bring  their 
servants  in  summer,  and  enjoy  the  cool 
breezes  of  the  great  lake.  Superior 
grew  up  at  once  to  be  a  town  of  con- 
siderable size  and  importance,  and  stu- 
pendous hopes.  But  the  war  of  the 
Rebellion  came  and  put  an  end  to 
schemes  of  that  sort.  The  new  city 
grew  dejected,  and  fell  into  a  rapid  de- 
cline ;  if  true,  what  its  friends  still  loudly 
claimed  for  it,  that  it  was  "looking  up," 
it  must  have  been  (like  that  other  city 
a  fellow-traveller  tells  of)  because,  ly- 
ing flat  on  its  back,  it  could  not  look 
any  other  way. 

Portland,  quite  overshadowed  for  a 
while  by  the  mushroom-umbrella  of  its 
rival,  now  peeped  forth  and  took  cour- 
age. Minnesota  was  determined,  after 
all,  to  have  the  railroad  which  had  so 
nearly  fallen  into  the  hands  of  her  fair 
neighbor,  Wisconsin.  By  running  it 
from  St.  Paul  to  the  north  shore, 
crossing  the  St.  Louis  River  at  its  falls, 
above  Fond  du  Lac?  she  could  keep  it 
entirely  within  her  own  borders.  But 
while  the  young  State  had  abundant 
enterprise,  she  lacked  the  financial  re- 
sources of  her  older  sisters.  Fortu- 
nately, when  the  project  seemed  on  the 
point  of  failure,  the  attention  of  emi- 
nent capitalists  of  Pennsylvania  was 
called  to  it,  and  its  success  insured. 
The  bonds  of  the  newly  organized  Lake 
Superior  and  Mississippi  Railroad 
Company  —  amounting  to  four  and  a 
half  million  dollars,  secured  by  a  lien 
upon  its  magnificent  land-grant  of  over 
sixteen  hundred  thousand  acres  —  were 
put  upon  the  market  by  Jay  Cooke,  and 
sold  within  a  week's  time,  so  great  was 
the  confidence  of  financial  men  in  the 
scheme  and  its  supporters.  An  immense 
force  of  laborers  was  in  the  mean  while 


6o8 


A    Week  at  Dulnth. 


[May, 


thrown  upon  the  line  of  the  road,  and 
the  work  was  pushed  forward  rapidly 
towards  completion. 

Then  the  three  or  four  faithful  ones, 
who  had  held  on  so  long  here  under 
all  discouragements,  began  to  see  their 
reward.  A  new  town  had  been  laid 
out,  including  Portland  and  that  part 
of  the  township  of  Duluth  lying  on 
Minnesota  Point  and  the  head  of  the 
bay,  and  called  Duluth  (pronounced 
Doolooth},  after  the  adventurous  French- 
man, Daniel  Greysolon  Du  Luth  (or  De 
Luth,  or  De  Lut,  or  even  Delhut,  for 
his  name  appears  spelled  in  various 
ways),  a  native  of  Lyons,  —  soldier,  In- 
dian-trader, and  explorer,  —  whose  ca- 
noes scraped  the  gravel  on  these  shores 
nearly  two  hundred  years  ago.  The 
land-owners  made  liberal  grants  to 
the  railroad,  and  it  has  enriched  them 
in  return.  One  who  came  here  fifteen 
years  ago  as  an  "  Indian  farmer"  (sent 
out  by  the  government  to  teach  the  In- 
dians the  cultivation  of  the  soil)  sells 
to-day,  of  land  he  "  pre-empted  "  then, 
a  single  house-lot  on  Superior  Street 
for  forty-five  hundred  dollars. 

The  coast  scenery  is  very  fine.  The 
waves  break  upon  a  beach  of  red  shin- 
gle and  sand,  which  stretches  for  miles 
along  Minnesota  Point  (like  an  edge  to 
that  sickle),  and  crops  out  again  in 
beautiful  colored  coves  and  basins  un- 
der the  jutting  -rocks  and  romantic 
wood-crowned  cliffs  of  the  north  shore. 
The  water  is  deep  and  transparent,  and 
it  is  delightful  in  calm  weather,  afloat 
in  a  skiff,  or  lying  on  the  shelf  of  a 
projecting  ledge,  to  look  down  through 
the  softly  heaving,  indolent,  cool,  crys- 
tal waves,  and  see  the  curiously  tinted 
stones  and  pebbly  mosaic  at  the  bot- 
tom. The  beaches  abound  in  agates, 
which  are  constantly  gathered,  and 
which  are  as  constantly  washed  up 
afresh  by  every  storm.  This  shore  is 
noted  for  them  ;  and  it  is  amusing  to 
see  newly  arrived  tourists  run  at  once 
to  the  water,  and,  oblivious  of  all  the 
grander  attractions  of  the  place,  go 
peering  and  poking  in  the  shingle  for 
these  not  very  precious  stones. 

Returning  from    a   ramble    on    the 


rocks,  I  am  attracted  by  a  crowd  on  a 
street  corner,  discussing  a  murder 
committed  on  the  spot  a  couple  of  days 
ago.  Some  Philadelphia  roughs  em- 
ployed on  the  railroad  got  into  a  row 
at  the  door  of  a  saloon  from  which 
they  had  been  ejected,  and  made  an  at- 
tack upon  a  young  man  passing  by, 
pursued  him,  crying,  "  Kill  him !  kill 
him  !  "  and  did  kill  with  a  stab  from  a 
knife  his  brother  who  came  to  his  res- 
cue. The  victim  was  a  brave  young 
man,  belonging  to  a  highly  respected 
family  living  here  ;  his  death  created 
an  intense  excitement,  and  I  hear 
stern-faced  men  talk  with  dangerous, 
settled  calmness  of  tone  of  taking  out 
the  offenders  and  promptly  hanging 
them, — justice  being  as  yet  scarcely 
organized  in  the  place. 

Nine  of  the  rioters  had  been  arrested, 
and  were  having  an  examination  in 
the  office  of  a  justice  of  the  peace  close 
by.  I  look  in,  and  see  a  hard-visaged 
set  of  fellows  with  irons  on  their  legs, 
listening  with  reckless  apathy  to  the 
testimony  of  the  murdered  man's  broth- 
er. The  history  of  one  of  the  prison- 
ers would  serve  to  point  the  moral  of  a 
tale.  Sitting  there  on  the  rude  bench, 
in  coarse,  soiled  clothes,  one  of  the 
villanous-looking  row,  he  is  recognized 
by  some  of  our  party  as  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  and  respectable  Philadelphian, 
—  a  youth  who  might  now  be  enjoying 
the  advantages  which  money  and  social 
position  can  give,  had  he  not  preferred 
the  way  of  the  transgressor.  The  fable 
of  Poor  Tray  does  not  apply  to  the 
case  of  one  who  can  hardly  have  gone 
into  company  worse  than  himself.  His 
father  had  given  him  up  as  irreclaima- 
ble ;  and  here  he  was,  at  last,  a  day- 
laborer  on  a  railroad,  and  the  com- 
panion of  assassins. 

With  no  grand  jury,  and  no  jail  in 
the  State  nearer  than  St.  Paul,  but 
with  a  powerful  gang  of  railroad  labor- 
ers at  hand  threatening  the  rescue  of 
their  comrades,  it  was  certainly  a 
strong  temptation  to  a  hot-blooded 
young  town  to  solve  the  difficulty  by 
the  simple  device  of  a  vigilance  com- 
mittee and  a  rope.  Better  counsels 


A    Week  at  Dulutk. 


609 


prevail,  however,  and  five  of  the  nine, 
proved  to  have  been  concerned  in  the 
murder,  are  imprisoned  in  a  lager-beer 
brewery  back  of  the  town,  where  they 
spend  a  thirsty  night,  —  lager,  lager 
everywhere,  and  not  a  drop  to  drink. 
To  prevent  a  rescue,  the  streets  are  pa- 
trolled after  dark  by  a  strong  guard  of 
citizens,  who  can  be  heard  walking  up 
and  down  on  the  sidewalks  all  night 
long,  and  challenging  each  other  under 
our  windows. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  " 

"  Friend." 

"Advance,  friend,  and  give  the  coun- 
tersign.'1 

The  countersign  is  whispered  loud 
enough  to  let  any  one  within  easy  ear- 
shot know  that  it  is  the  popular  name 
of  the  aforementioned  innocent  bever- 
age ;  and  once  it  is  bawled  out  prema- 
turely by  an  inexperienced  sentinel. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  "  is  the  chal- 
lenge. 

"  Lager  !  "  is  the  bold  response  ;  fol- 
lowed by  the  rather  unmilitary  rejoin- 
der, "  Advance,  Lager,  and  give  us  a 
drink,  will  you  ?  " 

There  is  happily  no  rescue  attempt- 
ed ;  and  the  next  day  the  five  are  sent 
off,  under  a  sufficient  escort,  to  be  lodged 
in  prison  at  St.  Paul.  I  hope  that 
when  they  come  to  be  tried  and  sen- 
tenced, the  jolt  through  the  woods  will 
be  taken  into  merciful  consideration, 
as  something  that  should  mitigate  their 
final  punishment. 

While  our  business-men  are  confer- 
ring with  the  citizens,  and  discussing 
plans  for  dredging  the  inner  harbor, 
building  a  breakwater  for  the  outer 
harbor,  and  making  one  grand  harbor 
of  the  two  by  cutting  a  canal  across 
[innesota  Point,  the  rest  of  us  have 
ample  time  to  enjoy  ourselves.  One 
day  we  accompany  them  on  a  trip  up 
the  St.  Louis  River,  to  inspect  the 
grade  of  the  railroad  at  various  points. 
Now  it  is  a  steamboat  excursion  down 
the  bay  to  the  end  of  Minnesota  Point, 
where  it  tosses  the  seas  upon  the 
curved  horn  of  a  breakwater  thrown 
out  into  the  lake  for  the  protection  of 
Superior  Harbor  ;  and  a  visit  to  Supe- 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  151.  39 


rior  City  itself,  lying  on  a  low  plateau 
across  the  channel,  —  a  desolate-look- 
ing town  of  deserted  wharves,  bro- 
kc'n-windowed  warehouses,  dilapidated 
shops  and  dwellings,  and  one  hopeful 
newspaper  which  keeps  up  a  constant 
warfare  with  the  rival  sheet  at  Duluth. 
Then  it  is  a  fishing  excursion  up  the  • 
trout  streams  of  the  north  shore,  a 
morning  or  moonlight  row  upon  lake 
or  bay,  and  a  visit  to  the  "  floating- 
islands." 

These  are  among  the  most  interest- 
ing curiosities  of  the  place.  They  lie 
in  full  view  of  the  town,  mostly  off 
Rice's  Point,  which  separates  Superior 
Bay  from  the  bay  of  St.  Louis,  —  a 
pretty  sisterhood  of  green-wooded  isl- 
ets, each  gracefully  topped  by  the 
shaggy  spires  of  its  little  group  of 
tamaracks.  They  are  actually  floating, 
though  anchored  apparently  by  the 
roots  of  trees  reaching  down  through 
them  to  the  bottom  of  the  shallow  ba- 
sin in  which  they  rest.  They  undulate 
and  rock  in  storms,  and  are  sometimes 
moved  from  their  moorings  by  high 
winds  and  seas,  when  they  float  about 
till  lodged  in  some  new  position.  Not 
long  ago  one  of  these  green-masted 
ships  parted  its  cables  in  a  westerly 
gale,  crossed  the  bay  under  a  full  sail 
of  tamarack  boughs,  and  grounded  on 
Minnesota  Point,  where  it  still  remains. 
\Ve  touched  at  it  in  one  of  our  excur- 
sions, and  found  it  to  all  appearances 
a  mere  raft  of  living  roots  imbedded  in 
an  accumulation  of  vegetable  mould. 
It  is  overgrown  with  moss  and  bushes, 
and  trees  twenty  or  thirty  feet  high. 
We  did  not  land  upon  it  (if  setting  foot 
on  such  an  amphibious,  swampy  mass 
could  be  called  landing),  but  satisfied 
ourselves  with  thrusting  our  oars  under 
it,  as  we  rowed  about  its  edge. 

The  existence  of  these  islands  ap- 
pears a  great  mystery  to  most  people  ; 
and  it  is  amusing  to  hear  the  ingenious 
theories  suggested  regarding  their  ori- 
gin. The  phenomenon  is  not,  how- 
ever, peculiar  to  this  region.  Pliny  the 
Younger  noted,  on  a  lake  near  Rome, 
reed-overgrown  islands  which  some- 
times floated  off  with  sheep  that  had 


6io 


A    Week  at  Duluth. 


[May, 


ventured  upon  them  from  the  shore. 
The  "  floating  gardens "  of  Mexico, 
seen  by  the  Spanish  discoverers,  were 
similar  formations,  Which  the  natives 
had  put  to  a  picturesque  use,  by  cover- 
ing them  with  rich  sediment  from  the 
lake  bottom,  planting  them  with  the 
luxurious  fruits  of  the  tropics,  and  even 
building  huts  upon  them.  There  are 
now  on  a  lake  in  Prussia  floating  isl- 
ands of  sufficient  size  and  solidity  to 
give  pasturage  to  herds  of  cattle.  The 
great  rivers  of  the  world  —  those  of 
South  America,  the  Ganges,  the  Mis- 
sissippi—  frequently  send  forth  from 
their  mouths  wandering  islands,  which 
are  sometimes  seen  bearing  out  to  sea 
the  serpents,  alligators,  or  wild  animals 
that  had  found  a  home  upon  them.  To 
these  last  the  commonly  received  the- 
ory as  to  the  origin  of  floating  islands, 
—  namely,  that  rafts  of  drift-wood  be- 
came covered  with  flying  dust  and  sand, 
forming  a  deposit  in  which  plants  could 
.take  root  —  may  be  applicable.  But 
how  about  such  curious  appearances  in 
•waters  where  drift-wood  is  out  of  the 
question  ?  There  they  must  have  had 
a  very  different  beginning.  I  have 
myself  witnessed,  in  the  State  of  Ver- 
mont, a  phenomenon  which  seems  to 
afford  a  simple  key  to  the  riddle. 
There  is  in  Rutland  County  a  small 
lake  or  pond,  at  one  end  of  which  is  a 
cove  entirely  overgrown,  to  the  extent 
of  two  or  three  acres,  I  should  say,  by 
a  substance  very  similar  to  that  which 
forms  the  base  of  these  islands  of  Su- 
perior Bay.  It  is  very  spongy,  it  heaves 
and  shakes  as  you  tread  or  jump  upon 
it,  and  I  have  thrust  a  fish-pole  through 
it  into  a  greater  or  less  depth  of  shal- 
low water  beneath.  There  are  no  large 
trees  upon  it,  but  it  is  covered  with 
various  water-loving  shrubs  and  plants, 
whose  roots  form  a  compactly  quilted 
mass,  thinnest  at  the  outer  edge,  where 
it  appears  still  to  be  in  process  of  for- 
mation. One  can  easily  imagine  how 
such  a  mass  grew  out  from  the  land, 
pushing  forward  first  perhaps  a  vegeta- 
ble scum,  "the  green  mantle  of  the 
standing  pool,"  on  which  falling  and 
drifting  leaves  lodge  and  decay,  and 


which  the  minute  fibres  of  shore  plants 
soon  penetrate  and  attach.  The  march 
of  vegetation  tends  in  the  direction  in 
which  it  finds  sustenance  ;  and  soon, 
following  the  little  foragers,  an  army  of 
reeds  and  rushes  and  bushes  advances 
even  upon  the  unstable  surface  of  the 
water,  mortality  in  the  ranks  helping 
yearly  to  build  the  bridge  on  which  the 
small  feet  find  support,  and  so  gradu- 
ally preparing  it  for  the  approach  of 
heavier  battalions.  This  is  no  unfre- 
quent  phenomenon ;  and  doubtless 
many  ponds  are  at  last  quite  quilted 
over  in  this  way.  If  shallow,  they  may 
soon  be  filled  by  the  thickening  and 
sinking  of  the  mass  ;  or.  a  subterranean 
lake  may  remain  to  astonish  some 
future  digger  of  well  or  cellar.  But  let 
the  deposit  take  place  on  the  borders 
of  a  larger  body  of  water,  let  trees 
root  themselves  in  it,  then  let  frag- 
ments of  it  be  torn  off  by  storms,  or 
the  lifting  and  wrenching  power  of 
thick  ice,  and  you  have  something  very 
like  the  floating  islands  of  Duluth. 

Crossed  by  a  forest  road  a  little  way 
northeast  of  the  town  are  two  moun- 
tain streams,  —  one  of  considerable  size, 
—  which  fill  the  deep-wooded  solitudes 
with  their  enticing  music  and  pictures. 
They  come  down  from  the  heights  be- 
yond, and  fall  into  the  lake  through 
wild  gorges,  whose  leaning  rocks  and 
trees  overhang  many  a  dark  pool  of 
fascinating  depth  and  coolness,  many  a 
chasm  of  rushing  rapids  tumbling  over 
ledges  and  stones,  many  a  white  cas- 
cade leaping  clear  from  some  high 
shelf,  through  an  embroidered  gate- 
way of  green  boughs.  A  summer  resi- 
dence here,  commanding  a  view  of  the 
lake  on  one  side,  and  having  a  bit  of 
nature's  own  park,  with  two  or  three 
of  these  delicious  waterfalls  in  the  rear, 
would  not  be  very  objectionable.  Me- 
thinks  one  could  hang  up  his  hat  here 
very  contentedly  during  two  or  three 
months  of  the  year. 

The  hillside  immediately  back  of  the 
town  is  not  quite  so  enchanting,  as  I 
discover  one  morning,  somewhat  to  my 
cost.  Over  the  hummocks  and  hollows 
and  springy  places  of  the  new  clearing, 


1870.] 


A    Week  at  Duluth. 


611 


sc. 

s 


where  hammers  resound  on  the  roofs 
of  hotel,  church,  and  dwellings,  I  pass 
on,  —  amid  stumps  and  rocks  and  piles 
of  lumber  and  cord-wood,  —  and  enter 
a  solitary  "avenue,"  opened  by  the  axe, 
and  extending  up  the  mountain  slope. 
On  each  side  is  a  perfect  wall  of  woods, 
which  it  is  not  hard  to  fancy  a  wall  of 
grand  house-fronts  twenty  years  hence. 
The  morning  is  soft  and  still,  a  few 
birds  twitter  among  the  trees,  but 
otherwise  the  silence  of  the  place  is 
broken  only  by  the  far-off  hammers  of 
the  carpenters  and  the  echoing  strokes 
of  axes  at  the  upper  end  of  the  avenue. 
There  wood-choppers  are  at  work  cut- 
ting still  farther  into  the  forest  their 
gigantic  swath.  Straight,  smooth  stems 
of  pale  poplar  and  birch,  of  pine  and 
cedar  and  spruce,  fall  before  them,  let- 
ting in  sunlight  upon  the  overgrown 
thicket.  My  way  lies  over  cut  boughs, 
strips  of  birch  bark  curled  up  on  the 
ground,  fresh  chips,  moss-covered,  rot- 
ten trunks,  a  trickling  brook  bridged 
by  a  fallen  fir-tree,  and  a  few  delicate, 
shade-loving  plants  nestled  beside  rocks 
and  roots,  —  all  soon  to  be  swept  from 
the  pathway  of  a  great  thoroughfare. 

The  wood-choppers  show  me  a  track 
by  which  they  say  I  can  reach  the  end 
of  another  avenue  west  of  them,  and 
I  think  it  will  be  pleasant  to  return  to 
town  that  way.  But  there  is  some 
mistake  ;  it  is  soon  evident  that  the 
path  is  carrying  me  too  far  up  the 
mountain-side.  I  quit  it  at  length,  and, 
plunging  into  the  intricacies  of  the  un- 
trodden woods,  make  for  a  light  space 
which  seems  to  indicate  the  opening 
I  am  in  search  of.  After  a  terrible 
scramble  over  and  about  tangled  tree- 
tops  and  trunks  fallen  and  crossed, 

Hies  and  rocks  and  springs,  I  reach 
the  space,  which  turns  out  to  be  no 
avenue,  but  a  forest  windfall.  Here  the 
tweaking  forefinger  of  a  tornado  had 
uptorn  by  the  roots  and  thrown  into 
twisted  heaps  a  few  acres  of  trees, 
to  which  fire  had  afterwards  been 
set,  leaving  a  melancholy  waste  of 
ruins.  I  now  find  that  I  have  passed 
to  the  westward  of  the  town,  far  above 
the  reach  of  its  avenues.  The.  spot 


is  the  haunt  of  hawks,  pigeons,  cross- 
bills, small  birds,  and  mosquitoes.  The 
birds  are  there  for  the  raspberries, 
which  have  sprung  up  profusely  all 
about  the  windfall  ;  and  the  hawks  are 
after  the  birds.  The  mosquitoes  seem, 
to  be  there  chiefly  on  my  account.  But 
for  their  too  persistent  attentions,  I 
should  be  content  to  pass  the  residue 
of  the  morning  in  this  spot.  The  ber- 
ries are  abundant  and  sweet ;  and  from 
the  summit  of  a  ledge  I  look  out  upon 
a  wondrous  picture  of  the  world,  —  the 
windings  of  the  St.  Louis  River,  the 
sister  bays,  the  great  lake  itself,  with 
floating  islands,  dividing  points  of  land, 
and  blue  lines  of  forest  sweeping  round 
distant  shores,  all  lying  enchanted  un- 
der a  misty  spell.  A  steamer  coming 
up  the  bay,  an  idle  schooner,  and  a 
canoe  on  the  lake,  appear  suspended 
in  the  glassy  stillness.  With  which 
exquisitely  lovely  scene  before  my  eyes, 
I  sit  on  a  half-burnt  log,  and  fight  mos- 
quitoes, and  think  what  a  fine  place 
this  would  be  to  have  a  Rip  Van  Win- 
kle nap,  and  wake  up  some  years 
hence,  when  all  this  jungle  shall  have 
been  displaced  by  the  paved  and  spa- 
cious streets  of  a  city  overlooking  a 
harbor  thronged  with  shipping.  Then 
what  gentle  and  easy  way  of  descent 
will  there  be,  where  now  to  reach  the 
town  by  a  short  cut  I  am  forced  to 
pass  through  the  fanged  jaws  of  a  wild 
beast  of  a  thicket ! 

There  linger  about  Duluth  a  few 
degenerate  Indians,  who  hunt  with 
white  man's  powder,  fish  with  white 
man's  nets,  and  drink  white  man's 
whiskey.  The  most  distinguished  fig- 
ure among  them  is  a  young  brave  with 
•heroically  painted  features  and  a  feather 
in  his  hat,  who  gets  a  living  by  picking 
blueberries,  and  selling  them  for  white 
man's  money. 

It  is  a  region  of  mirages.  Nearly 
every  day  we  discover  baseless  prom- 
ontories across  the  lake,  and  forests 
magnified  or  growing  downwards  ;  and 
I  am  told  that  it  is  no  very  uncommon 
thing  to  see  two  or  three  steamers 
when  only  one  is  approaching,  —  the 
real  steamer  on  the  water,  another 


612 


A    Week  at  Duluth. 


[May, 


inverted  above  that,  and  perhaps  still 
another  in  the  clouds.  Wonderful  sun- 
dogs  and  moon-dogs  are  seen  here  and 
throughout  the  State.  "  You  think  the 
sun  is  rising  in  two  or  three  places  at 
once,"  said  a  lady  to  me ;  who  also 
told  of  having  seen  five  moons  in  the 
heavens  on  a  winter's  night.  Around 
the  real  moon  was  a  luminous  circle, 
and  this  was  quartered  by  a  cross 
formed  by  four  bright  bars  extending 
to  four  mock  moons  through  which  the 
circle  was  drawn.  That  is,  the  central 
orb  appeared  as  the  hub  of  a  wonderful 
celestial  wheel  with  four  spokes,  and  a 
mock  moon  at  the  juncture  of  each 
spoke  with  the  rim. 

The  winters  are  milder  and  the  sum- 
mers cooler  at  Duluth  than  at  St.  Paul, 
—  the  immense  body  of  the  lake  water 
serving  to  modify  the  extremes  of 
temperature.  The  lake  is  not  always 
closed  over  with  ice  in  winter,  and  it 
opens  to  navigation  quite  as  early  in 
the  spring  as  Huron  and  Michigan. 

I  have  already  intimated  my  belief 
that  here  is  to  be  one  of  the  foremost 
cities  of  the  West.  Not  even  the  in- 
fancy of  Chicago  gave  such  promise  of 
early  greatness,  for  Chicago  had  no 
settled  country  behind  it,  whereas  Du- 
luth will  enjoy  at  once,  on  the  comple- 
tion of  its  railroad,  an  immense  traffic 
with  the  Upper  Mississippi  and  the 
region  beyond.  All  the  railroads  ra- 
diating from  St.  Paul,  penetrating  the 
State  in  every  direction,  will  be  tributary 
to  this  grand  trunk,  which  is  to  unite, 
by  a  brief  connecting  link,  the  two 
great  navigable  fresh  -  water  systems 
of  North  America.  The  head  of  Lake 
Superior  lies  four  degrees  of  longitude 
farther  west  than  the  head  of  Michigan, 
yet  it  is  practically  no  farther  (by  water 
communication)  from  New  York  and 
the  ports  of  Europe.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  only  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  distant,  while  the  head  of  Michi- 
gan is  near  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
distant,  by  railroad  from  St.  Paul.  At 
least  four  fifths  of  the  grain  of  Minne- 
sota, which  now  seeks  the  markets  of 
the  East  through  other  channels,  —  by 
railroad  to  Milwaukee  or  Chicago,  or 


by  water  to  some  point  of  transshipment 
down  the  river,  or  by  the  hot  and 
tedious  passage  of  the  Gulf,  —  will  nat- 
urally find  this  easier  and  cheaper  out- 
let. The  shortening  of  the  route,  es- 
pecially at  the  railroad  end  of  it,  —  for 
it  is  the  railroad  transportation  that 
costs,  —  will  tend  to  raise  the  price  of 
wheat  in  Minnesota,  and  to  lower  the 
price  of  flour  in  Boston  ;  while  the 
great  returning  tide  of  Eastern  mer- 
chandise flowing  to  the  far  Northwest 
will  be  sure  to  pass  this  way. 

Duluth  has  not  immediately  sur- 
rounding it  the  fertile  prairies  which 
attracted  emigration,  and  fed  the  infant 
Chicago  ;  but  back  of  it  lies  a  magnifi- 
cent forest  belt,  invaluable  in  the  first 
place  for  its  timber,  and  next  for  its- 
soil,  which  appears  peculiarly  adapted 
to  grazing  and  wool-growing,  and  the 
cultivation  of  winter  wheat.  In  the 
midst  of  the  lumber  district,  where  the 
railroad  crosses  the  river,  some  twenty 
miles  from  its  mouth,  are  the  falls  of 
the  St.  Louis,  —  the  dalles  of  the 
French  voyageitrs,  —  which  afford  a 
water-power  not  inferior  to  that  of 
St.  Anthony.  The  dalles  —  flag-stones 
or  steps  over  which  the  river  falls  — 
are  the  outcrop  of  one  of  the  most 
extensive  bodies  of  valuable  slate  in 
the  world.  It  is  available  for  all  pur- 
poses to  which  slate  is  ordinarily  ap- 
plied ;  and  experienced  men,  who  have 
visited  the  quarries  opened  on  the 
line  of  the  road,  declare  that  the  whole 
surrounding  country,  and  the  entire 
valley  of  the  Mississippi,  may  here  be 
supplied  with  this  useful  material  for 
centuries  to  come.  Then  there  are  the 
adjacent  regions  of  copper  and  iron, 
whose  importance  in  the  future  devel- 
opment of  this  now  remote  district 
cannot  be  calculated  by  any  array  of 
figures.  With  all  which  advantages 
of  position,  it  is  inevitable,  as  I  see, 
that  here  must  soon  be  built  up  a  great 
commercial,  agricultural,  and  manufac- 
turing centre. 

Yet  here  we  are  but  just  on  the 
threshold  of  the  great  new  empire  of 
the  Northwest.  Here  is  the  summit 
of  the  water-shed  of  near  half  a  conti- 


870.] 


A    Week  at  Duluth. 


613 


nent,  the  hills  of  Northeastern  Minne- 
sota pouring  from  their  slope  streams 
that  flow  to  the  lakes  and  the  Atlantic 
on  the  east,  to  the  Mississippi  and  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico  on  the  south,  and  to 
Hudson's  Bay  on  the  north.  The  head 
of  Lake  Superior  is  about  equidistant 
from  Boston,  New  Orleans;  and  the 
sources  of  the  Saskatchewan,  towards 
which  the  course  of  empire  is  fast  tak- 
ing its  way.  Not  far  from  this  geo- 
graphical centre  we  may  look  with  Mr. 
Seward  for  the  ultimate  political  centre 
of  America  ;  and  it  will  not  be  many 
years  before  the  frontier  State  of  Min- 
nesota will  wake  up  and  find  herself  in 
the  heart  of  the  Union. 

A  few  landmarks  show  how  power- 
fully the  tide  of  human  affairs  is  tend- 
ing in  this  direction.  In  1854  Minne- 
sota had  a  population  of  twenty-four 
thousand.  In  1864  she  had  sent  more 
than  that  number  of  soldiers  to  the 
war.  As  late  as  1858  she  imported 
her  breadstuff's.  In  1868  she  exported 
twelve  million  bushels  of  wheat,  and 
was  reckoned  the  fifth  "wheat  State" 
in  the  Union.  This  year  (1869),  with  a 
population  of  near  half  a  million,  and 
more  than  a  million  acres  of  wheat 
under  cultivation,  —  promising  a  crop 
of  at  least  twenty  million  bushels,  six- 
teen or  seventeen  millions  of  which 
will  be  for  exportation, — she  will  take 
rank  as  the  second  or  third  wheat 
State ;  in  a  few  years  she  will  be  the 
first,  and  that  position  she  will  retain 
until  outstripped  in  her  turn  by  some 
more  youthful  rival. 

Rivals  all  about  her  she  is  destined 
soon  to  have.  The  North  Pacific  Rail- 
road is  now  speedily  to  be  built,  run- 
ning from  the  head  of  Lake  Superior 
almost  due  westward  to  Puget  Sound, 
through  the  most  favored  region  of  all 
the  proposed  transcontinental  routes. 
It  will  sow  cities  on  its  borders,  and 
link  new  States  to  the  old.  Already 
the  St.  Paul  and  Pacific  Railroad  —  of 
which  I  have  spoken  in  a  former  paper, 
and  which  is  to  unite  with  the  North 
Pacific  at  Breckenridge  —  is  penetrat- 
ing the  valley  of  the  Red  River  of  the 
North,  and  opening  a  way  of  commu- 


nication with  Lake  Winnepeg,  and  our 
uneasy  neighbors  of  the  Selkirk  settle- 
ment. Westward  from  this  now  iso- 
lated outpost  of  civilization  lies  by  far 
the  most  fertile  portion  of  British  Amer- 
ica, farther  north  indeed  than  Can- 
ada, but  with  a  milder  climate,  which 
assimilates  more  and  more  closely  to 
that  of  the  same  latitudes  in  Europe 
as  we  approach  the  Rocky  Mountain 
spurs.  Northward  from  the  proposed 
line  of  the  North  Pacific  Road  one  must 
travel  some  six  hundred  miles  before 
he  reaches  the  parallel  of  Edinburgh. 
What  a  region  is  here  !  rich  in  soils, 
rivers,  forests,  remote  from  the  mother 
country,  and  adjoining  our  own,  of 
which  it  must  before  many  years  form 
a  part.  Of  the  future  of  America,  when 
all  this  old  and  new  territory,  stretch- 
ing from  Lake  Superior  to  the  Pacific 
coast,  shall  have  become,  with  Minne- 
sota, a  cluster  of  populous  and  powerful 
States,  who  shall  venture  to  prophesy  ? 

It  is  Sunday  again  (August  22d), 
just  a  week  after  our  arrival,  when  the 
larger  of  the  two  little  steamers  that 
brought  us  to  Duluth  is  once  more 
thronged,  together  with  the  wharf  at 
which  she  lies,  with  a  crowd  of  people. 
There  is  much  cordial  hand-shaking, 
and  hurrying  ashore,  and  hurrying 
aboard  ;  and  the  crowd  separates,  one 
half  remaining  on  the  wharf,  the  other 
moving  slowly  away  from  it  on  the 
steamer's  deck.  A  mutual  waving  of 
hats  and  fluttering  of  handkerchiefs, 
and  adieu  to  Duluth,  and  its  week-old 
friendships,  and  its  never-to-be-forgot- 
ten hospitalities  ! 

Down  the  bay  we  go  tipsily  stagger- 
ing ;  the  crank  little  "  side-wheeler " 
rolling  over  first  on  one  paddle-box 
and  then  on  the  other,  to  the  break- 
water at  the  end  of  Minnesota  Point, 
where  is  moored  a  long,  black-hulled 
lake  steamer,  the  St.  Paul,  awaiting  us  ; 
we  are  soon  transferred  on  board  of 
her  ;  before  us  lies  a  dim  horizon  of 
waters,  and  soon  behind  us  is  trailing 
an  endless  black  flag  of  smoke,  miles 
away,  over  the  darkening  waves  ;  and 
we  are  homeward  bound. 


5 1 4  Aspromonte.  [May, 


ASPROMONTE. 

BEAUTY  made  glad  the  day,  — and  sadness  glad; 
So,  without  sorrow,  to  the  grove  we  wandered 
Where  lie  the  loved  ones  in  their  myrtle  bed. 
Till  then  I  never  knew  peace-parted  souls 
Could  unto  souls  on  earth  give  benediction 
Of  peace  like  that  which  they  enjoy  in  heaven. 
For  surely,  as  we  sat  there  in  the  sun, 
On  the  fresh  turf,  there  seemed  a  "  Pax  vobiscum  " 
Descending  on  us  with  each  dropping  leaf ; 
And  on  their  graves  I  think,  almost,  we  laughed, 
Recalling  words  of  theirs,  and  pretty  customs, 
Until  Death  seemed,  as  'twere,  a  pleasant  thing. 
And  when  we  mused,  "At  home  we  miss  them  so!" 
One  said,  "They  are  at  home,  and  He  is  with  them 
Who  said  so  sweetly,  *  Children,  come  to  me  ! 
And  come  to  me,  ye  heavy-laden,  worn, 
And  half-spent  soldiers  of  the  bitter  battle, 
And  I  will  nurse  you  in  my  hospital. 
The  hospitality  of  heaven  is  mine  : 
I  am  the  One  Physician,  —  yours  forever; 
And,  when  your  wounds  are  healed,  we  dwell  as  friends 
In  the  same  mansion,  and  in  purer  air 
Than  where  you  came  from :  that  was  fraught  with  peril 
O  most  destructive  !     I  was  also  there.'  " 
At  this  there  seemed  a  whispering  from  beneath 
A  certain  .mound  that  bare  the  name  of  "  Mother  "  ; 
And  we  all  heard  a  voice  as  plain  as  this. 


THE  VOICE. 

Matters  nothing  to  me  now 
Who  dispraised  or  praises  me ; 

I  am  gone  where  they  and  thou, 
Fondest  friend  !  erelong  must  be. 

Dread  thou  to  severely  scan 

Blame  that  is  or  may  have  been ; 

Meeter  Judge  there  is  for  man 
Than  his  fellow-soul  of  sin. 

I  have  known  in  evil  hearts 
Rays  of  goodness,  here  and  there ; 

And  the  saint,  when  he  departs, 
Hath  full  need  of  human  prayer. 


1870.] 


Our  Money  Problem. 

All  are  brothers ;  and  the  sole 

Hope  of  your  hereafter  rest 
Is  that  Heaven  may  bless  the  whole, 

For  the  One  who  was  the  Blest: 

By  that  word  he  spake  for  them 
Who  had  speared  the  Sinless  through, 

"Father,  spare  Thou  to  condemn 
Souls  that  know  not  what  they  do." 


615 


OUR    MONEY    PROBLEM, 

IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  EXPERIENCE  O*F  ENGLAND  WITH  AN    * 
INCONVERTIBLE   PAPER  CURRENCY. 


FROM  1 797  to  1 82 1,  a  period  of  twen- 
ty-four years,  the  use  of  coined 
money  and  of  its  representatives  was 
lost  in  England,  through  causes  much 
the  same  as  those  which  produced  a  like 
result  in  this  country  eight  years  ago, 
and  an  inconvertible  paper  currency  be- 
came the  medium  of  domestic  exchanges. 
In  the  monetary  phenomena  of  that  in- 
teresting period,  and  in  the  history  of 
events  connected  with  them,  there  is 
much  to  be  found  that  runs  closely  par- 
allel with  our  own  passing  experience, 
and  from  which  more  light  upon  the 
currency  problem  at  present  perplexing 
us  is  to  be  derived  than  we  can  look 
for  from  any  other  source.  No  doubt 
the  lessons  of  the  English  era  of  in- 
flated paper,  in  their  bearing  upon  the 
questions  now  testing  American  states- 
manship, have  been  carefully  studied  by 
many  persons,  and  have  contributed  to 
the  formation  of  intelligent  opinions  in 
many  individual  cases  ;  but,  strangely 
enough,  there  seems  to  have  been  no  at- 
tempt, so  far  in  the  progress  of  the  dis- 
cussion of  our  monetary  derangement, 
to  place  the  facts  of  the  two  experiences 
in  comparison  before  the  public.  Even 
an  inadequate  presentation  of  such  a 
comparison  is  better  than  its  neglect, 
and  some  errors  may  be  corrected  by 
the  view  in  which  the  subject  is  here 
presented. 


The  suspension  of  cash  payments  in 
1797  by  the  Bank  of  England,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  by  all  other  banking  in- 
stitutions throughout  the  British  king- 
dom, was  permitted,  or  ostensibly  com- 
manded, by  an  act  of  Parliament,  which 
became  necessary,  by  reason  of  an 
alarming  stricture  in  the  money  mar- 
ket, resulting  from  the  heavy  expendi- 
tures of  a  costly  war.  That  long  con- 
flict in  which  England  had  involved 
herself,  first  with  revolutionary  France, 
and  afterwards  with  Napoleon,  had  then 
been  four  years  in  progress.  The  like 
causes  which,  in  our  more  desperat^ 
internecine  struggle,  produced  the  same 
effects  with  rapidity,  were  slow  in  their 
operation.  Even  after  the  restriction 
of  cash  payments,  gold  retired  tardily 
from  the  field  of  circulation,  and  several 
years  passed  before  the  depreciation 
of  paper  currency  made  itself  ob&erv- 
ably  manifest.  The  first  clear  symp- 
tom—  for  a  long  time  misunderstood 
—  of  some  departure  in  British  trade 
from  the  general  measurement  of  values 
appeared  in  the  turning  of  the  rates  of 
foreign  exchange  against  England.  Ex- 
change on  Hamburg,  for  example,  which 
had  ruled  low  for  several  years,  rose  in 
1801  to  fourteen  per  cent,  or  seven  per 
cent  above  the  cost  of  transmitting 
gold,  —  a  state  of  things  for  which  no 
adverse  balance  of  trade  would  ac- 


616 


Our  Money  Problem. 


[May, 


count ;  although  few  economists  of 
the  day  were  prepared  to  look  else- 
where for  its  explanation.  When  it 
had  been  found,  however,  and  convin- 
cingly shown,  that  trade  at  the  time 
was  actually  in  favor  of  England,  there 
seemed  to  be' no  escape  from  the  con- 
clusion that  foreign  bills  were  selling  at 
a  premium  considerably  above  the  cost 
of  shipping  gold,  simply  because  the 
currency  with  which  they  were  bought 
had  lost  something  from  its  nominal 
value.  Another  token  of  the  fact  ap- 
peared about  the  same  time  in  the  ad- 
vancement of  the  market  price  of  gold 
bullion  above  the  mint  price.  The 
"  mint  price "  is  that  denned  rate  at 
which  bullion  is  received  at  the  Mint 
and  returned  in  coin,  —  not  so  much  a 
price,  in  fact,  as  a  definition,  by  which 
the  denominational  terms  of  the  money 
of  barter  and  account  are  given  an  ex- 
act meaning,  in  fractions  of  an  ounce 
of  standard  gold.  At  the  period  in 
question,  the  mint  price  of  standard 
gold  bullion  in  England  was  fixed  at 
j£  3  17  s.  io|  d.  per  ounce.  The  market 
price,  or  the  price  of  bullion  purchased 
with  bank-notes,  had  risen  in  1804  to 
£4,  in  1810  to  £4.  5  s.,  and  in  1813,  by 
a  more  rapid  advance,  to  £  5  10  s.,  —  the 
highest  quotation  that  I  find  recorded 
during  the  period  of  depreciated  paper. 
When  it  sold  at  £  4  5  s.  in  bank-notes, 
the  ounce  of  bullion,  which  would  ex- 
change for  only  ^3  17  s.  io\d.  in  coined 
gold,  showed  what,  in  the  wrong  par- 
lance of  our  day,  we  should  call  a 
"premium  on  gold  "of  9^  per  cent. 
At  a  market  quotation  of  £$  los. 
the  "  premium "  became  41  per  cent, 
and  the  bank-note,  which  purported  to 
be  of  the  value  of  one  pound  sterling, 
or  twenty  shillings,  exchanged  for  no 
more  than  fourteen  shillings  and  two 
pence  in  gold. 

It  must  be  understood  that  no  direct 
measurement  of  the  market  value  of 
paper  money  against  gold  coin  was  al- 
lowed to  be  made  at  any  time  during 
the  period  of  the  suspension  of  cash 
payments,  and  that  absolutely  no  such 
thing  foimd  opportunity  to  grow  up  as 
that  gambling  speculation  in  gold  by 


which  all  the  natural  symptoms  of  the 
disease  of  paper  depreciation  have  been 
so  violently  exaggerated  in  our  own 
corresponding  case.  Under  an  old 
statute  of  Edward  VI.  it  was  held  to  be 
a  penal  offence  to  sell  guineas  of  good 
weight  for  more  than  twenty-one  shil- 
lings, or  their  par,  in  paper,  although 
clipped  and  light-weight  guineas,  which 
might  be  lawfully  melted  for  exporta- 
tion, were  freely  sold  at  twenty-five  and 
twenty-six  shillings.  As  late  as  1810 
three  men  were  at  one  time  lying 
under  conviction  of  the  crime  of  deal- 
ing speculatively  in  gold  coin  ;  and  al- 
though the  verdict  against  them,  and 
the  law  on  which  it  rested,  were  ulti- 
mately set  aside  by  the  Court  of  Com- 
mon Pleas,  the  idea  of  unlawfulness  in 
that  kind  of  speculation  was  so  effec- 
tually impressed  upon  the  mind  of  a 
public  for  whom  penal  law  had  more 
terrors  than  belong  to  it  in  these  clays 
and  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  that 
no  quotable  dealing  in  gold  money  as 
a  commodity  of  the  market  ever  took 
place.  The  sale  and  purchase  of  bul- 
lion for  shipment  abroad  alone  fur- 
nished occasion  or  opportunity  for 
bringing  the  value  of  the  now  incontro- 
vertible bank  -  note  into  comparison 
with  the  ancient  standard  from  which 
it  had  departed.  Of  the  dealing  in  bul- 
lion, there  was  just  so  much  as  the 
transactions  of  foreign  commerce  gave 
rise  to,  and  no  more.  The  notes  of 
the  Bank  of  England  being  receivable 
by  the  government  for  all  taxes,  no  de- 
mand for  gold,  such  as  that  created 
here  by  the  exaction  of  customs  dues 
in  coin,  existed,  to  keep  at  an  active 
strain  and  in  powerful  tension,  as  it 
does  with  us,  the  divergency  of  the 
paper  and  the  metallic  currency  from 
each  other.  Although  the  notes  of  the 
Bank  of  England  were  not  formally 
declared  legal  tender  until  several  years 
after  their  specie  basis  had  been  re- 
stored, they  were  practically  made  so, 
first  by  the  supposed  operation  of  the 
ancient  statute  before  referred  to,  and 
later  by  a  new  enactment  which  took  its 
place  in  1810,  whereby  any  attempt  to 
make  a  difference,  either  in  payment.or 


[870.] 


Our  Money  Problem. 


prices,  between  guineas  and  bank-notes, 
was  declared  to  be  a  misdemeanor, 
punishable  by  imprisonment  and  fine. 
Compared  with  this  vigorous  legisla- 
tion, the  Legal-Tender  Act  of  Congress 
in  1862  was  but  a  mild  measure  for 
forcing  the  credit  of  an  irredeemable 
paper  currency. 

It  is  easy  to  see,  from  the  circum- 
stances, that  the  maximum  "  premium  " 
of  forty -one  per  cent,  to  which  gold 
bullion  rose  in  the  English  market  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  paper  values  there,  is 
no  fair  index  of  the  real  depreciation 
or  debasement  of  the  paper  currency  of 
that  period,  as  compared  with  the  ex- 
treme price  of  $2.85^  at  which  the 
dollar  of  gold  coin  was  bought  and 
sold  among  the  brokers  of  Wall  Street 
in  the  midsummer  of  1864.  In  the  one 
case,  all  the  conditions  attending,  and 
most  of  the  influences  bearing  upon, 
the  inflation  of  paper  were  calculated 
to  suppress  or  keep  down  those  more 
immediate  and  palpable  manifestations 
of  its  excess  which  the  free  and  active 
marketing  of  gold  as  a  commodity  de- 
velops ;  while,  in  the  other  case,  a 
wild  and  madly  excited  spirit  of  specu- 
lation has  all  the  time  been  stimulating 
them  to  gross  exaggeration.  Mr.  Fes- 
senden  said  in  his  report  as  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury,  in  1864,  referring  to 
the  extraordinary  fluctuations  that  had 
taken  place  that  year  in  the  gold  mar- 
ket, or,  more  strictly  speaking,  in  the 
arena  of  gold  gambling:  "In  the 
course  of  a  few  days  the  price  of  this 
article  rose  from  about  $  1.50  to  $  2.85 
for  $  i.oo  in  specie,  and  subsequently  fell 
in  as  short  a  period  to  $  1.87,  and  then 
again  rose  as  rapidly  to  $  2.50  ;  and  all 
without  any  assignable  cause  traceable 
to  an  increase  or  decrease  in  the  circu- 
lation of  paper  money,  or  an  expansion 
or  contraction  of  credit,  or  other  simi- 
lar influence  on  the  market  tending  to 
occasion  a  fluctuation  so  violent.  It  is 
quite  apparent  that  the  solution  of  the 
problem  may  be  found  in  the  unpatri- 
otic and  criminal  efforts  of  speculators, 
and  probably  of  secret  enemies,  to  raise 
the  price  of  coin,  regardless  of  the  in- 
jury inflicted  upon  the  country,  or  de- 


siring to  inflict  it."  So  transparently 
true  is  this  observation,  not  only  of  the 
extraordinary  price  to  which  gold  was 
carried  in  1864,  but  more  or  less,  also, 
of  the  fluctuating  quotations  of  the 
whole  period  since  it  became  a  com- 
modity of  the  market  in  1862,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  say  of  any  quoted  "pre- 
mium," at  any  time,  how  much  repre- 
sents actual  dilution  of  the  purchasing 
currency,  how  much  represents  doubt 
of  the  national  stability  or  credit,  and 
how  much  is  the  purely  artificial  prod- 
uct of  conspiracy  and  speculation. 
Very  certain  it  appears,  that  with  us 
the  price  of  gold,  as  a  supposed  meas- 
ure of  the  depreciation  of  currency,  has 
all  the  time  grossly  exaggerated  it, 
while  it  is  equally  certain  that  in  Eng- 
land the  market  price  of  gold  bullion 
never  indicated  fully  the  real  decline 
in  relative  value  of  the  paper  money 
for  which  it  was  exchanged.  Had  a 
"gold  room"  been  in  operation  at 
London,  from  1812,  say,  to  1819;  had 
lines  of  telegraph  been  transmitting 
hourly  reports  of  hourly  fluctuating 
quotations  to  every  corner  of  the  king- 
dom ;  had  every  importing  merchant 
been  a  necessary  purchaser  of  gold  to 
the  average  amount  of  fifty  per  cent  of 
his  foreign  invoices,  for  payments  at 
the  custom-house  ;  and  had  no  penal- 
ties of  law  restrained  the  sale  or  expor- 
tation of  guineas,  —  it  is  hardly  to  be 
doubted  that  under  such  circumstances 
a  mark  very  far  above  forty-one  per 
cent  would  have  been  touched  in  the 
'•  premium  '.'  of  gold  during  that  period. 
If  we  wish  to  ascertain  the  actual 
degree  of  the  inflation  and  depreciation 
of  English  currency  in  the  period  under 
review,  for  the  purpose  of  comparing 
that  experience  of  monetary  derange- 
ment with  the  similar  one  which  we  are 
now  suffering  ourselves,  we  must  look 
(i)  at  the  volume  of  currency  brought 
into  circulation  in  the  two  cases,  rela- 
tively to  the  population  and  trade  exist- 
ing in  each  ;  and  (2)  at  the  state  of 
prices  produced  in  the  one  instance 
and  in  the  other.  Before  entering  upon 
these  examinations,  however,  it  is  best 
to  mention  some  facts  descriptive  of 


618 


Our  Money  Problem. 


[May, 


the  banking  system  under  which  the 
note  currency  of  England  from  1797  to 
1819  —  and  several  years  later,  indeed 
—  was  created. 

The  Bank  of  England  acquired  in 
1709,  by  act  of  Parliament,  an  exclusive 
monopoly  in  England  and  Wales  of  the 
privilege  of  issuing  bills  or  notes,  paya- 
ble on  demand,  to  circulate  from  hand 
to  hand,  except  as  such  bills  might  be 
issued  by  private  individuals  on  their 
single  credit,  or  by  a  limited  number 
of  persons  associated  in  mere  partner- 
ship. The  act  in  question  prohibited 
any  company  of  persons  exceeding  six 
in  number  from  "  borrowing,  owing,  or 
taking  up  money  on  their  bills  or  notes 
payable  to  bearer  on  demand."  At  the 
period  of  this  legislation,  and  until  long 
afterwards,  when  the  modern  system 
of  drawing  checks  upon  deposits  was 
introduced,  the  privilege  so  monopo- 
lized constituted  the  essential  privilege 
of  all  banking  business.  The  effect, 
therefore,  of  the  act,  renewed  at  every 
extension  of  the  charter  of  the  bank, 
was  to  forbid  the  existence,  anywhere 
within  England  or  Wales,  of  joint-stock 
banks,  or  of  any  considerable  aggrega- 
tions of  capital  in  banking,  to  interfere 
with  the  gains  or  dispute  the  control- 
ling monetary  power  of  the  great  cor- 
poration at  London,  which  bribed  gov- 
ernment by  frequent  heavy  advances  and 
by  taking  upon  itself  the  management 
of  the  public  debt.  And  this  exclusive 
monopoly  the  Bank  of  England  main- 
tained until  1826,  when  it  was  so  far 
modified  as  to  permit  the  organization 
of  joint-stock  banks  at  points  not  with- 
in sixty-five  miles  of  London.  Dur- 
ing the  period  under  notice  it  was  in 
full  effect,  and  it  gave  birth,  by  neces- 
sary consequence,  to  a  system,  or  no 
system,  of  private  banking  through- 
out England,  which  rivalled  the  loose 
and  reckless  "wild-cat"  banking  of  a 
somewhat  later  day  in  the  United  States. 
The  Bank  of  England  established  no 
branches,  even  in  the  larger  cities 
outside  of  London,  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  business  of  the  coun- 
try, nor  could  any  other  responsible 
organization  of  capital  be  formed  for 


its  accpmmodation.  A  swarm  of  pri- 
vate banks,  of  course,  came  into  exist- 
ence under  these  circumstances,  mul- 
tiplying thick  and  fast  after  the  restric- 
tion of  cash  payments  was  enacted  and 
the  inflation  of  paper  money  began; 
banks  without  regulation  by  law,  with- 
out public  provision  for  the  security  of 
their  obligations,  without  public  ques- 
tion as  to  their  management  or  the 
state  of  their  affairs.  "All  sorts  of 
petty  tradesmen,"  as  one  historian  of 
the  time  writes,  "became  bankers,  each 
one  the  issuer  of  promissory  notes  not 
payable  in  gold,  and  finding  abundant 
room  for  their  circulation."  In  1798 
there  were  only  about  270  of  these 
banks  in  existence.  Ten  years  later 
they  had  multiplied  to  600  ;  in  181-0,  to 
782  ;  in  1812, to  825  ;  in  1813, to  922  ; 
and  in  1814,  the  culminating  year  of 
inflation,  and  just  before  its  first  col- 
lapse, they  numbered  no  less  than  940. 
So  entirely  without  surveillance  of  law 
was  the  management  of  these  private 
banks,  that  no  means  ever  existed  for 
ascertaining,  or  even  estimating  by  any 
nearer  approximation  than  the  merest 
guess-work,  the  amount  of  their  notes 
in  circulation.  One  witness  examined 
before  Mr.  Peel's  Bank  Committee  in 
1819,  —  a  prominent  London  banker, 
Mr.  Lloyd, — testified  his  belief  that 
the  issues  of  the  country  banks  amount- 
ed to  £  40,000,000  or  £  50,000,000,  and 
that  was  after  the  crash  of  1815  -  16  had 
swept  over  one  hundred  of  them  out 
of  existence.  The  committee,  however, 
in  their  report,  —  evidently  disposed  to 
make  the  facts  appear  as  favorable  as 
possible  to  the  plan  of  resumption  which 
they  recommended,  — declared  that  this 
country  bank  circulation  had  never  ex- 
ceeded ;£  25,000,000.  Mr.  McLeod,  in 
his  "History  of  Banking,"  thinks  it 
a  very  low  estimate  to  calculate  an 
average  issue  of  £  30,000  by  each  bank. 
Fairly  judging  from  all  that  can  be 
gathered  upon  the  subject,  it  seems  to 
be  safe  to  assume  that  the  paper  cur- 
rency set  afloat  by  the  private  bankers 
in  England  amounted,  at  the  period  of 
greatest  inflation,  —  say  in  the  summer 
of  1814,  — to  not  less  than  £  35,000,000. 


1 870.] 


Our  Money  Problem. 


619 


The  issues  of  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land at  the  same  time  had  risen  to 
^24,801,080,  by  stages  which  appear 
in  the  following  table,  taken  from  the 
report  of  the  Committee  on  the  Bank 
Charter  in  1832.  It  shows  the  average 
circulation  of  the  Bank  in  each  year 
from  1792  to  1815  :  — 

1792  £11,307,380      1804  £17,077,830 

1793  11,888,910      1805   17,871,170 

1794  10,744,020        1806    17,730,020 

1795  14,017,510        1807    16,950,680 

1796  10,729,520        1808    18,188,160 

1797  9,674,780        1809    18,542,860 

1798  13,095,830  1810  21,019,600 

1799  12,959,800  1811  23,360,220 

1800  16,344,470  1812  23,408,320 

1801  16,213,280  1813  23,210,930 

1802  15,186,880  1814  24,801,080 

1803  15,319,930  1815  27,261,650 

The  aggregate  of  currency  set  afloat 
in  England  and  Wales  (both  Scotland 
and  Ireland  having  distinct  banking 
systems)  by  the  Bank  of  England  and 
the  private  bankers  appears,  therefore, 
to  have  been  in  1814  not  less  than 
£  60,000,000,  against  probably  not  more 
than  £  30,000,000  to  £  35,000,000  at 
the  beginning  of  the  century.  Some- 
thing more  must  be  added  for  the  cir- 
culation of  the  notes  of  the  Scotch 
joint-stock  banks  in  the  English  coun- 
ties on  the  border,  where  they  were  in 
high  credit  and  extensively  used  ;  and 
something  more  still  for  the  silver  coin 
that  necessarily  remained  in  circulation 
when  the  smallest  bank-note  permitted 
was  for  £  I  (five  dollars),  and  no  such 
creation  as  "  fractional  currency  "  was 
dreamed  of.  Altogether,  we  can  hardly 
err  widely  if  we  estimate  the  total  of 
currency  in  use  in  England  about  the 
time  mentioned  at  £  70,000,000,  or 
$  350,000,000. 

To  state  the  amount  of  currency  in 
use  in  the  United  States  within  the 
past  eight  years,  for  the  comparison 
to  be  instituted,  is  no  easy,  matter, 
and  cannot  be  done  with  accuracy. 
The  elements  in  the  computation  are, 

(1)  the  specie  in  circulation  in  1860-61  ; 

(2)  State  bank  circulation  from   1860  to 
l865  ;    (3)   national  bank-note   circula- 
tion from  1864;  (4)  United   States   le- 
gal-tender  notes  issued  and  outstand- 
ing   since    1862,   less   amount  held  in 


treasury  and  amount  held  in  national 
bank  reserve  ;  (5)  fractional  currency. 
Using  all  the  data  I  have  been  able  to 
obtain  from  official  and  other  sources, 
the  following  is  perhaps  about  as  close 
an  approximation  as  can  be  made  to 
a  correct  statement  of  the  currency 
actually  in  circulation  in  the  United 
States  each  year  from  1860  to  1869:  — 

1860  January  $407,152,032 

1861  390,255,977 

1862  418,938,945 

1863  June  550,000,000 

1864  October  606,000,000 

1865  595,000,000 

1866  June  580,000,000 

1867  "  522,197,930 

1868  553,866,033 

1869  September  592,316,644 

The  increase  here  shown  in  1868  and 
1869  over  1867  is  mainly  due  to  a  re- 
duction of  the  amount  of  currency  held 
in  the  treasury,  and  to  the  substitution 
of  three-per-cent  certificates  for  legal 
tenders  in  the  bank  reserves.  The 
three-per-cent  certificates  are  no  doubt 
properly  to  be  included  in  a  statement 
of  the  volume  of  currency ;  but  I  have 
omitted  them,  as  well  as  the  compound- 
interest  notes,  for  the  reason  that  what- 
ever function  they  may  perform  in  con- 
nection with  our  currency  is  no  doubt 
fully  offset  on  the  English  side  by  a 
corresponding  use  of  exchequer  bills, 
which  were  extensively  afloat  during 
the  period  with  which  our  comparisons 
are  drawn.  It  is  equally  safe  to  leave 
gold  coin  out  of  the  account  on  both 
sides,  because,  being  wholly  retired 
from  ordinary  circulation  in  each  in- 
stance, its  uses  and  influences  in  trade 
were  probably  about  the  same  in  each. 

We  have,  then,  as  the  maximum  of 
inflation  in  England,  a  circulation  of 
about  $  350,000,000,  and  as  the  maxi- 
mum in  the  United  States  a  circulating 
currency  of  $  606,000,000.  But  the  pop- 
ulation (England  and  Wales  in  1814) 
using  the  former  amount  of  currency 
was  scarcely  11,000,000,  while  the  pop- 
ulation in  the  United  States  (excluding 
that  of  the  eleven  States  in  rebellion) 
employing  the  latter  sum  was  not  less 
than  24,000,000,  and  more  probably 
25.000,000.  '  The  ratio  of  currency 
to  population  in  England  was  nearly 


620 


Our  Money  Problem. 


[May, 


$  32  per  head ;  in  the  United  States  it 
has  been  from  $  25  to  $  26.  Popula- 
tion, however,  as  was  forcibly  argued 
by  the  Hon.  George  Walker  in  his  in- 
structive letter  appended  to  the  report 
of  Commissioner  Wells  for  1868,  is  no 
proper  measure  of  the  relative  require- 
ments of  currency  in  any  two  countries, 
except  as  one  element  in  a  comparison 
which  takes  account  also  of  their  wealth, 
of  the  magnitude  and  activity  of  their 
trade,  and  of  the  facility  of  transportation 
with  which  it  is  carried  on.  England, 
to-day,  in  a  natural  condition  of  things, 
requires  no  doubt  a  larger  circulation 
of  money  than  the  United  States,  pro- 
portionate to  the  population  employing 
it.  But  the  England  of  fifty-odd  years 
ago,  with  a  total  foreign  trade,  imports, 
domestic  exports,  and  re-exports  ag- 
gregating only  $256,000,000  (against 
$  1,955,000,000  in  1867),  without  rail- 
roads or  steam-carriage,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  accelerate  the  exchanges  with- 
in her  compact  territory,  can  hardly 
be  supposed  to  have  had  healthy  use 
for  a  larger  circulation  per  head  than 
the  United  States  in  1864.  The  ne- 
cessary conclusion  seems  to  be  that 
the  excess  to  which  the  volume  of  cur- 


rency swelled  in  England,  under  the 
long  restriction  of  cash  payments  after 
1797,  was  at  least  as  great  as  we  have 
known  at  any  time  in  this  country  since 
specie  payments  were  suspended,  in 
1862. 

If  we  look  at  the  indication  of  gen- 
eral prices,  comparing  their  advance  in 
the  two  periods,  above  prices  previ- 
ously prevailing,  we  shall  find  reason 
to  conclude  that  the  depreciation  of  the 
value  of  currency  in  the  English  case, 
resulting  from  inconvertibility  and  ex- 
cessive quantity,  was  fully  equal  to  that 
we  have  experienced  in  our  own.  A 
remarkably  valuable  exhibit  of  the 
course  of  prices  in  England  from  1784 
to  1837,  prepared  for  the  Commons 
Committee  on  Commercial  Distress  in 
1848,  is  quoted  by  Doubleday  in  his 
Life  of  Peel.  It  shows  in  centesimal 
proportions  the  comparative  prices  of 
ninety  articles  of  commerce,  averaged 
for  successive  periods  of  six  years 
each,  the  price  given  in  every  case 
being  without  duty.  We  select  from 
the  table  a  few  leading  articles  for 
citation.  The  price  attached  to  each 
article  at  the  beginning  is  taken  as 
the  standard,  equal  to  100 :  — 


The  Course  of  Prices  in  England  from  1784  to  1837. 


-p,  

1784 

1791 

1798 

1805 

1812 

1819 

1826 

i833 

to 

to 

to 

TQ_  . 

to 

to 

to 

182^ 

to 

T&->0 

to 

TQ^_ 

1790. 

1797. 

1004. 

1032. 

I037. 

£  s.    d. 

Candles,  per  dozen  Ibs.   .                 .             7    8i 
Coals,  Newcastle,  per  caldron     .        .        19  n 

100 
100 

Ill 

130 

133 

167 

152 
202 

152 
190 

104 

156 

85 
139 

124 

Coffee,  Jamaica,  best,  per  cwt.       .            7    6 
Wheat,  per  bushel       .         .         .      -  .          5     8£ 

100 
IOO 

118 

121 

158 
165 

IS* 

189 

124 
'93 

!53 
130 

1  06 

123 
103 

Barley,  per  quart'n  ....              42 

IOO 

128 

165 

177 

191 

134 

1  86 

121 

Rye                               ....         96 

IOO 

127 

168 

179 

184 

122 

120 

109 

Oats        "        "               .        .        .            17    2 

IOO 

n3 

JS7 

170 

131 

J35 

122 

Flour,  per  sack    173 
Iron,  pig,  British,  per  ton       .        .            18    6 

IOO 
IOO 

123 
13° 

183 
144 

214 
151 

223 
151 

ij 

162 
H5 

'37 

96 

Beef,  per  tierce     .         .  '                .        .        13  10 

IOO 

134 

185 

195 

1  88 

ISI 

142 

152 

Pork,  per  barrel       ....             19    7 

IOO 

124 

179 

168 

176 

133 

121 

III 

Butter,  per  cwt  18    6 

IOO 

120 

142 

J74 

197 

*59 

140 

145 

Spirits,  British,  malt,  per  gal.          .              2     8J 
Sugar,  Jamaica,  brown,  per  cwt.          .          9    8 

IOO 
ICO 

166 

158 

193 
15° 

233 
139 

230 
181 

193 
107 

112 

93 

82 
104 

Tallow,  London,  melted,  per  cwt.  .              8    2 

IOO 

"3 

J43 

164 

169 

112 

98 

102 

Wool,  Southdown,  per  Ib.    .                           o  io£ 

IOO 

128 

»i8o 

238 

221 

15° 

92 

1  66 

Average  of  90  articles         .         .        •        . 

IOO 

120 

150 

'74 

177 

125 

104 

104 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  period  in 
which  an  advance  of  prices  is  first 
shown  —  that  from  1791  to  1797  —  was 
anterior  to  the  suspension  of  cash  pay- 
ments. Within  that  period,  therefore, 


the  average  advance  of  twenty  per  cent 
is  solely  attributable  to  the  disturbance 
of  production  and  trade  by  war.  After 
that,  the  two  causes  operated  together, 
very  much  as  in  our  own  case,  although 


870.] 


Our  Money  Problem. 


621 


to  us  the  disturbing  effects  of  war  were,  in  the  New  York  market  on  the  1st  day 

no  doubt,    brought   nearer   home,  and  of  January  each  year  since  1860,  I  have 

were  somewhat  more  violently  felt.  prepared   the  following  centesimal  ta- 

From  a  lately  published  statement  of  ble  similar  to  the  above,  for  comparison 

the  prices  of  bread-stuffs  and  provisions  with  it.  So  far  as  may  be  judged  from  the 

The  Course  of  Prices  at  New  York  from  1860  to  1870. 


1860 

1861 

1862 

1863 

1864 

1865 

1866 

,867 

1868 

.869 

1870 

F1our(  Western)  per  bbl.  $5.29 
Wheat  (Mich)  per  bus.   1.50 

100 
IOO 

100.5 

96.6 

103.9 

IOO 

118.1 
OS 

'3°-4 

IOO 

'97-5 
176.6 

168.2 
'73-3 

215.1 
213-3 

180.5 
213-3 

113-4 
141.6 

82.2 
J»3-3 

Corn  (old  Western)   do.      0.90 

100 

80 

71.1 

86.6 

144-4 

207.7 

105.5 

124.4 

156.6 

122.2 

122.2 

Astern)         do.     0.46! 

IOO 

79-  5 

9°-3 

iSo-5 

197.8 

133-3 

148.4 

187 

167.7 

139-8 

Rye  (Western)          do      0.92 

IOO 

81.5 

90.2 

92.4 

n8 

1  88 

106.4 

133-7 

195.6 

,6, 

110 

1'ork  (Mess)  per  bbl.         16.37 

IOO 

97-7 

73-3 

88.  S 

122.  1 

250.4 

177.8 

116.8 

128.2 

171 

181.7 

Beef  (plain  West'n)  do.      9.50 

IOO 

94-7 

,15.8 

136.8 

126.3 

226.3 

189.4 

168.4 

168.4 

147-1 

147-3 

Hams  (pickled)  per  Ib.       0.09! 

IOO 

86.5 

64.8 

75-6 

108.  1 

210.5 

172.9 

132.4  |  129.7 

164.8 

162.1 

Lard                       do.          o.ioj 

IOO 

98.7 

82 

88. 

114-2 

228.5 

1  88 

123.8  •  121.4 

166.6 

164.2 

Butter  (Western)  do.          0.16 

IOO 

87-  s 

93-7 

125 

162.5 

281.2 

218.7 

200     1  281.2 

250 

187-S 

Cheese  (Factory)  do.         o.  n 

IOO 

90.9 

63.6 

109 

145-4 

218.1 

170.4 

154-5 

136.3 

177.2 

159 

Average  of  n  articles 

IOO 

903 

86.2 

106.2 

135-4 

218.5 

164 

'57-3 

I72-5 

162.2 

141.7 

comparison  of  these  two  tables,  the  aver- 
age range  of  prices  in  England,  during 
the  twenty-one  years  from  1798  to  1819, 
must  have  been  fully  as  high,  relatively 
to  prices  prevailing  before  war  com- 
menced, as  the  range  of  prices  in  this 
country  has  been  since  1863,  when  their 
advance  began.  It  is  true  that  in  the  lat- 
ter of  the  two  tables  the  year  1865  shows 
an  upward  bound  to  a  height  very  far 
transcending  the  highest  mark  made  in 
the  former;  but  the  prices  given  in  the 
English  table,  it  must  be  remembered, 
represent  each  the  average  of  a  period  of 
six  years,  and  it  is  more  than  probable 
that  in  some  single  years — within  the 
interval  from  1812  to  1 8 18,  for  example 
—  the  extraordinary  level  of  1865  must 
have  been  closely  approached.  In- 
deed, I  learn  from  another  table,  in 
which  the  prices  of  wheat,  rye,  barley, 
and  oats  are  given  for  each  year  from 
1797  to  1815,  that  in  1812  the  prices  of 
those  grains  were  at  an  average  nearly 
throe  times  greater  than  their  prices 
before  the  war.  For  the  whole  period 
from  1798  (the  year  following  the  first 
restriction  of  cash  payments)  until  1825 
(four  years  after  resumption  took  place), 
the  average  of  the  prices  of  the  ninety 
articles  embraced  in  the  English  table 
was  56  per  cent  greater  than  their  ante- 
war  prices.  For  the  whole  period  from 
the  beginning  of  1863  until  1870  the 
average  of  the  prices  of  the  eleven  ar- 


ticles embraced  in  the  New  York  table 
was  57  per  cent  greater  than  their  prices 
in  1860. 

By  the  comparison  of  prices,  then, 
as  well  as  by  a  comparison  of  the  rela- 
tive volumes  of  inconvertible  paper 
money  afloat  in  the  two  instances,  we 
seem  to  be  led  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  state  of  monetary  derangement  in 
England  which  followed  the  suspension 
of  specie  payments  in  1797  bore  a  very 
close  resemblance,  in  seriousness  of 
extent,  as  well  as  otherwise,  to  that 
which  has  prevailed  in  the  United 
States  since  1862.  The  Parliamentary 
statesmen  of  England  at  that  period 
had  to  deal  with  almost  identically  the 
same  problem  that  our  own  legislators 
are  now  attempting  to  master,  and 
these  latter,  it  is  plain,  can  look  no- 
where for  surer  instruction  than  is  to 
be  gathered  from  the  operation  of 
the  measures  that  were  tried  by  the 
former. 

As  before  noted,  it  was  not  until 
several  years  after  the  restriction  of 
cash  payments  in  England,  that  the 
phenomena  of  the  resulting  monetary 
derangement  began  to  be  observed. 
They  were  developed  rapidly  after  1806 
by  the  growth  of  speculation,  incited, 
first,  by  the  "  paper  blockades  "  which 
Napoleon's  Berlin  Decree  and  the  Eng- 
lish retaliating  Orders  in  Council  had 
established,  and  then  further  inflamed 


622 


Our  Money  Problem. 


[May, 


by  the  occurrences  which  opened  to 
British  enterprise  those  Spanish  Ameri- 
can colonies  that  were  still  supposed 
to  be  inexhaustible  depositories  of  min- 
eral wealth.  Under  the  influence  of 
a  speculative  mania,  for  the  stimula- 
tion of  which  all  the  conditions  were 
prepared,  the  effects  delineated,  of 
an  inflated  and  depreciated  currency, 
were  quickly  produced.  It  was  long, 
however,  before  their  real  significance 
and  nature  were  discerned  by  more 
than  a  very  few  men  of  advanced 
intelligence.  The  whole  banking  and 
commercial  world  persisted  for  many 
years  in  attributing  the  rise  of  prices 
wholly  "to  the  effect  of  the  war," 
and  in  considering  the  so-called  "pre- 
mium "  upon  bullion  as  absolutely  an 
advance  in  the  value  of  gold,  induced  by 
scarcity  resulting  from  unfavorable  ex- 
changes. The  famous  report  of  the 
Bullion  Committee  of  1810  found  very 
few  prepared  to  accept  its  incontrovert- 
ible principles.  In  that  remarkable  re- 
port, chiefly  the  work  of  Francis  Hor- 
ner,  the  now  accepted  principles  of 
monetary  science  were  first  fairly  de- 
fined. It  erred  unquestionably  in  tak- 
ing the  market  price  of  bullion  as  an 
exact  measure  of  the  depreciation  of 
paper  currency,  and  in  concluding  that 
a  summary  restoration  of  the  lost 
standard,  by  resumption  of  cash  pay- 
ments within  two  years,  was  at  that  pe- 
riod practicable;  but  it  made  thoroughly 
and  with  scientific  precision  a  diagnosis, 
so  to  speak,  of  the  disease  of  the  time. 
Supported  only  by  a  small  party  in 
Parliament,  who  became  known  as  the 
"  Economists,"  its  views  encountered 
overwhelming  opposition,  and  it  was 
rejected  by  a  large  majority.  More  ef- 
fectually to  condemn  and  extinguish  its 
heretical  doctrine,  that  the  currency  of 
the  country  had  undergone  deprecia- 
tion, and  that  values  had  lost  all  defi- 
niteness  of  measurement,  a  defiantly 
contradicting  resolution  was  carried  by 
the  Ministry  of  the  day,  and  Parliament 
reposed  upon  its  work.  Nine  years 
later  the  doctrines  of  the  Bullion  Re- 
port had  become  the  prevailing  creed, 
and  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who  voted  against 


them  in   1810,  became  the  instrument 
of  their  practical  application. 

The  next  four  years  after  1810  were 
marked  by  a  prodigious  extension  of 
enterprise  in  all  directions,  and  par- 
ticularly in  agricultural  improvement. 
What  railroad  building  became  at  a 
later  time,  and  what  the  mania  of  oil  pro- 
duction, under  similar  circumstances, 
became  in  this  country  a  few  years 
ago,  the  reclaiming  of  waste  lands  and 
the  fertilizing  of  unproductive  soils  was 
in  England  in  1812.  Men  lost  all  sense, 
apparently,  of  the  natural  limits  within 
which  capital  could  profitably  invest 
itself  in  farming.  It  was  believed  that 
permanence  had  been  given  to  the  high 
price  of  wheat,  by  the  Corn  Law  of 
1804,  establishing  a  minimum  price  of 
sixty-three  shillings  per  quarter,  below 
which  importation  was  prohibited  by 
a  duty  of  twenty-four  shillings  and 
three  pence  per  quarter.  Money  was 
abundant.  The  banks,  checked  by  no 
thought  of  a  "pay-day"  for  their  obli- 
gations, put  no  limit  upon  their  dis- 
counts. Men  with  small  means,  or 
with  no  means,  found  themselves  able 
to  command  and  to  handle  the  bound- 
less capital  of  credit.  Of  course  they 
were  venturesome  with  it.  Of  course 
they  were  enterprising,  and,  as  we  have 
seen  in  our  own  country,  under  like  cir- 
cumstances, within  these  seven  years 
last  past,  a  wondrous  unsubstantial 
and  illusive  show  of  prosperous  activ- 
ity grew  out  of  the  opening  of  a  wide 
opportunity  for  risking  really  little  to 
gain  possibly  much. 

Toward  the  close  of  1814  the  crash 
came.  Peace  had  been  temporarily  at- 
tained with  Napoleon  in  exile  at  Elba, 
and  the  act  restraining  cash  payments 
required  their  resumption  within  six 
months  after  a  declaration  of  peace. 
At  the  first  movement  of  preparation 
for  resuming,  the  bubble  began  to  fall 
to  pieces,  and,  notwithstanding  a  prompt 
re-enactment  of  the  restriction,  the  fol- 
lowing year  found  the  whole  fabric  of 
overgrown  enterprise  and  speculation 
totally  prostrate.  Eighty-nine  country 
banks  went  into  bankruptcy  at  once, 
and  those  that  did  struggle  through  the 


i  S/o.] 


Our  Money  Problem. 


623 


crisis  so  curtailed  their  issues  that  the 
currency  from  that  source  which  had 
been  in  circulation  is  believed  to  have 
been  diminished  in  amount  nearly  one 
half.  The  Bank  of  England,  as  a 
measure  of  relief  to  business,  increased 
its  issues  about  ^3,000,000;  but  still 
there  must  have  been  a  suddenly  cre- 
ated vacuum  left  of  ;£  8,000,000  or 
£  10,000,000. 

This  destructive  catastrophe  of  "con- 
traction "  in  1814-1816  is  one  of  the 
most  important  facts  of  the  history  to 
which  we  are  reverting.  It  explains 
the  possibility  of  the  measure  of  re- 
sumption adopted  three  years  later, 
and  teaches  by  what  a  disastrous  meth- 
od the  heroic  cure  of  these  monetary 
diseases  is  of  necessity  accomplished. 

Two  years  of  half-paralyzed  trade 
and  stagnant  enterprise  caused  an  accu- 
mulation of  bullion  in  the  vaults  of  the 
Bank  of  England,  and  lowered  its  mar- 
ket price  from  £  5  8  s.  per  ounce  in  Feb- 
ruary, 1814,  to  £  3  1 8  s.  6d.  in  October, 
1816.  At  the  latter  quotation  the  mar- 
ket price  of  bullion  had  dropped  to 
within  seven  pence  halfpenny  per 
ounce,  or  about  four  fifths  of  one  per 
cent  of  the  par  of  the  Mint.  Under 
these  circumstances,  the  Bank  felt  it- 
self able  to  undertake  a  partial  resump- 
tion of  cash  payments,  and  was  per- 
mitted in  the  autumn  of  1816  to  issue 
notices,  offering  the  redemption  of  all 
its  notes  dated  prior  to  January  i,  1812. 
Early  in  the  following  year  another 
step  in  the  same  direction  was  taken 
by  notice  of  the  redemption  of  all  notes 
of  the  Bank  of  England  dated  prior  to 
January  I,  1816;  and  in  October,  1817, 
the  notice  was  still  further  extended  to 
all  notes  except  the  issues  of  that  year. 
When  these  steps  were  first  taken,  had 
prudent  measures  been  adopted  for  re- 
straining the  general  volume  of  cur- 
rency within  the  limit  to  which  it  had 
been  reduced  by  the  collapse  of  1814- 
15,  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  for 
doubting  that  resumption  might  at  that 
time  have  been  made  complete  very 
easily,  and  with  little  if  any  addition  to 
the  effects  of  the  existing  prostration. 
The  business  of  the  country  was  nearly 


flat ;  general  prices  had  sunk  enor- 
mously, and,  in  fact,  everything  had 
tumbled  almost  to  the  specie  bottom, 
as  it  was.  But,  fatuously  enough,  a 
new  expansion  of  the  currency  was 
begun  simultaneously  with  the  under- 
taking of  the  experiment  of  partial  re- 
sumption. The  Bank  of  England  had 
increased  its  issues  from  ^26,000,000 
in  the  summer  of  1816  to  ^29,000,000 
in  the  autumn  of  1817.  The  country 
banks,  as  they  recovered  their  footing, 
threw  out  an  increasing  volume  of 
paper  again  ;  and  so,  very  soon,  de- 
preciation began  to  manifest  itself 
anew.  At  the  first  offering  of  redemp- 
tion by  the  Bank  of  England,  the  de- 
mand for  gold  seems  to  have  been 
remarkably  slight.  But  it  steadily  in- 
creased, and  almost  every  ounce  drawn 
from  the  Bank  by  the  presentation  of 
its  notes  was  got  by  speculators  for 
shipment  abroad.  Mr.  Peel,  in  a  sub- 
sequent speech,  estimated  the  drain  at 
;£  6,000,000,  and  as  the  market  price 
of  bullion  .rose  above  £4  per  ounce,  it 
became  evident  before  the  close  of 
1817  that  the  experiment  of  resumption 
must  cease.  An  act  of  Parliament  was 
accordingly  passed,  releasing  the  Bank 
from  the  fulfilment  of  its  notices,  and 
once  more  the  suspension  of  specie 
•  payments  was  complete. 

Three  or  four  years  of  the  state  of 
things  which  thus  recurred  would  un- 
questionably have  brought  affairs  again 
to  as  bad  a  pass  as  they  were  in  four 
years  before.  Speculation  revived  ; 
prices  readvanced  ;  an  enormous  im- 
portation of  foreign  goods  took  place, 
and  the  old  bursted  bubble  was  refilling 
itself  as  fast  as  it  well  could.  But 
those  who  apprehended  the  meaning 
of  these  symptoms  were  now  more  nu- 
merous than  in  1810,  and  Parliament 
took  alarm.  A  committee  to  report 
upon  the  state  of  the  Bank,  with  Sir 
Robert  Peel  for  its  chairman,  was  ap- 
pointed during  the  winter  of  1819,  and 
from  that  committee  came  the  plan  of 
resumption  by  a  "  sliding  scale,"  which 
we  often  hear  referred  to  nowadays, 
but  very  seldom  intelligently  discussed. 
The  provisions  of  the  bill  in  which 


624 


Our  Money  Problem. 


[May, 


this  plan  was  submitted  to  Parliament 
may  be  briefly  recapitulated  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

The  acts  restraining  cash  payments 
were  to  continue  in  force  until  May  I, 
1823  ;  but 

After  February  i,  1820,  and  until  Octo- 
ber i,  1820,  the  Bank  should  be  required 
to  pay  its  notes  on  demand,  in  amounts 
not  less  than  of  the  value  or  price  of 
sixty  ounces,  at  ^4  i  s.  per  ounce,  in 
standard  gold  bullion,  stamped  and  as- 
sayed at  the  Mint. 

After  October  i,  1820,  and  until 
May  i,  1821,  it  should  be  required  to 
pay  its  notes  in  the  same  manner  at 
the  rate  of  £3  19  s.  6d.  per  ounce  of 
standard  bullion. 

After  May  i,  1821,  and  until  May  i, 
1823,  the  rate  of  payment  should  be 
£3  17 s.  io\d.  per  ounce,  or  the  mint 
price  of  bullion,  giving  two  years  dur- 
ing which  the  notes  of  the  Bank  should 
be  maintained  at  par  in  bullion,  before 
payments  in  cash  or  coin  should  be 
undertaken.  After  May  i,  1823,  the 
Bank  must  redeem  in  coin. 

Within  the  first  period  mentioned, 
the  Bank  might  pay,  if  it  chose,  at  a 
rate  less  than  £4  is.,  but  not  less  than 
;£  3  19 s.  6d.  on  giving  three  days'  no- 
tice ;  and  in  the  second  period  it  might 
pay  at  a  rate  not  less  than  ^3  17  s.  io\d. 
If  it  once  lowered  the  rate,  however, 
it  had  no  permission  to  raise  it  again. 

The  payments  of  the  Bank  were  to 
be  made  in  bars  or  ingots  of  sixty 
ounces  each,  and  fractional  sums  of 
less  than  the  value  of  forty  ounces  in 
silver  coin. 

All  former  restrictions  upon  trade  in 
bullion  and  coin  were  totally  repealed. 

Such  were  the  essential  details  of  the 
law  known  as  "  Peel's  sliding  scale," 
under  which  the  resumption  of  specie 
payments  was  accomplished  in  Eng- 
land. It  encountered  considerable  re- 
sistance, both  in  Parliament  and  out, 
its  chief  opponents  being  a  party  which 
maintained  ideas  corresponding  with 
those  now  inculcated  in  this  country  by 
Mr.  Pendleton  and  his  disciples.  These 
persons  objected  to  the  restoration  of 
the  ancient  metallic  standard  of  value, 


upon  the  ground  that  the  vast  debt  of 
the  nation,  and  the  great  amount  of  pri- 
vate obligations  incurred  during  the 
previous  twenty-two  years,  had  been 
contracted  in  a  depreciated  currency, 
and  could  only  with  justice  be  paid  by 
the  same  measure  ;  that  the  restoration 
of  the  old  standard  after  twenty-two 
years  of  suspension,  became  a  public 
and  private  fraud.  They  contended 
that  the  Bank  should  regulate  the  pay- 
ment of  its  notes,  not  by  a  fixed  stand- 
ard, but  by  the  price  of  gold,  whatever 
it  might  be.  Then,  as  now,  however, 
these  specious  arguments  were  power- 
less to  corrupt  the  better  sense  of  pub- 
lic honesty  which  prevailed,  or  to  con- 
fuse in  the  minds  of  the  majority  a 
shrewd  perception  of  the  folly  of  at- 
tempting to  carry  on  a  successful  for- 
eign commerce  with  a  currency  hot 
conformed  to  the  common  standard  of 
exchangeable  value.  Mr.  Peel  in  his 
speech  said  :  "  It  is  in  vain  to  think  that 
foreign  nations  can  be  imposed  upon 
by  such  a  deception,  or  that  in  their 
dealings  with  us  they  will  not  calculate 
upon  the  depreciation."  To  that  con- 
sideration, at  least,  there  was  no  answer 
to  be  made. 

The  bill  passed  Parliament  without 
a  division  in  May,  1819.  At  the  time 
of  its  passage,  the  difference  to  be 
overcome  between  value  in  paper  mon- 
ey and  in  gold  was  asserted  by  Mr. 
Ricardo  and  other  economists  to  be  no 
more  than  five  per  cent.  They  were 
betrayed  into  a  great  mistake,  however, 
by  accepting  the  market  price  of  bul- 
lion as  a  true  index  of  that  difference. 
Had  it  really  been  so,  the  transition  to 
cash  payments  would  have  been  easily 
and  safely  accomplished.  Within  three 
months  after  the  passage  of  the  act.  the 
market  price  of  bullion  had  fallen  to 
the  mint  price,  and  the  accumulation  of 
gold  by  the  Bank  was  so  rapid  that 
early  in  1821  —  two  years  in  advance 
of  the  time  fixed  by  law  —  it  asked 
and  obtained  permission  to  resume 
payments  in  cash.  But  meantime 
mischievous  consequences  had  been 
wrought,  in  which  the  real  length  of 
the  leap  taken  to  solid  ground  was  dis- 


Our  Money  Problem. 


closed.  A  ruinous  fall  of  prices  set  in 
simultaneously  with  the  passage  of 
the  Bank  Act,  and  failures  in  every 
department  of  business  followed  thick 
and  fast  throughout  the  year.  Wheth- 
er these  were  consequences  or  coinci- 
dences remains  to  this  day  a  question 
in  dispute  between  different  writers  in 
England.  But  there  can  hardly  be  a 
reasonable  doubt  that,  although  the 
general  fall  of  prices  may  have  been 
considerably  helped  by  the  occurrence 
of  a  heavy  harvest,  and  although  the 
results  of  excessive  importation  may 
have  been  inevitable  in  any  event,  the 
commercial  disasters  of  1819  were 
mainly,  nevertheless,  the  immediate 
consequence  of  the  anticipation  of  di- 
minished nominal  values,  produced  by 
the  passage  of  the  Bank  Act. 

Six  years  afterwards,  when  the  oper- 
ation of  the  act  was  made  a  subject  of 
Parliamentary  investigation,  the  Direc- 
tors of  the  Bank  of  England  asserted 
that  no  contraction  of  currency  took 
place  under  it,  and  that  it  had  no  prac- 
tical effect  upon  resumption.  Mr. 
Tooke  also  claims,  I  believe,  that  the 
circulation  of  notes  and  coin  in  1822 
was  actually  greater  than  the  circula- 
tion of  notes  in  1819.  But  if  it  be  true 
that  no  contraction  of  currency  took 
place,  then  all  the  more  marked  do  we 
see  the  moral  effect  of  the  apprehen- 
sion of  it,  and  the  practical  mischief  of 
the  sudden  preparation  of  every  busi- 
ness man  for  a  new  system  of  things 
ordered  and  fixed  in  time  by  an  act  of 
legislation.  The  contrivance  of  the 
sliding  scale  of  resumption  obviously 
worked  with  no  appreciable  effect  in  the 
manner  intended,  and  failed  utterly  to 
distribute  the  strain  of  the  transition 
from  one  measure  of  values  to  another 
over  a  protracted  period  of  time.  So  far 
as  can  be  discovered,  the  passage  was 
accomplished  no  less  by  one  perilous 
leap  than  if  the  act  had  omitted  alto- 
gether its  careful  scale,  and  had  com- 
manded resumption  absolute  to  take 
place  on  the  first  day  of  January  fol- 
lowing. If  the  whole  shock  of  transi- 
tion was  not  felt  in  1819,  the  little  that 
was  spared  must  have  gone  into  the 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  151.  40 


tremendous  revulsion  of  1825,  only' 
six  years  afterwards,  which  is  re- 
membered as  one  of  the  most  destruc- 
tive financial  catastrophes  that  Eng- 
land ever  knew.  It  is  claimed  that 
Mr.  Ricardo,  before  he  died,  acknowl- 
edged that  he  had  been  entirely  mis- 
taken in  supposing  that  the  return  to 
cash  payments  would  make  no  more 
than  five  per  cent  difference  in  the 
value  of  the  currency,  confessing  that 
the  fall  of  prices  had  shown  it  to  have 
been  not  less  than  twenty-five. 

And  now  that  we  have  reviewed  the 
history  of  the  long  experience  through 
which  England  passed  with  an  incon- 
vertible and  depreciated  paper  currency, 
what  conclusions  can  we  deduce  from 
it  that  will  apply  to  the  treatment  of 
our  own  corresponding  case  ?  Can 
they  be  such  as  will  favor  the  plans  of 
those  who  would  arbitrarily  compel  the 
restoration  of  specie  payments,  either 
by  an  act  of  Congress  fixing  some  cer- 
tain date  on  and  after  which  the  banks 
and  the  government  shall  pay  their  ob- 
ligations in  coin,  or  by  an  act  of  Con- 
gress establishing  a  graduated  scale  of 
rates  at  which  notes  shall  be  exchanged 
for  coin,  diminishing  from  month  to 
month  until  all  difference  between  the 
two  is  extinguished  ?  I  think  not,  and 
for  several  reasons  :  — 

1.  The  operation  of  the  restoring  act 
of  1819  in  England  was  preceded  by 
one  great  collapse   of  the   bubble  of 
inflation,  and   yet,  after   that,  was   ac- 
companied by  a  repetition  of  disaster 
throughout  the  kingdom. 

2.  Although  the  actual  transposition 
of  values  to  be  made  in  our  case,  as 
we  now  stand,  seems,  by  the  compari- 
son of  general  prices,  to  be  not  far  from 
the  same  that  it  was  in  England  in  1819, 
yet  the    apparent  difference   in   value 
between  coin  and  paper  currency  is  far 
greater,  and  the  practical  difficulties  of 
an  enforced  resumption  are  complicated 
with  us  by  that  speculative  or  gambling 
employment  of  gold  in  the  market  for 
which  no  opportunity  was   allowed  in 
England. 

3.  It  is  plain  that  after  1815  the  re- 


626 


The  Duel  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons. 


[May, 


sumption  of  specie  payments  would 
have  naturally  followed  in  no  long 
course  of  time,  without  other  interfer- 
ence by  Parliament  than  the  repeal  of 
its  restriction,  if  the  issues  of  the  Eng- 
lish banks  had  been  restrained  within 
any  limit,  and  had  not  been  free  to  re- 
expand  themselves  at  will.  In  our 
case  the  currency  has  that  limitation, 
and  every  inch  we  have  gained  in  the 
return  toward  substantial  values  we 
have  held  by  reason  of  it. 

4.  The  effect  of  contraction  which 
for  England  was  to  be  produced  in  no 
other  way  than  by  the  disastrous  oper- 
ation of  a  great  commercial  catastrophe, 
we  have  had  more  fortunately  prepared 
for  us.  The  restored  South  since  1865 
has  been  gradually  absorbing  millions 
of  the  currency  which  before  that  found 
its  circulation  in  the  Northern  States 
alone.  The  new  system  of  free  labor 
now  fairly  established  in  that  section 
requires,  for  the  payment  of  wages 
and  for  the  more  complicated  modes 
of  dealing  introduced,  a  far  more  con- 
siderable use  of  circulating  money  than 
was  needed  in  the  old  slaveholding  era ; 
so  that,  month  by  month,  as  the  de- 
velopment of  a  prosperous  industry 
goes  on,  the  South  is  acting  like  a 


thirsty  sponge  upon  our  currency, 
drinking  up  the  excess.  The  same 
process  goes  on  in  the  expanding  West, 
and  in  those  great  mid-Territories  into 
which  trade  has  been  carried  by  the 
opening  of  the  transcontinental  line  of 
rail.  Nevada  and  California,  too,  on 
the  farther  slope,  monetarily  isolated 
from  us  hitherto,  are  preparing  them- 
selves for  some  use,  at  least,  of  the 
lawful  currency  of  the  nation,  as  the 
necessary  consequence  of  a  closer  com- 
mercial intimacy.  More  than  the  effect- 
ual contraction  of  currency  produced  in 
this  natural  way  by  a  steadily  expand- 
ing need  the  country  cannot  bear  with- 
out disaster. 

If  there  is,  then,  a  lesson  to  be  drawn 
from  the  history  that  we  have  reviewed, 
in  its  comparison  with  the  circum- 
stances of  our  own  monetary  situation, 
I  should  write  it  thus  :  Let  the  curren- 
cy alone,  and  wait  a  little  for  the  needs 
of  the  country  to  grow  until  they  have 
stretched  this  shrunken  paper  out  to  the 
full  dimensions  of  the  ancient  standard 
of  value.  It  will  be  but  a  year  or  two, 
—  America  grows  fast,  —  and  we  can 
better  afford  to  wait  than  to  risk  the 
production  of  a  ruinous  catastrophe  by 
impatient  force. 


THE    DUEL    OF    THE    SPANISH    BOURBONS. 
(LETTER  FROM  MADRID.) 


IF  there  is  one  fact  which  shows  more 
clearly  than  others  the  lack  of  mod- 
ern civilization  in  Spain,  it  is  the  con- 
tinued subservience  of  the  better  class- 
es to  the  point  of  honor.  In  England 
the  duel  has  fallen  into  the  same  dis- 
repute in  which  it  is  held  in  America. 
In  Germany  it  is  given  over  to  boys. 
In  France  it  is  a  rare  occurrence  that 
a  gentleman  fights.  The  daily  rencoun- 
ters in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  are  inva- 
riably among  journalists  and  jockeys,  — 
men  uncertain  of  their  position  and 
standing,  who  feel  in  their  uneasy  self- 


consciousness  the  necessity  to  donner 
des  preuves.  The  hired  bravo  of  the 
Empire  is  Mr.  Paul  de  Cassagnac, 
whose  real  name  is  Paul  Granier.  He 
has  fought  six  duels  with  men  who  called 
him  by  his  proper  name,  and  the  press 
of  Paris  has  been  cowed  into  accepting 
his  usurped  agnomen.  He  has  great 
coolness,  great  skill  in  the  use  of  arms, 
great  readiness  of  foul  invective,  but 
there  is  probably  no  man  in  Paris  less 
respected,  unless  we  except  his  Impe- 
rial master. 

But  in  Spain  the  duel  is  the  resort  of 


1870.] 


The  Duel  of  the  SpanisJi  Bourbons. 


627 


gentlemen.  The  point  of  honor  is  ab- 
solute in  society.  The  phrase  itself 
has  been  used  so  much,  that  its  angles 
have  been  worn  off  and  the  three  words 
rubbed  into  one,  —  pundonor  (punto  de 
honor].  Not  satisfied  with  that,  the 
Spaniards  have  started  from  the  basis 
of  this  barbarous  abbreviation  to  build 
an  adjective,  pundonoroso,  which  con- 
veys the  highest  compliment  you  can 
pay  to  a  cavalier  of  Castile.  To  be 
touchy  and  quarrelsome,  —  bizarre,  as 
they  term  it,  —  is  the  sure  index  of  a 
noble  spirit.  If  you  are  not  bellicose 
yourself,  you  must  at  least  always  be 
ready  to  accept  a  quarrel  with  alac- 
rity. This  is  a  corv<fe  to  which  every 
one  is  subject  who  pretends  to  be  in 
the  world. 

You  must  not  be  too  nice,  either,  in 
the  choice  of  an  adversary.  The  son 
of  one  of  the  most  important  families 
of  the  kingdom  was  recently  killed  in 
a  duel  with  a  man  of  greatly  inferior 
social  position.  The  Governor  of  the 
Philippine  Islands  fought  a  few  weeks 
ago  with  a  young  clerk,  whom  he  had 
imprisoned  at  Manilla  for  not  taking 
off  his  hat  when  His  Excellency  passed 
by  for  his  airing.  The  clerk  bided  his 
time  and  buffeted  the  Governor  at  the 
door  of  the  Casino  in  Madrid,  and  hence 
the  fight. 

Neither  youth  nor  age  is  a  just  cause 
of  exemption.  Two  gray-haired  lieu- 
tenant-generals went  out  this  winter  for 
a  friendly  interchange  of  shots.  Two 
boys  at  the  military  school  rode  in  from 
Guadalajara  with  their  friends  and 
fought  before  sunrise  in  the  shadow  of 
the  monument  of  the  Dos  de  Mayo  in 
the  Prado.  One  was  left  dead  in  the 
frosty  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  obelisk, 
and  the  rest  mounted  their  horses  and 
hurried  back  to  be  in  time  fc.  morning 
prayers  at  the  college. 

The  duel  is,  therefore,  in  Spain  not 
the  absurd  anachronism  that  it  is  in 
countries  more  advanced.  It  is  a  por- 
tion of  the  life  of  the  people.  It  is  an 
incident  of  the  imperfect  civilization 
which  still  exists  in  the  Peninsula.  It 
is  believed  in  and  respected  as  a  seri- 
ous and  dignified  end  to  a  quarrel. 


There  are  men  who  see  the  utterly  false 
and  illogical  character  of  the  custom  ; 
but  even  these,  while  deploring  it,  do 
not  dare  oppose  it 

It  is  natural,  in  consequence  of  this 
attitude  of  public  opinion  in  the  coun- 
try, that  the  duel  which  has  just  resulted 
in  the  death  of  Prince  Henry  of  Bour- 
bon, at  the  hands  of  his  cousin  the 
Duke  de  Montpensier,  should  meet 
with  very  different  appreciation  in  Mad- 
rid from  that  which  it  receives  in  all 
other  capitals.  Yet  we  cannot  but  be 
pleased  to  see  that  even  here  it  has 
occasioned  wide  discussion,  and  from 
the  standing  of  the  parties  concerned 
has  attained  a  vast  publicity  which 
must  result  in  a  salutary  change  of  pub- 
lic sentiment. 

No  duel  so  important  in  the  position 
of  the  parties,  or  in  probable  results, 
has  taken  place  in  recent  times.  The 
fight  of  Burr  and  Hamilton  alone  is 
to  be  compared  to  it.  The  combatants 
were  both  princes  of  the  blood  royal  of 
Spain  and  France,  —  not  only  high  in 
the  hierarchy  of  two  dethroned  families, 
but  of  great  importance  in  the  actual 
situation,  and  factors  of  value  in  the 
problems  of  the  future.  Both  were  men 
of  mature  age  and  fathers  of  families. 
Montpensier  is  forty-five  and  Prince 
Henry  was  a  year  older.  The  first  is  a 
captain-general  in  the  army,  the  second 
was  an  admiral  in  the  navy.  Both  pro- 
fessed liberal  sentiments.  Both  were 
exiled  before  the  Revolution  as  dan- 
gerous to  the  dynasty,  and  the  battle 
of  Alcolea,  in  which  neither  took  part, 
opened  to  both  the  gates  of  the  coun- 
try. 

Here  the  parallel  ceases.  Montpen- 
sier returned  rich,  powerful,  the  head 
and  hope  of  a  large  and  actfve  party, — 
the  most  prominent  candidate  for  the 
vacant  throne.  Prince  Henry  came 
back  poor,  with  few  friends,  with  no 
interest,  and  so  little  influence  that  the 
government  refused  to  restore  him  to 
his  active  rank  in  the  navy  of  which  he 
had  been  unjustly  stripped  by  the  gov- 
ernment of  Bravo.  He  was  a  man  of 
a  curious  scatter-brained  talent.  He 
had  great  historical  knowledge,  a  bright 


628 


The  Dud  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons. 


[May, 


and  quick  imagination,  and  in  conver- 
sation a  vivid  and  taking  style,  which 
would  have  been  florid  were  it  not  sub- 
dued and  flavored  by  a  dry,  hard  cyni- 
cism, which  found  only  too  inviting  a 
field  of  exercise  in  the  politics  of  his 
country.  He'  was  an  ardent  Republi- 
can, —  of  the  school  of  younger  broth- 
ers, like  Philippe  Egalite',  and  Prince 
Napoleon,  and  Maximilian  of  Austria, 
whose  Republicanism  was  the  fruit  per- 
haps more  of  ennui  and  unemployed 
powers  than  a  profound  conviction. 
It  was  hard  to  resist  the  brilliant  and 
picturesque  talk  of  Prince  Henry  while 
you  were  with  him,  and  yet  no  one 
seemed  to  trust  the  witty  blond  Bour- 
bon, and  Monarchists  and  Republicans 
alike  treated  him  with  cold  civility,  and 
rather  feared  his  assistance.  His  pref- 
erence for  the  Republic  was  frankly 
and  openly  expressed ;  but  "  then,"  he 
would  add  with  the  same  fatal  frankness, 
"we  Republicans  are  not  honest  nor 
sensible  enough  as  yet.  Orense  will 
think  it  an  outrage  if  Castelar  is  presi- 
dent, and  Castelar  will  sulk  if  we  elect 
Orense.  We  cannot  do  without  our 
First  Tenor,  or  our  Heavy  Father. 
We  must  take  refuge  in  the  provisional. 
Espartero  is  our  only  choice.  He  has 
no  brains,  but  he  is  a  nqble  old  figure- 
head, and  will  launch  us  cleverly  on  our 
way  for  a  year  or  two,  and  we  must 
learn  how  to  take  care  of  the  govern- 
ment before  he  dies." 

It  may  easily  be  imagined  that,  with 
such  a  taste  for  the  dangerous  luxury 
of  speaking  his  mind,  Don  Enrique  did 
not  get  on  rapidly  in  favor  with  either  the 
situation  or  the  opposition.  He  would 
not  flatter  the  regency  nor  train  with 
the  Republicans.  If  he  had  confined 
himself  to  talking,  it  would  have  been 
far  better  ;  but  from  time  to  time  he 
found  an  unlucky  pen  in  his  way  and 
issued  preposterous  manifestoes  which 
everybody  read  and  most  people  laughed 
at,  but  which  nevertheless  always  had 
some  uncomfortable  barbs  that  pierced 
and  stayed  in  the  sensitive  vanity  of  men 
whom  he  had  better  have  conciliated. 
So  while  other  inferior  men  got  place 
and  influence,  the  Ex- Infante  was  left 


to  corrode  his  own  heart  in  poverty 
and  neglect.  He  was  too  proud  to  as- 
cribe this  to  anything  but  his  name. 
"  I  have  an  unlucky  name,"  he  would 
say,  "  but  I  did  not  give  it  to  myself, 
and  it  seems  to  me  unworthy  of  a  de- 
mocracy to  proscribe  a  name.  I  am  no 
better  for  being  a  Bourbon  but  —  dame  ! 
I  am  no  worse.  There  are  Bourbons 
and  Bourbons.  They  call  me  descend- 
ant of  Philip  V.  Eh  bien  !  I  am  de- 
scendant of  Henry  IV.  as  well.  I  can- 
not afford  to  hide  my  name,  like  my 
friend  Montpensier."  There  was  some 
little  of  bravado,  even,  in  his  resolving, 
after  the  Revolution,  when  the  walls  of 
Madrid  were  covered  with  curses  on 
his  name,  to  drop  his  title  of  Duke  of 
Seville,  which  he  gave  to  his  son,  and 
to  assume  his  abhorred  patronymic  for 
constant  wear.  Enrique  de  Borbon,  a 
Spanish  citizen,  was  all  the  title  he 
claimed. 

Montpensier  was  always  his  special 
detestation.  There  was  something  in 
the  grave  formal  life  of  the  Duke,  in 
his  wealth,  in  his  intense  respectability, 
that  formed  perhaps  too  striking  a  con- 
trast to  the  somewhat  Bohemian  nature 
of  Don  Enrique.  He  grew  more  and 
more  violent  as  he  saw  his  chances  for 
rehabilitation  in  the  navy  fading  away. 
He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Serrano,  which 
he  sent  through  that  irregular  medium, 
the  public  press,  and  which  caused  great 
wincing  in  high  quarters  by  its  tren- 
chant criticism  and  naive  indiscretion. 
It  is  remembered  that  Montpensier 
read  it  in  Seville  in  his  palace  of  San 
Temlo,  and,  crumpling  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  said,  "  That  man  will  be  my  ruin 
yet."  Don  Enrique  appeared  to  have 
a  like  instinctive  antipathy.  When  in- 
formed that  Montpensier  had  come  to 
Madrid  he  started,  turned  pale,  and 
said,  "  El  dyo  !  "  He  or  I  ! 

The  Duke  passed  through  Madrid 
in  February  on  his  way  to  the  baths  of 
Alhama.  In  Spain  people  go  to  water- 
ing-places when  they  need  the  waters, 
with  a  shocking  disregard  of  fashions 
or  the  calendar.  He  remained  a  few 
weeks  at  Alhama,  and  on  his  way  back 
to  Seville  stopped  at  Madrid,  —  as  if  a 


1 870.] 


The  Duel  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons. 


629 


gentleman  on  his  way  from  New  York  to 
Boston  should  halt  for  a  rest  at  Wash- 
ington. As  in  that  case  you  would  ask 
'•what  he  was  after,"  so  asked  the 
Maclrilefios  of  the  Duke,  although  the 
Castihan  language  lacks  the  graphic 
participial  force  which  we  give  to  that 
useful  abverb.  The  curiosity  grew  so 
irritating  that  Mr.  Cruz  Ochoa,  the 
youthful  Neo-Catholic,  interpellated  the 
government,  sternly  asking  what  the 
Duke  was  doing  in  Madrid.  To  which 
the  government,  speaking  through  the 
phlegmatic  oracle  of  Don  John  Prim, 
replied  that  the  Duke  was  in  Madrid  be- 
cause he  chose  to  be, —  that  Spain  was 
a  free  country,  and  the  Duke  of  Mont- 
pensier  was  a  soldier  on  leave,  and 
could  fix  his  domicile  where  he  liked. 
The  only  thing  noticeable  in  the  speech 
of  Prim  was  that  he  called  the  Duke 
Don  Antonio  de  Borbon,  whereas  the 
Duke  calls  himself,  and  all  that  love 
him  call  him,  Orleans. 

His  position  thus,  in  a  manner,  made 
regular  and  normal  by  the  explanations 
of  the  government,  Montpensier  began 
a  course  of  life  which,  though  unobjec- 
tionable in  itself,  was  calculated  to  an- 
noy his  enemies  beyond  measure.  It 
was  the  season  of  Lent,  and  he  went 
regularly  to  church.  It  was  the  end  of 
a  hard  winter  in  Madrid,  and  he  fed 
droves  of  paupers  at  his  gate  every 
morning.  It  was  touching  to  see  the 
squalid  army,  encamped  before  his 
pretty  palace  in  the  Fuencarral,  pa- 
tiently waiting  for  the  stout  angel  to 
come  and  give  them  bread.  The  lau- 
rels of  Peabody  seemed  to  trouble  his 
sleep.  He  projected  a  home  for  indi- 
gent printers,  and  asked  the  municipal 
government  for  some  vacant  lots  to 
build  it  on.  The  municipal  govern- 
ment promptly  refused,  but  the  indi- 
gent printers  felt  kindlier  to  Mont- 
pensier than  before.  The  ragged  and 
hungry  squad  he  fed  day  by  day  were 
all  voters  too  ;  and  noisy  and  unem- 
ployed, of  the  class  who  could  afford 
to  devote  all  their  leisure,  which  is  to 
say  all  their  waking  hours,  to  poli- 
tics. 

That  there  was  something  like  a  panic 


among  the  opponents  of  the  Duke  is 
undeniable.  After  his  defeat  last  win- 
ter for  Oviedo,  he  had  seemed  so  utter- 
ly impossible  as  a  candidate,  that  the 
attacks  on  him  had  become  less  fre- 
quent. But  now  he  seemed  to  be  re- 
gaining that  faint  appearance  of  popu- 
larity which  might  be  used  as  a  jus- 
tification of  a  sudden  election  by  the 
government  and  Cortes.  He  was  the 
only  candidate,  —  he  had  at  least  one 
ardent  supporter  in  Admiral  Topete, — 
he  needed  watching. 

All  this  inflamed  to  the  highest  point 
the  animosity  of  Prince  Henry.  He 
could  not  brook  even  the  tepid  good- 
will his  wealthy  cousin  was  gaining  in 
Madrid.  He  listened  to  imprudent  or 
interested  advisers, — it  is  widely  ru- 
mored that  the  first  impulse  started 
from  the  Tuileries,  —  and  resolved  to 
put  upon  Montpensier  an  affront  which, 
by  the  canons  of  Spanish  honor,  could 
only  be  met  by  a  challenge  a  mort. 
Henry  was  a  brave  man,  but  he  had  ac- 
customed himself  to  thinking  so  highly 
of  Montpensier's  prudence  and  so  ill 
of  his  spirit,  that  he  probably  thought 
the  insult  would  pass  unnoticed.  The 
same  opinion  was  openly  entertained 
and  expressed  by  the  entire  Isabelino 
and  Napoleon  interest  in  Madrid. 

It  was  probably,  therefore,  with  no 
apprehension  and  little  excitement  that 
Don  Enrique  wrote  and  published  that 
extraordinary  manifesto  to  the  Mont- 
pensierists,  in  which  he  declared  him- 
self not  only  not  subservient  to  the 
Duke,  but  his  decided  political  enemy, 
with  a  profound  contempt  for  him  per- 
sonally ;  and  further  denounced  Mont- 
pensier as  a  charlatan  in  politics,  and 
ended  by  calling  him  a  "bloated 
French  pastry-cook." 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  man  of 
sense  taking  so  absurd  a  document 
seriously.  Yet  all  Madrid  was  in  a  flur- 
ry of  excitement  over  it.  The  question 
asked  everywhere  in  the  places  where 
the  idlers  congregate  was,  "Will  he 
fight  ?  "  And  upon  the  answer  depend- 
ed the  good  name  of  Montpensier  in 
Spain.  The  two  or  three  days  that 
elapsed  before  the  duel  showed  plainly 


630 


The  Duel  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons. 


[May, 


that  he  was  falling  in  public  estimation 
by  his  presumed  patience. 

The  patience  was  only  apparent. 
As  soon  as  the  paper  fell  into  his  hands 
he  sent  his  aide-de-camp  to  ask  Don 
Enrique  if  it  was  genuine.  The  In- 
fante promptly  sent  him  a  copy  with 
his  autograph  signature,  avowing  his 
full  responsibility.  The  case  was  made 
up.  The  cousins  were  face  to  face,  and, 
under  the  rules  that  both  recognized, 
neither  could  recede.  The  next  step 
of  either  must  be  over  the  prostrate 
body  of  the  other. 

The  first  proceeding  of  Montpensier 
was  excessively  politic.  Instead  of  se- 
lecting his  seconds  from  among  his  own 
personal  and  political  friends,  he  sent  for 
General  Alaminos,  the  bosom  friend  of 
Prim,  a  leading  Progresista,  belonging 
to  the  faction  which  has  been  hitherto 
most  hostile  to  the  Orleans  candida- 
ture. He  associated  with  him  General 
Cordova  —  the  venerable  Inspector- 
General  of  Infantry,  a  man  of  great 
and  merited  influence  in  the  army  — 
and  Colonel  Solis. 

These  veterans  carried  to  the  house 
of  Prince  Henry  the  hostile  message  of 
his  relative.  Several  days  elapsed  be- 
fore Don  Enrique  responded.  The  de- 
lay was  occasioned,  partly  by  his  con- 
sulting the  Masonic  fraternity,  of  which 
he  was  a  member  of  high  rank,  —  of  the 
33d  degree, —  and  whose  sanction  he 
received  in  the  matter ;  and  partly  by 
the  difficulty  he  found  in  procuring 
men  of  character  and  position  to  act  as 
his  seconds.  Several  grandees  of  Spain 
refused,  —  a  circumstance  unheard  of 
in  their  annals.  At  last  three  Republi- 
can deputies  consented  to  act.  But 
they  put  in  writing  their  protest  against 
being  considered  as  in  the  least  re- 
sponsible for  the  acts  or  opinions  of 
their  principal.  This  evident  isolation 
seems  powerfully  to  have  impressed 
the  unfortunate  Prince. 

The  duel  took  place  at  eleven  o'clock, 
in  a  desolate  sandy  plain  southwest  of 
the  city,  used  as  a  ground  for  artillery 
practice.  The  officers  on  duty  gathered 
round  to  enjoy  this  agreeable  distrac- 
tion from  the  monotony  of  garrison  life. 


Sentries  were  posted  at  convenient 
distances  to  keep  away  any  officers 
of  the  law  who  might  be  prowling 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  to  check 
the  curiosity  of  the  peasants  of  the 
vicinity,  who  had  no  right  to  be  curi- 
ous in  affairs  of  honor.  The  parties 
were  placed  ten  metres  apart  in  the 
stubble,  which  was  beginning  to  grow 
green  with  the  coming  spring.  Fortune 
was  obstinately  favorable  to  Don  En- 
rique. He  won  the  choice  of  pistols, 
choice  of  ground,  and  the  first  shot. 
The  Duke,  a  large  and  powerful  man, 
stood  before  him  with  his  arms  folded. 
His  seconds  had  difficulty  in  making 
him  assume  an  attitude  more  en  regie. 
Don  Enrique  fired  and  missed.  Mont- 
pensier fired  and  missed.  The  Infante 
fired  again,  with  the  same  result. 
Montpensier  fired  the  second  time,  and 
his  bullet  struck  the  barrel  of  Prince 
Henry's  pistol,  splitting,  and  tearing 
his  coat  with  the  fragments.  At  this 
point  Montpensier's  veteran  seconds 
thought  the  affair  might  be  properly 
terminated.  But  the  other  party,  after 
consultation,  decided  that  the  condi- 
tions of  the  meeting  were  not  yet  ful- 
filled. 

There  seems  a  cool  ferocity  about 
this  decision  of  Don  Enrique's  seconds 
that  is  hard  to  comprehend  out  of 
Spain.  If  a  duel  is  necessary,  it  must 
be  serious.  A  great  scandal  was  made 
a  short  time  ago  by  two  generals  going 
out  to  settle  a  difference,  supported  by 
three  other  generals  on  a  side ;  and 
on  the  ground  they  were  reconciled, 
without  a  shot,  by  one  of  the  seconds 
throwing  his  arms  around  their  necks 
and  saying  that  Spain  had  need  of  them, 
—  two  such  gallant  fellows  must  not  cut 
each  other's  throats  for  a  trifle.  The 
party  came  in  to  breakfast  in  great  glee, 
but  all  Madrid  frowned  ominously,  and 
will  not  forgive  them  for  forgiving  each 
other.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have 
heard  Spanish  gentlemen  speak  with 
great  enthusiasm  of  the  handsome  be- 
havior in  a  recent  duel  of  two  naval 
officers  of  high  rank,  intimate  friends, 
who  had  quarrelled  over  their  cups. 
They  fought  twenty  paces  apart,  to  ad- 


1 870.] 


The  Duel  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons. 


631 


vance  to  a  central  line  and  fire  at  will. 
One  walked  forward,  and  when  near 
the  line  the  other  fired  and  hit  him. 
The  wounded  man  staggered  to  the 
line  and  said :  "  I  am  dead.  Come 
thou  up  and  be  killed."  The  other 
came  up  until  he  touched  the  muzzle 
of  his  adversary's  pistol,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment both  were  dead,  —  like  gentlemen, 
added  my  informant. 

It  is  possible  that  another  motive 
may  have  entered  into  the  considera- 
tions of  the  Republican  deputies  who 
stood  as  godfathers  —  for  this  is  the 
name  given  to  these  witnesses  in  Spain 
—  to  Prince  Henry.  They  could  not 
help  thinking  that  if  Montp'ensier  fell, 
he  would  be  safely  out  of  the  way  ; 
and  if  he  killed  his  cousin,  he  would 
be  greatly  embarrassed  by  it. 

However  this  may  be,  they  stood  up 
for  another  shot,  Prince  Henry  a  little 
disordered  by  the  shock  of  the  last 
bullet.  "  The  Duke  has  got  my  range," 
he  said.  He  fired  and  missed.  Mont- 
pensier,  who  had  remained  perfectly 
cool,  fired,  and  Don  Enrique  turned 
slowly  and  fell,  his  life  oozing  out  of  a 
wound  in  the  right  temple,  and  staining 
his  flaxen  curls  and  the  dry  stubble 
and  the  tender  grass. 

Montpensier,  when  it  was  too  late, 
began  to  think  of  what  he  had  done. 
When  informed  of  the  death  of  his 
cousin,  he  was  terribly  agitated,  so  that 
Dr.  Rubio,  who  was  one  of  Don  En- 
rique's seconds,  thought  best  to  accom- 
pany the  Duke  to  his  palace.  When 
they  reached  the  gate  the  Duke  could 
scarcely  walk  to  his  door.  When  the 
crowd  of  mendicants  saw  him  leaning 
heavily  on  the  arm  of  the  physician, 
they  concluded  he  was  wounded,  and 
burst  out  in  loud  lamentation,  fearing 
that  the  end  of  his  bread-giving  was 
near. 

In  an  hour  the  whole  city  was  buzz- 
ing with  the  news.  The  first  impres- 
sion was  singularly  illogical.  Every 
one  spoke  kindly  of  Montpensier,  and 
every  one  said  he  had  lost  his  chance 
of  the  crown.  But  the  general  feeling 
was  one  of  respect  for  the  man  who 
would  toss  away  so  brilliant  a  tempta- 


tion at  the  call  of  honor.  His  prestige 
among  army  people  was  certainly  im- 
proved. It  seems  that  not  a  single 
voice  was  raised  against  him.  The 
day  had  been  fixed  for  the  interpella- 
tion of  Castelar.  He  heard  of  the 
duel  a  few  minutes  before  the  session 
opened,  and  was  compelled  to  change 
the  entire  arrangement  of  his  speech  to 
avoid  referring  to  Montpensier. 

When  the  evening  journals  appeared, 
the  same  dignified  reticence  was  ob- 
served. The  Universal,  which  had 
been  attacking  Montpensier  daily  for 
months,  stated  in  a  paragraph  of  one 
line  that  the  Infante  Don  Enrique  had 
died  suddenly  that  morning.  The 
Epoca,  the  organ  of  the  restoration, 
went  further,  and  announced  that  the 
Prince  was  accidentally  shot  while  try- 
ing a  pair  of  pistols  in  the  Campa- 
mento.  The  widely  circulated  Corre- 
spondencia  made  no  mention  whatever 
of  the  occurrence. 

But  the  next  day  it  became  evident 
that  the  traditional  treatment  of  silence 
could  not  be  followed  in  this  case.  The 
Republican  journals,  without  exception, 
made  the  incident  the  occasion  of  se- 
vere and  extended  comment.  It  was 
plain  that  the  Spain  of  tradition  and 
decorum  had  ceased  to  exist ;  that  the 
democracy  proclaimed  by  the  Consti- 
tution was  a  living  fact ;  and  that  this 
event,  like  all  others,  was  to  be  submit- 
ted to  the  test  of  publicity.  Heretofore 
it  has  never  been  the  custom  for  news- 
papers to  make  any  mention  of  duels. 
When  death  resulted,  a  notice  was  pub- 
lished in  the  usual  form,  announcing 
the  decease  of  the  departed  by  apo- 
plexy, or  some  equally  efficient  agency, 
and  no  journal  has  ever  dared  hint  a 
doubt  of  it.  But  in  this  instance  the 
organs  of  absolutism  and  the  advocates 
of  the  fallen  dynasty  vie  with  the  Re- 
publicans in  condemning  an  act  that 
they  hope  may  be  used  for  their  espe- 
cial ends.  As  the  hidalgos  refused 
to  act  as  Prince  Henry's  witnesses  be- 
cause he  was  a  Democrat,  so  the  Bour- 
bon newspapers  call  for  justice  on 
Montpensier  because  he  is  an  aspirant 
for  a  throne  they  claim. 


632 


The  Duel  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons. 


[May, 


I  cannot  help  thinking  that  this 
shows  progress.  Party  spirit  is  an 
incident  of  a  better  civilization  than 
chivalry. 

The  first  judicial  proceedings  were 
eminently  characteristic.  The  gentle- 
men who  witnessed  the  duel  went  be- 
fore the  Judge  of  Getafe,  within  whose 
jurisdiction  the  event  occurred,  and 
testified  upon  their  honor  and  con- 
science, each  with  his  hand  on  the  hilt 
of  his  sabre,  that  the  death  of  Don  En- 
rique Maria  Fernando  de  Borbon  was 
pure  accident ;  that  he  went  out  with 
his  well-beloved  cousin,  my  Lord  of 
Montpensier,  to  try  some  new  pis- 
tols ;  that  while  they  were  trying  them 
one  was  unpremeditatedly  discharged, 
and  the  ball  entered  the  head  of  the 
said  Don  Enrique,  causing  his  un- 
timely death  ;  that  my  Lord  of  Mont- 
pensier was  overwhelmed  with  grief 
at  this  mournful  fatality,  and  was  un- 
able to  appear  and  testify.  This  was 
the  solemn  statement  of  two  veteran 
generals,  gray-headed  and  full  of  hon- 
ors, who  would  have  the  life  of  their 
brother,  if  he  cast  a  doubt  on  their 
veracity. 

But  if  the  truth  was  considered  too 
precious  to  be  wasted  on  a  lawyer  and 
a  civilian,  they  did  not  spare  it  in  re- 
porting the  facts  to  the  Minister  of 
War,  President  of  the  Council,  acting 
Autocrat  of  all  the  Spains,  John  Prim. 
He  heard  the  whole  story,  said  every- 
thing was  regular,  and  advised  them  all 
to  keep  quiet  a  day  or  two,  and  the 
town  would  forget  it,  and  the  clatter  of 
tongues  would  cease. 

The  people  of  Madrid,  the  lower 
classes,  who  from  the  mere  fact  of 
being  wretched  should  sympathize  with 
the  unfortunate,  gathered  in  great 
masses  around  the  house  where  Prince 


Henry  lay.  It  was,  perhaps,  not  so 
much  sympathy  as  the  morbid  appetite 
for  horrors,  so  common  in  the  Celtic 
races.  It  is  probable  that  many  of 
these  beggars  came  full  of  meat  from 
Montpensier's  palace  gate,  to  howl  for 
vengeance  on  him  at  the  modest  door 
of  his  dead  rival. 

Every  means  was  taken  to  make  the 
funeral  a  political  demonstration,  with 
indifferent  success.  Placards  were 
posted,  inviting  all  Spaniards  to  come 
and  do  honor  to  a  Spaniard  who  had 
died  to  vindicate  the  honor  and  inde- 
pendence of  his  country.  On  his  house 
a  verse,  equally  deficient  in  reason  and 
rhyme,  was  posted,  importing,  "  Here 
lived  a  Spaniard,  the  only  loyal  Bour- 
bon, who,  foF  telling  the  truth,  died  on 
the  field  of  honor."  A  great  crowd  of 
idlers  followed  the  Prince  to  his  grave 
But  the  means  taken  to  attract  the 
crowd  kept  away  the  better  class.  Mr. 
Luis  Blanc,  a  man  born  with  a  pre- 
destinate name,  made  a  little  speech  at 
the  cemetery,  in  which  he  explained  his 
presence  there,  by  saying  he  came  to 
the  funeral  of  a  Spanish  citizen  slain 
by  a  Frenchman. 

If  all  this  excitement  results  in  sub- 
jecting duelling  in  "Spain  to  the  severe 
judgment  of  the  press,  and  the  impartial 
cognizance  of  the  tribunals,  Don  En- 
rique will  have  done  more  good  in  his 
death  than  he  could  have  done  in  life. 

In  a  wider  sense,  there  will  be  an- 
other result  to  this  honorable  fratricide 
that  the  world  will  not  greatly  regret. 
It  places  another  barrier  between  Bour- 
bons and  thrones.  I  do  not  ignore 
the  merits  of  the  Orleans  branch. 
There  are  good  and  bad  Bourbons, 
and  they  are  the  best  But  the  whole 
family  has  been  judged  by  history,  and 
the  case  had  better  not  be  reopened. 


1870.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


633 


REVIEWS   AND   LITERARY   NOTICES. 


The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  other 
Stories.  By  FR.  BRET  HARTE.  Boston  : 
Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

THE  most  surprising  things  in  that  very 
surprising  publication,  "  The  Overland 
Monthly,"  have  been  the  stories  or  studies 
of  early  California  life,  in  which  Mr.  Harte 
carried  us  back  to  the  remote  epochs  of 
1849  and  1850,  and  made  us  behold  men 
and  manners  now  passing  or  wholly  passed 
away,  as  he  tells  us.  Readers  who  were 
amazed  by  the  excellent  quality  of  the  whole 
magazine  were  tempted  to  cry  out  most  of 
all  over  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  and 
the  subsequent  papers  by  the  same  hand, 
and  to  triumph  in  a  man  who  gave  them 
something  new  in  fiction.  We  had  reason 
indeed  to  be  glad  that  one  capable  of  seeing 
the  grotesqueness  of  that  strange  life,  and 
also  of  appreciating  its  finer  and  softer 
aspects,  had  his  lot  cast  in  it  by  the  be- 
nign destiny  that  used  to  make  great  rivers 
run  by  large  towns,  and  that  now  sends 
lines  of  railway  upon  the  same  service. 
But  we  incline  to  think  that  nothing  worth 
keeping  is  lost,  and  that  the  flower  born  to 
blush  unseen  is  pretty  sure  to  be  botanized 
from  a  bud  up  by  zealous  observers.  These 
blossoms  of  the  revolver-echoing  canon,  the 
embattled  diggings,  the  lawless  flat,  and 
the  immoral  bar  might  well  have  been  be- 
lieved secure  from  notice,  and  were  perhaps 
the  last  things  we  should  have  expected  to 
unfold  themselves  under  such  eyes  as  Mr. 
Harte's.  Yet  this  happened,  and  here  we 
have  them  in  literature  not  overpainted,  but 
given  with  all  their  natural  colors  and  text- 
ures, and  all  their  wildness  and  strangeness 
of  place. 

The  finest  thing  that  could  be  said  of 
an  author  in  times  past  was  that  he  dealt 
simply,  directly,  and  briefly  with  his  reader, 
and  we  cannot  say  anything  different  about 
Mr.  Harte,  though  we  are  sensible  that 
he  is  very  different  from  others,  and  at  his 
best  is  quite  a  unique  figure  in  American 
authorship,  not  only  that  he  writes  of  un- 
hackneyed things,  but  that  he  looks  at  the 
life  he  treats  in  uncommon  lights.  What 
strikes  us  most  is  the  entirely  masculine 
temper  of  his  mind,  or  rather  a  habit  of  con- 
cerning himself  with  things  that  please  only 
men.  We  suppose  women  generally  would 
not  find  his  stories  amusing  or  touching, 


though  perhaps  some  woman  with  an  un- 
usual sense  of  humor  would  feel  the  ten- 
derness, the  delicacy,  and  the  wit  that  so 
win  the  hearts  of  his  own  sex.  This  is  not 
because  he  deals  often  with  various  unpre- 
sentable people,  for  the  ladies  themselves, 
when  they  write  novels,  make  us  acquainted 
with  persons  of  very  shocking  characters 
and  pursuits,  but  because  he  does  not  touch 
any  of  the  phases  of  vice  or  virtue  that  seem 
to  take  the  fancy  of  women.  We  think  it 
probable  that  none  but  a  man  would  care 
for  the  portrait  of  such  a  gambler  as  Mr. 
John  Oakhursjt,  or  would  discern  the  cun- 
ning touches  with  which  it  is  done,  in  its 
blended  shades  of  good  and  evil ;  and  a 
man  only  could  relish  the  rude  pathos  of 
Tennessee's  partner,  or  of  those  poor,  be- 
wildered, sinful  souls,  The  Duchess  and 
Mother  Shipton.  To  the  masculine  sense 
also  must  chiefly  commend  itself  the  fero- 
cious drollery  of  the  local  nomenclature, 
the  humor  with  which  the  most  awful  epi- 
sodes of  diggings  life  are  invested  by  the 
character  of  the  actors,  and  the  robust  vigor 
and  racy  savor  of  the  miners'  vernacular ; 
not  that  these  are  very  prominent  in  the  sto- 
ries, but  that  they  are  a  certain  and  always 
noticeable  quality  in  them.  Mr.  Harte  could 
probably  write  well  about  any  life  he  saw ; 
but  having  happened  to  see  the  early  Cali- 
fornian  life,  he  gives  it  with  its  proper  cos- 
tume and  accent.  Of  course,  he  does  this 
artistically,  as  we  have  hinted,  and  gets  on 
without  a  great  use  of  those  interconsonan- 
tal  dashes  which  take  the  sinfulness  out  of 
printed  profanity.  You  are  made  somehow 
to  understand  that  the  company  swear  a 
good  deal,  both  men  and  women,  and  are 
not  examples  to  their  sex  in  any  way ;  yet 
they  are  not  offensive,  as  they  might  very 
well  be  in  other  hands,  and  it  is  the  life 
beneath  their  uncouth  exteriors  that  mainly 
interests.  Out  of  this  Mr.  Harte  has  been 
able  to  make  four  or  five  little  romances, 
which  we  should  call  idyls  if  we  did  not 
like  them  better  than  most  recent  poetry, 
and  which  please  us  more  and  more  the 
oftener  we  read  them.  We  do  not  know 
that  they  are  very  strong  in  plot ;  perhaps 
they  are  rather  weak  in  that  direction ;  but 
the  world  has  outlived  the  childish  age 
in  fiction,  and  will  not  value  these  exqui- 
site pieces  the  less  because  they  do  not 
deal  with  the  Thrilling  and  the  Hair's- 


634 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May, 


breadth.  People  are  growing,  we  hope, 
—  and  if  they  are  not,  so  much  the  worse 
for  people,  —  to  prefer  character  to  situa- 
tions, and  to  enjoy  the  author's  revelations 
of  the  former  rather  than  his  invention 
of  the  latter.  At  any  rate,  this  is  what 
is  to  be  liked  in  Mr.  Harte,  who  has  an 
acuteness  and  a  tenderness  in  dealing  with 
human  nature  which  are  quite  his  own,  and 
such  a  firm  and  clear  way  of  handling  his 
materials  as  to  give  a  very  complete  effect 
to  each  of  his  performances. 

Amongst  these  we  think  "  The  Outcasts 
of  Poker  Flat "  is  the  best,  for  the  range  of 
character  is  greater,  and  the  contrasts  are 
all  stronger  than  in  the  others  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  some  sentimentalized  traits,  Mr.  John 
Oakhurst,  gambler,  is  the  best  figure  Mr. 
Harte  has  created,  if,  indeed,  he  did  not 
copy  him  from  life.  The  whole  conception 
of  the  story  is  excellent ;  —  the  banishment 
of  Oakhurst,  Uncle  Billy,  The  Duchess,  and 
Mother  Shipton  from  Poker  Flat,  their  so- 
journ in  the  canon,  where  they  are  joined 
by  the  innocent  Tommy  Simson,  eloping 
with  his  innocent  betrothed ;  Uncle  Billy's 
treacherous  defection  with  the  mule ;  the 
gathering  snows,  the  long  days  spent  round 
the  camp-fire  listening  to  Tommy's  version 
of  Pope's  Homer  ;  the  approaches  of  famine, 
and  the  self-sacrifice  of  those  three  wicked 
ones  for  the  hapless  creatures  whose  lot 
had  been  cast  with  theirs.  As  regards  their 
effort  to  adapt  their  conduct  to  Tommy's 
and  Piney's  misconception  of  their  charac- 
ters and  relations,  the  story  is  a  master- 
piece of  delicate  handling,  and  affecting  as 
it  is  humorous.  Mr.  Harte  does  not  at- 
tempt to  cope  with  the  difficulties  of  bring- 
ing those  curiously  assorted  friends  again 
into  contact  with  the  world ;  and  there  is 
no  lesson  taught,  save  a  little  mercifulness 
of  judgment,  and  a  kindly  doubt  of  total 
depravity.  Perhaps  Oakhurst  would  not, 
in  actual  life,  have  shot  himself  to  save  pro- 
visions for  a  starving  boy  and  girl ;  and 
perhaps  that  poor  ruined  Mother  Shipton 
was  not  really  equal  to  the  act  ascribed 
to  her :  but  Mr.  Harte  contrives  to  have  it 
touch  one  like  the  truth,  and  that  is  all  we 
can  ask  of  him.  "  It  became  more  and 
more  difficult  to  replenish  their  fires,  even 
from  the  fallen  trees  beside  them,  now  half 
hidden  in  the  drifts.  And  yet  no  one  com- 
plained. The  lovers  turned  from  the  dreary 
prospect  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
and  were  happy.  Mr.  Oakhurst  settled 
himself  coolly  to  the  losing  game  before 
him.  The  Duchess,  more  cheerful  than 


she  had  been,  assumed  the  care  of  Piney. 
Only  Mother  Shipton  —  once  the  strongest 
of  the  party  —  seemed  to  sicken  and  fade. 
At  midnight  on  the  tenth  day  she  called 
Oakhurst  to  her  side.  '  I  'm  going,'  she 
said,  in  a  voice  of  querulous  weakness, 
'  but  don't  say  anything  about  it.  Don't 
waken  the  kids.  Take  the  bundle  from 
under  my  head  and  open  it.'  Mr.  Oak- 
hurst did  so.  It  contained  Mother  Ship- 
ton's  rations  for  the  last  week,  untouched. 
'  Give  'em  to  the  child,'  she  said,  pointing 
to  the  sleeping  Piney.  '  You  've  starved 
yourself,'  said  the  gambler.  '  That 's  what 
they  call  it,'  said  the  woman,  querulously, 
as  she  lay  down  again,  and,r  turning  her 
face  to  the  wall,  passed  quietly  away."  v 

Even  in  "  Miggles,"  which  seems  to  us 
the  least  laudable  of  these  stories,  the  au- 
thor, in  painting  a  life  of  unselfish  devotion, 
succeeds  in  keeping  the  reader's  patience 
and  sympathy  by  the  heroine's  unconscious- 
ness of  her  heroism,  and  the  simple  way 
in  which  she  speaks  of  it.  She  has  aban- 
doned her  old  way  of  life  to  take  care  of 
Jim,  a  paralytic,  who  in  happier  days  "  spent 
all  his  money  on  her,"  and  she  is  partially 
hedged  in  by  a  pet  grizzly  bear  which 
goes  about  the  neighborhood  of  her  wild 
mountain  home  with  her.  If  you  can  sup- 
pose the  situation,  the  woman's  character  is 
very  well  done.  When  the  "judge  "  asks 
her  why  she  does  not  marry  the  man  to 
whom  she  has  devoted  her  youthful  life, 
"  Well,  you  see,"  says  Miggles,  "  it  would 
be  playing  it  rather  low  down  on  Jim  to 
take  advantage  of  his  being  so  helpless. 
And  then,  too,  if  we  were  man  and  wife  now, 
we'd  both  know  that  I  was  bound  to  do 
what  I  now  do  of  my  own  accord."  Of 
course  all  the  people  are  well  sketched  ; 
in  fact,  as  to  manners,  Mr.  Harte's  touch  is 
quite  unfailing.  The  humor,  too,  is  good,  as 
it  is  in  all  these  pieces.  Miggles's  house  is 
papered  with  newspapers,  and  she  says  of 
herself  and  Jim  :  "  When  we  are  sitting 
alone,  I  read  him  these  things  on  the  wall. 
Why,  Lord,"  says  Miggles,  with  her  frank 
laugh,  "  I  've  read  him  that  whole  side  of 
the  house  this  winter." 

The  Idyl  of  Red  Gulch  suffers  from  some 
of  the  causes  that  affect  the  sketch  of  Mig- 
gles unpleasantly,  but  it  is  more  natural 
and  probable,  and  the  interview  between 
Miss  Mary  and  Tommy's  mother  is  a  skil- 
ful little  piece  of  work.  But  we  believe  that, 
after  "  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,"  we  have 
the  greatest  satisfaction  in  "  Tennessee's 
Partner,"  though  even  in  this  we  would  fain 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


635 


have  stopped  short  of  having  the  partners 
meet  in  Heaven.  Tennessee  is  a  gambler, 
who  is  also  suspected  of  theft.  He  has  run 
away  with  his  partner's  wife,  and  has  got 
himself  into  trouble  by  robbing  a  stranger 
near  the  immaculate  borders  of  Red  Dog. 
The  citizens  rise  to  take  him,  and  in  his 
flight  he  is  stopped  by  a  small  man  on  a 
gray  horse. 

"The  men  looked  at  each  other  a  mo- 
ment in  silence.  Both  were  fearless,  both 
self-possessed  and  'independent  ;  and  both 
types  of  a  civilization  that  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  would  have  been  called  he- 
roic, but,  in  the  nineteenth,  simply  'reck- 
less.' '  What  have  you  got  there  ?  I  call,' 
said  Tennessee,  quietly.  '  Two  bowers 
and  an  ace,'  said  the  stranger,  as  quietly, 
showing  two  revolvers  and  a  bowie-knife. 
'  That  takes  me,'  returned  Tennessee  ;  and, 
with  this  gamblers'  epigram,  he  threw 
away  his  useless  pistol,  and  rode  back  with 
his  captor." 

Tennessee  refuses  to  make  any  defence 
on  his  trial  before  Judge  Lynch.  "  I  don't 
take  any  hand  in  this  yer  game,"  he  says, 
and  his  partner  appears  in  court  to  buy 
him  off,  to  the  great  indignation  of  the  tri- 
bunal, which  sentences  Tennessee  at  once. 
"  This  yer  is  a  lone  hand  played  alone, 
without  my  pardner,"  remarks  the  unsuc- 
cessful advocate,  turning  to  go,  when  the 
judge  reminds  him  that  if  he  has  anything 
to  say  to  Tennessee  he  had  better  say  it 
now.  "  Tennessee  smiled,  showed  his  white 
teeth,  and  saying,  '  Euchred,  old  man  ! ' 
held  out  his  hand.  Tennessee's  partner 
took  it  in  his  own,  and  saying,  'I  just 
dropped  in  as  I  was  passing  to  see  how 
things  was  getting  on,'  let  the  hand  pas- 
sively fall^  and  adding  that  it  was  '  a  warm 
night,'  again  mopped  his  face  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  without  another  word 
withdrew."  So  Tennessee  was  hanged, 
and  his  body  was  given  to  his  partner,  who 
invited  the  citizens  of  Red  Dog  to  attend 
the  funeral.  The  body  was  borne  to  the 
grave  in  a  coffin  made  of  a  section  of  sluic- 
ing and  placed  on  a  cart  drawn  by  Jinny, 
the  partner's  donkey ;  and  at  the  grave 
this  pathetic  speech  was  made  :  — 

"  '  When  a  man,'  began  Tennessee's  part- 
ner, slowly,  '  has  been  running  free  all  day, 
what 's  the  natural  thing  for  him  to  do  ? 
Why,  to  come  home.  And  if  he  ain't  in  a 
condition  to  go  home,  what  can  his  best 
friend  do  ?  Why,  bring  him  home  !  And 
here  's  Tennessee  has  been  running  free, 
and  we  brings  him  home  from  his  wander- 


ing.' He  paused,  and  picked  up  a  frag- 
ment of  quartz,  rubbed  it  thoughtfully  on 
his  sleeve,  and  went  on  :  '  It  ain't  the  first 
time  that  I  've  packed  him  on  my  back,  as 
you  see'd  me  now.  It  ain't  the  first  time 
that  I  brought  him  to  this  yer  cabin  when 
he  couldn't  help  himself;  it  ain't  the  first 
time  that  I  and  "  Jinny  "  have  waited  for 
him  on  yon  hill,  and  picked  him  up,  and  so 
fetched  him  home,  when  he  could  n't  speak, 
and  did  n't  know  me.  And  now  that  it 's 
the  last  time,  why  —  'he  paused,  and 
rubbed  the  quartz  gently  on  his  sleeve  — 
'  you  see  it 's  sort  of  rough  on  his  pardner. 
And  now,  gentlemen,'  he  added,  abruptly, 
picking  up  his  long-handled  shovel,  '  the 
fun'l  's  over  ;  and  my  thanks,  and  Tennes- 
see's thanks,  to  you  for  your  trouble.'  " 

As  to  the  "  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp," 
which  was  the  first  and  is  the  best  known 
of  these  sketches,  it  is,  like  "  Tennessee's 
Partner,"  full  of  the  true  color  of  life  in  the 
diggings,  but  strikes  us  as  less  perfect  and 
consistent,  though  the  conception  is  more 
daring,  and  effects  are  achieved  beyond 
the  limited  reach  of  the  latter.  As  in 
"  Higgles,"  the  strength  and  freshness  are 
in  the  manners  and  character,  and  the 
weakness  is  in  the  sentimentality  which,  it 
must  be  said  in  Mr.  Harte's  favor,  does  not 
seem  to  be  quite  his  own.  His  real  feeling 
is  always  as  good  as  his  humor  is  fresh. 

We  want  to  speak  also  of  the  author's 
sentiment  for  nature,  which  is  shown  in 
sparing  touches,  but  which  is  very  fine  and 
genuine.  Such  a  picture  as  this  :  "  A  hare 
surprised  into  helpless  inactivity  sat  up- 
right and  pulsating  in  the  ferns  by  the  road- 
side, as  the  cortege  went  by,"  —  is  worth, 
in  its  wildness  and  freshness,  some  acres 
of  word-painting.  The  same  love  of  nature 
gives  life  and  interest  to  "  High- Water 
Mark,  "  "A  Lonely  Ride,"  "Mliss,"  and 
some  other  pieces  (evidently  written  earlier 
than  those  we  have  just  been  speaking  of), 
with  which  Mr.  Harte  has  filled  out  his 
book.  These  pieces,  too,  have  the  author's 
characteristic  cleverness ;  and  the  people 
in  "  Notes  by  Flood  and  Field  "  are  almost 
as  lifelike  as  any  in  his  recent  work.  The 
dog  "  Boonder  "  is  a  figure  entirely  worthy 
to  appear  in  the  most  select  circles  of  Red 
Dog  or  Poker  Flat. 

The  Mystery  of  Life  and  Us  Arts.    By  JOHN 
RUSKIN.     New  York  :  John  Wiley  and 
Son.     pp.  45. 
THIS    little    book   comes  to  us  in  the 

American  edition  without  any  explanatory 


636 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May, 


preface  or  introduction  of  any  sort.  It  ap- 
pears to  be  a  lecture  delivered  before  some 
society  of  young  people  in  Ireland,  the  sub- 
ject requested  being  Art.  The  lecturer, 
however,  apologizes  gracefully,  —  just  re- 
lieving the  reader  from  the  fear  of  a  touch 
too  strong  of  egotism,  —  for  not  keeping 
exactly  to  the  letter  of  his  requirement, 
and  proceeds  to  preach  an  excellent  sermon 
on  the  text,  "  What  is  your  life  ?  It  is  even 
as  a  vapor  that  appeareth  for  a  little  time, 
and  then  vanisheth  away."  In  truth,  Mr. 
Ruskin  seems  admirably  fitted  for  the  sa- 
cred desk,  —  we  say  it  in  all  soberness,  and 
not  in  the  least  as  satire.  His  discourse 
is  serious,  earnest,  and  eloquent,  blurred  a 
little  with  the  author's  besetting  infirmity 
of  paradox  and  lack  of  homogeneousness 
in  doctrine,  and  pervaded  with  a  tone  of 
sadness,  as  much  from  his  own  confessed 
disappointment  and  failure  in  having  con- 
vinced the  world  of  the  truth  and  impor- 
tance of  his  views  of  art,  as  from  a  sense  of 
the  deep  mystery  of  life  in  general. 

In  Mr.  Ruskin's  mind  all  art  is  insepara- 
bly connected  with  life,  character,  religion, 
motive.  So  that  in  treating  of  the  Mystery 
of  Life  he  is  treating  of  Art.  The  prevail- 
ing apathy  of  men  about  the  future  life 
(which  Mr.  Ruskin  seems  to  think  the  same 
thing  as  being  without  high  religious  mo- 
tives in  life)  is  the  first  great  mystery  to 
him.  Are  we  sure,  he  asks,  that  there  is 
a  heaven  and  a  hell  ?  And  if  we  are  not 
sure,  and  do  not  care  to  be  sure,  "  how  can 
anything  we  think  be  wise  :  what  honor 
can  there  be  in  the  arts  that  amuse  us,  or 
what  profit  in  the  possessions  that  please  ? " 
This  apathy  is  a  mystery  of  life.  But  at 
least,  he  says,  we  might  have  expected  the 
great  teachers  to  throw  light  on  this  future 
life.  Have  they  done  it  ?  Dante  and  Mil- 
ton, according  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  "are  the 
highest  representatives  of  men  who  have 
searched  out  these  deep  things."  They  are 
his  representative  men  as  seers  (to  sustain 
which  rble  we  suppose  never  entered  their 
heads,  certainly  not  Milton's),  and  he  thus 
criticises  their  shortcomings  and  vagaries 
in  this  line  :  — 

"  Do  you  know,  as  I  strive  more  sternly 
with  this  strange  lethargy  and  trance  in 
myself,  it  seems  daily  more  amazing  to  me 
that  men  such  as  these  should  dare  to  play 
with  the  most  precious  truths  (or  the  most 
deadly  untruths)  by  which  the  whole  human 
race,  listening  to  them,  could  be  informed 
or  deceived  ;  —  all  the  world  their  audi- 
ences forever,  with  pleased  ear  and  passion- 


ate heart ;  —  and  yet  to  this  submissive 
infinitude  of  souls,  and  evermore  succeed- 
ing and  succeeding  multitude,  hungry  for 
bread  of  life,  they  do  but  play  upon  sweetly 
modulated  pipes ;  with  pompous  nomen- 
clature adorn  the  councils  of  hell ;  touch 
a  troubadour's  guitar  to  the  courses  of  the 
suns  ;  and  fill  the  openings  of  eternity,  be- 
fore which  prophets  have  veiled  their  faces, 
and  which  angels  desire  to  look  into,  with 
idle  puppets  of  their  scholastic  imagination, 
and  melancholy  lights  of  frantic  faith,  in 
their  lost  mortal  love." 

Now  all  this  is  very  beautifully  expressed, 
but  it  strikes  us  as  a  poetic  flying  away 
from  the  question,  which  seems  almost  too 
evident  for  argument.  And  yet  we  can 
fancy  young  and  enthusiastic  people  think- 
ing it  all  sound  reasoning.  But  did  Dante 
or  Milton  choose  heaven  and  hell  for  their 
themes  with  the  least  idea  that  their  read- 
ers would  take  their  wonderful  imaginings 
for  facts,  or  even  for  crude  and  imperfect 
sketches  of  what  they  really  believed  ?  Is 
it  not  clearly  understood  that  they  are 
poets,  not  seers,  not  clairvoyants  ?  And 
why  is  Mr.  Ruskin  so  amazed  that  such 
poets  as  they  are  should  people  the  great 
unknown  world  with  the  creations  of  their 
imagination  ?  Is  not  every  one  free  to 
paint  what  pictures  he  pleases  on  the  great, 
dark,  void  spaces  which  the  wisest  mortal 
could  never  penetrate,  and  which  are  made 
easy  and  cheap  and  legible  only  to  a  blind 
faith  in  the  letter  of  the  Scriptures  ?  And 
why  is  the  mysterious  future  more  sacred 
than  the  mysterious  present  in  which  we 
live? 

In  fine,  the  author,  by  a  strange  mental 
confusion,  confounds  here  the  office  of  seer 
and  teacher  with  that  of  the  poet,  just  as 
he  confounds  high  art  with  religion. 

He  next  proceeds  to  criticise  Homer  and 
Shakespeare  from  the  same  point  of  view. 
Concerning  the  latter,  it  is  a  mystery  of  life 
to  Mr.  Ruskin  that  he  is  not  something 
different  from  what  he  is,  —  that  the  heav- 
ens are  not  ever  open  to  him, — that  so 
great  an  intellect  and  genius  does  not  teach 
the  perpetual  presence  of  the  Deity,  — 
and  that  we  find  in  his  writings  only  the 
consciousness  of  a  moral  law,  and  the 
confession  that  "  there 's  a  divinity  that 
shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  how  we 
will." 

Then  the  author  questions  the  wise  relig- 
ious men  and  the  wise  contemplative  men 
in  vain.  Next  he  shows  that  the  practical 
people  of  the  world,  whose  motives  are  self- 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


637 


ish,  —  the  wise  worldly  men, —  don't  clear 
up  the  mystery  of  life  any  better.  But,  last- 
ly, he  confesses  to  getting  some  light  on  the 
subject  out  of  the  sincere,  honest  workers 
of  the  earth.  And  here  he  seems  to  touch 
upon  sounder  doctrine ;  and  concludes 
with  several  pages  of  wholesome,  humane, 
arid  wise  matter  upon  clothing,  food,  and 
houses  for  the  working  classes.  The  re- 
ligious opinions  he  inculcates  here  are  so 
broad  and  healthy  in  comparison  with  those 
expressed  in  the  first  part  of  his  .discourse, 
that  we  quote  his  words,  wondering  how 
the  same  writer  could  find  room  for  both 
in  the  same  creed.  After  speaking  of  the 
needs  of  the  people  for  a  proper  social  envi- 
ronment, and  of  the  value  of  right  action, 
and  subservience  to  duty,  he  says  :  — 

"  On  such  holy  and  simple  practice  will 
be  founded,  indeed,  at  last,  an  infallible 
religion.  The  greatest  of  all  the  mysteries 
of  life,  and  the  most  terrible,  is  the  corrup- 
tion of  even  the  sincerest  religion,  which  is 
not  daily  founded  on  rational,  effective,  hum- 
ble, and  helpful  action.  Helpful  action, 
observe  !  for  there  is  just  one  law,  which 
obeyed,  keeps  all  religions  pure,  —  forgot- 
ten, makes  them  all  false.  Whenever  in 
any  religious  faith,  dark  or  bright,  we 
allow  our  minds  to  dwell  upon  the  points 
in  which  we  differ  from  other  people,  we 
are  wrong,  and  in  the  Devil's  power.  That 
is  the  essence  of  the  Pharisee's  thanksgiv- 
ing, — '  Lord,  I  thank  thee  that  I  am  not 
as  other  men  are.'  At  every  moment  of 
our  lives  we  should  be  trying  to  find  out, 
not  in  what  we  differ  with  other  people,  but 
in  what  we  agree  with  them  ;  and  the  mo- 
ment we  find  we  can  agree  as  to  anything 
that  should  be  done,  kind  or  good,  (and 
who  but  fools  could  n't  ? )  then  do  it ; 
push  at  it  together  ;  you  can't  quarrel  in  a 
side-by-side  push  :  but  the  moment  that 
even  the  best  men  stop  pushing  and  begin 
talking,  they  mistake  their  pugnacity  for 
piety,  and  it 's  all  over." 

The  truth  must  be  that  Mr.  Ruskin,  like 
many  men  of  genius,  is  a  man  of  moods  : 
and  this  may  account  for  much  inconsis- 
tency. In  this  lecture,  for  instance,  he  be- 
gins in  despair,  and  ends  in  hope.  He  is 
invited  to  talk  of  art ;  but  he  tells  his  hear- 
ers that  "  the  main  thing  he  has  to  say  is 
that  art  must  not  be  talked  about."  What 
a  confession  for  Mr.  Ruskin  to  make  ! 

Modestly  or  despairingly  he  talks  as  if 
he  had  spent  much  vain  labor  in  writing 
about  art,  though  still  holding  to  his  old 
convictions.  He  hints,  too,  that  his  power 


of  saying  apt  and  beautiful  things  is  declin- 
ing. We  do  not  see  any  falling  off  in  ideas 
or  expression  or  rhetorical  beauty.  But  we 
think  that  we  do  see  that  his  moods  color 
and  even  shape  his  ideas.  And  if  this  be 
so,  it  may  help  to  give  us  a  key  by  which 
we  may  in  a  measure  explain  much  in  his 
writings  that  seems  paradoxical  and  capri- 
cious. 


Casimir  Maremma.  By  ARTHUR  HELPS, 
Author  of  "  Friends  in  Council  "  and 
"  Realmah."  Boston  :  Roberts  Brothers. 

HAD  not  Miss  Martineau's  "  Illustrations 
of  Political  Economy  "  been  discontinued 
some  thirty  years  ago,  this  might  pass  for 
one  of  the  series.  The  moral  is  emigra- 
tion, which  it  was  the  hero's  mission  to 
organize  and  inaugurate.  The  author  here 
gets  him  as  far  as  matrimony  and  embarka- 
tion, and  the  next  volume  is  to  give  his 
experiences  in  the  colony.  We  are  not  to 
have  him  among  us  in  these  parts,  though, 
for  he  is  going  among  "  intelligent  Indi- 
ans." 

This  may  mean  Boston,  however,  for  Mr. 
Helps  is  not  strong  on  American  affairs  ; 
he  thinks  it  would  be  much  better  if  this 
Union  were  divided  into  three  or  four  large 
States  (p.  61),  and  he  complains  that  for 
want  pf  organized  emigration  "  the  great 
towns  of  the  New  World  have  nearly  the 
same  amount  of  squalidity,  unhealthiness, 
and  abject  misery "  as  those  of  the  Old 
(p.  383).  He  probably  bases  his  whole  com- 
parison on  New  York ;  yet  as  New  York 
has  but  15,000  paupers  out  of  a  million  in- 
habitants, while  London  has  150,000  out  of 
three  million,  even  this  extreme  case  shows 
a  rather  hasty  style  of  generalization.  For 
the  rest  the  story  can  be  read,  which  "  Real- 
mah" could  not  (at  least  by  this  present 
witness),  and  is  not  more  tiresome  than 
most  of  the  genteeler  class  of  English  nov- 
els. For  his  scheme  of  organized  emi- 
gration, it  is  much  like  a  hundred  other 
schemes  that  we  have  seen  rise  and  fall  in 
America,  and  does  not  inspire  any  great 
interest.  It  is  infinitely  pathetic,  however, 
to  think  of  a  nation  where  the  prime  object 
of  statesmanship  is  to  send  the  people  out 
of  the  country ;  and  where  the  interest  of 
the  experiment  is  so  great,  that  families 
have  to  be  "  evicted  "  by  hundreds  to  take 
part  in  it,  their  houses  being  pulled  down 
over  their  heads  to  make  "  organized  emi- 
gration "  look  more  attractive. 


638 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May, 


The  Bible  in  the  Public  Schools.  Argu- 
ments in  the  Case  of  John  D.  Minor  et  al. 
•versus  the  Board  of  Education  of  the  City 
of  Cincinnati  et  al.  Superior  Court  of 
Cincinnati.  With  the  Opinions  and  De- 
cisions of  the  Court.  Cincinnati :  Rob- 
ert Clarke  &  Co. 

The  Question  of  the  Hour.  The  Bible  and 
the  School  Fund.  By  RUFUS  W.  CLARK, 
D.  D.  Boston  :  Lee  and  Shepard. 

A  NEW  storm  is  fairly  upon  us.  It  has 
been  a  long  time  grumbling  in  the  distance, 
but  now  the  loud  thunder  rolls  over  our 
heads,  the  lightning  flashes  into  our  very 
eyes,  the  big  drops  have  begun  to  fall,  and 
everybody  whose  business  calls  him  to 
face  it  must  reckon  upon  a  tolerable  drench- 
ing before  he  again  sees  the  peaceful  do- 
mestic hearth.  The  Catholic  hierarchy, 
stimulated  by  the  hope  of  inducing  the 
state  to  divide  the  school  fund,  and  set 
off  a  portion  of  it  to  their  distinctive  use, 
keep  up  a  portentous  howl  over  the  in- 
justice done  the  children  of  Catholics  by  the 
formal  reading  of  the  Bible  in  the  common 
schools.  And  the  Protestants,  under  pre- 
text of  the  notorious  enmity  borne  and 
sworn  by  the  Catholic  priesthood  to  the 
principles  of  civil  and  religious  liberty, 
insist  that  the  state  shall  maintain  the  read- 
ing of  the  Bible  in  the  common  schools  as 
the  safeguard  of  those  principles.  But  the 
alternative  is  idle.  For  suppose  it  to  be 
true  that  the  blind  fealty  which  the  Cath- 
olic bishops  pledge  to  the  see  of  Rome 
makes  them  virtually  the  enemies  of  the 
human  race,  certainly  the  way  to  diminish 
their  prestige,  and  abridge  the  power  they 
already  possess  over  their  ignorant  follow- 
ers, is  not  to  give  them  a  respectable  griev- 
ance, or  colorable  ground  of  complaint 
against  any  one  else,  but  to  leave  them  res- 
olutely alone,  that  they  may  show  them- 
selves for  what  they  are  in  the  broad  light 
of  our  modern  day,  and  so  perish  at  last  of 
men's  practical  contempt  or  indifference. 
But  so  long  as  this  obligatory  reading  of 
the  Bible  is  kept  up  in  the  common  schools, 
they  have  that  exact  ground  of  quarrel  they 
desire  with  the  state  of  things  around  them, 
in  order  to  cover  their  spiritual  indigence 
from  sight,  and  attract  a  chance  public  sym- 
pathy. Let  the  state,  then,  resolutely  vacate 
this  plausible  pretext,  by  ceasing  to  enforce 
the  statute  complained  of,  or  rather  by 
taking  it  off  the  statute-book  forever,  and 
we  shall  hear  no  more  of  the  claim  of  the 
Catholics  to  a  distinctive  portion  of  the 


school  fund,  that  is,  to  the  state's  recogni- 
tion. 

Of  course  all  this  will  be  very  objectionable 
to  Dr.  Clark  and  his  fellow-zealots.  It  is 
obviously  Dr.  Clark's  idea  that  the  Bible 
will  cease  to  exert  any  influence  in  favor  of 
civil  and  religious  liberty  the  moment  it  is 
excluded  from  the  public  schools.  At  least 
all  his  reasonings  proceed  upon  this  tacit 
postulate.  We  have  diligently  read  his 
little  book,  and  we  can  discover  nothing 
whatever ^in  it  which  does  not  run  into  the 
following  syllogism  :  The 'state  is  bound  to 
provide  its  offspring  with  moral  and  relig- 
ious principles  ;  now  the  Bible  is  identified 
with  those  principles  ;  the  state,  therefore, 
is  bound  to  make  familiarity  with  the  Bible 
a  necessity  of  common-school  education. 
Both  the  major  and  the  minor  premise  of 
this  conclusion  are  inadmissible.  It  is  not 
true,  in  the  light  of  modern  science,  that 
it  is  the  duty  of  the  state  to  provide  its 
subjects  with  moral  and  religious  culture. 
Neither  is  it  true,  in  the  light  of  our  modern 
conscience,  that  the  Bible  is  at  all  identified 
with  such  culture.  No  one,  indeed,  can  deny 
that  the  Bible  has  done  an  inappreciable  ser- 
vice to  mankind  in  stimulating  the  free  evo- 
lution of  human  life  in  every  sphere  of  its 
manifestation.  But  this  is  heaven-wide  of 
maintaining  that  the  existence  of  such  free- 
dom any  longer  needs  the  authentication  of 
the  Bible.  The  Bible,  doubtless,  was  the 
fixed  star  which  cheered  and  guided  hu- 
man hope  during  the  long  night  of  its  strug- 
gle with  priestly  despotism.  But  now  that 
that  despotism  has  given  place  to  the  right 
of  private  judgment,  or  the  consecration  of 
our  secular  consciences,  every  man  possesses 
a  mariner's  compass  in  his  private  bosom, 
exempting  him  from  any  necessity  to  consult 
the  stars.  If  we  believe  the  fundamental 
truth  of  Christianity,  heaven  has  come  down, 
to  earth  to  reproduce  itself  evermore  in  all 
the  features  of  our  homely  natural  experi- 
ence ;  and  no  man  has  any  need  henceforth 
to  seek  a  heaven  outside  of  himself  and  his 
kind. 

But  it  is  the  major  premise  of  this  syllo- 
gism which  invites  special  denial.  The 
state  is  not  bound  to  provide  its  children 
with  moral  and  religious  principles.  It  is 
bound  to  provide  them  with  just  and  equal 
laws,  and  to  leave  their  moral  and  religious 
culture  to  the  benign  social  atmosphere  thus 
engendered.  The  state  has  absolutely  no 
responsibility  for  the  spiritual  welfare  of 
its  subjects,  but  only  for  their  material  wel- 
fare ;  and  this  it  promotes  in  no  other  way 


1 8;o.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


639 


than  by  resolutely  eliminating  every  vestige 
of  privilege,  ecclesiastical  or  political,  which 
it  finds  surviving  among  them,  and  so  re- 
moving every  obstacle  to  the  free  evolution 
of  their  spontaneous  life,  their  long  latent 
but  really  infinite  social  and  aesthetic  force. 
It  is  surprising  that  Dr.  Clark  and  those 
who  reason  with  him  do  not  see  how  di- 
rectly they  are  playing  into  the  hand  of 
their  adversaries  by  the  view  they  take  of 
the  state's  function.  For  if  the  state  is 
bound  to  furnish  religious  training  to  its 
children,  then  our  Catholic  fellow-citizens 
have  exactly  the  same  right  with  any  other  to 
have  their  ideas  respected  and  represented. 
But,  in  opposition  to  what  we  have  here 
said,  we  may  be  pointed  to  our  prisons  and 
scaffolds,  and  asked  whether  these  institu- 
tions do  not  argue  on  the  part  of  the  state  a 
just  sense  of  its  responsibility  for  at  least  the 
moral  welfare  of  its  subjects  ?  To  this  we 
reply,  that  the  state  undoubtedly  punishes 
Catholic  and  Protestant  both  alike,  whenev- 
er they  overtly  injure  the  person  or  property 
of  their  neighbor.  But  why  ?  Simply  because 
the  state  alone  represents  the  principle  of 
force  in  the  community,  or  is  alone  chargea- 
ble with  the  care  of  its  material  interests ; 
and  accordingly,  whenever  any  of  its  citi- 
zens is  found  usurping  the  state's  preroga- 
tive and  forcibly  helping  himself  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  neighbor,  the  state  is  bound  to 
avenge  the  affront,  and  restore  equilibrium 
by  the  summary  punishment  of  the  offender. 
The  state  represents  the  principle  of  force 
or  necessity  in  the  community,  and  this 
exclusively ;  but  it  does  so  only  on  behalf 
of  those  higher  interests  of  freedom  with 
which  the  life  of  the  community  is  identified, 
so  that  whenever  these  interests  are  out- 
raged by  any  person,  the  state  is  pledged 
to  restore  harmony  by  the  removal  of  the 
evil-doer.  But  surely  this  is  a  very  different 
office  from  conveying  moral  instruction  to 
its  subjects.  The  state  is  simply  indifferent 
to  the  morals  of  its  subjects,  provided  they 
do  not  result  in  any  actual  injury  to  per- 
son or  property  ;  in  that  case  the  state  is 
bound  to  interfere,  and  to  interfere  remorse- 
lessly, until  every  man's  freedom  to  lead  a 
peaceable  and  honest  life  becomes  univer- 
sally respected.  A  man  may,  indeed,  free- 
ly cherish  in  his  private  bosom  any  con- 
ceivable amount  of  selfishness  or  ill-will  to 
his  kind;  but  so  long  as  this  unholy  and 
unhappy  temper  of  mind  begets  no  actual 
injustice  or  injury  to  others,  the  state  ex- 
hibits the  same  kindly  providence  towards 
him  that  it  does  to  all  the  world. 


The  title  of  the  first  book  under  notice 
sufficiently  describes  its  character.  All  our 
readers  have  been  made  familiar  by  the 
newspapers  with  the  recent  controversy 
before  the  local  courts  in  reference  to  the 
right  of  the  Board  of  Education  of  Cincin- 
nati to  exempt  the  common  schools  of  the 
State  from  the  operation  of  the  statute 
enjoining  the  reading  of  the  Bible  in  those 
schools.  The  volume  before  us  brings  the 
controversy  down  to  its  present  point  of 
suspense  ;  and  we  have  found  the  various 
pleadings  pro  and  con  interesting  reading. 
But  the  whole  question  at  issue  is  pre- 
judged, as  it  appears  to  us,  by  our  acknowl- 
edged constitutional  maxims.  Dr.  Clark's 
book  is  extremely  loose  in  point  of  logic, 
though  there  is  a  good  deal  of  incidental 
right  sentiment  to  be  found  in  it.  He  is 
ludicrously  inconsequent  with  himself  when 
he  supposes  that  the  exclusion  of  Bible- 
reading  as  a  school  exercise  is  going  to 
abate  the  public  reverence  of  the  Bible. 
Surely  every  friend  of  the  Bible  would  be 
bound  in  his  judgment  to  become  only  all 
the  more  active  and  energetic  in  diffusing 
the  influence  of  its  vital  principles. 

A  Day  by  the  fire,  and  other  Papers  hith- 
erto uncollected.  By  LEIGH  HUNT.  Bos- 
ton :  Roberts  Brothers. 

IF  any  lover  of  Leigh  Hunt's  were  called 
upon  to  tell  exactly  why  he  liked  that 
author,  we  think  he  would  find  it  a  hard 
matter,  though  he  would  never  therefore 
doubt  the  fact  of  his  liking,  but  would 
probably  be  all  the  more  convinced  of  it 
because  of  the  elusive  nature  of  his  reasons. 
You  cannot  say  of  Leigh  Hunt  that  he  is  a 
great  poet,  or  a  fine  wit,  or  an  exquisite 
humorist,  or,  in  fact,  any  of  those  compact 
and  sententious  things  in  which  you  are 
fond  of  expressing  the  quality  of  your  fa- 
vorite authors.  You  are  aware  that  much 
of  his  poetry  lies  dangerously  near  the 
borders  of  prose  ;  that  his  wit  is  often  faint 
enough,  and  his  humor  pallid  and  thin ; 
yet  you  know  of  at  least  one  poem  of  his 
that  is  enchanting,  and  you  recall  some  of 
his  essays  that  are  perfectly  charming  in 
spirit.  He  was  an  eminently  graceful  ob- 
server of  literature  and  life,  and  his  heart 
was  so  kind  that  he  loved  men  almost  as 
well  as  letters.  He  wrote  about  both  in  a 
facile  and  contented  way,  and  as  if  he  did 
not  think  that  any  book  or  soul  would  quite 
come  to  be  damned,  though  he  must  have 
known  that  in  strict  justice  a  good  many  de- 


640 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[May 


served  something  like  it.  Yet  he  was  very 
far  from  a  sentimentalist,  and  he  despised 
meanness  of  any  kind  heartily,  and  suffered, 
and  was  always  ready  to  suffer,  for  what 
he  believed  the  right  in  politics  or  litera- 
ture. We  all  know  how  he  spent  two 
years  in  prison  for  saying  that  the  Prince 
of  Wales  was  an  Adonis  of  fifty,  and  how  he 
was  a  friend  of  Keats  when  there  was  noth- 
ing more  contemptible  than  friendship  with 
"  Keats  and  Kangaroo-land,"  as  Lord  By- 
ron, who  had  a  delicate,  light  wit  of  his 
own,  called  the  new  poetic  school.  Hunt 
had  a  truly  generous  and  manly  spirit. 
As  a  critic  he  belongs  to  what  you  may 
call  the  Charles  Lamb  school,  and  is  apt  to 
pick  a  grain  of  wheat  out  of  the  bushels  of 
chaff  in  an  old  poet,  and  to  give  you  the 
idea  that  the  rest  is  like  it ;  he  has  Lamb's 
keen  relish  for  titbits,  and  he  helped  on 
the  bad  fashion  of  judging  work  in  parts 
rather  than  the  whole.  But  his  taste  was 
more  catholic  than  Lamb's,  and  his  read- 
ing wider.  We  do  not  think  of  any  essay- 
ist who  affords  the  unlearned  reader  so 
much  information  about  the  whole  body  of 
poetical  literature,  in  such  a  very  graceful 
and  pleasing  way.  Preferably  he  deals  here 
with  the  lyrical  and  idyllic  poets,  but  he 
has  a  great  pleasure  in  the  story-telling 
sort,  though  he  will  most  likely  make  you 
think  better  of  them  than  is  just.  His  tal- 
ent is  so  potent  that  he  can  almost  tell  you 
something  about  a  subject  of  which  he 
knows  nothing,  as,  for  instance,  in  this  vol- 
ume, where  he  speaks  so  entertainingly  about 
a  Welsh  translation  of  Milton.  "Here," 
says  he,  quoting  a  passage  of  the  Welsh, 
"are  some  fine  words  to  the  eye.1''  He  does 
not  pretend  to  understand  them,  and  he 
is  never  wittingly  dishonest,  and  when  he 
writes  of  poetical  themes  and  properties 
rather  than  particular  poets,  he  is  doubt- 
less entirely  trustworthy.  In  "A  Day  by 
the  Fire,  and  other  Papers"  he  has  this 
advantage,  and  is  often  at  his  best  in  es- 
says about  the  genii  of  the  ancients,  and 
of  the  poets,  and  of  the  East,  about  fairies, 
about  tritons  and  mermaids,  satyrs  and 
nymphs,  as  they  exist  in  poetry  and  super- 
stition. These  occupy  him  for  half  the  vol- 
ume, and  the  rest  is  made  up  of  various 
desultory  essays,  which  are  each  to  be  en- 
joyed. He  is  very  desultory,  as  an  essayist 
should  be,  and  if  the  thread  of  his  discourse 
grows  a  little  thin,  he  splices  it,  true  es- 
sayist fashion,  with  strands  of  gold  from  a 
poet,  often  taking  all  the  poor  fellow  had  ; 
and  he  is  apt  at  any  time  to  help  himself 


out  with  some  quaint  or  dainty  bit  of 
prose.  So  he  never  fails  to  instruct  and 
interest  you  ;  and  if  you  will  yield  to  the 
placid  humor  in  which  he  writes,  he  is 
delightful.  In  the  first  of  these  papers, 
"  A  Day  by  the  Fire,"  he  is  in  one  of  his 
rrfost  characteristic  moods,  full  of  subtile 
observation  and  comment,  happy  in  his 
quotations  and  allusions,  and,  as  ever,  quite 
unaffected. 

Those  who  like  Leigh  Hunt  will  be  glad 
of  the  papers,  which  a  very  ardent  lover  of 
him  has  rescued  from  the  uncertainty,  if 
not  oblivion,  of  old  periodicals,  identified  as 
his,  and  here  collected ;  and  if  this  volume 
should  persuade  others  to  make  the  es- 
sayist's acquaintance,  it  will  be  in  the  in- 
terest of  good  taste  and  sweet  and  sound 
literature.  Another  affectionate  and  in- 
valuable editorial  labor  is  added  to  those 
which  Americans  have  already  performed 
for  English  authors ;  and  to  Mr.  J.  E. 
Babson,  to  whose  taste  and  discrimina- 
tion'we  are  all  indebted  for  it,  we  are 
glad  to  acknowledge  the  pleasure  it  has 
given  us. 

Hans  Breitmann  in  Church,  with  other  ne?u 
Ballads.  By  CHARLES  G.  LELAND.  Third 
Series  of  the  Breitmann  Ballads.  Phila- 
delphia :  T.  B.  Peterson  and  Brothers. 

WE  remember  with  tenderness  quite 
unbecoming  a  critic  the  pleasure  which 
former  ballads  of  Hans  Breitmann  have 
given  us,  and  we  cannot  condemn  these 
with  anything  like  the  suitable  ferocity. 
Yet  we  must  say  that  Hans  Breitmann  has 
not  gained  in  humor  by  going  back  to  Ger- 
many (where  Mr.  Leland  wrote  the  present 
ballads),  and  that  in  his  absence  he  is 
edited  after  a  fashion  to  make  one  shudder, 
if  one  has  due  terror  of  friendly  pride  and 
officiousness.  In  the  preface  the  obvious 
points  of  the  book  are  turned  to  the  light, 
and  the  clear  passages  explained  with  an 
exultant  satisfaction  that  is  queer  enough, 
and  far  too  great  for  the  modest  merit  of 
the  poems.  In  these  the  keys  touched 
before  are  touched  again;  there  is  a  war- 
ballad,  a  legend,  and  a  love-song,  and  nei- 
ther is  so  good  as  previous  pieces  of  the 
same  kind.  Whether  the  kind  is  suscepti- 
ble of  very  much  more  reproduction,  and 
whether  it  is  not  time  for  something  mortal 
to  occur  to  Hans  Breitmann,  are  questions 
which  Mr.  Leland  can  ponder  with  equa- 
nimity greater  than  he  could  feel  if  his 
humor  must  perish  with  its  creature. 


THE 


ATLANTIC    MONTHLY. 

A   Magazine  of  Literature,  Science,   Art, 
and  Politics. 


VOL.    XXV.— JUNE,    1870.  — NO.    CLII. 


JOSEPH    AND    HIS    FRIEND 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CLEMENTINA  returned  to  the  city 
>^  without  having  made  any  very  sat- 
isfactory discovery.  Her  parting  was 
therefore  conventionally  tender :  she 
even  thanked  Joseph  for  his  hospitality, 
and  endeavored  to  throw  a  little  natural 
emphasis  into  her  words  as  she  ex- 
pressed the  hope  of  being  allowed  to 
renew  her  visit  in  the  summer. 

During  her  stay  it  seemed  to  Joseph 
that  the  early  harmony  of  his  house- 
hold had  been  restored.  Julia's  man- 
ner had  been  so  gentle  and  amiable, 
that,  On  looking  back,  he  was  inclined 
to  believe  that  the  loneliness  of  her 
new  life  was  alone  responsible  for  any 
change.  But  after  Clementina's  de- 
parture his  doubts  were  reawakened 
in  a  more  threatening  form.  He  could 
not  guess,  as  yet,  the  terrible  chafing 
of  a  smiling  mask,  of  a  restraint  which 
must  not  only  conceal  itself  but  coun- 
terfeit its  opposite,  of  the  assumption 
by  a  narrow,  cold,  and  selfish  nature  of 
virtues  which  it  secretly  despises.  He 
could  not  have  foreseen  that  the  gen- 
tleness, which  had  nearly  revived  his 


faith  in  her,  would  so  suddenly  disap- 
pear. But  it  was  gone,  like  a  glimpse 
of  the  sun  through  the  winter  fog.  The 
hard,  watchful  expression  came  back  to 
Julia's  face,  the  lowered  eyelids  no 
longer  gave  a  fictitious  depth  to  her 
shallow,  tawny  pupils,  the  soft  round- 
ness of  her  voice  took  on  a  frequent 
harshness,  and  the  desire  of  asserting 
her  own  .will  in  all  things  betrayed 
itself  through  her  affected  habits  of 
yielding  and  seeking  counsel. 

She  continued  her  plan  of  making 
herself  acquainted  with  all  the  details 
of  the  farm  business.  When  the  roads 
began  to  improve,  in  the  early  spring, 
she  insisted  in  driving  to  the  village 
alone,  and  Joseph  soon  found  that  she 
made  good  use  of  these  journeys  in 
extending  her  knowledge  of  the  social 
and  pecuniary  standing  of  all  the  neigh- 
boring families.  She  talked  with  farm- 
ers, mechanics,  and  drovers  ;  became 
familiar  with  the  fluctuations  in  the 
prices  of  grain  and  cattle  ;  learned  to  a 
penny  the  wages  paid  for  every  form 
of  service  ;  and  thus  felt,  from  week  to 
week,  the  ground  growing  more  secure 
under  her  feet. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 

of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   XXV.— NO.    152.  41 


642 


Joseph  and  Jiis  Friend. 


[June, 


Joseph  was  not  surprised  to  see  that 
his  aunt's  participation  in  the  direction 
of  the  household  gradually  diminished. 
Indeed,  he  scarcely  noticed  the  circum- 
stance at  all,  but  he  was  at  last  forced 
to  remark  her  increasing  silence  and 
the  trouble  of  her  face.  To  all  appear- 
ance the  domestic  harmony  was  per- 
fect, and  if  Rachel  Miller  felt  some 
natural  regret  at  being  obliged  to  di- 
vide her  sway,  it  was  a  matter,  he 
thought,  wherein  he  had  best  not  in- 
terfere. One  day,  however,  she  sur- 
prised him  by  the  request :  — 

"  Joseph,  can  you  take  or  send  me 
to  Magnolia  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Aunt  !  "  he  replied.  "  I 
suppose  you  want  to  visit  Cousin  Phebe ; 
you  have  not  seen  her  since  last  sum- 
mer." 

"  It  was  that,  —  and  something  more." 
She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added, 
more  firmly  :  "  She  has  always  wished 
that  I  should  make  my  home  with  her, 
but  I  could  n't  think  of  any  change  so 
long  as  I  was  needed  here.  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  am  not  really  needed 
now." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Rachel !  "  Joseph  ex- 
claimed, "  I  meant  this  to  be  your 
home  always,  as  much  as  mine  !  Of 
course  you  are  needed,  —  not  to  do  all 
that  you  have  done  heretofore,  but  as 
a  part  of  the  family.  It  is  your  right." 

"  I  understand  all  that,  Joseph.  But 
I  've  heard  it  said  that  a  young  wife 
should  learn  to  see  to  everything  her- 
self, and  Julia,  I  'm  sure,  does  n't  need 
either  my  help  or  my  advice." 

Joseph's  face  became  very  grave. 
"  Has  she  —  has  she  —  ?  "  he  stam- 
mered. 

"No,"  said  Rachel,  "she  has  not 
said  it  —  in  words.  Different  persons 
have  different  ways.  She  is  quick,  O 
very  quick  !  —  and  capable.  You  know 
I  could  never  sit  idly  by,  and  look  on  ; 
and  it 's  hard  to  be  directed.  I  seem 
to  belong  to  the  place  and  everything 
connected  with  it ;  yet  there  's  times 
when  what  a  body  ought  to  do  is 
plain." 

In  endeavoring  to  steer  a  middle 
course  between  her  conscience  and  her 


tender  regard  for  her  nephew's  feelings 
Rachel  only  confused  and  troubled  him. 
Her  words  conveyed  something  of  the 
truth  which  she  sought  to  hide  under 
them.  She  was  both  angered  and  hu- 
miliated ;  the  resistance  with  which  she 
had  attempted  to  meet  Julia's  domestic 
innovations  was  no  match  for  the  latter's 
tactics  ;  it  had  gone  down  like  a  bar- 
rier of  reeds  and  been  contemptuously 
trampled  under  foot.  She  saw  herself 
limited,  opposed,  and  finally  set  aside 
by  a  cheerful  dexterity  of  management 
which  evaded  her  grasp  whenever  she 
tried  to  resent  it.  Definite  acts,  where- 
on to  base  her  indignation,  seemed  to 
slip  from  her  memory,  but  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  house  became  fatal  to  her. 
She  felt  this  while  she  spoke,  and  felt 
also  that  Joseph  must  be  spared. 

"Aunt  Rachel,"  said  he,  "I  know 
that  Julia  is  very  anxious  to  learn  ev- 
erything which  she  thinks  belongs  to 
her  place,  —  perhaps  a  little  more  than 
is  really  necessary.  She  's  an  enthusi- 
astic nature,  you  know.  Maybe  you 
are  not  fully  acquainted  yet ;  maybe 
you  have  misunderstood  her  in  some 
things  :  I  would  like  to  think  so." 

"  It  is  true  that  we  are  different, 
Joseph, — very  different.  I  don't  say, 
therefore,  that  I'm  always  right.  It's 
likely,  indeed,  that  any  young  wife  and 
any  old  housekeeper  like  myself  would 
have  their  various  notions.  But  where 
there  can  be  only  one  head,  it 's  the 
wife's  place  to  be  that  head.  Julia  has 
not  asked  it  of  me,  but  she  has  the 
right.  I  can't  say,  also,  that  I  don't 
need  a  little  rest  and  change,  and  there 
seems  to  be  some  call  on  me  to  oblige 
Phebe.  Look  at  the  matter  in  the  true 
light,"  she  continued,  seeing  that  Jo- 
seph remained  silent,  "  and  you  must 
feel  that  it 's  only  natural." 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  said  at  last,  repress- 
ing a  sigh  ;  "  all  things  are  changing." 

"  What  can  we  do  ?  "  Julia  asked, 
that  evening,  when  he  had  communi- 
cated to  her  his  aunt's  resolution  ;  "  it 
would  be  so  delightful  if  she  would 
stay,  and  yet  I  have  had  a  presentiment 
that  she  would  leave  us  —  for  a  little 
while  only,  I  hope.  Dear,  good  Aunt 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


643 


Rachel  !  I  could  n't  help  seeing  how 
hard  it  was  for  her  to  allow  the  least 
change  in  the  order  of  housekeeping. 
She  would  be  perfectly  happy  if  I  would 
sit  still  all  day  and  let  her  tire  herself 
to  death ;  but  how  can  I  do  that,  Jo- 
seph ?  And  no  two  women  have  ex- 
actly the  same  ways  and  habits.  I  've 
tried  to  make  everything  pleasant  for 
her :  if  she  would  only  leave  many 
little  matters  entirely  to  me,  or  at  least 
not  think  of  them,  —  but  I  fear  she  can- 
not. She  manages  to  see  the  least  that 
I  do,  and  secretly  worries  about  it,  in 
the  very  kindness  of  her  heart.  Why 
can't  women  carry  on  partnerships  in 
housekeeping  as  men  do  in  business  ? 
I  suppose  we  are  too  particular ;  per- 
haps I  am  just  as  much  so  as  Aunt 
Rachel.  I  have  no  doubt  she  thinks 
a  little  hardly  of  me,  and  so  it  would 
do  her  good  —  we  should  really  come 
nearer  again  —  if  she  had  a  change. 
If  she  will  go,  Joseph,  she  must  at 
least  leave  us  with  the  feeling  that  our 
home  is  always  hers,  whenever  she 
chooses  to  accept  it." 

Julia  bent  over  Joseph's  chair,  gave 
him  a  rapid  kiss,  and  then  went  off  to 
make  her  peace  with  Aunt  Rachel. 
When  the  two  women  came  to  the  tea- 
table  the  latter  had  an  uncertain,  be- 
wildered air,  while  the  eyelids  of  the 
former  were  red,  —  either  from  tears  or 
much  rubbing. 

A  fortnight  afterwards  Rachel  Mil- 
ler left  the  farm  and  went  to  reside  with 
her  widowed  niece,  in  Magnolia. 

The  day  after  her  departure  another 
surprise  came  to  Joseph  in  the  person 
of  his  father-in-law.  Mr.  Blessing  ar- 
rived in  a  hired  vehicle  from  the  sta- 
tion. His  face  was  so  red  and  radiant 
from  the  March  winds,  and  perhaps 
some  private  source  of  satisfaction,  that 
his  sudden  arrival  could  not  possibly 
be  interpreted  as  an  omen  of  ill- fortune. 
He  shook  hands  with  the  Irish  groom 
who  had  driven  him  over,  gave  him  a 
handsome  gratuity  in  addition  to  the 
hire  of  the  team,  extracted  an  elegant 
travelling-satchel  from  under  the  seat, 
and  met  Joseph  at  the  gate,  with  a 
breezy  burst  of  feeling :  — 


"  God  bless  you,  son-in-law  !  It 
does  my  heart  good  to  see  you  again  ! 
And  then,  at  last,  the  pleasure  of  be- 
holding your  ancestral  seat  ;  really, 
this  is  quite  —  quite  manorial  !  " 

Julia,  with  a  loud  cry  of  "  O  pa  !  " 
came  rushing  from  the  house. 

"  Bless  me,  how  wild  and  fresh  the 
child  looks  !  "  cried  Mr.  Blessing,  after 
the  embrace.  "  Only  see  the  country 
roses  on  her  cheeks  !  Almost  too 
young  and  sparkling  for  Lady  Asten, 
of  Asten  Hall,  eh  ?  As  Dryden  says, 
'  Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! '  It  takes 
me  back  to  the  days  when  /  was  a  gay 
young  lark  ;  but  I  must  have  a  care,  and 
not  make  an  old  fool  of  myself.  Let  us 
go  in  and  subside  into  soberness  :  I 
am  ready  both  to  laugh  and  cry." 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  comfort- 
able front  room,  Mr.  Blessing  opened 
his  satchel  and  produced  a  large  leath- 
er-covered flask.  Julia  was  probably 
accustomed  to  his  habits,  for  she  at  once 
brought  a  glass  from  the  sideboard. 

"  I  am  still  plagued  with  my  old 
cramps,"  her  father  said  to  Joseph,  as 
he  poured  out  a  stout  dose.  "  Physiol- 
ogists, you  know,  have  discovered  that 
stimulants  diminish  the  wear  and  tear 
of  life,  and  I  find  their  theories  correct. 
You,  in  your  pastoral  isolation  and 
pecuniary  security,  can  form  no  con- 
ception of  the  tension  under  which  we 
men  of  office  and  of  the  world  live. 
Beatus  ille,  and  so  forth,  —  strange  that 
the  only  fragment  of  Latin  which  I  re- 
member should  be  so  appropriate  !  A 
little  water,  if  you  please,  Julia." 

In  the  evening  when  Mr.  Blessing, 
slippered,  sat  before  the  open  fireplace, 
with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  the  object  of 
his  sudden  visit  crept  by  slow  degrees 
to  the  light.  "  Have  you  been  dipping 
into  oil  ?  "  he  asked  Joseph. 

Julia  made  haste  to  reply.  "  Not  yet, 
but  almost  everybody  in  the  neighbor- 
hood is  ready  to  do  so  now,  since  Clem- 
son  has  realized  his  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars in  a  single  year.  They  are  talking 
of  nothing  else  in  the  village.  I  heard 
yesterday,  Joseph,  that  Old  Bishop  has 
taken  three  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
stock  in  a  new  company." 


644 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[June, 


"  Take  my  advice,  and  don't  touch 
'em  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Blessing. 

"  I  had  not  intended  to,"  said  Joseph. 

"  There  is  this  thing  about  these 
excitements,"  Mr.  Blessing  continued  : 
"  they  never  reach  the  rural  districts 
until  the  first  sure  harvest  is  over.  The 
sharp,  intelligent  operators  in  the  large 
cities  —  the  men  who  are  ready  to  take 
up  soap,  thimbles,  hand-organs,  elec- 
tricity, or  hymn-books,  at  a  moment's 
notice  —  always  cut  into  a  new  thing 
before  its  value  is  guessed  by  the  mul- 
titude. Then  the  smaller  fry  follow 
and  secure  their  second  crop,  while 
your  quiet  men  in  the  country  are  shak- 
ing their  heads  and  crying  'humbug  !  ' 
Finally,  when  it  really  gets  to  be  a 
humbug,  in  a  speculative  sense,  they 
just  begin  to  believe  in  it,  and  are  fair 
game  for  the  bummers  and  camp-fol- 
lowers of  the  financial  army.  I  respect 
Clemson,  though  I  never  heard  of  him 
before ;  as  for  Old  Bishop,  he  may  be 
a  very  worthy  man,  but  he  '11  never  see 
the  color  of  his  three  thousand  dollars 
again." 

"  Pa  !  "  cried  Julia,  "  how  clear  you 
do  make  everything.  And  to  think 
that  I  was  wishing — O  wishing  so 
much  !  —  that  Joseph  would  go  into 
oil." 

She  hung  her  head  a  little,  looking 
at  Joseph  with  an  affectionate,  penitent 
glance.  A  quick  gleam  of  satisfaction 
passed  over  Mr.  Blessing's  face ;  he 
smiled  to  himself,  puffed  rapidly  at  his 
cigar  for  a  minute,  and  then  resumed  : 
"  In  such  a  field  of  speculation  every- 
thing depends  on  being  initiated.  There 
are  men  in  the  city  —  friends  of  mine  — 
who  know  every  foot  of  ground  in  the 
Alleghany  Valley.  They  can  smell 
oil,  if  it 's  a  thousand  feet  deep.  They 
never  touch  a  thing  that  is  n't  safe,  — 
but,  then,  they  know  what^  safe.  In 
spite  of  the  swindling  that 's  going  on, 
it  takes  years  to  exhaust  the  good 
points ;  just  so  sure  as  your  honest 
neighbors  here  will  lose,  just  so  sure 
will  these  friends  of  mine  gain.  There 
are  millions  in  what  they  have  under 
way,  at  this  moment." 

"What  is    it?"    Julia    breathlessly 


asked,  while  Joseph's  face  betrayed 
that  his  interest  was  somewhat  aroused. 

Mr.  Blessing  unlocked  his  satchel, 
and  took  from  it  a  roll  of  paper,  which 
he  began  to  unfold  upon  his  knee. 
"  Here,"  he  said,  "  you  see  this  bend 
of  the  river,  just  about  the  centre  of 
the  oil  region,  which  is  represented  by 
the  yellow  color.  These  little  dots 
above  the  bend  are  the  celebrated 
Fluke  Wells ;  the  other  dots  below 
are  the  equally  celebrated  Chowder 
Wells.  The  distance  between  the  two 
is  nearly  three  miles.  Here  is  an  un- 
touched portion  of  the  treasure,  —  a 
pocket  of  Pactolus  waiting  to  be  rifled. 
A  few  of  us  have  acquired  the  land, 
and  shall  commence  boring  immedi- 
ately." 

"  But,"  said  Joseph,  "it  seems  to  me 
that  either  the  attempt  must  have  been 
made  already,  or  that  the  land  must 
command  such  an  enormous  price  as 
to  lessen  the  profits." 

"  Wisely  spoken !  It  is  the  first 
question  which  would  occur  to  any 
prudent  mind.  But  what  if  I  say  that 
neither  is  the  case  ?  And  you,  who  are 
familiar  with  the  frequent  eccentricities 
of  old  farmers,  can  understand  the  ex- 
planation. The  owner  of  the  land  was 
one  of  your  ignorant,  stubborn  men, 
who  took  such  a  dislike  to  the  pro- 
spectors and  speculators,  that  he  re- 
fused to  let  them  come  near  him.  Both 
the  Fluke  and  Chowder  Companies 
tried  their  best  to  buy  him  out,  but  he 
had  a  malicious  pleasure  in  leading 
them  on  to  make  immense  offers,  and 
then  refusing.  Well,  a  few  months 
ago  he  died,  and  his  heirs  were  willing 
enough  to  let  the  land  go  ;  but  before 
it  could  be  regularly  offered  for  sale, 
the  Fluke  and  Chowder  Wells  began 
to  flow  less  and  less.  Their  shares 
fell  from  270  to  95  ;  the  supposed 
value  of  the  land  fell  with  them,  and 
finally  the  moment  arrived  when  we 
could  purchase  for  a  very  moderate 
sum.  I  see  the  question  in  your  mind  : 
why  should  we  wish  to  buy  when  the 
other  wells  were  giving  out  ?  There 
comes  in  the  secret,  which  is  our  ver- 
itable success.  Consider  it  whispered 


870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


645 


in  your  ears,  and  locked  in  your 
bosoms,  —  torpedoes  !  It  was  not  then 
generally  exploded  (to  carry  out  the 
image),  so  we  bought  at  the  low  figure, 
in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Within  a 
week  the  Fluke  and  Chowder  Wells 
were  torpedoed,  and  came  back  to 
more  than  their  former  capacity  ;  the 
shares  rose  as  rapidly  as  they  had 
fallen,  and  the  central  body  we  hold  — 
to  which  they  are,  as  it  were,  the  two 
arms  —  could  now  be  sold  for  ten  times 
what  it  cost  us  !  " 

Here  Mr.  Blessing  paused,  with  his 
finger  on  the  map,  and  a  light  of  mer- 
ited triumph  in  his  eyes.  Julia  clapped 
her  hands,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and 
cried  :  "  Trumps  at  last !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  he,  "  wealth,  repose  for 
my  old  days,  —  wealth  for  us  all,  if 
your  husband  will  but  take  the  hand  I 
hold  out  to  him.  You  now  know,  son- 
in-law,  why  the  indorsement  you  gave 
me  was  of  such  vital  importance  ;  the 
note,  as  you  are  aware,  will  mature  in 
another  week.  Why  should  you  not 
charge  yourself  with  the  payment,  in 
consideration  of  the  transfer  to  you  of 
shares  of  the  original  stock,  already 
so  immensely  appreciated  in  value  ?  I 
have  delayed  making  any  provision,  for 
the  sake  of  offering  you  the  chance." 

Julia  was  about  to  speak,  but  re- 
strained herself  with  an  apparent  ef- 
fort. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  Joseph  said, 
"who  are  associated  with  you  in  the 
undertaking  ?  " 

"  Well  done,  again  !  Where  did  you 
get  your  practical  shrewdness  ?  The 
best  men  in  the  city  !  —  not  only  the 
Collector  and  the  Surveyor,  but  Con- 
gressman Whaley,  E.  D.  Stokes  of 
Stokes,  Pirricutt  and  Company,  and 
even  the  Reverend  Doctor  Lellifant. 
If  I  had  not  been  an  old  friend  of 
Kanuck,  the  agent  who  negotiated  the 
purchase,  my  chance  would  have  been 
impalpably  small.  I  have  all  the  docu- 
ments with  me.  There  has  been  no 
more  splendid  opportunity  since  oil 
became  a  power  !  I  hesitate  to  advise 
even  one  so  near  to  me  in  such  mat- 
ters ;  but  if  you  knew  the  certainties  as 


I  know  them,  you  would  go  in  with  all 
your  available  capital.  The  excitement, 
as  you  say,  has  reached  the  country 
communities,  which  are  slow  to  rise 
and  equally  slow  to  subside  ;  all  oil 
stock  will  be  in  demand,  but  the  Ama- 
ranth, —  «  The  Blessing,'  they  wished 
to  call  it,  but  I  was  obliged  to  decline, 
for  official  reasons,  —  the  Amaranth 
shares  will  be  the  golden  apex  of  the 
market !  " 

Julia  looked  at  Joseph  with  eager, 
hungry  eyes.  He,  ioo,  was  warmed 
and  tempted  by  the  prospect  of  easy 
profit  which  the  scheme  held  out  to 
him  ;  only  the  habit  of  his  nature  re- 
sisted, but  with  still  diminishing  force. 
"  I  might  venture  the  thousand,"  he 
said. 

"  It  is  no  venture  !  "  Julia  cried.  "  In 
all  the  speculations  I  have  heard  dis- 
cussed by  pa  and  his  friends,  there  was 
nothing  so  admirably  managed  as  this. 
Such  a  certainty  of  profit  may  never 
come  again.  If  you  will  be  advised  by 
me,  Joseph,  you  will  take  shares  to  the 
amount  of  five  or  ten  thousand." 

"  Ten  thousand  is  exactly  the  amount 
I  hold  open,"  Mr.  Blessing  gravely 
remarked.  "  That,  however,  does  not 
represent  the  necessary  payment,  which 
can  hardly  amount  to  more  than  twenty- 
five  per  cent,  before  we  begin  to  realize. 
Only  ten  per  cent  has  yet  been  called, 
so  that  your  thousand  at  present  will 
secure  you  an  investment  of  ten  thou- 
sand. Really,  it  seems  like  a  fortunate 
coincidence." 

He  went  on,  heating  himself  with  his 
own  words,  until  the  possibilities  of  the 
case  grew  so  splendid  that  Joseph  felt 
himself  dazzled  and  bewildered.  Mr. 
Blessing  was  a  master  in  the  art  of 
seductive  statement.  Even  where  he 
was  only  the  mouthpiece  of  another, 
a  few  repetitions  led  him  to  the  pro- 
foundest  belief.  Here  there  could  be 
no  doubt  of  his  sincerity,  and,  moreover, 
every  movement  from  the  very  incep- 
tion of  the  scheme,  every  statistical 
item,  all  collateral  influences,  were 
clear  in  his  mind  and  instantly  accessi- 
ble. Although  he  began  by  saying, 
"  I  will  make  no  estimate  of  the  profits, 


646 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[June, 


because  it  is  not  prudent  to  fix  our 
hopes  on  a  positive  sum,"  he  was  soon 
carried  far  away  from  this  resolution, 
and  most  luxuriously  engaged,  pencil 
in  hand,  in  figuring  out  results  which 
drove  Julia  wild  with  desire,  and  almost 
took  away  Joseph's  breath.  The  latter 
finally  said,  as  they  rose  from  the 
session,  late  at  night :  — 

"  It  is  settled  that  I  take  as  much  as 
the  thousand  will  cover ;  but  I  would 
rather  think  over  the  matter  quietly  for 
a  day  or  two  before  venturing  further." 

"You  must,"  replied  Mr.  Blessing, 
patting  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  These 
things  are  so  new  to  your  experience, 
that  they  disturb  and  —  I  might  al- 
most say —  alarm  you.  It  is  like  bring- 
ing an  increase  of  oxygen  into  your 
mental  atmosphere.  (Ha  !  a  good  fig- 
ure :  for  the  result  will  be,  a  richer, 
fuller  life.  I  must  remember  it.)  But 
you  are  a  healthy  organization,  and 
therefore  you  must  see  clearly  :  I  can 
wait  with  confidence." 

The  next  morning  Joseph,  without 
declaring  his  purpose,  drove  to  Coven- 
try Forge  to  consult  Philip.  Mr.  Bless- 
ing and  Julia  remaining  at  home,  went 
over  the  shining  ground  again,  and  yet 
again,  confirming  each  other  in  the  de- 
termination to  secure  it.  Even  Joseph, 
as  he  passed  up  the  valley  in  the  mild 
March  weather,  taking  note  of  the 
crimson  and  gold  of  the  flowering 
spice -bushes  and  maple  -  trees,  could 
not  prevent  his  thoughts  from  dwelling 
on  the  delights  of  wealth,  —  society, 
books,  travel,  and  all  the  mellow,  for- 
tunate expansion  of  life.  Involuntari- 
ly, he  hoped  that  Philip's  counsel 
might  coincide  with  his  father-in-law's 
offer. 

But  Philip  was  not  at  home.  The 
forge  was  in  full  activity,  the  cottage 
on  the  knoll  was  repainted  and  made 
attractive  in  various  ways,  and  Philip 
would  soon  return  with  his  sister  to 
establish  a  permanent  home.  Joseph 
found  the  sign-spiritual  of  his  friend  in 
numberless  little  touches  and  changes  ; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  a  new  soul  had 
entered  into  the  scenery  of  the  place. 
A  mile  or  two  farther  up  the  valley 


a  company  of  mechanics  and  laborers 
were  apparently  tearing  the  old  Cal- 
vert  mansion  inside  out.  House,  barn, 
garden,  and  lawn  were  undergoing  a 
complete  transformation.  While  he 
paused  at  the  entrance  of  the  private 
lane,  to  take  a  survey  of  the  operations, 
Mr.  Clemson  rode  down  to  him  from 
the  house.  The  Hopetons,  he  said, 
would  migrate  from  the  city  early  in 
May  :  work  had  already  commenced  on 
the  new  railway,  and  in  another  year  a 
different  life  would  come  upon  the  whole 
neighborhood. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation 
Joseph  ventured  to  sound  Mr.  Clem- 
son  in  regard  to  the  newly  formed  oil 
companies.  The  latter  frankly  con- 
fessed that  he  had  withdrawn  from  fur- 
ther speculation,  satisfied  with  his  for- 
tune ;  he  preferred  to  give  no  opinion, 
further  than  that  money  was  still  to  be 
made,  if  prudently  placed.  The  Fluke 
and  Chowder  Wells,  he  said,  were  old, 
well-known,  and  profitable.  The  new 
application  of  torpedoes  had  restored 
their  failing  flow,  and  the  stock  had  re- 
covered from  its  temporary  deprecia- 
tion. His  own  venture  had  been  made 
in  another  part  of  the  region. 

The  atmosphere  into  which  Joseph 
entered,  on  returning  home,  took  away 
all  further  power  of  resistance.  Tempted 
already,  and  impressed  by  what  he  had 
learned,  he  did  what  his  wife  and  fa- 
ther-in-law desired. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HAVING  assumed  the  payment  of  Mr. 
Blessing's  note,  as  the  first  instalment 
upon  his  stock,  Joseph  was  compelled 
to  prepare  himself  for  future  emergen- 
cies. A  year  must  still  elapse  before 
the  term  of  the  mortgage  upon  his  farm 
would  expire,  but  the  sums  he  had  in- 
vested for  the  purpose  of  meeting  it 
when  due  must  be  held  ready  for  use. 
The  assurance  of  great  and  certain 
profit  in  the  mean  time  rendered  this 
step  easy  ;  and,  even  at  the  worst,  he 
reflected,  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  procuring  a  new  mortgage  whereby 
to  liquidate  the  old.  A  notice,  which 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


647 


he  received  at  this  time,  that  a  second 
assessment  of  ten  per  cent  on  the 
Amaranth  stock  had  been  made  was 
both  unexpected  and  disquieting.  Mr. 
Blessing,  however,  accompanied  it  with 
a  letter,  making  clear,  not  only  the  ne- 
cessity but  the  admirable  wisdom  of  a 
greater  present  outlay  than  had  been 
anticipated.  So  the  first  of  April  — 
the  usual  business  anniversary  of  the 
neighborhood  —  went  smoothly  by. 
Money  was  plenty,  the  Asten  credit 
had  always  been  sound,  and  Joseph 
tasted  for  the  first  time  a  pleasant 
sense  of  power  in  so  easily  receiving 
and  transferring  considerable  sums. 

One  result  of  the  venture  was  the 
development  of  a  new  phase  in  Julia's 
nature.  She  not  only  accepted  the 
future  profit  as  certain,  but  she  had 
apparently  calculated  its  exact  amount 
and  framed  her  plans  accordingly.  If 
she  had  been  humiliated  by  the  char- 
acter of  Joseph's  first  business  transac- 
tion with  her  father,  she  now  made 
amends  for  it.  "  Pa  "  was  their  goad 
genius.  "  Pa  "  was  the  agency  where- 
by they  should  achieve  wealth  and  so- 
cial importance.  Joseph  now  had  the 
clearest  evidence  of  the  difference  be- 
tween a  man  who  knew  the  world  and 
was  of  value  in  it,  and  their  slow,  dull- 
headed  country  neighbors.  Indeed, 
Julia  seemed  to  consider  the  Asten 
property  as  rather  contemptible  beside 
the  splendor  of  the  Blessing  scheme. 
Her  gratitude  for  a  quiet  home,  her 
love  of  country  life,  her  disparagement 
of  the  shams  and  exactions  of  "  soci- 
ety," were  given  up  as  suddenly  and 
coolly  as  if  she  had  never  affected  them. 
She  gave  herself  no  pains  to  make  the 
transition  gradual,  and  thus  lessen  its 
shock.  Perhaps  she  supposed  that 
Joseph's  fresh,  unsuspicious  nature 
was  so  plastic  that  it  had  already  suffi- 
ciently taken  her  impress,  and  that  he 
would  easily  forget  the  mask  she  had 
worn.  If  so,  she  was  seriously  mis- 
taken. 

He  saw,  with  a  deadly  chill  of  the 
heart,  the  change  in  her  manner, — a 
change  so  complete  that  another  face 
confronted  him  at  the  table,  even  as 


another  heart  beat  beside  his  on  the 
dishallowed  marriage-bed.  He  saw  the 
gentle  droop  vanish  from  the  eyelids, 
leaving  the  cold,  flinty  pupils  unshaded  ; 
the  soft  appeal  of  the  half-opened  lips 
was  lost  in  the  rigid,  almost  cruel  com- 
pression which  now  seemed  habitual 
to  them  ;  all  the  slight  dependent  ges- 
tures, the  tender  airs  of  reference  to 
his  will  or  pleasure,  had  rapidly  trans- 
formed themselves  into  expressions  of 
command  or  obstinate  resistance.  But 
the  patience*  of  a  loving  man  is  equal 
to  that  of  a  loving  woman :  he  was  si- 
lent, although  his  silence  covered  an 
ever-increasing  sense  of  outrage. 

Once  it  happened,  that  after  Julia 
had  been  unusually  eloquent  concern- 
ing "  what  pa  is  doing  for  us,"  and 
what  use  they  should  make  of  "  pa's 
money,  as  I  call  it,"  Joseph  quietly  re- 
marked :  — 

"  You  seem  to  forget,  Julia,  that  with- 
out my  money  not  much  could  have 
been  done." 

An  angry  color  came  into  her  face ; 
but,  on  second  thought,  she  bent  her 
head,  and  murmured  in  an  offended 
voice  :  "  It  is  very  mean  and  ungener- 
ous in  you  to  refer  to  our  temporary 
poverty.  You  might  forget,  by  this 
time,  the  help  pa  was  compelled  to  ask 
of  you." 

"  I  did  not  think  of  it  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Besides,  you  did  not  seem 
entirely  satisfied  with  my  help,  at  the 
time." 

"  O,  how  you  misunderstand  me  !  " 
she  groaned.  "  I  only  wished  to  know 
the  extent  of  his  need.  He  is  so  gen- 
erous, so  considerate  towards  us,  that 
we  only  guess  his  misfortune  at  the 
last  moment." 

The  possibility  of  being  unjust  si- 
lenced Joseph.  There  were  tears  in 
Julia's  voice,  and  he  imagined  they 
would  soon  rise  to  her  eyes.  After 
a  long,  uncomfortable  pause,  he  said, 
for  the  sake  of  changing  the  subject : 
"  What  can  have  become  of  Elwood 
Withers  ?  I  have  not  seen  him  for 
months." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  care  to 
know,"  she  remarked.  "  He  's  a  rough, 


648 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[June, 


vulgar  fellow :  it 's  just  as  well  if  he 
keeps  away  from  us." 

"  Julia !  he  is  my  friend,  and  must 
always  be  welcome  to  me.  You  were 
friendly  enough  towards  him,  and  to- 
wards all  the  neighborhood,  last  sum- 
mer :  how  is  it  that  you  have  not  a 
good  word  to  say,  now  ? " 

He  spoke  warmly  and  indignantly. 
Julia,  however,  looked  at  him  with  a 
calm,  smiling  face.  "  It  is  very  sim- 
ple," she  said.  "You  will  agree  with 
me,  in  another  year.  A  guest,  as  I  was, 
must  try  to  see  only  the  pleasant  side 
of  people  :  that 's  our  duty ;  and  so  I 
enjoyed  —  as  much  as  I  could  —  the 
rusticity,  the  awkwardness,  the  igno- 
rance, the  (now,  don't  be  vexed,  dear  !) 
—  the  vulgarity  of  your  friend.  As  one 
of  the  society  of  the  neighborhood, 
as  a  resident,  I  am  not  bound  by  any 
such  delicacy.  I  take  the  same  right 
to  judge  and  select  as  I  should  take 
anywhere.  Unless  I  am  to  be  hypo- 
critical, I  cannot  —  towards  you,  at 
least  —  conceal  my  real  feelings.  How 
shall  I  ever  get  you  to  see  the  differ- 
ence between  yourself  and  these  peo- 
ple, unless  I  continually  point  it  out? 
You  are  modest,  and  don't  like  to  ac- 
knowledge your  own  superiority." 

She  rose  from  the  table,  laughing, 
and  went  out  of  the  room  humming  a 
lively  air,  leaving  Joseph  to  make  the 
best  of  her  words. 

A  few  days  after  this  the  work  on 
the  branch  railway,  extending  down  the 
valley,  reached  a  point  where  it  could 
be  seen  from  the  Asten  farm.  Joseph, 
on  riding  over  to  inspect  the  opera- 
tions, was  surprised  to  find  Elwood, 
who  had  left  his  father's  place  and 
become  a  sub-contractor.  The  latter 
showed  his  hearty  delight  at  their 
meeting. 

"  I  've  been  meaning  to  come  up,"  he 
said,  "but  this  is  a  busy  time  for  me. 
It  's  a  chance  I  could  n't  let  slip,  and 
now  that  I  've  taken  hold  I  must  hold 
on.  I  begin  to  think  this  is  the  thing 
I  was  made  for,  Joseph." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  before,"  Jo- 
seph answered,  "  and  yet  I  'm  sure  you 
are  right.  How  did  you  hit  upon  it  ? " 


"  7  did  n't ;  it  was  Mr.  Held." 

"Philip?" 

"  Him.  You  know  I  Ve  been  haul- 
ing for  the  Forge,  and  so  it  turned  up 
by  degrees,  as  I  may  say.  He 's  at 
home,  and,  I  expect,  looking  for  you. 
But  how  are  you  now,  really  ?  " 

Elwood's  question  meant  a  great 
deal  more  than  he  knew  how  to  say. 
Suddenly,  in  a  flash  of  memory,  their 
talk  of  the  previous  year  returned  to 
Joseph's  mind  ;  he  saw  his  friend's 
true  instincts  and  his  own  blindness,  as 
never  before.  But  he  must  dissemble, 
if  possible,  with  that  strong,  rough, 
kindly  face  before  him. 

"  O,"  he  said,  attempting  a  cheerful 
air,  "  I  am  one  of  the  old  folks  now. 
You  must  come  up  —  " 

The  recollection  of  Julia's  words  cut 
short  the  invitation  upon  his  lips.  A 
sharp  pang  went  through  his  heart,  and 
the  treacherous  blood  crowded  to  his 
face  all  the  more  that  he  tried  to  hold  it 
back. 

* "  Come,  and  I  '11  show  you  where 
we  're  going  to  make  the  cutting,"  El- 
wood  quietly  said,  taking  him  by  the 
arm.  Joseph  fancied,  thenceforth,  that 
there  was  a  special  kindness  in  his 
manner,  and  the  suspicion  seemed  to 
rankle  in  his  mind  as  if  he  had  been 
slighted  by  his  friend. 

As  before,  to  vary  the  tedium  of 
his  empty  life,  so  now,  to  escape  from 
the  knowledge  which  he  found  himself 
more  and  more  powerless  to  resist,  he 
busied  himself  beyond  all  need  with 
the  work  of  the  farm.  Philip  had  re- 
turned with  his  sister,  he  knew,  but 
after  the  meeting  with  Elwood  he 
shrank  with  a  painful  dread  from  Phil- 
ip's heart-deep,  intimate  eye.  Julia, 
however,  all  the  more  made  use  of  the 
soft  spring  weather  to  survey  the  so- 
cial ground,  and  choose  where  to  take 
her  stand.  Joseph  scarcely  knew,  in- 
deed, how  extensive  her  operations  had 
been,  until  she  announced  an  invitation 
to  dine  with  the  Hopetons,  who  were 
now  in  possession  of  the  renovated 
Calvert  place.  She  enlarged,  more  than 
was  necessary,  on  the  distinguished  city 
position  of  the  family,  and  the  impor- 


8;o.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


649 


tance  of  "  cultivating  "  its  country  mem- 
bers. Joseph's  single  brief  meeting 
with  Mr.  Hopeton  —  who  was  a  short, 
solid  man,  in  ripe  middle  age,  of  a 
thoroughly  cosmopolitan,  though  not  a 
remarkably  intellectual  stamp  —  had 
been  agreeable,  and  he  recognized  the 
obligation  to  be  neighborly.  Therefore 
he  readily  accepted  the  invitation  on 
his  own  grounds. 

When  the  day  arrived,  Julia,  after 
spending  the  morning  over  her  toilet, 
came  forth  resplendent  in  rosy  silk, 
bright  and  dazzling  in  complexion,  and 
with  all  her  former  grace  of  languid 
eyelids  and  parted  lips.  The  void  in 
Joseph's  heart  grew  wider  at  the  sight 
of  her ;  for  he  perceived,  as  never  be- 
fore, her  consummate  skill  in  assuming 
a  false  character.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  he  should  have  been  so  deluded. 
For  the  first  time  a  feeling  of  repul- 
sion, which  was  almost  disgust,  came 
upon  him  as  he  listened  to  her  prattle 
of  delight  in  the  soft  weather,  and  the 
fragrant  woods,  and  the  blossoming  or- 
chards. Was  not,  also,  this  delight  as- 
sumed ?  he  asked  himself:  false  in  one 
thing,  false  in  all,  was  the  fatal  logic 
which  then  and  there  began  its  tor- 
ment. 

The  most  that  was  possible  in  such 
a  short  time  had  been  achieved  on  the 
Calvert  place.  The  house  had  been 
brightened,  surrounded  by  light,  airy 
verandas,  and  the  lawn  and  garden, 
thrown  into  one  and  given  into  the 
hands  of  a  skilful  gardener,  were  scarce- 
ly to  be  recognized.  A  broad,  solid 
gravel-walk  replaced  the  old  tan-cov- 
ered path  ;  a  pretty  fountain  tinkled  be- 
fore the  door  ;  thick  beds  of  geranium 
in  flower  studded  the  turf,  and  veritable 
thickets  of  rose-trees  were  waiting  for 
June.  Within  the  house,  some  rooms 
had  been  thrown  together,  the  walls 
richly  yet  harmoniously  colored,  and 
the  sumptuous  furniture  thus  received 
a  proper  setting.  In  contrast  to  the 
houses  of  even  the  wealthiest  farmers, 
which  expressed  a  nicely  reckoned  suf- 
ficiency of  comfort,  the  place  had  an 
air  of  joyous  profusion,  of  a  wealth 
which  delighted  in  itself. 


Mr.  Hopeton  met  them  with  the 
frank,  offhand  manner  of  a  man  of 
business.  His  wife  followed,  and  the 
two  guests  made  a  rapid  inspection  of 
her  as  she  came  down  the  hall.  Julia 
noticed  that  her  crocus-colored  dress 
was  high  in  the  neck,  and  plainly 
trimmed ;  that  she  wore  no  ornaments, 
and  that  the  natural  pallor  of  her  com- 
plexion had  not  been  corrected  by  art. 
Joseph  remarked  the  simple  grace  of 
her  movement,  the  large,  dark,  inscru- 
table eyes,  the  smooth  bands  of  her 
black  hair,  and  the  pure  though  some- 
what lengthened  oval  of  her  face.  The 
gentle  dignity  of  her  manner  more  than 
refreshed,  it  soothed  him.  She  was  so 
much  younger  than  her  husband  that 
Joseph  involuntarily  wondered  how 
they  should  have  come  together. 

The  greetings  were  scarcely  over 
before  Philip  and  Madeline  Held  ar- 
rived. Julia,  with  the  least  little  gush 
of  tenderness,  kissed  the  latter,  whom 
Philip  then  presented  to  Joseph  for  the 
first  time.  She  had  the  same  wavy 
hair  as  her  brother,  but  the  golden  hue 
was  deepened  nearly  into  brown,  and 
her  eyes  were  a  clear  hazel.  It  was 
also  the  same  frank,  firm  face,  but  her 
woman's  smile  was  so  much  the  sweeter 
as  her  lips  were  lovelier  than  the  man's. 
Joseph  seemed  to  clasp  an  instant 
friendship  in  her  offered  hand. 

There  was  but  one  other  guest,  who, 
somewhat  to  his  surprise,  was  Lucy 
Henderson.  Julia  concealed  whatever 
she  might  have  felt,  and  made  so  much 
reference  to  their  former  meetings  as 
might  satisfy  Lucy  without  conveying 
to  Mrs.  Hopeton  the  impression  of  any 
special  intimacy.  Lucy  looked  thin 
and  worn,  and  her  black  silk  dress  was 
not  of  the  latest  fashion  :  she  seemed 
to  be  the  poor  relation  of  the  company. 
Joseph  learned  that  she  had  taken  one 
of  the  schools  in  the  valley,  for  the 
summer.  Her  manner  to  him  was  as 
simple  and  friendly  as  ever,  but  he  felt 
the  presence  of  some  new  element  of 
strength  and  self-reliance  in  her  nature. 

His  place,  at  dinner,  was  beside  Mrs. 
Hopeton,  while  Lucy  —  apparently  by 
accident  —  sat  upon  the  other  side  of 


650 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[June, 


the  hostess.  Philip  and  the  host  led 
the  conversation,  confining  it  too  ex- 
clusively to  the  railroad  and  iron  inter- 
ests ;  but  these  finally  languished,  and 
gave  way  to  other  topics  in  which  all 
could  take  part.  Joseph  felt  that  while 
the  others,  except  Lucy  and  himself, 
were  fashioned  under  different  aspects 
of  life,  some  of  which  they  shared  in 
common,  yet  that  their  seeming  ease 
and  freedom  of  communication  touched, 
here  and  there,  some  invisible  limit, 
which  they  were  careful  not  to  pass. 
Even  Philip  appeared  to  be  beyond  his 
reach,  for  the  time. 

The  country  and  the  people,  being 
comparatively  new  to  them,  naturally 
came  to  be  discussed. 

"  Mr.  Held,  or  Mr.  Asten,  —  either  of 
you  know  both,"  —  Mr.  Hopeton  asked, 
"  what  are  the  principal  points  of  differ- 
ence between  society  in  the  city  and  in 
the  country  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  know  too  little  of  the 
city,"  said  Joseph. 

"  And  I  know  too  little  of  the  coun- 
try, —  here,  at  least,"  Philip  added. 
"  Of  course  the  same  passions  and 
prejudices  come  into  play  everywhere. 
There  are  circles,  there  are  jealousies, 
ups  and  downs,  scandals,  suppressions, 
and  rehabilitations  :  it  can't  be  other- 
wise." 

"  Are  they  not  a  little  worse  in  the 
country,"  said  Julia,  "  because  —  I  may 
ask  the  question  here,  among  us  — 
there  is  less  refinement  of  manner  ?  " 

"If  the  external  forms  are  ruder," 
Philip  resumed,  "it  may  be  an  advan- 
tage, in  one  sense.  Hypocrisy  cannot 
be  developed  into  an  art." 

Julia  bit  her  lip,  and  was  silent. 

"  But  are  the  country  people,  here- 
abouts, so  rough  ? "  Mrs.  Hopeton 
asked.  "  I  confess  that  they  don't 
seem  so  to  me.  What  do  you  say, 
Miss  Henderson?" 

"  Perhaps  I  am  not  an  impartial  wit- 
ness," Lucy  answered.  "  We  care  less 
about  what  is  called  '  manners  '  than 
the  city  people.  We  have  no  fixed 
rules  for  dress  and  behavior,  —  only 
we  don't  like  anyone  to  differ  too  much 
from  the  rest  of  us." 


"That's  it!"  Mr.  Hopeton  cried; 
u  the  tyrannical  levelling  sentiment  of 
an  imperfectly  developed  community! 
Fortunately,  I  am  beyond  its  reach." 

Julia's  eyes  sparkled:  she  looked 
across  the  table  at  Joseph,  with  a  trium- 
phant air. 

Philip  suddenly  raised  his  head. 
"  How  would  you  correct  it  ?  Simply 
by  resistance  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mr.  Hopeton  laughed.  "  I  should  no 
doubt  get  myself  into  a  hornet's-nest. 
No  ;  by  indifference  !" 

Then  Madeline  Held  spoke.  "Ex- 
cuse me,"  she  said;  "but  is  indiffer- 
ence possible,  even  if  it  were  right  ? 
You  seem  to  take  the  levelling  spirit 
for  granted,  without  looking  into  its 
character  and  causes  ;  there  must  be 
some  natural  sense  of  justice,  no  mat- 
ter how  imperfectly  society  is  devel- 
oped. We  are  members  of  this  com- 
munity, —  at  least,  Philip  and  I  certainly 
consider  ourselves  so,  —  and  I  am  de- 
termined not  to  judge  it  without  knowl- 
edge, or  to  offend  what  may  be  only 
mechanical  habits  of  thought,  unless  I 
can  see  a  sure  advantage  in  doing  so." 

Lucy  Henderson  looked  at  the  speak- 
er with  a  bright,  grateful  face.  Joseph's 
eyes  wandered  from  her  to  Julia,  who 
was  silent  and  watchful. 

"But  I  have  no  time  for  such  con- 
scientious studies,"  Mr.  Hopeton  re- 
sumed. "  One  can  be  satisfied  with 
half  a  dozen  neighbors,  and  let  the 
mass  go.  Indifference,  after  all,  is  the 
best  philosophy.  What  do  you  say,  Mr. 
Held?" 

"  Indifference  !  "  Philip  echoed.  A 
dark  flush  came  into  his  face,  and  he 
was  silent  a  moment.  "  Yes :  our 
hearts  are  inconveniefit  appendages. 
We  suffer  a  deal  from  unnecessary 
sympathies,  and  from  imagining,  I  sup- 
pose, that  others  feel  them  as  we  do. 
These  uneasy  features  of  society  are 
simply  the  effort  of  nature  to  find  some 
occupation  for  brains  otherwise  idle  — 
or  empty.  Teach  the  people  to  think, 
and  they  will  disappear." 

Joseph  stared  at  Philip,  feeling  that 
a  secret  bitterness  was  hidden  under 
his  careless,  mocking  air.  Mrs.  Hope- 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


651 


ton  rose,  and  the  company  left  the 
table.  Madeline  Held  had  a  troubled 
expression,  but  there  was  an  eager, 
singular  brightness  in  Julia's  eyes. 

"Emily,  let  us  have  coffee  on  the 
veranda,"  said  Mr.  Hopeton,  leading 
the  way.  He  had  already  half  forgot- 
ten the  subject  of  conversation  :  his 
own  expressions,  in  fact,  had  been 
made  very  much  at  random,  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  keeping  up  the  flow  of 
talk.  He  had  no  very  fixed  views  of 
any  kind,  beyond  the  sphere  of  his 
business  activity. 

Philip,  noticing  the  impression  he 
had  made  on  Joseph,  drew  him  to  one 
side.  "Don't  seriously  remember  my 
words  against  me,"  he  said ;  "  you 
were  sorry  to  hear  them,  I  know.  All 
I  meant  was,  that  an  over-sensitive  ten- 
derness towards  everybody  is  a  fault. 
.Besides,  I  was  provoked  to  answer 
him  in  his  own  vein." 

"  But,  Philip  !  "  Joseph  whispered, 
"such  words  tempt  me  !  What  if  they 
were  true  ?  —  it  would  be  dreadful." 

Philip  grasped  his  arm  with  a  pain- 
ful force.  "  They  never  can  be  true  to 
you,  Joseph,"  he  said. 

Gay  and  pleasant  as  the  company 
seemed  to  be,  each  one  felt  a  secret 
sense  of  relief  when  it  came  to  an  end. 
As  Joseph  drove  homewards,  silently 
recalling  what  had  been  said,  Julia  in- 
§terrupted  his  reflections  with:  "Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  the  Hopetons  ?  " 

"  She  is  an  interesting  woman,"  he 
answered. 

"  But  reserved  ;  and  she  shows  very 
little  taste  in  dress.  However,  I  sup- 
pose you  hardly  noticed  anything  of 
the  kind.  She  kept  Lucy  Henderson 
beside  her  as  a  foil :  Madeline  Held 
would  have  been  damaging." 

Joseph  only  partly  guessed  her  mean- 
ing ;  it  was  repugnant,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  avoid  its  further  discussion. 

"  Hopeton  is  a  shrewd  business  man," 
Julia  continued,  "but  he  cannot  com- 
pare with  her  for  shrewdness, — either 
with  her,  or  —  Philip  Held  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  made  a  discovery  before  the  din- 
ner was  over,  which  you  —  innocent, 


unsuspecting  man  that  you  are  —  might 
have  before  your  eyes  for  years,  with- 
out seeing  it.  Tell  me  now,  honestly, 
did  you  notice  nothing  ?  " 

"  What  should  I  notice,  beyond  what 
was  said  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  was  the  least !  "  she  cried  ; 
"  but,  of  course,  I  knew  you  could  n't. 
And  perhaps  you  won't  believe  me, 
when  I  tell  you  that  Philip  Held,— 
your  particular  friend,  your  hero,  for 
aught  I  know  your  pattern  of  virtue 
and  character  and  all  that  is  manly  and 
noble,  — that  Philip  Held,  I  say,  is 
furiously  in  love  with  Mrs.  Hopeton  !  " 

Joseph  started  as  if  he  had  been 
shot,  and  turned  around  with  an  angry 
red  on  his  brow.  "Julia!"  he  said, 
**  how  dare  you  speak  so  of  Philip  !  " 

She  laughed.  "  Because  I  dare  to 
speak  the  truth,  when  I  see  it.  I 
thought  I  should  surprise  you.  I  re- 
membered a  certain  rumor  I  had  heard 
before  she  was  married,  —  while  she 
was  Emily  Marrable,  —  and  I  watched 
them  closer  than  they  guessed.  I  'm 
certain  of  Philip  :  as  for  her,  she  's  a 
deep  creature,  and  she  was  on  her 
guard ;  but  they  are  near  neighbors." 

Joseph  was  thoroughly  aroused  and 
indignant.  "  It  is  your  own  fancy  !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "You  hate  Philip  on 
account  of  that  affair  with  Clementina  ; 
but  you  ought  to  have  some  respect 
for  the  woman  whose  hospitality  you 
have  accepted ! " 

"  Bless  me  !  I  have  any  quantity  of 
respect,  both  for  her  and  her  furniture. 
By  the  by,  Joseph,  our  parlor  would 
furnish  better  than  hers ;  I  have  been 
thinking  of  a  few  changes  we  might 
make,  which  would  wonderfully  im- 
prove the  house.  As  for  Philip,  Clem- 
entina was  a  fool.  She  'd  be  glad 
enough  to  have  him  now,  but  in  these 
matters,  once  gone  is  gone  for  good. 
Somehow,  people  who  marry  for  love 
very  often  get  rich  afterwards,  —  our- 
selves, for  instance." 

It  was  some  time  before  Joseph's 
excitement  subsided.  He  had  resented 
Julia's  suspicion  as  dishonorable  to 
Philip,  yet  he  could  not  banish  the 
conjecture  of  its  possible  truth.  If 


652 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[June, 


Philip's  affected  cynicism  had  tempted 
him,  Julia's  unblushing  assumption  of 
the  existence  of  a  passion  which  was  for- 
bidden, and  therefore  positively  guilty, 
seemed  to  stain  the  pure  texture  of  his 
nature.  The  lightness  with  which  she 
spoke  of  the  matter  was  even  more 
abhorrent  to  him  than  the  assertion  it- 
self; the  malicious  satisfaction  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice  had  not  escaped  his 
ear. 

"  Julia,"  he  said,  just  before  they 
reached  home,  "  do  not^  mention  your 
fancy  to  another  soul  than  me.  It 
would  reflect  discredit  on  you." 

"You  are  innocent,"  she  answered. 
"And  you  are  not  complimentary.  If 
I  have  any  remarkable  quality,  it  is 
tact.  Whenever  I  speak,  I  shall  know 
the  effect  beforehand  :  even  pa,  with 
all  his  official  experience,  is  no  match 
for  me  in  this  line.  I  see  what  the 
Hopetons  are  after,  and  I  mean  to 
show  them  that  we  were  first  in  the 
field.  Don't  be  concerned,  you  good, 
excitable  creature,  you  are  no  match 
for  such  well-drilled  people.  L,et  me 
alone,  and  before  the  summer  is  over 
we  will  give  the  law  to  the  neighbor- 
hood !  " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  bare,  repulsive,  inexorable  truth 
was  revealed  at  last.  There  was  no 
longer  any  foothold  for  doubt,  any  pos- 
sibility of  continuing  his  desperate 
self-deceit.  From  that  day  all  the  joy, 
the  trust,  the  hope,  seemed  to  fade  out 
of  Joseph's  life.  What  had  been  lost 
was  irretrievable  :  the  delusion  of  a 
few  months  had  fixed  his  fate  forever. 

His  sense  of  outrage  was  so  strong 
and  keen, —  so  burned  upon  his  con- 
sciousness as  to  affect  him  like  a  dull 
physical  pain, — that  a  just  and  tem- 
perate review  of  his  situation  was  im- 
possible. False  in  one  thing,  false  in 
all :  that  was  the  single,  inevitable  con- 
clusion. Of  course  she  had  never  even 
loved  him.  Her  coy  maiden  airs,  her 
warm  abandonment  to  feeling,  her  very 
tears  and  blushes,  were  artfully  simu- 
lated :  perhaps,  indeed,  she  had  laughed 


in  her  heart,  yea,  sneered,  at  his  cred- 
ulous tenderness  !  Her  assumption  of 
rule,  therefore,  became  an  arrogance 
not  to  be  borne.  What  right  had  she, 
guilty  of  a  crime  for  which  there  is  no 
name  and  no  punishment,  to  reverse 
the  secret  justice  of  the  soul,  and  claim 
to  be  rewarded  ?  " 

So  reasoned  Joseph  to  himself,  in 
his  solitary  breedings  ;  but  the  spell 
was  not  so  entirely  broken  as  he  im- 
agined. Sternly  as  he  might  have  re- 
solved in  advance,  there  was  a  glamour 
in  her  mask  of  cheerfulness  and  gentle- 
ness, which  made  his  resolution  seem 
hard  and  cruel.  In  her  presence  he 
could  not  clearly  remember  his  wrongs  : 
the  past  delusion  had  been  a  reality, 
nevertheless ;  and  he  could  make  no 
assertion  which  did  not  involve  his 
own  miserable  humiliation.  Thus  the 
depth  and  vital  force  of  his  struggle 
could  not  be  guessed  by  Julia.  She 
saw  only  irritable  moods,  the  natural 
male  resistance  which  she  had  often 
remarked  in  her  father,  —  perhaps,  also, 
the  annoyance  of  giving  up  certain 
"  romantic  "  fancies,  which  she  believed 
to  be  common  to  all  young  men,  and 
never  permanent.  Even  an  open  rup- 
ture could  not  have  pushed  them  apart 
so  rapidly  as  this  hollow  external  rou- 
tine of  life. 

Joseph  took  the  earliest  opportunity 
of  visiting  Philip,  whom  he  found  busy, 
in  forge  and  foundry.  "  This  would  be 
the  life  for  you!"  he  said:  "we  deal 
only  with  physical  forces,  human  and 
elemental :  we  direct  and  create  power, 
yet  still  obey  the  command  to  put 
money  in  our  purses." 

"Is  that  one  secret  of  your  strength  ?  " 
Joseph  asked. 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  had  any  ?  " 

"  I  feel  it,"  said  Joseph  ;  and  even  as 
he  said  it  he  remembered  Julia's  un- 
worthy suspicion. 

"  Come  up  and  see  Madeline  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  home  she  has  made  for 
me.  We  get  on  very  well,  for  brother 
and  sister,  —  especially  since  her  will 
is  about  as  stubborn  as  mine." 

Madeline  was  very  bright  and  cheer- 
ful, and  Joseph,  certainly,  saw  no  signs 


18/oJ 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


653 


of  a  stubborn  will  in  her  fair  face.  She 
was  very  simply  dressed,  and  busy  with 
some  task  of  needle-work  which  she 
did  not  lay  aside. 

"  You  might  pass  already  for  a  mem- 
ber of  our  community,"  he  could  not 
help  saying. 

"  I  think  your  most  democratic  farm- 
ers will  accept  me,"  she  answered, 
"when  they  learn  that  I  am  Philip's 
housekeeper.  The  only  dispute  we 
have  had,  or  are  likely  to  have,  is  in 
relation  to  the  salary." 

"  She  is  an  inconsistent  creature,  Jo- 
seph," said  Philip.  "  I  was  obliged  to 
offer  her  as  much  as  she  earned  by  her 
music-lessons,  before  she  would  come 
at  all,  and  now  she  can't  find  work 
enough  to  balance  it." 

"  How  can  I,  Philip,  when  you  tempt 
me  every  day  with  walks  and  rides, 
botany,  geology,  and  sketching  from 
nature  ?  " 

So  much  frank,  affectionate  confi- 
dence showed  itself  through  the  play- 
ful gossip  of  the  two,  that  Joseph  was 
at  once  comforted  and  pained.  "  If  I 
had  only  had  a  sister !  "  he  sighed  to 
Philip,  as  they  walked  down  the  knoll. 

The  friends  took  the  valley  road, 
Joseph  leading  his  horse  by  the  bridle. 
The  stream  was  full  to  its  banks,  and 
crystal  clear  :  shoals  of  young  fishes 
passed  like  drifted  leaves  over  the 
pebbly  ground,  and  the  fragrant  water- 
beetles  skimmed  the  surface  of  the 
eddies.  Overhead  the  vaults  of  the 
great  elms  and  sycamores  were  filled 
with  the  green,  delicious  illumination 
of  the  tender  foliage.  It  was  a  scene 
and  a  season  for  idle  happiness. 

Yet  the  first  words  Philip  spoke, 
after  a  long  silence,  were :  "  May  I 
speak  now  ?  "  There  was  infinite  love 
and  pity  in  his  voice.  He  took  Joseph 
by  the  hand. 

"  Yes,"  the  latter  whispered. 

"  It  has  come,"  Philip  continued ; 
"  you  cannot  hide  it  from  yourself  any 
longer.  My  pain  is  that  I  did  not  dare 
to  warn  you,  though  at  the  risk  of 
losing  your  friendship.  There  was  so 
little  time  —  " 

"You  did  try  to  warn   me,  Philip  ! 


I  have  recalled  your  words,  and  the 
trouble  in  your  face  as  you  spoke,  a 
thousand  times.  I  was  a  fool,  a  blind, 
miserable  fool,  and  my  folly  has  ruined 
my  life  ! " 

"  Strange,"  said  Philip,  musingly, 
"that  only  a  perfectly  good  and  pure 
nature  can  fall  into  such  a  wretched 
snare.  And  yet  '  Virtue  is  its  own  re- 
ward,' is  dinned  into  our  ears!  It  is 
Hell  for  a  single  fault :  nay,  not  even  a 
fault,  an  innocent  mistake  !  But  let  us 
see  what  can  be  done  :  is  there  no  com- 
mon ground  whereon  your  natures  can 
stand  together  ?  If  there  should  be  a 
child  —  " 

Joseph  shuddered.  "  Once  it  seemed 
too  great,  too  wonderful  a  hope,"  he 
said,  "but  now,  I  don't  dare  to  wish 
for  it  Philip,  I  am  too  sorely  hurt  to 
think  clearly  :  there  is  nothing  to  do 
but  to  wait.  It  is  a  miserable  kind  of 
comfort  to  me  to  have  your  sympathy, 
but  I  fear  you  cannot  help  me." 

Philip  saw  that  he  could  bear  no 
more  :  his  face  was  pale  to  the  lips  and 
his  hands  trembled.  He  led  him  to 
the  bank,  sat  down  beside  him,  and 
laid  his  arm  about  his  neck.  The  si- 
lence and  the  caress  were  more  sooth- 
ing to  Joseph  than  any  words  ;  he  soon 
became  calm,  and  remembered  an  im- 
portant part  of  his  errand,  which  was  to 
acquaint  Philip  with  the  oil  speculation, 
and  to  ask  his  advice. 

They  discussed  the  matter  long  and 
gravely.  With  all  his  questions,  and 
the  somewhat  imperfect  information 
which  Joseph  was  able  to  give,  Philip 
could  not  satisfy  himself  whether  the 
scheme  was  a  simple  swindle  or  a 
well-considered  business  venture.  Two 
or  three  of  the  names  were  respectable, 
but  the  chief  agent,  Kanuck,  was  un- 
known to  him  ;  moreover,  Mr.  Bless- 
ing's apparent  prominence  in  the  un- 
dertaking did  not  inspire  him  with  much 
confidence. 

"  How  much  have  you  already  paid 
on  the  stock?  "  he  asked. 

"  Three  instalments,  which,  Mr. 
Blessing  thinks,  is  all  that  will  be  called 
for.  However,  I  have  the  money  for 
a  fourth,  should  it  be  necessary.  He 


654 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


[June, 


writes  to  me  that  the  stock  has  already 
risen  a  hundred  per  cent  in  value." 

"  If  that  is  so,"  said  Philip,  "let  me 
advise  you  to  sell  half  of  it,  at  once. 
The  sum  received  will  cover  your  liabil- 
ities, and  the  half  you  retain,  as  a  ven- 
ture, will  give  you  no  further  anxiety." 

"  I  had  thought  of  that ;  yet  I  am 
sure  that  my  father-in-law  will  oppose 
such  a  step  with  all  his  might.  You 
must  know  him,  Philip  ;  tell  me,  frank- 
ly, your  opinion  of  his  character." 

"  Blessing  belongs  to  a  class  familiar 
enough  to  me,"  Philip  answered  ;  "yet 
I  doubt  whether  you  will  comprehend 
it.  He  is  a  swaggering,  amiable,  mag- 
nificent adventurer ;  never  purposely 
dishonest,  I  am  sure,  yet  sometimes 
engaged  in  transactions  that  would  not 
bear  much  scrutiny.  His  life  has  been 
one  of  ups  and  downs.  After  a  success- 
ful speculation,  he  is  luxurious,  open- 
handed,  and  absurdly  self-confident  ; 
his  success  is  soon  flung  away :  he  then 
good-humoredly  descends  to  poverty, 
because  he  never  believes  it  can  last 
long.  He  is  unreliable,  from  his  over- 
sanguine  temperament ;  and  yet  this 
very  temperament  gives  him  a  certain 
power  and  influence.  Some  of  our 
best  men  are  on  familiar  terms  with 
him.  They  are  on  their  guard  against 
his  pecuniary  approaches,  they  laugh 
at  his  extravagant  schemes,  but  they 
now  and  then  find  him  useful.  I  heard 
Gray,  the  editor,  once  speak  of  him  as 
a  man  '  filled  with  available  enthusi- 
asms,' and  I  guess  that  phrase  hits  both 
his  strength  and  his  weakness." 

On  the  whole,  Joseph  felt  rather  re- 
lieved than  disquieted.  The  heart  was 
lighter  in  his  breast  as  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  homewards. 

Philip  slowly  walked  forwards,  yield- 
ing his  mind  to  thoughts  wherein  Jo- 
seph was  an  important  but  not  the 
principal  figure.  Was  there  a  positive 
strength,  he  asked  himself,  in  a  wider 
practical  experience  of  life  ?  Did  such 
experience  really  strengthen  the  basis 
of  character  which  must  support  a  man, 
when  some  unexpected  moral  crisis 
comes  upon  him  ?  He  knew  that  he 
seemed  strong,  to  Joseph ;  but  the  lat- 


ter, so  far,  was  bearing  his  terrible  test 
with  a  patience  drawn  from  some  source 
of  elemental  power.  Joseph  had  sim- 
ply been  ignorant :  he  had  been  proud, 
impatient,  and — he  now  confessed  to 
himself — weakly  jealous.  In  both 
cases,  a  mistake  had  passed  beyond  the 
plastic  stage  where  life  may  still  be 
remoulded :  it  had  hardened  into  an 
inexorable  fate.  What  was  to  be  the 
end  of  it  all  ? 

A  light  footstep  interrupted  his  re- 
flections. He  looked  up,  and  almost 
started,  on  finding  himself  face  to  face 
with  Mrs.  Hopeton. 

Her  face  was  flushed  from  her  walk 
and  the  mellow  warmth  of  the  after- 
noon. She  held  a  bunch  of  wild-flowers, 

—  pink  azaleas,  delicate  sigillarias,  va- 
lerian,  and   scarlet    painted-cup.     She 
first  broke  the  silence  by  asking  after 
Madeline. 

"  Busy  with  some  important  sewing, 

—  curtains,  I  fancy.     She  is  becoming 
an  inveterate  housekeeper,"  Philip  said. 

"  I  am  glad,  for  her  sake,  that  she  is 
here.  And  it  must  be  very  pleasant  for 
you,  after  all  your  wanderings." 

"  I  must  look  on  it,  I  suppose," 
Philip  answered,  "  as  the  only  kind  of 
a  home  I  shall  ever  have, —while  it 
lasts.  But  Madeline's  life  must  not  be 
mutilated  because  mine  happens  to  be." 

The  warm  color  left  Mrs.  Hopeton's 
face.  She  strove  to  make  her  voice 
cold  and  steady,  as  she  said :  "  I  am 
sorry  to  see  you  growing  so  bitter,  Mr. 
Held." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  my  proper  nature, 
Mrs.  Hopeton.  But  you  startled  me 
out  of  a  retrospect,  which  had  exhausted 
my  capacity  for  self-reproach,  and  was 
about  to  become  self-cursing.  There 
is  no  bitterness  quite  equal  to  that  of 
seeing  how  weakly  one  has  thrown 
away  an  irrecoverable  fortune." 

She  stood  before  him,  silent  and  dis- 
turbed. It  was  impossible  not  to  un- 
derstand, yet  it  seemed  equally  impos- 
sible to  answer  him.  She  gave  one 
glance  at  his  earnest,  dark  gray  eyes, 
his  handsome,  manly  face,  and  the 
spfinkled  glosses  of  sunshine  on  his 
golden  hair,  and  felt  a  chill  strike  to 


1 870.] 


Joseph  and  his  Friend. 


ess 


her  heart.  She  moved  a  step,  as  if  to 
end  the  interview. 

"Only  one  moment, '  Mrs.  Hopeton 
—  Emily!"  Philip  cried.  "  We  may 
not  meet  again  —  thus  —  for  years.  I 
will  not  needlessly  recall  the  past.  I 
only  mean  to  speak  of  my  offence,  — 
to  acknowledge  it,  and  exonerate  you 
from  any  share  in  the  misunderstand- 
ing which — which  made  us  what  we 
are.  You  cannot  feel  the  burden  of 
an  unpardoned  fault ;  but  will  you  not 
allow  me  to  lighten  mine  ?  " 

A  softer  change  came  over  her  state- 
ly form.  Her  arm  relaxed,  and  the 
wild-flowers  fell  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  was  wrong,  first,"  Philip  went  on, 
"  in  not  frankly  confiding  to  you  the 
knowledge  of  a  boyish  illusion  and  dis- 
appointment. I  had  been  heartlessly 
treated  :  it  was  a  silly  affair,  not  worth 
the  telling  now  ;  but  the  leaven  of  mis- 
trust it  left  behind  was  not  fully  worked 
out  of  my  nature.  Then,  too,  I  had 
private  troubles,  which  my  pride  —  sore, 
just  then,  from  many  a  trifling  prick,  at 
which  I  should  now  laugh  —  led  me  to 
conceal.  I  need  not  go  over  the  ap- 
pearances which  provoked  me  into  a 
display  of  temper  as  unjust  as  it  was 
unmanly,  —  it  is  enough  to  say  that  all 
circumstances  combined  to  make  me 
impatient,  suspicious,  fiercely  jealous. 
I  never  paused  to  reflect  that  you 
could  not  know  the  series  of  aggrava- 
tions which  preceded  our  misunder- 
standing. I  did  not  guess  how  far  I 
was  giving  expression  to  them,  and 
unconsciously  transferring  to  you  the 
offences  of  others.  Nay,  I  exacted  a 
completer  surrender  of  your  woman's 
pride,  because  a  woman  had  already 
chosen  to  make  a  plaything  of  my  green 
boy-love.  There  is  no  use  in  speaking 
of  any  of  the  particulars  of  our  quarrel ; 
for  I  confess  to  you  that  I  was  reck- 
lessly, miserably  wrong.  But  the  time 
has  come  when  you  can  afford  to  be 
generous,  when  you  can  allow  your- 
self to  speak  my  forgiveness.  Not  for 
the  sake  of  anything  I  might  have  been 
to  you,  but  as  a  true  woman,  dealing 
with  her  brother-man,  I  ask  your  par- 
don !  " 


Mrs.  Hopeton  could  not  banish  the 
memory  of  the  old  tenderness  which 
plead  for  Philip,  in  her  heart.  He 
had  spoken  no  word  which  could  offend 
or  alarm  her :  they  were  safely  divid- 
ed by  a  gulf  which  might  never  be 
bridged,  and  perhaps  it  was  well  that 
a  purely  human  recenciliation  should 
now  clarify  what  was  turbid  in  the 
past,  and  reunite  them  by  a  bond,  pure 
though  eternally  sad.  She  came  slow- 
ly towards  him,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  All  is  not  only  pardoned,  Philip," 
she  said,  "  but  it  is  now  doubly  my 
duty  to  forget  it.  Do  not  suppose, 
however,  that  I  have  had  no  other  than 
reproachful  memories.  My  pride  was 
as  unyielding  as  yours,  for  it  led  me  to 
the  defiance  which  you  could  not  then 
endure.  I,  too,  was  haughty  and  impe- 
rious. I  recall  every  word  I  uttered, 
and  I  know  that  you  have  not  forgotten 
them.  But  let  there  be  equal  and  final 
justice  between  us  :  forget  my  words, 
if  you  can,  and  forgive  me  !  " 

Philip  took  her  hand,  and  held  it 
softly  in  his  own.  No  power  on  earth 
could  have  prevented  their  eyes  from 
meeting.  Out  of  the  far-off  distance 
of  all  dead  joys,  over  all  abysses  of 
fate,  the  sole  power  which  time  and 
will  are  powerless  to  tame,  took  swift 
possessions  of  their  natures.  Philip's 
eyes  were  darkened  and  softened  by  a 
film  of  gathering  tears :  he  cried  in 
a  broken  voice  :  — 

"  Yes,  pardon  !  —  but  I  thought  par- 
don might  be  peace.  Forget  ?  Yes,  it 
would  be  easy  to  forget  the  past,  if — 
O  Emily,  we  have  never  been  parted 
until  now  ! " 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hand,  and 
covered  her  face.  He  saw,  by  the  con- 
vulsive tremor  of  her  frame,  that  she 
was  fiercely  suppressing  her  emotion. 
In  another  moment  she  looked  up,  pale, 
cold,  and  almost  defiant. 

"  Why  should  you  say  more  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  Mutual  forgiveness  is  our 
duty,  and  there  the  duty  ends.  Leave 
me  now  !  " 

Philip  knew  that  he  had  betrayed 
himself.  Not  daring  to  speak  another 
word,  he  bowed  and  wal'ked  rapidly 


656 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


[June, 


away.  Mrs.  Hopeton  stood,  with  her 
hand  pressed  upon  her  bosom,  until 
he  had  disappeared  among  the  farther 
trees  :  then  she  sat  down,  and  let  her 
withheld  tears  flow  freely. 

Presently  the  merry  whoops  and  calls 
of  children  met  her  ear.  She  gathered 
together  the  fallen  flowers,  rose  and 
took  her  way  across  the  meadows  to- 
wards a  little  stone  school-house,  at 
the  foot  of  the  nearest  hill.  Lucy  Hen- 
derson already  advanced  to  meet  her. 
There  was  still  an  hour  or  two  of  sun- 
shine, but  the  mellow,  languid  heat  of 
the  day  was  over,  and  the  breeze  win- 
nowing down  the  valley  brought  with  it 
the  smell  of  the  blossoming  vernal  grass. 

The  two  women  felt  themselves 
drawn  towards  each  other,  though  nei- 
ther had  as  yet  divined  the  source  of 
their  affectionate  instinct.  Now,  look- 
ing upon  Lucy's  pure,  gently  firm,  and 
reliant  face,  Mrs.  Hopeton,  for  the  sec- 
ond or  third  time  in  her  life,  yielded  to 
a  sudden,  powerful  impulse,  and  said  : 
"  Lucy,  I  foresee  that  I  shall  need  the 
love  and  the  trust  of  a  true  woman  : 
where  shall  I  find  it,  if  not  in  you  ?" 

"  If  mine  will  content  you,"  said 
Lucy. 

"  O  my  dear  !  "  Mrs.  Hopeton  cried  ; 
"  none  of  us  can  stand  alone.  God  has 
singular  trials  for  us,  sometimes,  and 
the  use  and  the  conquest  of  a  trouble 
may  both  become  clear  in  the  telling  of 
it.  The  heart  can  wear  itself  out  with 
its  own  bitterness.  You  see,  I  force 
my  confidence  upon  you,  but  I  know 
you  are  strong  to  receive  it." 


"  At  least,"  Lucy  answered,  gravely, 
"  I  have  no  claim  to  strength  unless  I 
am  willing  to  have  it  tested." 

"  Then  let  me  make  the  severest  test 
at  once  :  I  shall  have  less  courage  than 
if  I  delay.  Can  you  comprehend  the 
nature  of  a  woman's  trial,  when  her 
heart  resists  her  duty  ?  " 

A  deep  blush  overspread  Lucy's  face, 
but  she  forced  herself  to  meet  Mrs. 
Hopeton's  gaze.  The  two  women  were 
silent  a  moment ;  then  the  latter  threw 
her  arms  around  Lucy's  neck,  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Let  us  walk  !  "  she  said.  "  We 
shall  both  find  the  words  we  need." 

They  moved  away  over  the  fragrant, 
shining  meadows.  Down  the  valley,  at 
the  foot  of  the  blue  cape  which  wooed 
their  eyes,  and  perhaps  suggested  to 
their  hearts  that  mysterious  sense  of 
hope  which  lies  in  landscape  distances, 
Elwood  Withers  was  directing  his  gang 
of  workmen.  Over  the  eastern  hill, 
Joseph  Asten  stood  among  his  fields, 
hardly  recognizing  their  joyous  growth. 
The  smoke  of  Philip's  forge  rose  above 
the  trees  to  the  northward.  So  many 
disappointed  hearts,  so  many  thwarted 
lives  !  What  strand  shall  be  twisted  out 
of  the  broken  threads  of  these  desti- 
nies, thus  drawn  so  near  to  each  other  ? 
What  new  forces  —  fatal  or  benefi- 
cent—  shall  be  developed  from  these 
elements  ? 

Mr.  Hopeton,  riding  homewards 
along  the  highway,  said  to  himself: 
"  It 's  a  pleasant  country,  but  what 
slow,  humdrum  lives  the  people  lead  !  " 


DRIVES    FROM    A    FRENCH    FARM. 
I. 


To  MOUNT  BEUVRAY. 

THE  farm  from  which  these  drives 
were  taken  is  situated  exactly  in 
the  middle  of  a  great  basin,  the  bed  of 
an  ancient  lake  surrounded  by  hills  of 


various  height,  the  chief  of  which  is 
Mount  Beuvray.  According  to  the 
Emperor  Napoleon  III.  and  other  an- 
tiquarians, the  mount  was  occupied  in 
the  time  of  Julius  Caesar  by  a  Gaulish 
place  of  strength  called  Bibracte,  but 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


657 


according  to  an  opinion  which  until 
very  recently  ha§  been  much  more  gen- 
erally received,  the  Bibracte  of  the 
Gauls  is  identical  in  point  of  situation 
with  the  Roman  city  of  Augustodunum, 
now  known  by  its  abbreviated  name 
of  Autun.  It  is  unnecessary  to  trouble 
the  reader  with  this  quarrel  of  antiqua- 
ries just  now,  because  the  details  of  it 
will  become  much  more  interesting  to 
him  when  he  knows  the  ground,  and 
something  of  the  people  most  con- 
cerned. 

I  had  lived  five  years  in  the  middle 
of  the  basin  of  Autun,  seeing  the 
Beuvray  every  day,  yet  without  once 
ascending  it.  The  distance  to  the  base 
of  the  hill  was  about  twenty  English 
miles,  and  that  is  a  distance  often  suf- 
ficiently considerable  to  make  one 
postpone  a  little  effort  which  may  be 
made  at  any  time,  and  that  one  always 
hopes  to  have  time  to  make  in  the 
future.  The  mount,  as  it  appeared  from 
the  farm,  was  artistically  very  valuable 
as  a  distance  ;  being  remote  enough  to 
look  blue  in  many  .conditions  of  the 
atmosphere,  and  not  near  enough  ever 
to  lose,  even  on  the  very  clearest  days, 
the  mystery  which  appeals  to  the  im- 
agination. I  call  it  the  mount,  because 
that  word  conveys  better  to  the  mind 
of  an  Englishman  the  sort  of  Jiill  which 
the  Beuvray  really  is  than  the  word 
"  mountain  "  would.  It  is  a  large  mame- 
lon  surrounded  by  a  number  of  lower 
mamelons.  It  has  nothing  of  the  peak 
or  needle-like  character,  but  resembles 
rather  the  mass  of  a  great  sea-wave, 
the  lines  festooning  a  little  from  the 
summit  to  the  mamelons  on  the  sides. 
In  England  and  Scotland  we  have 
hills  of  the  same  elevation,  which  have 
the  true  mountain  character  much  more 
decidedly.  The  summit  of  the  Beu- 
vray is  two  thousand  six  hundred  and 
seventy-eight  English  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  a  height  sufficient  to 
give  you  the  sublimities  of  rocky  sum- 
mits in  the  English  lake  district  or  in 
the  Hebrides  ;  but  the  Beuvray  is  sim- 
ply a  large  mound,  richly  wooded  to  the 
very  top. 

I   left  the   farm    about  four  in  the 
VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  152.  42 


afternoon  of  a  bright  day  near  the  end 
of  June,  and  after  a  brisk  drive  of 
about  fifteen  miles,  arrived  at  a  strag- 
gling village,  where  I  put  up  the  pony, 
going  forward  as  a  pedestrian,  with  a 
knapsack.  The  road  wound  about  like 
a  mountain  stream,  to  avoid  the  low 
hills  that  are  scattered  round  the  base 
of  the  Beuvray.  The  whole  of  the 
ground  was  curved  very  beautifully, 
with  great  groups  of  magnificent  old 
chestnuts,  and  there  were  little  woods 
of  slender  ash  and  birch,  and  some- 
times clusters  of  beeches  nestling  in 
the  hollows.  The  country  was  admi- 
rably rich.  The  corn  waved  on  every 
little  hill,  and  the  bottom  of  every  min- 
iature valley  was  occupied  by  a  green 
meadow,  watered  by  tiny  streams. 
There  were  occasional  glimpses  of 
wider  scenery  in  rich  compositions. 
Coming  near  the  foot  of  the  Beuvray,. 
I  left  the  high  road  and  followed  a. 
footpath,  which  after  skirting  some- 
fields  of  wheat  plunged  into  the  vast, 
forest  which  covers  the  slopes  of  the 
mountain. 

It  was  already  twilight,  and  nearly, 
dark  in  the  heart  of  the  forest ;  but, 
the  path  or  road  (for  there  were  wheel- 
marks  upon  it)  was  quite  clear  of  im- 
pediments, and  there  was  nothing,  even- 
if  it  had  been  perfectly  dark,  to  cause 
any  serious  anxiety.  There  are,  it  is 
true,  both  wolves  and  wild  boars  in  the. 
forest ;  but,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  these  animals  would  appear  to 
live  in  the  greatest  retirement,  for  they 
never  trouble  anybody  except  hunters 
who  go  to  disturb  their  peace. 

The  reader  very  likely  wonders  what 
could  induce  me  to  climb  Mount  Beu- 
vray precisely  as  it  was  getting  dark,, 
it  being  desirable  to  have  as  much- 
daylight  as  possible,  when,  the  purpose: 
of  a  journey  is  the  enjoyment  of  vast 
horizons. 

An  antiquary  well  known  in  these- 
parts,  the  learned  President  of  the 
Eduen  Society,  has  for  the  last  three 
years  encamped  during  the  summer 
months  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain, 
for  the  purpose  of  directing  certain 
excavations,  the  object  of  which  is  to 


658 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


[June, 


bring  to  light  the  Gaulish  antiquities 
of  the  locality.  I  was  sure  of  a  hos- 
pitable welcome  at  the  camp,  if  once  I 
could  find  it ;  but  it  was  not  so  certain 
whether,  with  the  somewhat  vague  ver- 
bal indications  which  had  been  given 
me,  I  should  be  able  to  hit  upon  it 
without  a  guide.  When  at  last  I  got 
out  of  the  wood  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  it  was  only  to  discover  that  there 
was  no  sign  of  an  encampment  in  the 
open  space  there.  The  camp  was  in 
the  forest,  then  !  It  is  not  easy  to  find 
an  encampment  in  a  large  forest  after 
dark ;  but  as  I  knew  it  to  be  near  the 
top  of  the  hill,  it  seemed  best  to  march 
all  round  the  hill,  through  the  wood, 
at  a  distance  of  about  two  hundred 
yards  below  the  plateau.  I  had  a  mar- 
iner's compass  in  my  pocket,  and  a  box 
of  matches,  so  there  was  no  very  great 
danger  of  being  lost,  and  if  the  camp 
should  not  be  discoverable  after  all, 
I  could  pass  the  night  comfortably 
enough  in  a  large,  warm  plaid  which 
I  carried  in  my  knapsack.  There  was 
plenty  of  gorse,  too,  and  with  that  and 
a  few  branches  I  could  make  myself  a 
small  refuge  almost  impenetrable  to 
wind  and  rain. 

In  pursuance  of  my  plan,  I  descended 
the  hill  about  two  hundred  yards  on 
the  other  side,  and  then  struck  off  at 
once  to  the  left.  In  ten  minutes  I 
came  upon  a  rude  wigwam  which  was 
empty,  but  it  gave  promise  of  human 
habitation,  and  immediately  afterwards 
I  found  the  camp  snugly  hidden  in  a 
hollow  of  the  wood.  The  antiquary 
had  a  hut  for  himself  and  another  for 
his  servant,  with  various  little  construc- 
tions round  about  for  fuel,  provisions, 
etc.  He  received  me  with  great  warmth, 
and  finding  that  I  had  eaten  nothing  for 
nine  hours,  proceeded  at  once  to  get 
me  a  good  supper.  Amongst  other 
things  I  had  some  boiled  eggs,  and  by 
way  of  egg-cup,  a  fragment  of  the  neck 
of  an  amphora,  which,  having  lain  idle 
in  the  earth  for  two  thousand  years,  was 
now  once  more  enlisted  in  the  service 
of  mankind.  The  supper  was  excel- 
lent, and  the  guest  brought  with  him 
an  appetite  worthy  of  the  occasion. 


The  antiquary  produced  a  bottle  of 
more  than  commonly  fine  Burgundy, 
and  after  the  meal  was  ended  his 
domestic  served  coffee,  —  that  coffee 
which  France  loves  and  which  Eng- 
land knoweth  not ! 

The  hut  was  simply  constructed  of 
rough  boards,  with  plenty  of  shelves. 
The  roof  was  thatched,  and  the  walls 
protected  with  straw,  —  a  useful  pre- 
caution both  against  rain  and  against 
the  extremes  of  heat  and  cold.  Having 
had  considerable  experience  of  camp 
life  myself  in  various  ways,  it  interested 
me  to  see  how  my  friend,  the  French 
antiquary,  had  made  his  arrangements. 
His  task  had  been  easier  than  mine, 
because  he  had  from  the  first  set  up 
a  camp  which  \vas  frankly  permanent, 
whereas  my  own  camp  life  had  been 
divided  into  three  phases  :  first,  I  had 
tried  a  semi-portable  camp,  or  a  camp 
portable  with  some  difficulty,  which 
gradually  by  the  accumulation  of  things 
supposed  to  be  necessary  to  comfort 
ceased  to  be  portable  and  became  per- 
manent, —  its  second  phase.  After  that 
I  had  a  really  portable  camp,  of  three 
tents,discarding  wooden  huts  altogether. 
The  various  shades  of  transition  from 
portability  to  non-portability  and  from 
permanence  to  portability  again  had  cost 
me  much  thought  and  some  money, 
which  the  antiquary,  by  the  simplicity 
of  his  purpose,  had  spared.  His  camp 
was  set  up  in  one  spot,  and  not  intended 
ever  to  be  set  up  anywhere  else,  and 
this  allowed  him  to  make  better  arrange- 
ments of  all  kinds  than  are  ever  made 
in  a  camp  intended  to  be  removed  from 
place  to  place.  For  instance,  he  had  a 
well  of  the  purest  spring-water,  arched 
over  with  stone,  and  a  small  stone  cel- 
lar well  supplied  with  stores  of  every- 
thing that  a  French  cellar  usually  con- 
tains. Then  he  had  separate  little 
sheds  or  wigwams  for  wood  and  other 
matters,  and  a  wonderfully  picturesque 
little  building  in  the  retirement  of  the 
forest,  the  utility  of  which  it  may  be 
left  to  the  reader's  sagacity  to  divine. 
On  the  whole,  it  was  one  of  the  best- 
appointed  little  camps  I  had  ever  seen. 

As  it  was  already  night  when  I  ar- 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


659 


rived  at  the  camp,  it  was  useless  to  go 
down  to  the  excavations  »  but  when  we 
had  finished  drinking  our  coffee,  my 
host,  M.  Bulliot,  proposed  a  walk  on 
the  crest  of  the  hill  to  see  an  effect  of 
moonlight  over  the  plain.  The  moon 
had  risen  since  my  arrival. 

The  summit  of  the  Beuvray  is  un- 
like the  summit  of  any  hill  I  ever  visit- 
ed. It  is  an  open  space  of  natural 
lawn,  about  thirty  acres  in  extent  (this 
is  a  guess),  with  broom  growing  on  it  in 
great  abundance.  In  calling  it  a  natu- 
ral lawn,  I  mean  that  where  the  ground 
is  clear  of  brotjm,  it  is  nearly  as  even  as 
an  artificial  lawn,  and  covered  with  very 
short  grass,  the  feeling  in  walking  over 
it  being  exactly  the  feeling  that  one 
has  in  walking  on  a  well-kept  croquet- 
ground, —  a  sensation  which  the  philo- 
sophic reader  might  perhaps  define  for 
himself  as  the  luxury  of  the  feet  Round 
this  open  space  there  is  a  belt  of  very 
ancient  trees,  chiefly  beeches,  and  just 
beyond  the  beeches  there  is  a  sudden 
rise  of  two  or  three  feet  in  the  lawny 
ground,  and  then  a  steep  slope  on  the 
other  side.  This  is  the  innermost 
Gaulish  rampart,  that  which  defended 
the  very  summit  of  the  hill. 

We  walked  towards  the  belt  of  trees, 
and  having  passed  through  it,  found 
ourselves  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  in  a 
place  where  the  ground  was  clear  of 
wood,  so  that  the  view  was  uninter- 
rupted. The  plains  below  us  stretched 
away  towards  the  Loire  and  lost  them- 
selves in  a  gray  mist.  The  moon  hung 
exactly  over  Mont  Blanc,  but  Mont 
Blanc  was  not  visible  that  night.  The 
white  dome  with  all  its  attendant  pinna- 
cles may  be  seen  from  the  place  where 
we  stood,  but  only  on  rare  occasions,  — 
in  the  morning  or  evening,  in  clear 
weather,  before  rain.  The  distance  is 
a  hundred  and  sixty  miles.  I  have 
never  enjoyed  that  wonderful  and  glo- 
rious spectacle.  The  greatest  distance 
from  which  I  ever  saw  Mont  Blanc  was 
a  hundred  miles,  clear ;  but  I  saw  it 
from  the  level  of  the  plain,  and  it 
seemed  so  wonderfully  near  and  dis- 
tinct that  the  additional  sixty  miles 
would  leave  it  still  gigantic.  And  con- 


sider the  advantage  of  an  observatory 
two  thousand  feet  above  the  plain ! 
What  you  see  from  the  plain  is  really 
nothing  but  the  snowy  dome,  whereas 
from  this  high  ground  something  more 
of  the  mountain  becomes  visible,  not- 
withstanding the  curve  of  the  earth's 
surface. 

The  reader  will,  no  doubt,  fully  enter 
into  my  feelings,  when  I  confess  that  a 
place  from  which  the  Alps  may  be  seen 
five  or  six  times  in  a  year  has  for  me  a 
certain  sublimity  all  the  year  round 
which  does  not  belong  to  it  visibly. 
When  you  are  told  that  Mont  Blanc  is 
there,  just  before  you,  and  that  you 
would  see  him  distinctly  if  the  veil 
were  removed,  your  mind  invests  the 
landscape  which  you  see  with  some- 
thing of  the  glory  of  the  unseen. 

"Mont  Blanc  is  there?  said  my  friend, 
the  antiquary,  "just  under  the  moon, 
behind  that  purplish-gray  mist";  and 
suddenly  the  landscape  became  grand- 
er to  my  imagination,  and  the  imme- 
morial beeches  told  me  in  the  whisper- 
ings of  their  leaves  how  often  the  rare 
vision  had  revealed  itself  to  them,  in 
the  centuries  of  their  watching. 

There  were  two  or  three  small  lakes 
in  the  valleys  below  us,  and  one  of  them 
was  so  nearly  under  the  moon  that  I 
said  :  "  Let  us  go  thirty  yards  to  the 
right,  and  we  shall  get  its  reflection." 
The  result  was  one  of  the  most  curious 
effects  I  ever  saw.  The  outline  of  the 
little  lake  was  not  distinguishable,  but 
the  image  of  the  moon  lay  in  the  water 
as  bright  as  the  reality  above.  The 
time  was  exactly  midnight,  and,  from 
the  height  we  were  on,  the  view 
seemed  visionary  and  illimitable.  It 
was  strange  to  see  the  moon  in  the 
land  below  us  ;  this  was  the  illusion 
produced  by  an  inability  to  distin- 
guish the  water  round  the  reflection. 
Presently  there  came  a  little  breeze 
upon  the  lake,  and  silvered  it  all 
over,  destroying  the  moon's  single  im- 
age to  cover  all  its  surface  with  bright- 
ness, and  then,  of  course,  we  saw  the 
lake's  shores  mapped  out  for  us  plainly 
enough. 

There  is  a  stone  cross  on  the  sum- 


66o 


Drives  from  a  FrcncJi  Farm. 


[June, 


mit  of  the  Beuvray,  dedicated  to  Saint 
Martin,  who  preached  there  ;  and  my 
companion  excused  himself  for  a  few 
minutes  that  he  might  say  his  cus- 
tomary prayer.  So  he  went  to  the  foot 
of  the  cross,  and  knelt  on  the  stone 
before  it,  and  prayed  bareheaded,  in 
the  silence  of  the  night.  I  have  seen 
the  Catholic  worship  under  very  im- 
pressive aspects ;  but  rarely,  I  think, 
under  an  aspect  more  impressive  than 
this.  Every  night  my  friend  goes  to 
the  foot  of  this  rude  stone  cross,  and 
prays  there  with  no  witnesses  but  the 
grim  old  trees  and  the  stars,  and  no 
sound  to  disturb  him  but  the  wind  as 
it  sweeps  across  the  summit  from  abyss 
to  abyss. 

"  When  this  cross  was  dedicated," 
said  my  companion,  when  his  prayer 
was  over,  "  Monseigneur  Landriot,  the 
present  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  per- 
formed the  ceremony  of  consecration 
in  the  presence  of  a  great  concourse  of 
people.  After  it  he  preached  to  them, 
and  for  want  of  a  better  pulpit  got 
upon  a  bullock-cart  and  addressed  the 
multitude  thence.  The  oxen  remained 
yoked  during  the  sermon,  the  people 
stood  round,  the  cart  was  decorated 
with  branches  and  garlands,  and  these 
things,  with  the  peculiarity  of  the  situa- 
tion, the  vast  prospects  on  every  side, 
and  the  traditions  connected  with  the 
place,  produced  an  effect  which,  in  its 
combination  of  the  picturesque  with 
the  poetical,  I  shall  remember  as  long 
as  I  live." 

It  being  already  past  midnight  when 
we  returned  to  the  camp,  we  deferred 
historical  and  antiquarian  discussions 
till  the  succeeding  evening,  and  were 
soon  asleep  in  our  respective  huts. 
The  antiquary  had  a  loaded  revolver 
and  a  fowling-piece  for  self-defence  in 
case  of  nocturnal  attack,  and  the  pre- 
caution did  not  seem  altogether  super- 
fluous, as  there  had  been  three  cases 
of  assassination  in  the  neighborhood 
during  the  fortnight  immediately  pre- 
ceding my  arrival.  In  this  neighbor- 
hood, however,  there  are  few  robberies, 
and  no  assassinations  for  purposes  of 
robbery.  When  a  man  is  murdered 


the  motive  to  the  crime  is  either  ven- 
geance or  jealousy,  invariably  ;  and  as 
my  friend  the  antiquary  was  not  a  per- 
son likely  to  incur  the  effects  of  either 
of  these  evil  passions,  I  felt  pretty 
tranquil  both  about  his  safety  in  gen- 
eral and  my  own  whilst  I  remained  his 
guest.  He  incurred,  it  is  true,  a  great 
deal  of  animosity,  and  very  virulent 
animosity,  but  his  enemies  stabbed 
with  the  pen  rather  than  the  dagger, 
and  belonged  to  a  class  in  society 
whose  longing  for  revenge  is  satisfied 
when  the  victim  is  made  to  suffer  men- 
tally. Slander  is  enough  to  achieve 
this  result,  and  my  host  was  the  most 
persistently  slandered  man  in  the  de- 
partment of  Saone-et- Loire. 

It  is  my  custom  to  write  every  morn- 
ing until  dejeuner,  and  that  under  all 
circumstances,  whether  on  mountain- 
tops  or  elsewhere  ;  so  I  did  not  stir 
from  the  hut  during  the  morning  hours. 
Between  ten  and  eleven  a  solitary 
priest  made  his  appearance  on  the  lit- 
tle space  of  green  before  the  camp,  and 
then  came  another. 

"  Two  priests  !  "  I  thought,  and  went 
on  with  my  writing.  But  on  looking  up 
again  there  were  four  of  them. 

"  Four  priests  !  "  I  thought,  and  re- 
sumed my  labors.  But  on  looking  up 
again  there  were  six  priests. 

"  A  clerical  invasion  !  "  I  said  to  my- 
self, and  the  pen  trotted  on  as  before. 

"  I  wonder  what  these  priests  are 
doing  !  "  So  I  looked  out  of  the  little 
window  once  again.  This  time  there 
were  eight  of  them  !  Fascinated  by 
the  spectacle  of  ever-multiplying  black 
creatures,  and  marvelling  whence  they 
sprang,  I  continued  to  gaze,  and  the 
pen  suspended  its  toil.  Two  more 
priests  emerged  from  the  wood,  and 
then  came,  not  a  priest,  but  a  gray 
horse  with  a  cart;  and  the  cart  con- 
tained provisions,  amongst  which  pru- 
dent clerical  forethought  had  not  for- 
gotten to  include  a  sufficiency  of  wine. 
It  was  a  clerical  picnic. 

A  clerical  picnic  !  How  suggestive 
of  enjoyment  is  the  combination  of  that 
adjective  with  that  substantive!  To 
be  a  priest,  a  being  deprived  of  domes- 


1 870.] 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


66 1 


N 

! 


tic  joys  and  consolations,  living  on  nar- 
row means  in  the  solitude  of  the  pres- 
bytery, obliged  to  wear  a  grave  outward 
demeanor  in  his  village,  excluded  from 
the  cafe,  from  the  billiard-table,  from 
the  dance,  and  after  months  of  this 
perpetual  gravity,  solitude,  compres- 
sion, to  get  into  a  pleasant  spot,  out  of 
sight  and  hearing  of  one's  parishioners, 
and  let  human  nature  have  its  way  for 
one  brief,  one  merry  hour  !  —  what  fe- 
licity, save  that  of  the  released  school- 
boy, can  be  equal  to  this  felicity  ? 

My  host  issued  from  the  hut  ancl  sa- 
luted the  holy  band.  As  they  had  seen 
me  through  the  window,  I  presented 
myself  also,  and  was  immediately  invit- 
ed to  share  the  viands  in  the  cart, 
which  were  to  be  spread  out  in  some 
cool  and  shady  recess,  sub  tegmine  fagi. 
But  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  spoil 
that  feast  by  the  presence  of  a  critical 
layman,  and  the  cordial  invitation  was 
declined. 

After  dejeuner  with  the  antiquary,  I 
accompanied  him  to  his-  excavations, 
which  were  four  or  five  hundred  yards 
lower  down  the  hill.  There  were  also 
some  interesting  excavations  close  to 
the  camp  itself,  including  part  of  a 
Gallo  -  Roman  aqueduct,  a  Gaulish 
house,  and  other  structures  in  fair 
preservation.  At  the  time  of  my  visit 
M.  Bulliot  was  employing  from  twelve 
to  twenty  workmen,  who  were  excavat- 
ing a  part  of  the  hill  where  the  houses 
stood  as  thickly  as  they  do  at  Pom- 
peii. 

The  Gauls',  be  it  remembered,  were 
>y  no  means  clever  builders.  They 
were,  it  seems  to  me,  rather  surpris- 
ingly behindhand  in  that  art,  when  we 
consider  how  respectably  they  could 
work  in  metal.  Of  course  after  the 
Romans  had  taught  them  how  to  build 
they  became  clever  enough,  but  their 
own  unaided  civilization  had  not  gone 
far  in  the  way  of  building  when  the 
Romans  found  them.  They  took  rough 
stones  as  they  came  from  the  quarry, 
and  set  them  in  clay  with  the  flattest 
side  outwards  ;  and  as  such  a  wall  was 
not  very  strong  of  itself,  they  strength- 
ened it  with  wooden  posts,  which  were 


both  set  up  at  intervals  in  front  of  the 
wall  and  used  as  throughs.  In  modern 
works  what  reminds  one  most  of  a 
Gaulish  wall  is  a  sea-jetty  with  its  fa- 
cing of  oak  beams  and  posts,  only  the 
jetty  is  made  of  incomparably  better 
stone-work.  People  who  have  never 
had  the  opportunity  of  examining  the 
rude  work  of  the  Gauls  for  themselves 
have  often  very  erroneous  notions  about 
it ;  they  give  credit  to  these  barbarians 
for  constructive  powers  far  superior  to 
what  they  really  possessed.  No  Gaul- 
ish wall  of  the  pre-Roman  times  could 
have  lasted  till  our  day  if  it  had  not 
been  buried  ;  the  action  of  the  weather 
alone  would  have  brought  it  down  in  a 
heap. 

What  I  actually  saw  at  these  excava- 
tions may  be  very  soon  described.  A 
narrow  street  paved  with  small  stones, 
and  about  fourteen  dwellings  close  to 
each  other,  very  rude  in  construction 
and  not  large.  Besides  these  dwell- 
ings there  were  some  workshops  which 
contained  evidence  that  they  had  been 
used  by  iron-smiths.  This  evidence 
would  often  have  escaped  the  attention 
of  people  not  accustomed  to  look  out 
for  such  indications.  The  reader  is 
probably  aware  that  the  sparks  from  a 
blacksmith's  anvil  are  in  reality  minute 
fragments  of  red-hot  iron,  which  on 
cooling  remain  on  the  floor  of  his  work- 
shop as  small  grains  of  metal.  Well, 
in  examining  these  ancient  Gaulish 
workshops,  the  explorers  are  always 
careful  to  see  whether  the  soil  contains 
any  such  indications,  and  in  this  way 
it  can  not  only  be  shown  that  in  such  a 
place  a  worker  in  metal  must  have  la- 
bored, but  it  can  be  proved  in  what 
particular  metal.  Thus  whilst  I  was 
present  a  blacksmith's  forge. was  dis- 
covered, and  not  far  from  it  the  house 
of  a  coppersmith  or  worker  in  bronze. 
In  the  first  were  found  tools,  a  ham- 
mer and  pincers,  and  plenty  of  iron 
sparks  in  the  soil ;  in  the  second  were 
found  crucibles  and  metallic  residues. 
The  rude  pottery  of  the  Gauls  is  found 
here  in  such  abundance,  that  the  soil  is 
covered  with  fragments  of  it,  and  only 
the  most  perfect  or  the  most  rare  speci- 


662 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


[June, 


mens  are  preserved.  Coins  and  orna- 
ments are  also  very  frequently  met 
with,  and.  indeed  not  a  single  hour 
passes  without  a  find  of  some  sort. 

I  have  just  said  that  only  twelve  or 
fourteen  houses  were  visible  at  the  ex- 
cavation ;  but  the  reader  must  not  con- 
clude that  the  discoveries  have  been 
confined  to  what  is  visible.  The  owner 
of  the  land  requires  the  excavations  of 
one  year  to  be  filled  and  levelled  before 
those  of  the  succeeding  year  are  begun  ; 
and  although  this  may  appear  at  first 
sight  a  barbarous  sacrifice  of  curious 
remains  on  the  altar  of  self-interest,  it 
is  not  so  barbarous  as  it  looks.  The 
Gauls  built  without  mortar,  and  their 
walls  would  soon  be  utterly  ruined  by 
the  mere  action  of  the  rain  and  frost, 
if  they  were  not  protected  by  burial. 
To  bury  them  again  is  consequently 
the  only  way  to  preserve  them  for  the 
antiquaries  of  the  future,  who  will  know 
where  to  find  every  house,  every  work- 
shop, every  fragment  of  rampart  and 
other  fortification,  by  the  careful  map 
in  which  the  present  explorer  records, 
year  by  year,  the  progress  of  his  la- 
bors. 

It  is  time  now  to  say  something  more 
about  the  explorer  himself.  He  has 
devoted,  for  some  years  past  the  whole 
of  his  time  to  the  very  interesting,  but 
by  no  means  lucrative,  occupation  of 
studying  Gaulish  antiquities.  Former- 
ly a  partner  in  the  principal  wine  firm 
in  the  neighborhood,  he  found  business 
less  attractive  than  study,  and  quitted 
it  to  have  leisure  for  his  favorite  pur- 
suits. Now,  in  England  and  France 
(I  don't  know  how  it  may  be  in  Ameri- 
ca) it  is  an  invariable  law  of  nature  that 
whenever  a  gentleman  in  a  provincial 
town  studies  anything,  unless  it  be  for 
the  purpose  of  qualifying  himself  to 
earn  money,  he  is  looked  upon  with 
suspicion ;  and  if  he  persists  in  study- 
ing, he  is  called  "eccentric";  and  if 
it  is  known  that  his  studies  cost  him 
pecuniary  sacrifices,  he  is  said  to  be 
"  mad."  It  is  sometimes  said  that  a 
father  cannot  contribute  more  effectu- 
ally to  the  happiness  of  his  children, 
than  by  imbuing  their  minds  while  yet 


tender  with  a  taste  for  intellectual  pur- 
suits. That  depends  upon  their  power 
to  endure  solitude  and  calumny  and 
contempt.  The  best  way  to  live  hap- 
pily amongst  men  in  provincial  towns 
is  to  know  no  more  than  your  neigh- 
bors. 

Monsieur  Bulliot  is  an  inhabitant  of 
Autun,  the  Augustodunum  of  the  Ro- 
mans, believed  also  during  many  gen- 
erations to  have  been  the  still  more 
ancient  Bibracte  of  the  Gauls.  For 
reasons  which  will  be  given  later,  M. 
Bulliot  became  convinced  that  Autun 
could  not  be  Bibracte,  and  that  the  true 
site  of  the  Gaulish  oppiditm  would  be 
found  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Beu- 
vray.  One  or  two  excavations  on  a 
small  scale  having  been  made  success- 
fully, M.  Bulliot  had  the  mountain  sur- 
veyed at  his  expense  and  the  ancient 
ramparts  traced.  The  Emperor  was  per- 
suaded of  the  truth  of  M.  Bulliot's 
views,  and  openly  adopted  them  in  the 
"  Life  of  Caesar,"  supplying  at  the  same 
time  funds  for  the  excavations.  As  the 
excavations  went  on,  great  quantities 
of  things  were  discovered,  proving  be- 
yond question  that  there  had  been  a 
Gaulish  town  on  the  Beuvray,  whether 
it  were  the  one  called  Bibracte  by 
Ca;sar  or  not. 

Now  the  Autun  people  were  not 
pleased  by  the  promulgation  of  these 
novel  theories,  which  appeared  to  rob 
their  ancient  city  of  a  portion  of  its 
great  past.  They  had  believed  it  to 
be  of  pre-historic  antiquity,  a  Gaulish 
place  of  strength  for  ages  before  the 
arrival  of  the  Caesars,  and  now  this 
profane  investigator  would  limit  its 
age  to  two  thousand  years.  A  strong 
local  feeling  was  aroused  against  M. 
Bulliot  and  his  theories,  and  he  be- 
came the  object  of  unsparing  attack. 
The  public  irritation  found  a  mouth- 
piece in  a  local  writer,  who  pursued  M. 
Bulliot  for  years  with  the  utmost  viru- 
lence and  acerbity.  Meanwhile  the 
antiquary  continued  his  labors  patient- 
ly, constantly  sending  new  objects  to 
the  museum  at  St.  Germain  and  accu- 
mulating evidence  every  day.  The 
answer  made  to  this  material  evidence 


1870.] 


Drives  from  a  French  Farm. 


663 


was  as  follows :  "  M.  Bulliot  says  that 
he  finds  coins  on  the  Beuvray.  The 
thimblerigger  finds  what  he  has  put." 
It  was  actually  asserted  that  M.  Bul- 
liot buried  antiquities  on  the  mountain, 
that  his  workmen  might  dig  them  up 
again  ;  which  is  just  like  saying  that  the 
Neapolitan  antiquaries  buried  Pompeii 
on  purpose  to  make  a  noise  in  the 
world  by  finding  it. 

One  of  the  commonest  resources  of 
the  artful  calumniator  is  to  send  out  a 
rumor  that  the  man  he  wishes  to  injure 
asserts  something  quite  different  from 
his  real  opinion,  something  so  contrary 
to  reason  that  even  the  most  ordinary 
intelligences  may  perceive  its  absurdity. 
The  way  in  which  this  trick  was  played, 
and  successfully  played,  against  M. 
Bulliot  is  an  excellent  instance  of  that 
kind  of  warfare.  His  enemies  did  not 
circulate  the  rumor  merely  that  he 
placed  Bibracte  on  the  Mount  Beuvray, 
but  that  he  placed  Augustodunum  it- 
self there,  which  would  be  as  absurd 
(if  any  human  being  were  insane  enough 
to  advance  such  a  proposition)  as  it 
would  be  to  affirm  that  the  Rome  of 
Augustus  was  built  on  the  Alban 
Mount.  So  the  bourgeois  about  Autun, 
entering  its  Roman  gates  whenever 
they  drove  into  the  town,  and  seeing 
in  their  museums  many  objects  which 
(as  they  were  informed  by  trustworthy 
persons)  were  certainly  Roman,  and 
being,  further,  able  to  trace  for  them- 
selves something  of  the  vast  circuit  of 
the  Roman  wall,  laughed '  at  M.  Bul- 
liot as  a  pitiable  imbecile  because  he 
resisted  all  evidence,  and  put  the  Ro- 
man city  on  the  top  of  a  lofty  hill,  a 
day's  journey  to  the  westward ;  and 
even  to  this  day,  in  spite  of  all  that  has 
been  printed  on  the  subject,  in  the  Em- 
peror's "  Life  of  Caesar  "  and  elsewhere, 
M.  Bulliot  is  credited  with  this  mon- 
strous absurdity.  For  example,  I.  said 
a  page  or  two  back  that  a  party  of  ten 
priests  had  come  to  the  mount  to  enjoy 
a  clerical  picnic  there.  After  their 
dejeuner,  these  gentlemen  came  down  to 
look  at  the  excavations,  and  the  very 
first  thing  that  their  leader  and  spokes- 
man said  to  M.  Bulliot  was,  "  And  so 


this  is  the  place  where  you  believe  the 
Roman  Augustodunum  to  have  been 
situated  ?  "  Of  course,  when  once  a 
confusion  of  this  kind  has  got  into  the 
head  of  a  whole  population,  there  is  no 
getting  it  out  again.  The  people  can- 
not separate  the  two  ideas  of  Bibracte, 
the  Gaulish  stronghold,  and  Augusto- 
dunum, the  great  colonial  city  of  the 
Romans.  The  two  ideas  have  got  as- 
sociated in  their  minds,  and  no  power 
on  earth  can  dissociate  them.  If  Bi- 
bracte goes  to  the  top  of  the  Beuvray, 
Augustodunum  must  go  there  too. 
But  is  it  not  the  most  exquisite^of  all 
imaginable  tortures  for  a  true  student 
and  antiquary  to  know  that  such  an 
outrageous  misrepresentation  of  his 
views  is  generally  received  as  an  accu- 
rate account  of  them  ?  To  say  that 
you  are  mistaken  in  what  you  do  af- 
firm is  a  kind  of  opposition  which 
every  one  ought  to  be  prepared  to  en- 
dure patiently ;  but  when  people  say 
that  you  think  this  silly  thing  or  that 
silly  thing,  which  you  never  so  much  as 
imagined,  and  pity  you  and  laugh  at  you 
for  your  supposed  opinions,  thefo  you 
have  need  of  all  your  philosophy  to 
keep  your  temper  from  turning  sour. 
It  was  very  interesting  to  me  to  observe 
the  effect  of  so  much  popular  misun- 
derstanding and  personal  slander  on 
the  mind  of  my  host  the  antiquary.  It 
had  not  soured  or  imbittered  him,  and 
it  had  not  interrupted  his  work,  or 
diminished  his  personal  activity  ;  but  it 
had  saddened  him  and  made  him  more 
reserved,  not  with  me,  but  with  people 
in  general,  than  he  was  intended  to  be 
by  nature.  When  a  man  gets  the  sort 
of  pay  from  his  neighbors  which  men 
usually  do  get  when  they  make  them- 
selves singular  by  devotion  to  some 
branch  of  study,  he  is  driven  back  into 
himself,  and  is  often  compelled  to  bury 
himself  in  his  own  pursuits,  as  an  ani- 
mal buries  itself  in  its  hole,  to  get  out 
of  the  way  of  the  hounds. 

Life,  however,  brings  its  own  com- 
pensations. The  years  move  towards 
us,  and  the  coming  time  brings  com- 
pensation "with  it.  No  one  who,  in  a 
provincial  town,  devotes  himself  to 


664 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


study  of  any  kind  can  hope  to  escape 
from  depreciation.  If  he  is  talked 
about  at  all  (and  he  will  be  talked 
about  if  he  makes  himself  singular  by 
studying  anything),  the  tone  of  the  cur- 
rent gossip  about  him  will  infallibly  be 
depreciatory.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
will  find  friends  and  allies  who  will 
have  been  made  indignant  by  this  con- 
tinual babble  of  depreciation,  and  who 
will  be  attracted  to  him  far  more  strong- 
ly than  if  there  had  been  more  of  it.  M. 
Bulliot  has  some  rather  powerful  sup- 
porters, — the  Emperor,  the  Archbish- 
op of  Rheims,  and  other  learned  and 
distinguished  personages,  —  so  that  he 
can  very  well  afford  to  despise  the  mis- 
representations of  .his  fellow-citizens. 
But  every  one  who  has  gone  through 
such  an  experience  as  his,  every  one 
who  has  been  the  butt  of  the  idle 
tongues  in  a  locality  for  a  year  or  two, 
comes  out  of  it  an  altered  man.  It  is 
not  possible  to  devote  one's  self  very 
ardently  to  the  service  of  one's  fellow- 
citizens  after  that;  and  though  the  kind 
encouragement  of  cultivated  people 
at  a  distance  is  no  doubt  very  cheering 
and  very  welcome,  and  a  real  support 
in  one's  labors,  it  cannot  altogether 
efface  the  recollection  of  perpetual 
neighborly  ill-nature. 

No  one,   however,   could  bear  that 
with    more    perfect    dignity  than  M. 


Bulliot  has  done.  He  goes  forward 
with  his  work  in  silence,  year  after 
year,  quietly  registering  every  portable 
object  found,  before  sending  it  to  the 
Imperial  Museum,  and  mapping  every 
house  in  the  buried  city,  as  it  comes ' 
to  light  for  a  brief  month  before  its 
return  to  the  gloom  of  reinterment. 
Hitherto,  not  a  single  excavation  has 
been  prosecuted  in  vain,  but  the  exca- 
vations are  costly  and  therefore  slow. 
It  costs  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
an  acre  to  bring  these  antiquities  to 
light,  and  as  no  allowance  is  made  by 
the  government,  the  only  help  coming 
in  the  shape  of  annual  grants  from  the 
Emperor's  privy  purse,  the  work  may 
last  a  good  many  years  yet.  When  it 
is  done,  and  the  camp  removed  from 
the  hill,  M.  Bulliot  will  bring  out  a 
book  containing  a  simple  account  of 
what  has  been  discovered,  but  not  re- 
plying to  his  enemies  in  any  more 
direct  way. 

I  hope,  in  a  succeeding  paper,  to 
give  the  reader  further  particulars 
about  these  diggings  and  the  things 
found  there,  and  the  controversy  which 
has  raged  here  about  the  Gaulish 
stronghold  of  Bibracte.  Without  tir- 
ing the  reader  with  dry  antiquarian 
details,  it  will  be  easy,  I  hope,  to  put 
him  in  possession  of  all  the  most  inter- 
esting facts. 


WILLIAM    HAZLITTV 


AMONG  English  essayists  William 
Hazlitt  is  distinguished  for  his 
psychological  revelations.  Less  com- 
panionable than  Steele,  less  erudite 
than  De  Ouincey,  without  Addison's 
classic  culture  and  Leigh  Hunt's  bon- 
homie^ he  is  more  introspective  than  any 

*  List  of  the  Writings  of  William  Hazlitt  and 
'Leigh  Hunt,  chronologically  arranged  ;  with  Notes 
Descriptive,  Critical,  and  Explanatory  ;  and  a  Selec- 
tion of  Opinions  regarding  their  Genius  and  Charac- 
ter. By  Alexander  Ireland.  London  :  John  Russell 
'Smith. 


one  of  these.  The  speculative  exceeds 
the  literary  element  in  his  equipment. 
To  think  rather  than  to  learn  was  his 
prevalent  tendency ;  intuition  rather 
than  acquisition  was  his  resource.  The 
cast  of  his  mind,  the  quality  of  his  tem- 
perament, and  the  nature  of  his  experi- 
ence combined  to  make  him  thoughtful, 
individual,  and  earnest ;  more  abstract 
than  social,  more  intent  than  discur- 
sive, more  original  than  accomplished, 
he  contributed  ideas  instead  of  fanta- 


1 870.] 


William  Hazlitt. 


665 


sies,  and  vindicated  opinions  instead  of 
tastes.  Zest  was  his  inspiration  ;  that 
intellectual  pleasure  which  comes  from 
idiosyncrasies,  moods,  convictions,  he 
both  felt  and  imparted  in  a  rare  degree  ; 
he  thirsted  for  truth  ;  he  was  jealous 
of  his  independence  ;  he  was  a  devotee 
of  freedom.  In  him  the  animal  and 
intellectual  were  delicately  fused.  Few 
such  voluminous  writers  have  been 
such  limited  readers.  Keenly  alive  to 
political  abuses,  bred  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  dissent,  prone  to  follow  out 
his  mental  instincts  with  little  regard 
to  precedent  or  prosperity,  there  was  a 
singular  consistency  of  purpose  in  his 
career.  Undisciplined  by  academic 
training,  his  mind  was  developed  by  a 
process  of  reflection,  both  patient  and 
comprehensive  ;  and  so  much  was  it  to 
him  a  kingdom,  that  only  the  pressure 
of  necessity  or  the  encouragement  of 
opportunity  would  have  won  him  from 
vagrant  musing  to  elaborate  expres- 
sion. He  looked  within  for  the  ma- 
terials of  his  essays,  —  drawing  upon 
reason  and  consciousness,  outward  in- 
fluences being  the  occasions  rather 
than  the  source  of  his  discourse.  So 
far  as  he  was  a  practical  writer  he  was 
a  reformer,  and,  as  a  critic,  he  wrote 
from  aesthetic  insight,  and  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  any  conventional  stand- 
ard. Accordingly,  while  excelled  in 
fancy,  rhetoric,  and  fulness  of  knowl- 
edge by  many  of  his  class,  he  is  one  of 
the  most  suggestive  ;  he  may  amuse 
less,  but  he  makes  us  think  more,  and 
puts  us  on  a  track  of  free  and  acute 
speculation  or  subtle  intellectual  sym- 
pathy. He  makes  life  interesting  by 
hinting  its  latent  significance  ;  he  re- 
veals the  mysterious  charm  of  charac- 
ter by  analyzing  its  elemental  traits ; 
he  revives  our  sense  of  truth  and  de- 
fines the  peculiarities  of  genius  ;  and  to 
him  progress,  justice,  and  liberty  seem 
more  of  personal  concern  from  this  very 
perception  of  the  divine  possibilities 
of  free  development.  His  defects  and 
misfortunes  confirmed  these  tenden- 
cies. A  more  complete  education 
would  probably  have  weakened  his 
power  as  a  writer ;  more  extensive  so- 


cial experience,  less  privation  and  per- 
secution, would  have  bred  intellectual 
ease,  and  higher  birth  and  fortune  mod- 
ified the  emphasis  of  his  opinions. 
But,  thrown  so  early  upon  his  own  re- 
sources, left  to  his  wayward  impulses, 
and  taught  to  think  for  himself,  he 
garnered  in  solitude  the  thoughts  which 
circumstances  afterwards  elicited,  and 
had  the  time  and  the  freedom  to 
attain  certain  fixed  views  and  realize 
his  own  special  endowments  by  experi- 
ment. His  earliest  tendency  was  met- 
aphysical, his  most  congenial  aptitude 
artistic.  The  spontaneous  exercise  of 
his  devouring  intelligence  was  in  the 
sphere  of  abstract  truth ;  the  fondest 
desire  of  his  youth  was  to  be  a  painter; 
and  from  these  two  facts  in  the  history 
of  his  mind,  we  can  easily  infer  all  his 
merits  as  an  essayist :  for  while,  on 
the  one  hand,  he  brings  every  subject 
to  the  test  of  consciousness,  on  the 
other,  his  sensuous  love  of  beauty  and 
curious  delight  in  its  study  give,  at 
once,  a  philosophical  and  a  sympathetic 
charm  to  his  lucubrations,  in  which 
consists  their  special  attraction.  It 
was  disappointment  in  his  ambition 
to  become  an  artist  that  renewed  his 
speculative  vein,  and  the  necessity  of 
making  this  more  winsome  to  the  pub- 
lic that  made  him  a  popular  author. 
The  details  of  such  a  career  and  the 
traits  of  such  a  character  are  worthy 
of  study ;  and  the  volume  of  Leigh 
Hunt  already  cited  is  a  grateful  evi- 
dence of  intellectual  obligation,  the 
sources  of  which  we  shall  endeavor  to 
indicate  as  they  are  revealed  in  the 
life  and  writings  of  William  Hazlitt. 

Bostonians  of  the  liberal  school,  who 
visited  England  in  the  early  days  of 
packet-ships,  must  have  felt  disappoint- 
ed at  the  obscure  and  unenviable  posi- 
tion of  the  scattered  representatives  of 
their  faith  there.  Accustomed  to  as- 
sociate superiority  with  everything 
English,  from  cloth  and  cutlery  to 
books  and  scholars,  and  leaving  a  com- 
munity where  culture  and  competence 
were  identified  with  Unitarianism,  the 
small,  bare  chapels  and  isolated  labors 
of  the  most  intellectual  class  of  dis- 


666 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


senters  in  Britain  doubtless  proved  a 
painful  surprise.  The  contrast  they 
offered  to  the  luxury  and  ostentation 
of  the  Established  Religion  deepened 
this  impression.  And  yet,  with  this 
despised  minority  originated  much  of 
the  humane  and  independent  think- 
ing which  has  brightened  and  beauti- 
fied our  civilization.  Political  justice 
and  religious  toleration  upheld  and  il- 
lustrated by  earnest  and  courageous 
minds,  whose  crusade  was  sanctioned 
by  rare  personal  worth  and  frugal  pro- 
bity, found  by  degrees  that  popular 
recognition  which  now  makes  princi- 
ples once  persecuted  as  dangerous  the 
salubrious  leaven  in  the  inert  mass 
of  traditional  wrong  and  deadening  su- 
perstition. In  such  a  school,  unen- 
dowed by  the  state,  unheralded  by 
titles,  unrecognized  by  the  great  world, 
William  Hazlitt  was  born  and  bred. 

John  Hazlitt,  an  Irish  Protestant, 
emigrated  from  the  county  of  Antrim 
to  the  neighborhood  of  Tipperary,  and 
there  established  himself  as  a  flax  fac- 
tor ;  his  son  William  graduated  at 
Glasgow  in  1761,  joined  the  Unitarians, 
and  crossed  over  to  England,  where, 
for  many  years,  in  various  rural  places, 
he  was  settled  over  small  congrega- 
tions. He  was  a  man  of  unimpeacha- 
ble integrity,  of  learning  and  piety,  but 
destitute  of  ambition  ;  simple  in  his 
tastes,  of  frugal  and  studious  habits, 
and  a  remarkably  modest  and  con- 
tented disposition.  The  aspect  under 
which  he  was  best  remembered  by  his 
children  was  "  poring  over  old  folios," 
and  watching  with  pleasure  the  growth 
of  his  vegetable  -  garden.  He  was  a 
beautiful  type  of  the  English  pastor  as 
delineated  by  Goldsmith,  with  the  dif- 
ference that  to  a  scholar's  habits  and  a 
good  man's  peaceful  benignity  he  add- 
ed a  vivid  sympathy  for  the  advance- 
ment and  welfare  of  his  race,  and  a 
keen  interest  in  philosophic  inquiries. 
Accordingly,  despite  a  small  salary  and 
frequent  clerical  migrations,  he  sus- 
tained casual  relations  with  the  fore- 
most thinkers  of  his  day  ;  he  was  a 
warm  friend  to  our  country  during  the 
Revolutionary  War,  and  of  essential 


service  to  the  American  prisoners  at 
Kinsale,  near  where  he  was  then  living. 
He  knew  Franklin,  and  was  a  friend 
and  correspondent  of  Priestley  and 
Price.  He  married  Grace  Loftus,  a 
farmer's  daughter  of  decided  personal 
charms  and  attractive  qualities  of  char- 
acter. He  had  three  children,  —  John, 
who  became  a  distinguished  artist, 
Peggy*  and  William,  the  youngest  the 
subject  of  this  notice,  who  was  born  in 
Mitre  Lane,  Maidstone,  April  10,  1778. 
Two  years  after  the  family  removed  to 
Ireland,  where  the  elder  Hazlitt  took 
charge  of  a  parish  at  Bandon  in  the 
county  of  Cork  ;  and,  at  the  close  of 
the  war  in  which  he  had  taken  so  deep 
an  interest,  and  when  his  son  William 
was  five  years  old,  they  visited  Amer- 
ica. 

In  May,  1783,  the  Hazlitts  arrived  in 
New  York,  and  soon  after  went  to 
Philadelphia.  The  New  Jersey  Assem- 
bly being  in  session  at  Burlington,  Mr. 
Hazlitt,  by  invitation,  preached  before 
them ;  and  during  the  fifteen  months 
he  remained  in  Philadelphia  frequently 
addressed  congregations,  and  also  de- 
livered a  course  of  lectures  on  the  Evi- 
dences of  Christianity.  He  then  made 
a  brief  visit  to  Boston,  where  he  found- 
ed the  first  Unitarian  Church.  His 
son,  the  artist,  left  in  the  New  World 
several  fruits  of  his  pencil,  in  the  shape 
of  portraits  ;  and  the  earliest  likeness 
of  his  brother  William  was  executed 
here,  and  represents  a  handsome  bright 
boy  of  six,  with  blue  eyes,  and  long, 
curly  brown  hair.  The  latter's  recol- 
lections, however,  did  not  extend  to 
this  early  period ;  the  memories  of 
childhood  were  associated  with  Wem 
in  Shropshire,  where  his  father  estab- 
lished himself  on  his  return  from  Amer- 
ica, in  1786  -87,  and  remained  until  his 
death.  It  was  here  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Salisbury,  in  a  humble  parsonage, 
that  the  boyhood  and  youth  of  the  fu- 
ture essayist  was  passed  ;  and  he  fondly 
reverts  to  the  walks,  talks,  reading,  and 
musing  which  consecrated  this  region 
to  his  memory.  Two  or  three  letters 
written  at  eight  and  ten  years  of  age,  to 
his  father  when  temporarily  absent, 


William  Hazlitt. 


667 


give  an  inkling  of  the  mature  character 
of  his  mind,  and  his  innate  disposition 
to  moralize  and  speculate.  "  I  shall 
never  forget,"  he  writes,  "  that  we  came 
to  America.  I  think,  for  my  part,  it 
would  have  been  a  great  deal  better  if 
the  white  people  had  not  found  it  out." 
At  ten  he  tells  his  brother,  in  a  serious 
epistle,  "we  cannot  be  happy  without 
being  employed.  I  want  to  learn  how 
to  measure  the  stars."  And  again  he 
informs  his  father  of  his  manner  of 
passing  his  time  while  on  a  visit  to 
London :  "I  spent  a  very  agreeable 
day  yesterday,  as  I  read  sixteen  pages 
of  Priestley.  On  Sunday  we  went  to 
church,  the  first  time  I  ever  was  in 
one,  and  I  do  not  care  if  I  never  go 
into  one  again.  The  clergyman,  after 
he  had  gabbled  over  half  a  dozen 
prayers,  began  his  sermon,  which  had 
neither  head  nor  tail.  I  was  sorry  so 
much  time  should  be  thrown  away  on 
nonsense."  Here  we  recognize  the 
embryo  critic  and  reformer ;  and  that 
his  spirit  of  free  inquiry  and  indepen- 
dent faith  was  encouraged  by  the  good 
pastor  down  in  Shropshire  is  evident 
from  the  paternal  replies  to  these  frank 
and  filial  letters.  "  The  piety  your  let- 
ter displayed,"  writes  Hazlitt  pere, 
"was  a  great  refreshment  to  me  ;  noth- 
ing can  truly  satisfy  us  but  the  acqui- 
sition of  knowledge  and  virtue."  In 
1791,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  Hazlitt 
may  be  said  to  have  begun  his  crusade 
in  behalf  of  justice  and  freedom.  His 
young  heart  swelled  with  indignation 
at  the  outrages  perpetrated  in  Benning- 
ham  upon  Priestley,  because  of  his 
obnoxious  opinions  ;  and  he  boldly 
entered  the  field  against  those  who  at- 
tempted to  excuse,  if  not  to  justify,  the 
destruction  of  the  liberal  philosopher's 
house  by  a  mob.  This  juvenile  pro- 
test was  published  in  the  Shrewsbury 
Chronicle.  But  Hazlitt  dates  his  con- 
scious mental  awakening  a  year  later  ; 
when  fourteen  years  old,  coming  out  of 
church,  he  heard  an  earnest  discussion 
between  his  father  and  an  old  lady,  in 
regard  to  the  corporation  and  test  acts 
and  the  limits  of  religious  toleration. 
He  was  inspired  by  what  he  heard  to 


"  frame  a  system  of  political  rights  and 
general  jurisprudence "  ;  and  many 
years  afterwards,  when  engaged  in  the 
advocacy  of  his  principles  of  liberal  re- 
form, he  alludes  to  this  incident  in  the 
Preface  to  his  "  Project  for  a  New  The- 
ory of  Civil  and  Criminal  Legislation," 
to  show  that  his  convictions  on  the  sub- 
ject were  not  accidental  and  recent,  but 
instructive  and  long  considered.  "  It 
was,"  he  wrote,  "  the  first  time  I  ever 
attempted  to  think  ;  it  was  from  an 
original  bias,  a  craving  to  be  satisfied  of 
the  reason  of  things" 

This  reminiscence  gives  the  key- 
note to  Hazlitt's  intellectual  character. 
When  placed  at  Hackney  to  be  educated 
with  a  view  to  the  ministry,  he  neglected 
the  prescribed  theme,  and  gave,  as  an 
excuse,  that  he  had  been  occupied  with 
another  subject,  namely,  an  Essay  on 
Laws  ;  so  novel  a  course  won  him  en- 
couragement to  write  on  the  Political 
State  of  Man,  and  to  meditate  a  treatise 
on  Providence ;  and  these  youthful 
speculations  bore  fruit  in  after  years, 
when  his  work  on  "  Human  Actions  " 
appeared,  —  to  the  last  his  pride,  and 
confessedly  able  and  original,  but  never 
successful  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  term.  These  abstract  experiments 
soon  received  human  inspiration,  when 
Coleridge  made  his  appearance  at  the 
Wem  parsonage  ;  this  was  an  epoch 
in  Hazlitt's  life  from  which  he  dates  a 
new  relish  of  existence,  and  a  revela- 
tion of  the  infinite  possibilities  of  intel- 
lectual activity  and  enjoyment.  The 
description  he  wrote,  long  after,  of  his 
talks  and  walks  with  Coleridge,  of  his 
visit  to  him  at  Nether  Stowey,  of  the 
sermon  he  rose  before  day  and  plodded 
ten  miles  through  the  mud  to  hear  him 
preach,  is  vital  with  an  almost  raptur- 
ous sense  of  sympathy,  admiration,  and 
delight.  He  lamented  he  was  not  a 
poet,  in  order  to  apostrophize  the  road 
between  Wem  and  Shrewsbury,  along 
which  he  listened  to  the  mystic  and 
musical  utterance  of  the  most  richly 
endowed  and  eloquently  suggestive  be- 
ing he  had  ever  known.  His  gratifica- 
tion was  complete  when  Coleridge  rec- 
ognized a  metaphysical  discovery  in 


668 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


his  young  votary's  conversation.  One 
would  almost  believe  that,  with  the  new 
ideas  and  vivid  fancies  imparted  by 
this  remarkable  man,  Hazlitt  had  im- 
bibed somewhat  of  his  procrastinating, 
discursive,  dolce  for  niente  tendency  ; 
for  the  luxury  of  thinking  beguiled  him 
from  active  enterprise  and  seemed  to 
extinguish  ambition,  until  it  took  a  new 
direction,  and  painting  usurped  the 
place  of  philosophy. 

From  childhood  Hazlitt  had  been  fa- 
miliar with  the  process  and  principle  of 
the  painter's  art  through  his  brother's 
prosperous  activity  therein  ;  it  was  at 
his  house  that  he  lived  during  the  fre- 
quent visits  he  made  to  London  ;  be- 
tween that  and  the  Wem  parsonage  his 
early  years  were  passed  ;  but  he  does 
not  seem  to  have  attained  any  sympa- 
thetic appreciation  of  the  art  until  a 
view  of  the  treasures  at  Burleigh  House, 
in  1795,  awakened  alt  his  latent  enthu- 
siasm for  the  old  masters.  He  tried 
his  hand,  from  time  to  time,  until  he 
had  such  command  of  the  pencil  as  to 
receive  a  commission  to  copy  some  of 
the  famous  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  just 
then  enriched  by  the  trophies  of  Napo- 
leon's victories  in  Italy.  This  visit  to 
Paris  was,  perhaps,  the  most  charming 
episode  of  his  life,  certainly  of  his 
youth.  The  impressions  then  received, 
the  tastes  then  and  there  confirmed,  be- 
came permanent.  Day  after  day,  for  a 
few  happy  weeks,  he  worked  assiduous- 
ly in  the  peerless  galleries,  reproducing 
with  rare  fidelity  many  of  the  finest 
traits  of  the  originals,  over  which  he 
lingered  with  intense  admiration  ;  he 
made  copies  of  two  or  three  master- 
pieces of  Titian,  of  some  of  Raphael's 
best  heads,  and  several  studies  for  his 
own  benefit ;  he  developed  a  remarka- 
ble facility  in  seizing  the  general  effect 
and  working  out  the  expressive  details, 
so  that  his  "  style  of  getting  on  "  was 
noticed,  with  encouraging  commenda- 
tion, by  French  writers  and  his  own 
countrymen.  For  the  first  time  his  ap- 
plication was  regular  and  productive, 
his  mind  tranquilly  occupied,  his  pride 
and  pleasure  earnestly  identified  with 
his  vocation.  He  dreamed,  in  after 


years,  of  this  heyday  of  his  youth  ;  he 
remembered  the  works  then  on  the 
walls  of  the  Louvre  with  unabated  de- 
light ;  the  knowledge  and  love  of  art 
then  acquired  became  thenceforth  an 
inspiration.  He  cherished  two  or  three 
of  his  copies  with  the  attachment  of  an 
enthusiast,  not  so  much  for  their  merit 
as  their  associations.  Returning  to 
England,  Hazlitt  made  a  professional 
tour  in  the  provinces  and  executed  nu- 
merous portraits  ;  among  others,  those 
of  Hartley  Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and 
his  own  father,  —  the  latter  a  labor  of 
love  both  to  artist  and  sitter ;  and  a 
likeness,  said  to  be  his  last,  of  Charles 
Lamb  in  the  costume  of  a  Venetian  ora- 
tor. But  his  standard  was  high  ;  and 
he  was  too  honest  a  critic  not  to  esti- 
mate justly  his  own  attempts  in  a  sphere 
with  whose  grandest  exemplars  he  was 
fondly  intimate  ;  accordingly  the  failure 
to  realize  his  ideal,  the  want  of  corre- 
spondence between  his  executive  power 
and  his  clear  and  high  conceptions, 
discouraged  him  profoundly.  Candid 
friends  agreed  with  him  in  recognizing 
certain  defects  in  his  portraits,  and  (with 
what  pain  we  may  infer  from  his  elo- 
quent essay  on  the  "  Pleasures  of  Paint- 
ing," and  "  A  Portrait  by  Vandyke,'-')  he 
decisively  relinquished  the  pursuit  he 
so  loved.  Whether  patience  and  perse- 
verance would  have  overcome  his  diffi- 
culties it  is  impossible  to  say  ;  North- 
cote  always  declared  he  abandoned  the 
experiment  too  soon,  and  would  have 
made  a  great  painter.  But  few  of  his 
works  exist  that  are  not  seriously  injured 
by  magilp ;  there  are  enough,  however, 
in  the  possession  of  his  descendants,  in 
a  sufficiently  good  condition  to  enable 
us  to  perceive  how  much  of  the  true  feel- 
ing and  the  natural  skill  in  art  he  pos- 
sessed, and  to  lament,  for  his  own  sake, 
that  he  had  not  awhile  longer  clung  to 
the  pencil  and  palette.  It  is  said  that 
he  was  "  very  impatient  when  he  could 
not  produce  the  designed  effect,  and 
has  been  known  to  cut  the  canvas  to 
ribbons."  Few  Britons  have  shown  a 
deeper  love  of  art.  "  If  I  could  pro- 
duce a  head  like  Rembrandt  in  a 
year,"  he  says,  "it  would  be  glory  and 


1 870.] 


William  Haditt. 


669 


felicity  and  wealth  and  fame  enough  for 
me."  The  discipline  and  delight  of  this 
brief  but  fervent  dalliance  with  art  were, 
notwithstanding,  of  permanent  advan- 
tage ;  thereby  he  came  better  to  under- 
stand the  "laws  of  a  production,"  the 
worth  of  beauty,  the  elements  of  char- 
acter ;  his  perception  was  quickened, 
his  insight  deepened,  and  his  powers, 
as  observer  and  analyst,  enlarged.  It 
was  during  this  vivid  Paris  experience 
that  he  learned  to  admire  Napoleon  the 
First,  to  have  faith  in  his  star,  to  believe 
in  his  mission  as  that  of  political  re- 
generation, and  to  glory  in  his  genius,  — 
a  feeling  so  prevalent  and  pervasive, 
that  when  his  hero's  fortunes  waned 
Hazlitt  suffered  in  health  and  spirits,  as 
from  a  personal  calamity. 

Reverting,  after  the  life  of  a  painter 
was  denied  him,  to  his  original  procliv- 
ity, he  finished  and  published,  in  1804, 
his  essay  on  the  "  Principles  of  Hu- 
man Action,"  which,  while  it  gained  him 
the  high  opinion  of  a  few  thinkers,  was 
profitless  both  to  author  and  publisher. 
His  next  venture  was  a  kind  of  digest, 
with  comments,  of  a  series  of  articles 
which  Coleridge  had  contributed  to 
the  Morning  Post,  and  which  .excited 
Hazlitt's  political  vein ;  the  pamphlet 
entitled  "  Free  Thoughts  on  Public 
Affairs  "  had  but  a  limited  sale  ;  it  was 
followed  by  a  select  compilation  from 
the  speeches  of  British  statesmen,  with 
notes, — a  desirable  and  useful  work, 
but  one  which  did  not  add  to  his  means  ; 
a  more  congenial  and  elaborate  literary 
task  was  an  abridgment  of  "Tucker's 
Light  of  Nature "  ;  and  one  which 
elicited  his  logical  acuteness  and  was 
the  first  to  impress  the  critics  of  the 
day  with  his  acumen  and  scope  as  a 
thinker,  chiefly  because  it  related  to  a 
subject  of  immediate  interest,  is  his 
"  Reply  to  Malthus."  Thus  far  author- 
ship, as  a  resource,  had  proved  no  more 
satisfactory  than  painting  ;  and  for  some 
time  Hazlitt  appears  to  have  reposed, 
not  upon  his  laurels,  which  were  yet 
to  be  won,  but  upon  his  sensations 
and  ideas,  wherein  he  found  no  inade- 
quate compensation  for  the  want  of  a 
successful  career.  Indeed,  with  a  cer- 


tain competence,  he  would  have  been 
content,  as  he  declared,  "  to  live  to 
think,"  though  it  soon  became  appar- 
ent that  he  must  "  think  to  live." 
Meantime,  however,  he  enjoyed  his 
immunity  from  stated  employment ; 
like  all  genuine  literary  men,  as  distin- 
guished from  scholars  and  the  profes- 
sional tribe,  he  had  the  instinct  of 
freedom  and  vagabondage,  delighted  in 
yielding  to  moods  instead  of  rules,  and 
fancies  instead  of  formulas;  he  could 
walk  about  Wem  in  spring  and  autumn, 
he  could  see  first-rate  acting,  he  could 
observe  "the  harmless  comedy  of  life," 
he  could  solve  metaphysical  problems, 
follow,  in  imagination,  the  campaigns 
of  the  great  Corsican,  chat  with  an  art- 
ist or  poet,  lie  in  bed  in  the  morning, 
sup  with  original  characters  at  the 
coffee-house,  and,  in  short,  be  William 
Hazlitt. 

A  peculiar  and  valuable  social  re- 
source had  also  intervened  which  must 
have  insensibly  attuned  his  mind  to  a 
more  genial  species  of  literary  work,  as 
well  as  given  scope  and  impulse  to  his 
expressive  faculty.  He  had  become 
intimate  with  Charles  Lamb  ;  with  him 
and  his  few  but  choice  friends  he 
discussed  the  merits  of  old  authors, 
speculated  on  subjects  connected  with 
the  mysteries  of  life,  and  the  humors 
of  character,  and  the  singularities  of 
taste ;  the  drama  was  a  favorite  recrea- 
tion, conversation  an  unfailing  pastime. 
"  Charles  and  Hazlitt  are  going  to 
Sadler's  Wells,"  writes  Mary  Lamb, 
in  the  summer  of  1806  ;  and  the  former 
was  Elia's  companion  on  the  memora- 
ble occasion  he  has  so  quaintly  de- 
scribed, when  his  play  was  damned. 
The  same  correspondence  lets  us  into 
the  secret  that  a  certain  liking  had  de- 
veloped between  Hazlitt  and  Sarah 
Stoddart,  an  intimate  companion  of  the 
Lambs,  who  seems  to  have  vibrated, 
for  some  time,  between  three  or  four 
"  followers,"  —  lovers  they  can  hardly  be 
called,  as,  judging  from  the  tone  of  her 
friend's  letters,  the  young  lady,  if  not 
exactly  a  coquette,  was  somewhat  un- 
decided and  variable  as  to  her  conjugal 
views.  It  appears  that  she  finally  came 


670 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


back  to  Hazlitt,  but  whether  the  hesi- 
tation was  owing  to  her  or  him  is  not 
clear.  That  the  union  was  brought 
about  by  circumstances  rather  than  pas- 
sion is  evident  from  the  one  half-playful 
and  wholly  tranquil  letter  from  her  fu- 
ture husband  which  has  been  preserved. 
Miss  Stoddart  appears  to  have  been 
better  read  than  the  average  of  Eng- 
lishwomen of  her  class  ;  she  was  re- 
markably candid  and  independent, 
wherein  we  imagine  lay  her  chief  at- 
traction for  Hazlitt,  who  was  impa- 
tient of  conventionalities  and  a  lover  of 
truth.  She  had  an  income  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds,  and  owned  a 
little  house  at  Winterslow ;  her  brother 
was  ceremonious  and  exacting,  and  per- 
haps his  fastidiousness  had  interfered 
with  her  previous  settlement.  The 
pair  were  ill  assorted,  for  she  was  not 
expert  in  household  duties,  and  he  did 
not  find  the  sympathy  he  needed  ;  but 
things  went  smoothly  enough  at  first, 
for  he  liked  the  domestic  retirement  of 
the  country,  and  had  time  enough  there 
to  cogitate  and  ramble.  "  I  was  at 
Hazlitt's  marriage,"  Lamb  writes  to 
Southey,  August  9,  1815,  "and  had 
liked  to  have  been  turned  out  several 
times.  Anything  awful  makes  me 
laugh,"  —  a  reference  to  the  event  more 
characteristic  than  satisfactory.  Mrs. 
Hazlitt,  we  afterwards  discover,  was  of 
the  "free-and-easy"  style  of  woman, 
hated  etiquette,  and  had  no  taste  in 
dress.  Evidently  the  withdrawal  of 
the  pair  to  their  rural  home  was  a 
privation  to  Lamb.  He  missed  the 
companionship  of  Hazlitt.  The  de- 
lightful "  Wednesday  evenings "  of 
which  we  have  so  many  pleasant 
glimpses  lost  not  a  little  of  their  charm. 
"  Phillips  makes  his  jokes,"  says  Mary 
Lamb,  writing  to  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  "and 
there  is  no  one  to  applaud  him  ;  Rick- 
man  argues,  and  there  is  no  one  to  op- 
pose him.  The  worst  miss  of  all  is 
that,  when  we  are  in  the  dismals,  there 
is  no  hope  of  relief  in  any  quarter. 
Hazlitt  was  most  brilliant,  most  orna- 
mental as  a  Wednesday  man;  but  he 
was  a  more  useful  one  on  common  days, 
when  he  dropped  in  after  a  quarrel  or  a 


fit  of  the  glooms."  After  many  delays 
and  frequent  disappointments,  Lamb 
and  his  sister  paid  a  visit  to  the  Haz- 
litts,  which  was  not  only  a  rare  pleasure, 
but  became  a  fond  reminiscence  ;  they 
walked  over  the  country  around  Win- 
terslow, when  Nature  was  in  her  fairest 
array ;  renewed  their  old  free,  fanci- 
ful, and  argumentative  intercourse,  and 
gained  health  and  spirits  by  the  change 
of  air,  the  "  mutton-feasts,"  and  agree- 
able exercise.  It  was  during  this  visit 
that  Lamb  explored  "  Oxford  in  Vaca- 
tion," of  which  experience  he  after- 
wards wrote  so  winsome  an  account. 
Soon  after  their  return  a  letter  from 
their  hostess  mentioned  what  promised 
to  be  a  lucrative  discovery  on  Hazlitt's 
premises,  —  that  of  a  well,  where  wells 
were  much  needed  and  seldom  found  ; 
the  anticipation  proved  fallacious  ;  but 
while  the  delusion  lasted,  Hazlitt  used 
to  hide  near  the  precious  spring  to  over- 
hear the  talk  of  his  neighbors  on  the 
subject,  and  "it  happened  occasional- 
ly," we  are  told,  "  that  the  eavesdrop- 
ping metaphysician  found  the  germ  of 
some  subtle  chain  of  thought  in  the 
unsophisticated  chit-chat  of  these  Arca- 
dians." He  also  read  Hobbes,  Berke- 
ley, Priestley,  Locke,  Paley,  and  other 
philosophic  writers,  with  deliberate  zeal, 
and  wrote  the  outline  of  an  English 
Grammar  subsequently  published  by 
Godwin.  The  birth  of  a  son  made  it 
indispensable  for  him  to  increase  his 
wife's  little  income,  and  he  went  up  to 
London  to  live  by  his  pen.  His  equip- 
ment for  this  career  was  unique ;  he 
had  thought  much,  read  little,  and  his 
only  practice  in  writing  had  been  of  a 
kind  the  reverse  of  popular.  His  first 
place  of  residence  was  in  York  Street, 
Westminster;  the  house,  according  to 
tradition,  had  once  been  occupied  by 
Milton,  and  was  owned  by,  and  over- 
looked the  garden  of,  Jeremy  Bentham. 
Hazlitt  soon  began  to  turn  to  account 
his  favorite  studies.  He  procured  an 
engagement  to  deliver  before  the  Rus- 
sell Institution  a  course  of  lectures  on 
the  English  Philosophers  and  Meta- 
physicians. He  next  undertook  the 
parliamentary  reports  for  the  Morning 


1870.] 


William  Hazlitt. 


Chronicle,  and  soon  after  was  en- 
gaged in  the  more  congenial  work  of 
theatrical  critic  of  the  Courier.  Thus 
in  1814  he  had  fairly  embarked  in  the 
precarious  career  of  a  writer  for  the 
London  journals. 

Thenceforth,  as  long  as  he  lived,  we 
find  him  engaged,  with  occasional  rec- 
reative intervals  and  episodes  of  travel 
or  illness,  in  contributing  to  reviews, 
weekly  literary  journals,  and  monthly 
magazines,  and,  from  time  to  time,  gath- 
ering these  critical,  reminiscent,  and 
aesthetic  papers  into  volumes.  It  is  a 
method  having  singular  advantages  for 
a  mind  like  his,  discursive,  fluctuating 
in  glow  with  mood  and  health,  active 
in  relation  to  vital  questions  of  social 
and  civic  reform,  and  at  the  same  time 
prone  to  bask  in  the  mellow  light  of 
the  past  and  to  concentrate  upon  themes 
of  recondite  speculation.  From  a  pro- 
longed and  continuous  task  a  man  so 
constituted  often  shrinks  ;  his  inspira- 
tion is  not  to  be  controlled  by  will ;  he 
must  write  as  he  feels  ;  and  in  a  brief 
but  keen  effort  is  more  efficient  than  in 
prolonged  labor.  Gradually  the  ani- 
mation of  town-life  and  the  encourage- 
ment of  candid  discussion  diversified 
his  scope  and  enriched  his  vocabulary. 
The  habit  of  frequent  and  familiar 
communication  with  the  public  made 
his  style  incisive  and  colloquial;  he 
emerged  betimes  from  the  abstract  into 
humane  generalizations  ;  as  reporter  of 
debates  and  stage  critic  he  learned  to 
express  himself  with  force  and  facility ; 
and  when  the  "  Round-Table  "  depart- 
ment of  the  Examiner  was  dedicat- 
ed to  essays  on  life,  manners,  and 
books,  he  and  his  friends  Lamb  and 
Hunt  revived  with  fresh  and  individ- 
ual grace  and  insight  the  kind  of  writ- 
ing so  congenial  to  British  taste,  which 
had  been  memorably  initiated  by  Steele 
and  Addison.  He  wrote  on  art  in  the 
"  Champion,"  and  was  soon  enlisted  by 
Jeffrey  as  an  Edinburgh  Reviewer ; 
his  first  article  was  a  kind  of  critical 
digest  of  the  British  novelists,  d  pro- 
pos  of  a  review  of  Dunlap's  "  Histo- 
ry of  Fiction,"  and  Madame  D'Arblay's 
"  Wanderer "  ;  then  came  papers  on 


Sismondi's  "  Literature  of  the  South 
of  Europe,"  and  Schegel's  "  Lectures 
on  Shakespeare."  The  Examiner 
made  him  acquainted  with  the  Hunts, 
for  whose  short-lived  serial,  the  "  Yel- 
low Dwarf,"  he  wrote  fifteen  arti- 
cles. These  labors  of  the  pen  alter- 
nated with  courses  of  lectures  deliv- 
ered before  the  Surrey  Institution,  at 
Glasgow  and  elsewhere,  on  such  sub- 
jects as  the  "  Comic  Writers,"  <^The 
English  Poets,"  etc. 

And  now  ensued,  or  rather  there  had 
long  accompanied,  his  literary  career 
that  base  system  of  persecution  where- 
by the  government  organs  of  Great 
Britain  so  disgracefully  sought  to  baffle 
and  mortify  writers  of  genius  in  the 
realm  whose  political  creed  was  ob- 
noxious. If  ever  the  history  of  opin- 
ion is  written  by  a  philosophical  annal- 
ist, the  details  of  this  brutal  interference 
with  the  natural  development  of  free 
thought  and  honest  conviction  will  be 
recorded  as  one  of  the  most  shameful 
anomalies  of  modern  civilization.  Haz- 
litt experienced  all  the  reckless  abuse 
incident  then  and  there  to  an  author 
who  ventured  to  combine  literary  with 
political  disquisition,  unawed  by  power 
and  unmoved  by  scorn.  When  his 
"  Characters  of  Shakespeare,"  collected 
from  the  Chronicle,  were  published, 
the  work  was  hailed  by  readers  of  criti- 
cal taste  and  national  pride  with  de- 
light ;  the  first  edition  was  sold  in  a 
few  weeks,  republished  in  America, 
and  a  new  one  printed,  when  the  book 
was  attacked  by  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view—  a  periodical  "set  up  by  the 
ministers,"  as  Southey  acknowledged, 
.  established  by  the  agents  of  the  gov- 
ernment for  the  express  purpose  of 
putting  down  liberal  writers  —  in  terms 
so  unjust  and  malignant  that  the  syco- 
phantic herd  ignored  it,  with  genuine 
English  obtuseness,  as  the  work  of  a 
Bonapartist,  a  radical,  an  incendiary, 
and  cockney  scribbler.  Hazlitt  wrote 
an  indignant  letter  to  Gifford,  "  the 
government  tool,"  exposing  the  shame- 
less mendacity  of  the  statements  to  his 
discredit.  His  crime  consisted  in  the 
fact,  not  that  he  had  written  one  of  the 


672 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


best  critical  estimates  of  Shakespeare 
that  had  appeared  in  Britain,  but  that 
he  had  also  published  a  volume  of  Po- 
litical Essays,  gleaned  from  his  contri- 
butions to  the  Examiner  and  other 
journals,  in  which  he  had  exposed  the 
abuses  and  advocated  the  reform  of 
the  British  government,  on  the  same 
principles  which  Bright,  Mill,  Goldwin 
Smith,  and  other  enlightened  publicists 
advocate  progress  and  freedom  to-day. 
Meantime,  of  the  five  poets  who  had 
at  the  beginning  of  the  century  melodi- 
ously sounded  the  tocsin  of  democracy, 
Byron  and  Shelley  had  become  exiles, 
and  died  abroad  in  their  youth  ;  and 
Southey  and  Wordsworth  lapsed  from 
their  youthful  ardor  as  reformers,  and 
became  conservative  philosophers  ; 
while  William  Hazlitt,  who  "  wanted 
the  accomplishment  of  verse,"  contin- 
ued to  fight  the  battle  in  the  heart  of 
the  enemy's  camp.  How  far  the  injus- 
tice he  suffered  embittered  his  soul  and 
tainted  the  "calm  air  of  delightful 
studies,"  wherein  he  was  so  seques- 
tered in  appearance,  and  yet  so  exposed 
in  reality  to  the  shafts  of  detraction,  we 
may  infer  from  many  a  burst  of  indigna- 
tion and  stroke  of  irony.  He  met  an 
old  fellow-student  on  the  Continent, 
some  years  later,  and  says  of  their  in- 
terview :  "  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
making  him  realize  the  full  length  of 
the  malice,  the  lying,  the  hypocrisy,  the 
sleek  adulation,  the  meanness,  and  the 
equivocation  of  the  Quarterly  Review, 
the  blackguardism  of  the  Blackwood, 
and  the  obtuse  drivelling  prolificacy  of 
the  John  Bull.  Of  the  various  peri- 
odicals for  which  Hazlitt  wrote,  none 
was  so  auspicious  as  the  London  Mag- 
azine ;  he  was  ill-treated  by  the  mana- 
gers of  the  dailies ;  his  articles  in  the 
Edinburgh  were  manipulated  by  Jef- 
frey, and  several  of  the  other  vehicles  he 
adopted  were,  on  the  score  of  remuner- 
ation or  duration,  unsatisfactory.  But 
the  first  editor  of  the  London  Maga- 
zine was  an  appreciative  and  sympa- 
thetic purveyor  in  the  field  of  letters  ; 
his  contributors  were  his  friends,  and 
accordingly  they  were  mutually  efficient ; 
there  the  most  exquisite  papers  of  Elia 


first  saw  the  light,  and  Hazlitt's  "  Table- 
Talk  "  grew  into  the  delectable  and 
suggestive  volume  it  became.  Dur- 
ing all  these  years,  when  his  pen  was 
so  busy,  he  migrated  from  one  lodging 
to  another,  made  frequent  rural  excur- 
sions, stole  away  to  the  "  Hut "  at 
Winterslow  to  elaborate  some  favorite 
theme,  was  a  regular  attendant  on 
Lamb's  Wednesday  evenings,  took  his 
mutton  occasionally  with  Hayclon,  was 
welcomed  to  Basil  Montagu's  fireside, 
visited  the  picture-galleries  of  the  king- 
dom, associated  with  Leigh  Hunt  and 
Barry  Cornwall,  kept  a  sharp  eye  on 
politics  and  a  fond  one  on  the  stage, 
and  was  an  habitut  of  the  Southampton 
Coffee-House,  where  he  had  a  special 
seat,  as  did  Dryden  of  old  at  Wills,  a 
favorite  waiter,  and  a  knot  of  originals 
of  various  callings,  whose  talk  enter- 
tained or  whose  characters  interested 
him.  The  "  Liberal,"  started  by  Byron 
and  Shelley  for  Hunt's  benefit,  elicited 
something  characteristic  from  Hazlitt 
during  its  short  career  ;  and  the  Acad- 
emy exhibitions,  as  well  as  the  drama 
and  its  representatives,  continued  to 
afford  him  salient  topics  of  discussion. 
He  was  present  on  the  memorable  night 
of  Kean's  first  success,  when  he  played 
Shylock  at  Drury  Lane,  and  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons,  Kitty  Stephens,  and  other  emi- 
nent histrionic  contemporaries  found 
critical  appreciation  at  his  hands.  In 
the  midst  of  this  vagrant  work  and 
pastime  his  domestic  affairs  reached  a 
climax.  The  only  tie  that  bound  him 
and  Mrs.  Hazlitt  in  mutual  feeling  was 
love  for  their  boy.  Hazlitt,  in  these 
later  quarters  of  his,  lived  apart  from 
her.  And  then  occurred  the  most  re- 
markable of  the  moral  vicissitudes  of 
his  life.  He  had  such  a  love  of  beauty 
united  to  a  craving  for  truth,  that  wo- 
men were  a  delicious  torment  to  him, 
and  at  times  he  must  have  felt  for 
them  the  kind  of  fear  poor  Leopardi  so 
vividly  describes.  There  are  traces  all 
through  his  life  of  attachments,  or  per- 
haps we  should  say  admirations,  some- 
times what  the  Germans  would  call 
"  affinities  " ;  he  often  eloquently  alludes 
to  faces,  forms,  and  places  associated 


18/0.] 


William  Hazlitt. 


673 


with  the  tender  passion ;  Lamb  joked 
about  a  rustic  idol  Hazlitt  met  while 
an  itinerant  portrait-painter,  for  which 
love-dream  the  swains  threatened  to 
duck  him.  We  have  references  to  a 
Liverpool  fair  one,  to  a  high-born  lady, 
whose  beauty  was  rather  enhanced  than 
marred,  in  his  imagination,  by  the  rav- 
ages of  small-pox ;  and  even  the  calm, 
virgin  figure  of  Miss  Wordsworth  has 
been  evoked  from  its  maidenly  seques- 
tration as  a  supposed  "intended"  of 
Hazlitt.  One  who  inherits  his  name  and 
reveres  his  memory  says  :."!  believe 
he  was  physically  incapable  of  fixing 
his  affections  upon  a  single  object." 
There  is,  however,  no  more  common 
fallacy  than  that  which  regards  youth 
as  the  only  or  the  chief  period  when 
the  tender  passion  takes  the  deepest 
hold  :  nothing  can  exceed  the  possible 
intensity  of  feeling  in  a  mature  man 
who  has  seen  the  world  without  be- 
coming hardened  or  perverted  thereby, 
and  who  has  escaped  strong  -attrac- 
tions, if  he  encounters  one  thus,  as  it 
were,  with  "  the  strong  necessity  of 
loving"  full  upon  him,  and  especially  if, 
like  Hazlitt,  he  combines  passion  with 
insight,  an  acute,  vigilant  observation 
with  an  eager  heart.  Therefore  when 
Hazlitt  fell  in  with  Sarah  Walker,  the 
daughter  of  his  tailor  landlord,  with 
her  Madonna  face,  and  to  him  fasci- 
nating figure,  form,  and  "  ways,"  and 
found  her  an  "  exquisite  witch,"  he 
was  enamored  to  a  degree  and  in  a 
manner  perfectly  accountable,  when 
we  consider  his  temperament,  nature, 
and  circumstances.  His  fevered  woo- 
ing, his  fitful  distrust,  his  "hopes  and 
fears  that  kindle  hope,"  his  tenderness, 
curiosity,  and  despair,  as  recorded  in 
the  "  Liber  Amoris,"  are  a  genuine 
psychological  revelation,  —  "  the  out- 
pourings of  an  imagination  always  su- 
pernaturally  vivid  and  now  morbidly 
so."  His  agony  is  too  well  described 
not  to  have  originated  in  the  most  ter- 
rible conflict  between  perceptions  sin- 
gularly keen  and  an  attraction  irresisti- 
ble. The  writing  and  printing  of  this 
baffled  lover  record  seems  most  indeli- 
cate and  imprudent,  until  we  remember 
VOL.  xxv.  — NO.  152.  43 


that  the  retrospect  of  an  "honest  hal- 
lucination "  has  for  a  psychologist  a 
curious  interest  as  a  study  of  conscious- 
ness and  observation,  and  accept  De 
Quincey's  explanation,  —  "  it  was  an  ex- 
plosion of  frenzy  ;  the  sole  remedy  was 
to  empty  his  overburdened  heart."  To 
add  to  the  "  curiosities  of  literature  " 
and  "  the  infirmities  of  genius  "  in- 
volved in  this  matter,  Hazlitt  carried  a 
copy  of  "  Liber  Amoris  "  to  Italy,  bound 
in  velvet,  on  a  bridal  tour  with  his  sec- 
ond wife;  and  the  first  literary  job  he 
undertook  after  his  love-sorrow  was  to 
describe  a  prize-fight,  and  that  with  no 
small  zest  and  minuteness. 

It  is  always  difficult  to  distribute 
justly  the  blame  in  cases  of  divorce  by 
mutual  consent.  When  Hazlitt  and  his 
wife  went  to  Scotland,  and,  after  many 
delays  and  the  usual  technical  forms,, 
succeeded  in  effecting  a  legal  separa-- 
tion,  there  appeared  no  bitterness  o£ 
feeling  on  either  side  ;  he  was  misera- 
ble from  an  unreciprocated  attachment 
and  harassed  for  want  of  money. 
Mrs.  Hazlitt,  sharing  the  latter  difficul- 
ty, was  singularly  practical,  self-pos- 
sessed, and  business-like  in  her  con-- 
duct ;  both  were  solicitous  about  the 
immediate  comfort  and  future  prospects- 
of  their  son.  We  often  hear  expres- 
sions of  surprise,  and  not  infrequently 
of  indignation,  whea  the  widow  of  a 
gifted  and  renowned  man  forms  a  sec- 
ond alliance.  But  in  the  case  of  ar- 
tistic or  literary  fame,  we  are  apt  to 
forget  that  the  endowments  this  dis- 
tinction implies,  so  far  from  being 
auspicious,  are  often  detrimental  to 
conjugal  sympathy.  There  are,  indeed, 
memorable  exceptions,  beautiful  in- 
stances, where  women  are  so  consti- 
tuted as  to  feel  a  deep  sympathy  with, 
such  pursuits,  and  to  love  as  well  as 
honor  their  worthy  votaries  ;  but,  on  the  ' 
other  hand,  the  egotism  these  pursuits- 
are  apt  to  breed  and  the  self-absorption, 
they  exact  leave  no  adequate  scope 
for  the  affections  ;  the  conjugal  are 
secondary  to  the  professional  claims  ; 
and  in  such  cases,  however  conscien- 
tious a  man's  life-companion  may  be  in 
wifely  duty  and  devotion,  she  may,. 


674 

if  of  rich  womanly  instincts,  find  great- 
er happiness  in  her  more  complete  and 
less  interrupted  relations  with  a  man 
whose  vocation  is  comparatively  inci- 
dental and  whose  heart  is  wholly  hers. 
"  Women,"  writes  Hazlitt  in  a  letter  of 
counsel  to  his  son, "care  nothing  about 
poets,  philosophers,  or  politicians  ;  they 
go  by  a  man's  looks  or  manners."  He 
told  his  wife  she  never  appreciated 
him  ;  and  there  is  an  objective  way  of 
alluding  to  his  eccentricities  in  her 
diary  and  letters,  which  shows  how  lit- 
tle affinity  there  was  between  them. 
Having  obtained  his  divorce  and  failed 
to  secure  the  "  exquisite  witch  "  for  a 
wife,  he  seems  to  have  overcome  the 
immediate  effects  of  his  disappointment 
with  marvellous  celerity ;  and  we  hear 
of  him  erelong  as  married  to  a  widow 
named  Bridgewater,  who  had  some 
property  as  well  as  attractions,  and  with 
whom  and  his  son  he  at  once  started 
on  a  Continental  tour,  the  record  of 
which  he  sent  to  a  leading  journal,  and 
afterwards  published  in  a  volume  under 
the  title  of  "  Notes  of  a  Tour  to  France 
and  Italy."  This  memorial  of  travel 
is  eloquent  of  enjoyment,  observation, 
and  thought.  He  revelled  again  over 
what  remained  of  his  favorite  pictures 
in  the'  Louvre ;  he  lingered  fondly  in 
the  Tribune  and  the  Vatican  ;  hailed 
the  scene  of  the  Decameron  and  the 
sublimity  of  Chamouni ;  criticised  the 
viands  by  the  way,  and  "  drank  the 
empyrean "  amid  the  Alps.  He  had 
glimpses  of  Lucien  Bonaparte  and 
Mezzofanti,  and  talks  with  Landor ; 
passed  a  delightful  summer  at  Vevay, 
loitered  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  felt  when  the  air  of  an  Italian 
spring  fanned  his  worn  and  weary  brow 
as  if  his  life  had  begun  anew.  The 
picture-galleries  were  his  favorite  re- 
source ;  in  the  midst  of  the  grandest 
scenery  he  writes,  "  I  swear  that  St. 
Peter  Martyr  is  finer."  His  conversa- 
tion, said  one  who  fell  in  with  him  on 
the  journey,  "  I  thought  better  than  any 
book  on  the  art  pictorial  I  had  ever 
read."  His  moods  and  independence 
are  alike  evident  in  his  written  impres- 
sions;  strange  to  say,  Rome  and  the 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


Correggios  at  Parma  disappointed  him  ; 
he  recognized  in  the  Northern  Italians 
a  race  that  only  required  "to  be  let 
alone,"  to  prosper  and  progress ;  he 
liked  the  manners  of  the  priesthood  and 
relished  the  church  ceremonies.  "  I 
am,"  he  writes,  "no  admirer  of  pontifi- 
cals, but  I  am  slave  to  the  pictu- 
resque." Curiously  enough,  he  was 
taken  with  Ferrara,  then  a  desolate  old 
city.  "Of  all  places  I  have  seen  in  It- 
aly," he  remarks,  "  it  is  the  one  which 
I  should  by  far  most  care  to  live  in." 
The  reformer,  however,  is  never  lost 
in  the  art-lover.  The  sight  of  captive 
doves  fluttering  he  compares  to  na- 
tions trying  to  fly  from  despotic  sway  ; 
and  he  turned  aside  from  the  highway 
"to  lose  in  the  roar  of  Velino  tum- 
bling from  its  rocky  height,  and  the 
wild  freedom  of  nature,  his  hatred 
of  tyranny  and  tyrants."  He  came 
home  through  Holland,  which  country 
he  graphically  describes,  bringing  his 
son,  but  leaving  his  wife  with  her  rela- 
tives abroad,  and  she  never  rejoined 
him  ;  so  that  his  second  matrimonial 
venture  does  not  appear  to  have  suc- 
ceeded any  better  than  the  first.  He 
was  soon  at  work  again  in  London 
lodgings  ;  engaged  upon  his  "  Conver- 
sations with  Northcote,"  contributions 
to  the  Weekly  Review,  and  the 
"Life  of  Napoleon,"  —  to  him  a  labor 
of  love,  but  unsuccessful  as  a  literary 
enterprise.  The  paternal  sentiment 
was  strong  in  Hazlitt,  and  intellectual 
society  continued  to  be  his  chosen 
pastime  to  the  last.  Never  robust,  al- 
though an  expert  cricket-player,  and  a 
good  pedestrian,  the  gastric  ailment  to 
which  he  was  liable  increased  with  the 
inroads  of  study  and  disappointment, 
so  that  his  health  gradually  failed,  and 
on  the  1 8th  of  September,  1830,  he 
calmly  expired  at  his  lodgings  in  Frith 
Street,  with  his  son  and  his  old  friend 
Lamb  beside  him.  "  Well,  I  have  had 
a  happy  life,"  is  the  last  audible  phrase 
from  his  lips.  It  strikes  one  familiar 
with  the  vicissitudes  of  his  career,  and 
the  sources  of  irritation  inherent  in  his 
organization,  with  surprise,  until  the 
compensatory  nature  of  intellectual  re- 


8/o.] 


William  Hazlitt. 


sources,  the  relish  of  a  keen  mind  and 
voluptuous  temperament,  even  amid 
privations  and  baffled  feeling,  is  re- 
membered :  to  appreciate  what  life  was 
to  William  Hazlitt,  we  must  under- 
stand the  man,  and  not  dwell  exclusive- 
ly on  his  outward  experiences. 

Seldom  have  the  idiosyncrasies  and 
inmost  experience  of  an  author  been 
more  completely  revealed  ;  it  has  been 
truly  remarked  of  Hazlitt  thaf  there  are 
"few  salient  points  and  startling  pas- 
sages in  his  life  that  he  has  omitted  to 
look  upon  or  glance  at "  in  his  essays. 
The  processes  and  impression  of  his 
own  mind  had  such  an  interest  for  him, 
that  it  was  a  delight  to  record  and 
speculate  on  them.  In  treating  of  a 
work  of  art  or  a  favorite  author,  he 
brought  to  bear  on  their  interpretation 
the  sympathetic  insight  born  of  ex- 
perience. We  know  his  tastes  and 
antipathies,  his  prejudices  and  passions, 
not  only  as  a  whole,  but  in  detail. 
Authorship  was  to  him  a  kind  of  con- 
fessional ;  incidentally  he  lets  us  into 
many  of  the  secrets  of  his  conscious- 
ness. As  to  the  outward  man  and  the 
habits  of  his  life,  carelessness,  want 
of  method,  and  caprice  were  stamped 
thereon.  His  personal  appearance,  it 
is  certain,  was  often  neglected,  notwith- 
standing Haydon's  sarcasm  at  finding 
him  absorbed  on  one  occasion  before  a 
mirror,  and  the  effective  figure  he  is 
said  to  have  made  when  in  full  dress  he 
went  to  dine  with  Curran.  When  fair- 
ly warmed  by  conversation,  his  man- 
ner was  earnest  and  unconscious  ;  but 
among  strangers  he  was  shy,  and  his 
way  of  shaking  hands  and  taking  one's 
arm  was  the  reverse  of  cordial.  He 
admitted  that  he  had  little  claim  to 
be  thought  a  good-natured  man.  His 
landladies  were  annoyed  because  he 
scribbled  notes  for  his  essays  on  the 
mantel-piece.  He  was  a  wretched  cor- 
respondent ;  variable  in  his  moods, 
partly  from  ill-health  and  more  from  a 
nervous  temperament ;  he  was  yet  re- 
markably industrious,  as  the  amount  of 
his  writings  prove  ;  but  it  required  the 
stimulus  of  necessity  or  the  attraction 
of  a  subject  to  enlist  his  attention. 


675 


His  mind  was;  naturally  clear,  fervid, 
and  sensitive.  "  In  his  natural  and 
healthy  state,"  says  Lamb,  "  one  of  the 
wisest  and  finest  spirits  I  ever  knew." 
"  Without  the  imagination  of  Coleridge," 
says  Procter,  "  he  had  almost  as  much 
subtlety  and  far  more  steadfastness 
of  mind."  Apparently  an  idler  until 
thirty,  he  was,  at  the  same  time,  a 
desultory  but  devoted  reader  and  a 
constant  thinker.  He  was  a  notable 
illustration  of  "  imperfect  sympathy." 
Lamb,  with  whom  he  was  most  con- 
sistently intimate,  failed  to  satisfy  him, 
because  he  was  no  partisan,  —  an  aes- 
thetic rather  than  a  reformer ;  he  was 
disgusted  with  Moore's  aristocratic 
proclivities ;  his  admiration  of  Scott 
was  modified  by  hatred  of  his  toryism  ; 
he  almost  alienated  Hunt  by  abusing 
Shelley,  and  never  forgave  Southey 
and  Coleridge  for  their  defection  from 
the  political  faith  of  their  youth ;  he 
recoiled  from  friendly  Montagu,  be- 
cause he  imagined  he  put  on  airs,  and 
Haydon's  egotism  offended  as  much  as 
his  art  displeased  him ;  he  took  De 
Quincey  to  task  for  repeating  his  anti- 
Malthusian  argument  without  credit: 
thus,  at  some  point,  he  always  diverged 
even  from  minds  whose  endowments 
were  such  as  to  command  his  respect 
and  attract  his  sympathy ;  and  this 
distinct  line  of  affinity  and  repulsion 
is  equally  manifest  in  his  estimate  of 
old  authors  and  historical  characters. 
As  a  writer  he  is  often  paradoxical  and 
exaggerated,  but  usually  so  either  to 
emphasize  a  truth,  press  home  a  con- 
viction, or  give  play  to  a  humor,  and 
not  from  any  indifference  to  truth  or 
levity  of  feeling.  "  I  think  what  I 
please,"  he  used  to  say,  "and  say  what 
I  think;  it  has  been  my  business  all 
my  life  to  get  at  the  truth  as  well  as  I 
could,  to  satisfy  my  own  mind."  It  has 
been  noted  that  even  in  his  analysis  of 
Shakespeare  characters,  —  profoundly 
as  he  admired  their  human  consistency 
and  authentic  traits,  —  there  is  a  cool 
discrimination  which  indicates  short- 
comings or  incongruities.  In  such  es- 
says as  those  on  "  A  Portrait  by  Van- 
dyke," "Knowledge  of  One's  Self," 


6;6 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


"  The  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth," 
and  "  People  we  should  wish  to  have 
seen,"  the  sincerity  and  refinement  of 
his  intellectual  sympathy  and  moral  sen- 
timent are  evident.  His  ideal  was  well 
defined  and  high,  and  he  was  too  much 
in  earnest  not  to  deeply  feel  his  own 
failure.  What  he  says  in  reference  to 
the  disappointment  of  his  artistic  as- 
pirations illustrates  this  :  "  If  a  French 
artist  fails,  he  is  not  discouraged  ;  there 
is  something  else  he  excels  in ;  if  he 
cannot  paint  he  can  dance.  If  an  Eng- 
lishman fails  in  anything  he  thinks  he 
can  do,  enraged  at  the  mention  of  his 
ability  to  do  anything  else,  and  at  any 
consolation  offered  him,  he  banishes 
all  thought  but  of  his  disappointment, 
and,  discarding  hope  from  his  breast, 
neither  eats  nor  sleeps,  —  it  is  well  if 
he  does  not  cut  his  throat,  —  will  not 
attend  to  anything  in  which  he  before 
took  an  interest,  and  is  in  despair  till 
he  recovers  his  good  opinion  of  himself 
in  the  point  in  which  he  has  been  dis- 
graced." Although  this  is  exactly  the 
difference  between  self-esteem  and  van- 
ity, and  so  far  nationally  characteristic, 
it  is  especially  true  of  the  individual 
Englishman  who  wrote  it.  Nor  should 
we  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  Hazlitt, 
while  a  votary  of  art  and  literature,  was 
also  an  enthusiastic  and  baffled  reform- 
er. "  He  went  down  to  the  dust,"  says 
one  of  his  gifted  contemporaries,  "  with- 
out having  won  the  crown  for  which 
he  had  so  bravely  struggled."  When 
thought  and  feeling  were  enlisted 
strongly  in  his  work,  his  style  is  vig- 
orous and  vivid  ;  sometimes  from  the 
inevitable  "job"  —  the  will  instead  of 
the  mood  —  it  lapsed  into  what  is  called 
"  mechanical  description."  Judged  by 
his  legitimate  utterance,  his  writings 
are  what  he  called  them,  —  the  thoughts 
of  a  metaphysician  uttered  by  a  painter. 
"As  for  my  style,"  he  says,  "  I  thought 
little  about  it.  I  only  used  the  word 
which  seemed  to  me  to  signify  the 
ideas  wanted  to  convey,  and  I  did  not 
rest  till  I  had  got  it;  /;/  seeking  for 
truth  I  sometimes  found  beauty.'1'1 
George  Daniel,  in  1817,  portrayed  him, 
and  John  Hunt  testified  to  the  authen- 


ticity of  the  portrait :  "  Wan  and  worn, 
with  a  melancholy  expression,  but  an 
eager  look  and  a  dissecting  eye."  His 
rejoinder  to  the  savage  attacks  of  his  op- 
ponents was  :  "  I  am  no  politician,  and 
still  less  can.I  be  said  to  be  a  party  man  ; 
but  I  have  a  hatred  for  tyranny  and  a 
contempt  for  its  tools,  and  this  feeling  I 
have  expressed  as  often  and  as  strongly 
as  I  could.  The  success  of  the  great 
cause  to  which  I  had  vowed  myself 
was  to  me  more  than  all  the  world." 

Hazlitt's  life  has  been  described  as 
a  "  conflict  between  a  magnificent  in- 
tellect and  morbid,  miserly,  physical 
influences  "  ;  and  one  of  the  warmest 
admirers  of  his  talents  accuses  him  of 
"  an  amazing  amount  of  wilful  extrava- 
gance "  in  the  expression  of  his 
thoughts.  How  far  his  social  defects 
were  owing  to  material  causes  it  is  im- 
possible to  determine  ;  but  that  temper- 
ament had  quite  as  much  to  do  with 
his  isolation  as  temper  there  is  no 
doubt.  Indeed,  he  admits,  towards  the 
close  of  his  life,  that  he  had  quarrelled 
with  almost  all  his  friends  ;  and,  al- 
though in  an  exigency  like  that  which 
obliged  him  to  write  to  Patmore  "  off 
Scarborough,"  when  writhing  under 
his  unfortunate  love  affair,  "what  have 
I  suffered  since  I  parted  from  you ; 
a  raging  fire  in  my  heart  and  brain  ; 
the  steamboat  seems  a  prison-house," 
yet  his  ideal  of  friendship  was  chiefly 
intellectual ;  he  says,  for  instance,  of 
Northcote  :  "  His  hand  is  closed,  but 
what  of  that?  His  eye  is  ever  open 
and  reflects  the  universe.  I  never  ate 
or  drank  in  his  house,  but  I  have  lived 
on  his  conversation  with  undiminished 
relish  ever  since  I  can  remember." 
When  engaged  as  a  reporter,  and 
obliged  to  remain  late  at  night  in  the 
gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons,  he 
formed  the  baneful  habit  of  resorting 
to  stimulants  to  counteract  the  effects 
of  exposure  and  exhaustion  upon  a 
frame  naturally  sensitive ;  but,  before 
this  practice  had  made  any  serious  in- 
roads upon  his  constitution,  warned  by 
illness  and  medical  advice,  he  aban- 
doned it  and  maintained  this  voluntary 
abstinence  heroically  to  the  end  of  his 


1870.] 


William  Hazlitt. 


677 


life.  There  are  several  anecdotes  which 
indicate  his  nervous  dread  of  burglars 
and  fire.  Intended  for  a  Unitarian 
preacher,  by  nature  a  metaphysician, 
and  by  choice  a  painter,  he  became  "a 
writer  under  protest  " ;  and  he  explains 
what  seems  paradoxical  in  his  essays 
thus  :  "  I  have  to  bring  out  some  ob- 
scure distinction,  or  to  combat  some 
strong  prejudice,  and  in  doing  this, 
with  all  my  might,  I  have  overshot  the 
mark."  It  is  remarkable  how  soon  the 
art  of  expression  came,  even  when  first 
resorted  to,  at  an  age  when  the  habits 
are  usually  formed.  "  I  had  not,"  he 
writes  in  1812,  "  until  then  been  in  the 
habit  of  writing  at  all,  or  had  been  a 
long  time  about  it,  but  I  perceived  that 
with  the  necessity  the  fluency  came." 
One  of  the  earliest  cheering  circum- 
stances of  his  literary  career  was  the 
appearance  of  an  American  edition  of 
his  "  Character  of  Shakespeare,"  a  few 
weeks  after  it  was  published  in  Eng- 
land, with  the  Boston  imprint.  It  was 
for  him  "  a  genuine  triumph."  His 
idea  of  pastime  was  "a  little  comforta- 
ble cheer  and  careless  indolent  chat "  ; 
he  shrank  from  the  formal  routine  of  so- 
ciety, and  thought  that  to  have  his  own 
way,  and  do  what  he  pleased  when  he 
pleased,  even  at  the  cost  of  some  lack 
of  luxury  and  show,  was  infinitely  pref- 
erable to  the  most  successful  official  or 
commercial  life.  A  cup  of  strong  tea 
and  to  go  to  the  play  afterwards  was 
better  to  him  than  all  the  solemn  mag- 
nificence of  London  society  ;  and  yet 
no  one  better  appreciated  the  freedom 
and  opportunities  of  metropolitan  inter- 
course. "  London,"  he  writes,  "is  the 
only  place  where  each  individual  in 
company  is  treated  according  to  his 
value  in  company  and  for  nothing  else." 
He  was,  however,  keenly  alive  to  the 
indifference  of  the  crowd  as  regards 
intellectual  claims  and  the  estimate  of 
an  author  :  "  They  read  his  books,  but 
have  no  clew  to  penetrate  into  the 
last  recesses  of  his  mind,  and  attribute 
the  height  of  abstraction  to  a  more 
than  ordinary  share  of  stupidity."  He 
deemed  it  comparatively  easy  to  be 
amiable  if  not  in  earnest.  "  Coleridge," 


he  observes,  "used  to  complain  of 
my  irascibility,  though  if  he  had  pos- 
sessed a  little  of  my  tenaciousness  and 
jealousy  of  temper,  the  cause  of  liberty 
would  have  gained  thereby."  By  na- 
ture, indeed,  Hazlitt  loved  the  tranquil 
pleasures  of  thought ;  hence  partly  his 
appreciation  of  art ;  the  sight  of  a 
noble,  calm  head  made  him  resolve  to 
be  in  future  self-possessed  and  allow 
nothing  to  disturb  him  ;  to  be,  in  a 
word,  the  character  thus  delineated. 
"  I  want,"  he  declared,  "  to  see  my 
vague  notions  float,  like  the  down  of 
the  thistle  before  the  breeze,  and  not  to 
have  them  entangled  in  the  briers  of 
controversy."  What  such  a  man  and 
mind  could  be  to  intimate  and  conge- 
nial associates  we  can  easily  imagine. 
The  death  of  Hazlitt  was  to  Lamb  not 
only  a  bereavement  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  but  his  relish  of  life  was  thence- 
forth greatly  diminished;  an  element  of 
sympathetic  and  acute  appreciation 
through  and  with  which  he  had  enjoyed 
and  analyzed  its  phenomena  was  taken 
away.  A  poem,  a  play,  a  story,  or 
a  character  needs  for  its  complete 
zest  a  bon  convive,  quite  as  much  as 
feasts  of  a  material  kind.  It  is,  indeed, 
the  redeeming  charm  of  the  literary 
life,  where  an  honest  and  superior 
capacity  therefor  exists,  that  we  are 
made  as  in  no  other  way  to  feel  how 
great  are  the  native  resources  and  how 
insignificant  comparatively  the  material 
luxuries  of  life.  All  this  world  of  enjoy- 
ment, this  fervent  communion  with  the 
genius  of  the  past,  this  curious  inves- 
tigation of  the  mysteries  of  humanity, 
this  benign  and  refreshing  "division  of 
the  records  of  the  mind,"  this  noble  pur- 
suit of  truth  and  appreciation  of  knowl- 
edge and  love  of  beauty  and  sympathy 
with  what  is  magnanimous,  original,  and 
glorious,  —  these  charming  Wednes- 
day evenings  at  Lamb's,  and  exhila- 
rating walks  with  Coleridge,  and  poetic 
readings  with  Wordsworth,  and  critical 
commentaries,  brilliant  repartees,  in- 
genuous humors,  have  no  dependence 
on  or  relation  to  the  costly  and  artifi- 
cial routine  and  arrangements  which, 
to  the  unaspiring  and  the  vain,  consti- 


678 


William  Hazlitt. 


[June, 


tute  life ;  often  and  chiefly,  rather,  are 
they  associated  with  frugal  households, 
with  humble  homes,  limited  prospects, 
ay,  with  drudgery  and  self-denial. 

The  most  pleasant  and  perhaps  the 
most  profitable  influence  derived  from 
Hazlitt  is  intellectual  zest,  the  keen 
appreciation  and  magnetic  enjoyment 
of  truth  and  beauty  in  literature,  char- 
acter, and  life.  He  was  an  epicurean 
in  this 'regard,  delighting  to  renew  the 
vivid  experience  of  the  past  by  the 
glow  of  deliberate  reminiscence,  and  to 
associate  his  best  moods  for  work  and 
his  most  genial  studies  with  natural 
scenery  and  physical  comfort :  no  writ- 
er ever  more  delicately  fused  sensation 
and  sentiment ;  drew  from  sunshine, 
fireside,  landscape,  air,  viands,  and 
vagabondage  more  delectable  adjuncts 
of  reflection.  He  delighted  to  let  his 
mind  "lie  fallow"  and  hated  "a  lie, 
and  the  formal  crust  of  circumstances, 
and  the  mechanism  of  society";  and, 
moreover,  had  a  rare  facility  in  escap- 
ing both.  "  What  a  walk  was  that !  " 
he  exclaims  in  allusion  to  a  favorite 
road  at  Wihterslow ;  "  I  had  no  need 
of  book  or  companion  ;  the  days,  the 
hours,  the  thoughts  of  my  youth  'are 
at  my  side  and  blend  with  the  air  that 
fans  my  cheek  ;  the  future  was  barred  to 
my  progress,  and  I  turned  for  consola- 
tion and  encouragement  to  the  past.  I 
lived  in  a  world  of  contemplation,  not 
of  action.  This  sort  of  dreamy  exist- 
ence is  the  best."  He  went  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  Wisbeach  in  Cambridge- 
shire, to  see  the  town  where  his  moth- 
er was  born,  and  the  poor  farm-house 
where  she  was  reared,  and  the  "gate 
where  she  told  him  she  used  to 
stand,  when  a  child  of  ten,  to  look  at 
the  setting  sun."  The  sight  of  a  row 
of  cabbage-plants  or  beans  made  him, 
through  life,  think  of  the  happy  hours 
passed  in  the  humble  parsonage-garden 
at  Wem,  which  he  tended  with  delight 
when  a  boy ;  and  he  never  saw  a  kite 
in  the  air  without  feeling  the  twinge  at 
the  elbow  and  the  flutter  at  the  heart 
with  which  he  used  to  let  go  the  string 
of  his  own  when  a  child.  Every  aspect 
of  nature  during  his  memorable  first 


walk  with  Coleridge  is  remembered : 
"As  we  passed  along  between  Wem 
and  Salisbury,  and  I  eyed  the  blue  tops 
of  the  Welsh  mountains  seen  through 
the  wintry  branches,  or  the  red  leaves 
of  the  sturdy  oak-trees  by  the  roadside, 
a  sound  was  in  my  ears  as  of  a  siren's 
song."  And  again,  returning  from  the 
town  where  he  had  heard  him  preach  : 
"The  sun,  still  laboring  pale  and  wan 
through  the  sky,  obscured  by  thick 
mists,  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  good 
cause,  and  the  cold,  dank  drops  of  dew 
that  hung  half  melted  on  the  beard  of 
the  thistle  had  something  genial  and 
refreshing  in  them,  for  there  was  a 
spirit  of  youth  and  hope  in  all  nature." 
Never,  perhaps,  had  Madame  de  Stael's 
maxim  —  "  when  we  are  much  attached 
to  our  ideas  we  endeavor  to  attach 
everything  to  them"  —  a  more  striking 
illustration  than  Hazlitt's  idiosyncrasy. 
After  parting  with  Coleridge  and  in  an- 
ticipation of  a  visit  to  him,  he  tells  us  : 
"  I  went  to  Llangollen  vale  by  way  of 
initiating  myself  in  the  mysteries  of 
natural  scenery  ;  that  valley  was  to  me 
the  cradle  of  a  new  existence  ;  in  the 
river  that  winds  through  it  my  spirit 
was  baptized  in  the  waters  of  Helicon." 
And  again,  speaking  of  the  folios  in  his 
father's  library,  and  the  impression  the 
sight  of  them  made  on  his  childhood, 
"there  was  not,"  he  writes,  "one  strik- 
ing reflection,  one  sally  of  wit ;  yet  we 
can  never  forget  the  feeling  with  which 
not  only  their  appearance,  but  the 
naraes  of  their  authors  on  the  outside, 
inspired  us  ;  we  would  rather  have 
this  feeling  again  for  one  half -hour, 
than  to  be  possessed  of  all  the  acute- 
ness  of  Boyle  or  the  wit  of  Voltaire." 
It  is  easy  to  imagine  from  such  inklings 
of  experience  how  completely  he  must 
have  fraternized  with  Rousseau  and  why 
the  Nouvelle  Heloise  was  the  favorite 
of  his  youth.  "  I  was  wet  through,  and 
stopped  at  an  inn,"  he  says,  describing 
an  excursion,  "  and  sat  up  all  night  read- 
ing Paul  and  Virginia.  Sweet  were  the 
showers  that  drenched  my  body  and 
sweet  the  drops  of  pity  that  fell  upon  the 
book  I  read  "  ;  and  what  a  zest  is  implied 
in  this  statement ;  "  I  recollect  walking 


1 870.] 


William  Hazlitt. 


679 


out  while  reading  the  *  Simple  Story,'  to 
escape  from  one  of  the  tenderest  parts, 
in  order  to  return  to  it  again  with*  dou- 
ble relish.  An  old  crazy  hand-organ  was 
playing  Robin  Adair,  and  a  summer 
shower  dropt  manna  on  my  head  and 
slaked  my  feverish  thirst  of  happiness." 
Pondering  a  catalogue  of  the  Louvre 
before  he  crossed  the  Channel,  he  says  : 
"The  pictures,  the  names  of  the  paint- 
ers, seemed  to  relish  in  the  mouth."  A 
march  often  miles  in  fine  weather,  with  a 
pleasant  retreat  and  dinner  in  prospect  at 
the  end,  was  his  ideal  of  enjoyment,  and 
none  of  the  genial  company  of  English 
authors  ever  better  knew  the  "luxury 
of  an  inn."  "Tired  out,"  he  writes, 
"between  Farnham  and  Alton,  I  was 
shown  to  a  room  in  a  wayside  inn,  a 
hundred  years  old, 'overlooking  an  old-, 
fashioned  garden  with  beds  of  larkspur 
and  a  leaden  Mercury.  It  was  wain- 
scoted, and  had  a  dark  -  colored  por- 
trait of  Charles  the  Second  over  a  tiled 
chimney-piece.  I  had  '  Love  for  Love  ' 
in  my  pocket  and  began  to  read ;  cof- 
fee was  brought  in  a  silver  coffee-pot ; 
the  cream,  bread,  and  butter  were  ex- 
cellent, and  the  flavor  of  Congreve's 
style  prevailed  over  all."  When  travel- 
ling in  Switzerland,  he  came  upon  a 
place  that  won  his  preference  at  once, 
and  for  these  reasons  :  "  It  was  a  kind 
of  retreat  where  there  is  nothing  to 
surprise,  nothing  to  disgust,  nothing  to 
draw  the  attention  out  of  itself,  uniting 
the  advantages  of  society  and  solitude, 
of  simplicity  and  elegance  and  self-cen- 
tred satisfaction."  One  more  illustra- 
tion of  this  rare  capacity  for  enjoyment 


derivable  from  personal  endowment 
and  instinct,  acting  on  circumstances 
of  the  humblest  and  most  familiar  kind 
must  suffice.  It  is  a  reminiscence  of 
his  provincial  tour  as  an  artist :  "  I 
once  lived  on  coffee  for  a  fortnight, 
while  I  was  finishing  the  copy  of  a 
half-length  portrait  of  a  Manchester 
manufacturer  who  died  worth  a  plum. 
I  rather  slurred  over  the  coat,  which 
was  of  a  reddish-brown,  of  a  formal  cut, 
to  receive  my  five  guineas,  with  which 
I  went  to  market  and  dined  on  sausa- 
ges and  mashed  potatoes ;  and,  while 
they  were  getting  ready  and  I  could 
hear  them  hissing  in  the  pan,  read  a 
volume  of  Gil  Bias  containing  the  ac- 
count of  the  fair  Aurora.  Gentle  reader, 
do  not  smile  !  neither  Monsieur  de 
Nevy  nor  Louis  XVIII.  over  an  oyster 
pate,  nor  Apicius  himself,  ever  under- 
stood the  meaning  of  the  word  luxury 
better  than  I  did  at  that  moment."  It 
was  this  zestful  spirit,  this  association 
of  ideas,  that  enabled  him  through  in- 
tense sympathy  to  enter  intelligently 
into  the  characters  of  Shakespeare,  and 
to  analyze  the  poets,  actors,  and  comic 
writers  ;  while  it  also  placed  him  wise- 
ly in  relation  with  "  The  Spirit  of  the 
Age,"  which  he  so  eloquently  illustrat- 
ed, gave  him  that  thorough  apprecia- 
tion of  the  benignity  of  freedom,  which 
nerved  him  to  battle  for  her  triumph, 
identified  him  with  the  feeling  of  the 
old  masters  in  art,  and  equipped  and 
inspired  him  to  write  acutely  and  with 
the  charm  of  independent  thought  of 
the  laws,  phenomena,  and  mysteries  of 
human  life  and  character. 


680  IH  June-  [June, 


IN    JUNE. 

SO  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blowing, 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see  ; 
So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming-bird  a-going 
From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunting  with  the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 

The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere  ; 
So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 

The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fields  of  clover, 

The  west-wind  blowing,  blowing  up  the  hill ; 
So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some  one's  lover, 

Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer  still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen,  thrushes  ; 

Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me  hear; 
And  water,  hush  your  song  through  reeds  a'nd  rushes, 

That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh  near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their  calling, 

Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me  ; 
So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  fretting,  falling, 

O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  boisterous  glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud  ;  yet  blackbird,  thrush,  nor  plover, 

Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and  fall, 
Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of  my  lover, 

My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes'  call. 

"  Come  down,  come  down  !  "  he  called,  and  straight  the  thrushes 
From  mate  to  mate  sang  all  at  once,  "  Come  down  !  " 

And  while  the  water  laughed  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  blackbird  chirped,  the  plover  piped,  "  Come  down  !  " 

Then  down  and  off,  and  through  the  fields  of  clover, 

I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call ; 
Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or  plover, 

The  water's  laugh,  the  mill-stream's  fret  and  fall. 


i8/o.]  French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines.  68 1 


FRENCH   AND   ENGLISH   ILLUSTRATED   MAGAZINES. 


AN  illustrated  popular  literature  is 
the  creation  of  our  century  and  of 
the  English  people.  The  English  have 
made  the  largest  use  of  wood  engrav- 
ing as  an  adjunct  of  the  art  of  book- 
making.  The  pictured  page  of  the 
magazine,  made  for  a  great  reading 
public,  charms  and  instructs  the  eye 
and  stimulates  the  curiosity ;  and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  chil- 
dren or  grown  people  enjoy  it  more. 

Wood  engraving  is  the  modest  art  of 
our  home  life  ;  and  from  the  old  Dutch 
Bible,  with  its  curious  cuts  of  literal  art, 
to  the  last  Christmas  Almanac,  what 
a  simple  and  attractive  service  it  has 
rendered  to  literature  !  Discovered  at 
nearly  the  same  time  as  printing,  it 
has  always  marched  hand  in'  hand 
with  it,  illustrating  and  popularizing 
the  thoughts  and  imaginations  of  poets 
and  artists,  and  enlarging  the  expe- 
rience of  the  eye.  None  of  the  later 
arts,  like  lithography  or  photography, 
have  succeeded  in  displacing  it,  and  in 
England  it  holds  the  first  place. 

Since  the  making  of  the  first  book 
the  desire  to  adorn  the  most  precious 
has  always  found  an  art  of  illustration 
close  to  our  need.  In  the  Bibliotheqtie 
Imperiale  at  Paris,  one  may  see,  under 
glass  and  screened  from  light,  the 
gemmed  covers  and  painted  pages  of 
mediaeval  missals.  The  heavy  binding 
crusted  with  rich  profusion  of  rare 
stones,  and  curious  with  work  in  silver 
and  gold,  the  parchment  sheets  adorned 
with  delicate  and  complicated  designs 
in  vivid  colors,  fanciful  and  grotesque 
and  naive,  attest  the  beautiful  office  of 
an  abandoned  art,  —  a  costly  art  nat- 
urally practised  when  books  were  few 
and  in  the  hands  only  of  princes  and 
priests. 

When  printing  rendered  the  multi- 
plication of  books  an  easy  matter,  the 
grave  and  simple  design  drawn  and 
cut  upon  the  wood  was  made  to  adorn 


the  printed  page  with  much  of  the 
skill,  but  none  of  the  glittering  glory 
and  splendor,  of  the  monk's  vellum 
sheet.  Now  instead  of  a  few  costly  vol- 
umes, we  have  cheap  and  beautiful 
books  from  a  press  productive  like 
time.  Our  modern  art  is  not  to  illu- 
minate a  few  books,  but  to  illustrate 
thousands  of  them  ;  yet  the  chromo- 
lithograph would  enable  us  to  duplicate 
the  most  costly  examples  of  mediaeval 
color.  At  present,  however,  the  use  of 
the  chromo-lithograph  for  magazines 
is  not  as  satisfactory  as  the  engraving 
upon  wood. 

In  the  art  of  book  illustration  the 
French  and  English  are  our  masters. 
It  is  to  the  credit  of  English  book- 
makers that  they  first  secularized  the 
art  of  book  illustration,  and  first  placed 
the  woodcut  at  the  service  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  English  originated  the  Penny 
Magazine,  which  determined  the  char- 
acter and  publication  of  the  more  ar- 
tistic Magasin  Pittoresque  for  the 
French  public.  But  the  English  make 
the  largest  use  of  the  illustrated  maga- 
zine for  the  pleasure  of  home-life  and 
the  instruction  of  the  people.  The 
French  have  no  publications  corre- 
sponding to  such  illustrated  magazines 
as  The  Cornhill,  London  Society,  Good 
Words,  The  Sunday  Magazine,  and 
Once  a  Week,  magazines  which  min- 
ister through  art  and  literature  to  do- 
mestic life,  and  express  the  conserva- 
tism of  the  English  character. 

The  Englishman  thinks  of  minister- 
ing to  his  purely  private  life,  and  in  his 
illustrated  magazine  he  shares  with  his 
countrymen,  by  his  own  fireside,  the 
pleasure  meant  for  the  home  circle. 
This  is  one  of  those  significant  facts 
which  tell  us  that  the  centre  of  the 
Englishman's  life  is  home.  For  French- 
men public  life  has  the  dominating  at- 
traction. But  it  would  be  a  misrepre- 
sentation to  say  the  French  make  an 


682 


French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines. 


[June, 


inadequate  provision  for  the  home  life 
simply  because  they  have  not  a  batch 
of  illustrated  magazines  like  the  Eng- 
lish. 

French  social  life  is  full  of  beautiful 
exceptions,  and  the  popular  literature 
of  the  French  is  admirably  illustrated 
in  such  unequalled  publications  as  the 
Magasin  Pittoresque  and  La  Vie  a  la 
Campagne. 

The  custom  of  the  English  publish- 
ers, which  is  to  give  the  text  of  a  story 
into  the  hands  of  the  designer  to  illus- 
trate, somewhat  exclusively  practised  in 
England,  seems  to  me  not  so  good 
because  not  so  instructive  and  varied 
as  the  plan  of  the  French  publishers, 
who  give  the  principal  place  to  wood- 
cuts or  etchings  after  celebrated  con- 
temporary paintings  and  of  picturesque 
or  historical  places.  The  illustrations 
in  La  Vie  a  la  Campagne  and  Maga- 
sin Pittoresque  afford  me  greater  pleas- 
ure and  instruction,  certainly  stim- 
ulate my  curiosity  more,  than  the  de- 
signs in  English  magazines  by  Walker, 
Millais,  Leighton,  or  Du  Maurier,  illus- 
trative of  stories  of  contemporary  life. 
The  French  illustrated  magazine  seems 
to  elicit  more  variety,  and  requires  a 
greater  versatility  of  talent  in  its  de- 
signers. 

A  volume  of  La  Vie  a  la  Campagne, 
which  I  have  before  me,  gives  upon 
the  first  page  an  admirable  engraving 
of  one  of  Rosa  Bonheur's  most  cele- 
brated and  perfect  paintings,  — the  Ren- 
dezvous'-de  Chasse, —  which  represents 
in  a  frosty  morning  a  group  of  French 
hunters  and  dogs ;  it  is  certainly  more 
instructive  and  pleasing  than  any  bit 
of  English  character,  sentiment,  or  so- 
ciety, drawn  upon  the  block  by  Walker, 
Millais,  or  Keene,  yet  the  talent  of  the 
English  artist  is  not  less  capable  of 
producing  work  equally  instructive  and 
pleasing.  The  groove  into  which  the 
English  system  sooner  or  later  throws 
all  of  their  famous  draughtsmen  for 
magazines  places  the  English  illus- 
trated publication  below  the  French 
in  point  of  interest  and  art.  The  de- 
signs by  Leech  were  an  exception,  for 
he  always  derived  the  motif  of  his 


sketches  from  nature,  not  from  stories 
or  poems.  Many  of  Leech's  and 
Keene's  drawings  for  Punch  have  all 
the  freshness  and  force  of  work  from 
the  life  ;  they  are  not  "  made  up." 

The  French  magazine  to  which  I 
have  referred  is  illustrated  with  land- 
scapes by  Daubigny ;  charming,  crisp, 
and  brilliant  sketches  by  Andrieux ; 
with  full-page  engravings  after  carefully 
studied  pictures,  illustrative  of  life  in 
the  country,  by  Horace  Vernet,  Cour- 
bet,  Thiollet,  Van'  Dargent,  Lalanne, 
Jacques,  and  Laurens.  Many  of  the 
vignettes  are  evidently  bits  from  na- 
ture, and  gratify  the  artistic  sense  by 
their  style,  which  is  always  free  and 
often  brilliant. 

The  Magasin  Pittoresque  gives  beau- 
tiful engravings  upon  wood  of  parts  of  fa- 
mous cathedrals,  chateaux,  and  bridges, 
—  of  celebrated  or  recently  discovered 
fragments  of  antique  or  mediaeval  art; 
of  anything  and  everything  interesting 
and  instructive  or  beautiful ; '  and  it 
generally  avoids  vulgar  and  ephemeral 
subjects.  It  contained  a  marvellous  ren- 
dering of  Decamp's  "  Oriental  Butcher 
Shop,"  and  a  superb  portrait  of  the  ar- 
tist, which  is  a  most  vigorous  piece  of 
wood  engraving.  In  fact,  most  of  what 
is  finest  in  art  or  nature,  sooner  or 
later,  is  drawn  and  engraved  for  the 
Magasin  Pittoresque,  which  at  the  same 
time  does  not  fall  exclusively  under  the 
classification  of  an  art  magazine,  but 
remains  fully  at  the  service  of  the  gen- 
eral and  varied  subjects  of  social  and 
civilized  life. 

I  must  think  that  our  own  illustrated 
magazines  would  be  much  improved 
and  do  an  excellent  work  in  giving  full- 
page  drawings  after  the  most  remarka- 
ble contemporary  American  pictures,  — 
the  three  or  four  best  pictures  of  the 
annual  exhibition  of  our  Academy  of 
Design,  for  example.  Good  wood  en- 
gravings or  etchings,  after  the  pic- 
tures of  Johnson,  Gifford,  Kensett, 
McEntee,  Griswold,  Wyant,  Martin, 
Homer,  Vedder,  Lafarge,  and  Hennes- 
sy  would  be  a  great  help  to  all  people 
who  are  interested  in  art,  but  are  not 
able  to  visit  its  great  centre  in  this 


1 870.] 


French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines. 


country.  But  I  have  to  consider  our 
masters,  and  I  must  invite  attention  to 
famous  English  and  French  designers. 

Tony  Johannot,  Dore,  and  Morin  in 
France  ;  Gilbert,  Millais,  Walker,  Ben- 
net,  Du  Maurier,  and  Pinwell  in  Eng- 
land, are  the  masters  of  the  art  of  il- 
lustrating books  and  magazines,  while 
Darley,  Homer,  Sheppard,  Hows,  Ey- 
tinge,  Vedder,  Gary,  Fenn,  Lafarge, 
Parsons,  and  Hennessy  have  done  the 
best  work  for  American  publications. 

John  Gilbert  is  conventional  in  his 
drawing,  but  always  picturesque,  rich, 
and  often  splendid  in  his  effects  ;  he  is 
a  greater  master  of  grouping  figures, 
and  can  represent  a  crowd  better  than 
any  other  English  artist.  But  Gilbert's 
work  is  now  almost  wholly  set  aside  by 
what  may  be  called  the  new  school  of 
English  designers  upon  the  block,  be- 
ginning with  Rossetti  and  Millais,  and 
reaching  a  more  liberal  expression  in 
Walker  and  Du  Maurier. 

Gilbert  and  Birket  Foster  are  not 
comparable  to  Walker,  Du  Maurier, 
and  Millais  ;  and  the  French  landscape 
draughstman  Lalanne  surpasses  Foster. 
Gilbert  and  Foster  are  mannered  and 
general ;  they  have  a  tricky  style,  —  a 
style  that  lowers  one's  sense  of  nature 
and  places  the  imitator  wholly  in  sub- 
jection to  the  pictorial  element. 

Walker's  drawings  for  the  Cornhill 
Magazine,  Du  Maurier's  book  illustra- 
tions, and  Millais's  work  for  Once  a 
Week  and  Good  Words,  are  the  best 
things  that  have  been  done  in  England. 
Millais  is  first  in  delicacy  of  sentiment 
and  refined  perception ;  Du  Maurier, 
in  invention,  variety,  and  brilliant  and 
suggestive  execution  ;  Walker,  in  posi- 
tive and  frank  style.  The  last  has  a 
j  natural  and  poetical  sense  of  his  sub- 
ject, and  his  work  seems  to  be  the 
most  thorough,  while  it  is  delightfully 
free.  Some  of  his  drawings,  in  beau- 
tiful and  flowing  lines,  firm  and  sure, 
cannot  be  excelled.  Du  Maurier  is 
lighter,  more  artistic,  has  a  certain 
sparkling  and  rapid  touch,  which  makes 
his  work  the  most  attractive  of  any  of 
the  contemporary  draughtsmen  upon 
the  wood,  save  the  daring  and  admira- 


ble work  of  Morin,  the  French  illus- 
trator. 

Very  charming  and  childlike  and  ad- 
mirably engraved  by  Swain,  is  Millais's 
sketch  of  a  curly-headed  child  repeat- 
ing the  immortal  child's  prayer  taught 
under  English  and  American  roofs.  I 
remember  another  drawing  by  Millais 
that  recalls  the  work  of  Velasquez.  It 
indicates  the  same  qualities  as  the 
painting  of  the  illustrious  Spanish  mas- 
ter,—  it  is  delicate,  sympathetic,  natu- 
ral, vivid. 

The  women  and  girls  and  children  of 
Millais  are  unrivalled  as  expressions 
of  the  most  cherished  and  appropriate 
qualities  of  grace,  refinement,  simplicity, 
and  purity,  which  properly  belong  to 
them.  But  Millais  always  draws  civil- 
ized and  well-dressed  children.  Bar- 
barian boys  have  no  place  in  his  world  ; 
not  one  so  sturdy  and  hearty  as  Whit- 
tier's  Barefoot  Boy  or  Hawthorne's 
Little  Cannibal  and  Glutton,  who  swal- 
lowed two  Jim  Crows,  several  camels 
and  elephants,  and  sundry  other  ginger- 
bread figures  between  sunrise  and  din- 
ner, and  threatened  to  demolish  the 
whole  gingerbread  menagerie  in  good 
Hepzibah's  shop. 

It  should  give  pleasure  to  consider 
the  most  noticeable  of  the  illustrations 
of  the  English  draughtsmen.  Freder- 
ick Walker's  drawings  for  Thackeray's 
Phillip,  and  for  Miss  Thackeray's 'Vil- 
lage on  the  Cliff,  are  excellent  pictures, 
and  I  may  venture  to  say  no  other 
English  artist  would  have  done  the 
work  so  well.  A  little  drawing  called 
"  The  Meeting,"  another  called  "  The 
Vagrants,"  another  delineating  Miss 
Thackeray's  "  Rend,"  and  still  another 
representing  two  boys  of  the  last  cen- 
tury over  an  old  chest,  examining  a 
pistol,  are  admirable  examples  of  draw- 
ing upon  the  wood,  and  by  their  char- 
acter and  form  mark  the  culmination 
of  Walker's  delightful  and  honest  style. 
The  drawing  entitled  "  The  Vagrants  " 
is  full  of  undefinable  sentiment  and 
poetry.  The  standing  figure  of  the 
gypsy  girl  is  comparable  to  the  work  of 
the  finest  of  the  French  painters,  Jules 
Breton,  whose  genre  of  subject  it  re- 


684 


French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines. 


[June, 


calls.  Pin  well  has  made  some  very  ar- 
tistic and  many  careful  drawings.  One 
specimen  of  his  work  now  before  me, 
slightly  and  spiritedly  pencilled,  seems 
to  me  a  model  of  masterly  drawirjg  upon 
the  wood.  The  best  drawings  upon  the 
block  are  either  very  black  or  very  gray, 
and  the  very  gray  are  oftenest  the  most 
unsatisfactory.  If  an  artist  does  not 
see  any  force,  or  emphasis  of  shadow, 
or  effect,  in  nature,  he  would  do  best 
in  using  the  pure  line  to  express  his 
subject. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  style 
of  French  draughtsmen  upon  wood  is 
larger  and  bolder  and  simpler  than  the 
English  ;  the  style  of  the  English  is 
more  detailed;  they  are  more  scrupu- 
lous about  accessories  than  the  French. 
The  English  are  not  so  successful  as 
the  French  in  composition,  in  groups 
of  figures,  or  in  rendering  action;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  are  superior  to 
the  French  in  expressing  character, 
and  their  work  has  a  higher  value  as 
a  rendering  of  the  minor  sacred  or  do- 
mestic sentiments  of  life.  The  French 
artist  is  satisfied  with  the  drawing  of 
a  type  of  character  ;  the  Englishman 
always  seeks  to  render  the  individual, 
and  is  contented  only  with  a  positive 
and  particular  personality.  Bennet  was 
one  of  the  most  English  of  English 
draughtsmen  ;  he  had  no  sense  of  beau- 
ty, but  he  was  an  intense  and  uncom- 
mon physiognomist,  and  was  as  literal 
as  Holbein.  Doyle  was  an  unerring 
satirist,  very  clever  and  very  comic, 
but  not  much  of  an  artist.  Small's 
illustrations  of  "Griffith  Gaunt"  are 
creditable  and  careful  ;  he  is  one  of  the 
most  indefatigable  of  English  draughts- 
men for  the  illustrated  magazines,  and 
he  is  also  one  of  the  most  tiresome. 
He  maintains  his  work  at  a  good  level, 
but  is  without  a  touch  of  genius.  The 
only  two  English  illustrators,  —  after 
Gilbert, —  who  have  genius,  are  Du 
Maurier  and  Millais  ;  they  are  never 
commonplace  ;  when  they  are  bad  they 
are  very  bad ;  when  they  are  at  their 
best  they  are  individual  and  unrivalled. 
Houghton's  Eastern  subjects  are  sprawl- 
ing and  unsatisfactory.  Tenniel  is  the 


most  formal  and  academic  in  his  style 
of  any  English  draughtsman.  He  may 
be  said  to  know  the  academy  model  well. 
His  full-page  drawings  for  Punch  are 
positive  and  excellent  works.  Their 
hard  and  thorough  style  of  drawing  is 
in  marked  contrast  with  the  slovenly 
and  slight  lithographic  caricatures  for 
Charivari.  Keene,  the  successor  of 
Leech,  is  an  excellent  draughtsman 
upon  the  block,  close  to  nature,  and 
master  of  a  better  style  than  the  la- 
mented Leech.  But  of  all  living  Eng- 
lish draughtsmen  upon  the  wood,  Du 
Maurier  —  who  is  claimed  as  a  French- 
man in  Paris,  and  the  claim  is  sus- 
tained by  Du  Maurier's  name  and  style 
—  seems  to  me  entitled  to  the  first 
place.  For  variety  of  character,  great 
invention,  unfailing  sense  of  beauty, 
and  brilliant,  rapid,  effective  style,  he 
is  unrivalled  in  England.  He  has  the 
quick  hand,  the  rapid  intellect,  the  ac- 
tive fancy,  and  lively  sympathy  with  all 
forms  of  life,  characteristic  of  the  ar- 
tistic nature.  My  high  appreciation  of 
Du  Maurier  is  based  upon  his  illus- 
trations of  Douglas  Jerrold's  "  Story  of 
a  Feather." 

There  are  many  clever  women  illus- 
trators of  books  and  magazines  in  Eng- 
land. Miss  E.  Edwards  seems  to  be 
the  best.  But  not  one  of  them  is  capa- 
ble of  putting  upon  the  block  such  a 
spirited  and  well-drawn  picture  as  that 
made  for  the  Paris  Guide  by  Rosa  Bon- 
heur,  representing  a  drove  of  cattle,  on 
the  high  road,  in  full  movement. 

The  French  book  and  magazine  illus- 
trators introduce  us  to  a  more  varied 
and  entertaining  world  than  the  Eng- 
lish. They  take  us  outside  of  the  nar- 
row circle  of  home  life,  so  dear  to  Eng- 
lishmen, and  through  an  exquisite  pic- 
torial art  make  us  acquainted  with  the 
whole  of  our  inheritance  in  time. 

Morin,  Dore,  Brown,  Grevin,  Marce- 
lin,  Lalanne,  Preault,  Daubigny,  Yan' 
Dargent,  Francais,  Chevignard,  Celes- 
tin  Nanteuil,  Brion,  and  Bida  are  the 
most  celebrated  living  French  illustra- 
tors. Lalanne's  drawings  of  Paric  are 
full  of  the  most  admired  French  quali- 
ties, —  suggestiveness,  precision,  and 


1 870.] 


French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines. 


685 


force  of  style.  Morin  —  spotty,  blotchy, 
swift,  and  elegant  and  delicate  in  his 
drawings  —  has  the  most  remarkable 
style  of  any  of  the  French  draughtsmen. 
Nothing  could  apparently  be  slighter 
than  his  drawing  ;  nothing  more  broken 
and  lost,  and  rapidly  caught  again,  than 
his  fine  pencil  strokes  ;  yet  his  work  is 
full  of  nature.  I  believe  him  to  be  the 
man  of  most  genius  for  drawing  upon 
the  block,  the  man  most  brilliant,  nat- 
ural, effective,  among  the  living  book 
illustrators.  He  deals  with  contempo- 
rary nature,  as  all  the  best  men  do,  — 
Paris,  its  people,  streets,  squares,  parks, 
palaces,  bridges,  and  balls.  His  sketch- 
es in  the  Paris  Guide  — "  Coming  out 
of  the  Ball  of  the  Opera,"  "  Cafe  Con- 
cert," "  The  Gallery  of  Goupil  &  Co.," 
"  The  Flower  Market,"  "  The  Rowing 
Club  on  the  Seine"  —  are  inimitable 
and  admirable.  The  Sortie  du  Bal  de 
r Opera  is  surprisingly  effective  ;  it  ren- 
ders the  flickering,  flaring  lights,  the 
dazzle  and  movement,  and  general  as- 
pect of  the  street  in  front  of  the  Opera, 
on  a  stormy  night  of  winter,  as  every 
Parisian  has  seen  it.  The  design  is 
full  of  color,  and  in  absolute  contrast 
with  the  work  of  English  draughtsmen. 
Morin  is  the  type  of  the  Parisian  artist, 
the  model  of  a  dozen  draughtsmen  upon 
the  block,  but  still  an  inimitable  master, 
showing  the  most  ungraspable  qualities. 
He  is  daring,  suggestive,  rapid,  spirit- 
ed, in  his  work  ;  he  is  an  intelligent 
and  incessant  observer  of  nature,  an  . 
elegant  mind,  never  mannered  or  con- 
ventional, and  he  has  an  astonishing 
facility  of  execution  ;  he  is  beyond  all 
others  the  artist  of  fetes,  of  the  brilliant, 
seductive,  and  varied  life  of  the  world 
of  elegance  in  Paris ;  the  representa- 
tive artist  upon  wood  of  the  gay  cap- 
ital of  France,  the  centre  of  art  and 
science.  His  designs  are  scattered 
through  the  pages  of  La  Vie  Pa- 
risienne,  Paris  Caprice,  Semaine  des 
Enfants,  and  the  Paris  Guide. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  characterize 
Dord's  drawings,  for  they  are  well 
known.  He  is  French  rather  than  Pa- 
risian. The  illustrations  of  Balzac's 
Contes  Drolatiques  are  Dore's  best 


work,  and  hold  the  proper  relation 
to  the  letter-press.  In  his  Dante  and 
Don  Quixote  the  illustrations  override 
the  printed  page,  and  subordinate  the 
story  to  its  pictorial  element.  In  illus- 
trated magazines  or  books,  a  few  full- 
page  pictures  and  numerous  vignettes 
and  fanciful  head  -  letters  make  the 
most  delightful  work.  This  is  the  plan 
of  two  model  French  magazines  for  the 
people. 

In  examining  the  illustrated  art  mag- 
azines of  England  and  France,  we  see 
at  once  that  the  Gazette  des  Beaux 
Arts  is  a  finer  publication  than  the 
London  Art  Journal.  The  steel-plate 
engraving,  the  most  inartistic  means 
to  render  a  picture,  is  used  as  the 
leading  illustration  in  the  London  Art 
Journal.  The  Gazette  des  Beaux  Arts 
gives  the  preference  to  etching  for  its 
leading  picture  ;  all  its  beautiful  minor 
illustrations  are  woodcuts.  The  Eng- 
lish public  did  not  sustain  their  best 
illustrated  art  publication,  —  the  Fine 
Arts  Quarterly  Review. 

Illustrated  magazines  are  very  costly 
publications,  but  they  are  a  means  of 
education  for  the  people  second  only 
to  art  galleries  and  museums. 

French  illustrated  literature  is  more 
varied,  instructive,  and  interesting  than 
English,  not  only  because  the  French 
have  a  greater  aptitude  for  the  illustra- 
tive and  ornamental  arts,  but  because 
of  the  vast  museums  and  galleries  of 
France  which  instruct  and  enrich  the 
French  artist.  The  Cabinet  des  Estam- 
pes  is  almost  as  much  felt  in  French 
illustrated  work  as  the  Louvre  in 
French  painting. 

In  contemporary  subjects,  such  as 
we  find  in  illustrated  papers,  the  Eng- 
lish, with  their  practical  and  energetic 
spirit,  have  produced  the  best.  The 
Graphic,  the  London  Illustrated  News, 
and  Punch  reach  a  higher  point  of 
merit  in  their  illustrations  than  Le 
Monde  Illustre  and  Charivari. 

It  remains  for  me  briefly  to  consider 
modern  engravers  upon  the  wood.  The 
fathers  of  wood  engraving,  who  had  the 
simplest  method,  did  not  aim  to  reach 
the  results  of  the  modern  engraver. 


686 


French  and  English  Illustrated  Magazines. 


[June, 


They  did  not  dream  of  any  of  the 
subtle  effects  of  atmosphere  and  fine 
gradation  of  surface  which  are  now 
produced  by  French  and  English  en- 
gravers. They  were  laconic  and  ele- 
mentary, but  precise,  vigorous,  and 
always  intelligible,  and  I  think  they 
illustrated  the  distinctive  character  of 
the  art  of  engraving  upon  wood.  Hol- 
bein's designs  are  rude  and  vigorous, 
but  sure  and  expressive  in  line.  Al- 
bert Diirer's  are  vigorous  and  sim- 
ple. None  of  the  old  draughtsmen 
upon  wood  made  so  much  use  of  black 
or  color  as  the  modern  designers. 
They  seemed  to  think  the  line  a  suffi- 
cient means  of  expression.  They 
aimed  to  be  literal  and  natural,  and  did 
not  trouble  themselves  about  "  imita- 
tion "  or  the  textures  of  objects.  They 
sought  for  strength  and  correctness  of 
line  ;  and  strength  and  correctness  of 
line  are  the  fundamental  essentials  of 
drawing  and  engraving. 

It  is  said  of  Albert  Diirer,  whose 
style  is  so  grand  upon  the  block,  that 
his  work  teaches  the  concise  and  "  male 
manner,"  which  should  always  be  ex- 
pressed in  wood  engraving ;  that  when 
he  designed  for  the  wood  engraver,  he 
renounced  all  demi-tints  and  fine  tran- 
sitions ;  he  drew  grandly,  aimed  to  be 
vigorous  and  imposing,  and  to  make  a 
work  that  should  impress  itself  upon 
the  memory. 

The  draughtsman  gives  the  law  to 
the  engraver  in  tracing  the  design, 
which  the  engraver  is  scrupulously  to 
follow  ;  and  he  follows  it  just  so  far 
as  his  temperament  will  permit  him  : 
for  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  if  he  be 
dry  and  cold,  his  work  will  be  dry  and 
cold,  which  is  fatal  to  a  drawing  made 
by  the  hand  of  a  man  of  fervid  and  rich 
nature,  like  Delacroix,  for  example.  It 
is  because  of  this  positive  but  subtle 
action  of  the  sentiment  of  the  engraver 
upon  his  work,  this  play  of  his  own 
nature  modifying  his  rendering  of  an- 
other's work,  that  it  is  best  to  let  the 
artist  or  draughtsman  select  his  own 
engraver. 

The  French  engravers  seem  more 
varied  in  style  than  the  English.  Pi- 


san  has  produced  some  very  beautiful 
work  ;  Boetzel  is  called  the  most  artis- 
tic, that  is,  free,  accurate,  and  fine  ;  and 
his  sister,  Mile.  Boetzel,  is  entitled  to 
high  consideration  as  an  artist.  Boet- 
zel, Marias,  Moller,  Pisan,  Soltain,  Del- 
due,  Coste,  Sargent,  Lefevre,  Joliet, 
Gerard,  Gillot,  Gillaumont,  Peulot,  and 
Ansseau  hold  the  first  place  in  France. 

In  spite  of  the  great  cost  of  wood 
engraving,  which  threatens  to  make  it 
give  place  to  the  various  "  processes  " 
derived  from  photography,  it  is  the 
most  democratic  of  illustrative  arts, 
and  lends  itself  to  every  subject.  It  is 
the  intelligible  and  pleasant  accompani- 
ment of  our  most  charming  literature, 
the  literature  of  the  affections,  —  and  it 
may  be  said  to  be  consecrated  by  its 
place  in  the  service  of  home  and  the 
family.  As  a  means  of  education  for 
vast  populations  compelled  to  forego 
the  liberating  experience  of  travel,  and 
out  of  the  reach  of  museums  and  art 
galleries,  it  is  invaluable.  The  illus- 
trated magazine  and  the  illustrated 
paper,  which  are  scattered  over  our 
country,  are  positive  and  rapidly  civil- 
izing influences.  When  not  vulgar  or 
brutal,  they  are  elevating,  refining,  and 
stimulating  to  the  mind,  beyond  any 
other  habitual  and  general  influence  in 
our  village  or  provincial  life. 

It  would  be  a  sufficient  work,  merit- 
ing the  gratitude  of  a  nation,  to  make 
a  popular  and  artistic  illustrated  maga- 
*zine  for  children  and  grown  people. 
What  is  truly  interesting  to  the  former 
should  interest  the  latter.  It  is  said 
that  the  venerable  editor  and  director 
of  the  Magftsin  Pittoresque,  Edouard 
Charton,  —  the  ancient  representative 
of  the  people,  secretary  of  the  Minister 
of  Public  Instruction  in  France  in  1849, 
—  cherishes  no  part  of  his  public  ser- 
vices so  much  as  his  gift  of  the  Maga- 
sin  Pittoresque  to  the  French  people. 
The  plan  and  execution  of  that  work 
could  come  only  from  a  liberal  head 
and  a  corps  of  useful  writers  and  intel- 
ligent artists.  As  an  illustrated  maga- 
zine for  young  and  old,  it  is  the  model 
publication  of  our  century. 

I  must  conclude  that  the  Gazette  des 


i  S/oJ 

Beaiix  Arts  and  the  Magasin  Pitto- 
resque  —  the  last  for  the  general  public, 
old  and  young,  the  first  for  a  cultivated 
and  particular  public  —  are  the  most 
perfect  examples  of  illustrated  maga- 
zine literature,  and  offer  us  the  best 
examples  of  artistic  taste.  That  they 
are  sustained  by  the  art-wealth  of  the 
Continent,  and  especially  of  Paris,  is  the 
sufficient  reason  for  their  superiority. 
The  habit  of  French  artists  is  to  sketch 
from  nature,  and  study  the  great  exam- 
ples of  art  which  are  happily  accessi- 
ble to  them. 

For  unthinking  persons  and  simple 
minds,  knowledge  — and,  in  fact,  all  the 
charm  of  a  beautiful  .  narrative  —  re- 
mains dull  without  the  help  of  such 
objective  and  concrete  proofs  of  travel, 
character,  and  distant  events  as  we 
may  look  upon  in  a  picture.  The  illus- 
tration may  be  said  to  give  body  and 
reality  to  the  written  story  ;  and  words, 
to  a  mind  conversant  only  with  things, 
gain  an  additional  interest,  and  force 
the  sluggish  attention,  when  they  are 
accompanied  with  pictures.  Of  all  our 
modern  illustrative  arts,  save  etching, 
wood  engraving  seems  the  best  adapted 
to  all  subjects.  I  prefer  an  etching  of 
Notre  Dame,  or  of  a  fishing  village  on 
the  French  coast,  to  a  photograph  of 
either  subject ;  and  if  not  an  etching,  a 
wood  engraving  is  the  next  best  artis- 
tic means  of  illustration. 


Song. 


687 


Whoever  has  succeeded  in  giving  a 
good  illustrated  literature  to  children 
and  grown  people  has  accomplished  a 
delightful  work,  the  enjoyment  of  which 
grows  with  its  most  intelligent  develop- 
ment. Such  a  work  as  Hetzel  and 
Charton  have  done  for  the  French  pub- 
lic. Can  it  be  done  for  us  ? 

The  illustrated  magazine  in  the  fam- 
ily may  be  compared  to  the  presence 
of  a  liberal  and  cultivated  friend,  rich 
in  souvenirs  of  travel,  at  times  elo- 
quent, and  always  discreet,  illuminat- 
ing the  minds  about  him,  and  giving  a 
zest  to  knowledge.  In  the  home  circle, 
by  the  light  of  the  evening  lamp, 
through  the  winter  nights,  what  pleas- 
ure and  what  profit  to  the  indoor  life 
are  his  simple  communications,  which, 
while  enriching  us,  do  not  impoverish 
him.  A  home  circle  without  an  illus- 
trated magazine  is  torpid  and  poor  in 
its  sources  of  pleasure.  It  has  neither 
eyes  for  art  or  nature,  nor  a  liberal 
interest  in  anything  but  its  routine  and 
mechanical  existence.  I  consider  the 
illustrated  magazine  one  of  the  essen- 
tials of  a  beautiful  home  life  ;  while  we 
sit  by  the  fireside,  the  pictured  page 
lets  us  see  the  art  and  science,  the 
habits  and  customs,  of  all  the  great 
historic  ages,  and  at  the  same  time  rep- 
resents to  us  the  remarkable  or  beau- 
tiful things  scattered  over  our  contem- 
porary world. 


SONG. 

THE  clover-blossoms  kiss  her  feet, 
She  is  so  sweet. 

While  I,  who  may  not  kiss  her  hand, 
Bless  all  the  wild-flowers  in  the  land. 

Soft  sunshine  falls  across  her  breast, 

She  is  so  blest. 

I  'm  jealous  of  its  arms  of  gold  : 
O  that  her  form  these  arms  might  fold ! 

Gently  the  breezes  kiss  her  hair, 

She  is  so  fair. 

Let  flowers  and  sun  and  breeze  go  by ; 
O  dearest  !  love  me,  or  I  die. 


688 


Oldtown  Fireside  Stories. 


[June, 


OLDTOWN    FIRESIDE    STORIES. 
THE  GHOST   IN   THE  MILL. 


COME,  Sam,  tell  us  a  story,"  said 
I,  as  Harry  and  I  crept  to  his 
knees,  in  the  glow  of  the  bright  evening 
firelight,  while  Aunt  Lois  was  busily 
rattling  the  tea-things,  and  grandmam- 
ma was  quietly  setting  the  heel  of  a 
blue-mixed  yarn  stocking  at  the  other 
end  of  the  fireplace. 

In  those  days  we  had  no  magazines 
and  daily  papers,  each  reeling  off  a 
serial  story.  Once  a  week  the  "  Co- 
lumbian Sentinel "  came  from  Boston 
with  its  slender  stock  of  news  and  edi- 
torial ;  but  all  the  multiform  devices, 
pictorial,  narrative,  and  poetical,  which 
keep  the  mind  of  the  present  genera- 
tion ablaze  with  excitement,  had  not 
then  even  an  existence.  There  was  no 
theatre,  no  opera ;  there  were  in  Old- 
town  no  parties  or  balls,  except  per- 
haps the  annual  election  or  Thanks- 
giving festival ;  and  when  winter  came, 
and  the  sun  went  down  at  half  past 
four  o'clock  and  left  the  long  dark 
hours  of  evening  to  be  provided  for, 
the  necessity  of  amusement  became 
urgent.  Hence  in  those  days  chimney- 
corner  story-telling  became  an  art  and 
accomplishment.  Society  then  was  full 
of  traditions  and  narratives  which  had 
all  the  uncertain  glow  and  shifting 
mystery  of  the  firelit  hearth  upon  them. 
They  were  told  to  sympathetic  audi- 
ences, by  the  rising  and  falling  light  of 
the  solemn  embers,  with  the  hearth 
crickets  filling  up  every  pause.  Then 
the  aged  told  their  stories  to  the  young, 
—  tales  of  early  life,  tales  of  war  and 
adventure,  of  forest  days,  of  Indian 
captivities  and  escapes,  of  bears  and 
wild-cats  and  panthers,  of  rattlesnakes, 
of  witches  and  wizards,  and  strange  and 
wonderful  dreams  and  appearances  and 
providences. 

In  those  days  of  early  Massachusetts, 
faith  and  credence  were  in  the  very  air. 
Two  thirds  of  New  England  was  then 
dark,  unbroken  forest,  through  whose 


tangled  paths  the  mysterious  winter 
wind  groaned  and  shrieked  and  howled 
with  weird  noises  and  unaccountable 
clamors.  Along  the  iron-bound  shore 
the  stormful  Atlantic  raved  and  thun- 
dered and  dashed  its  moaning  waters, 
as  if  to  deaden  and  deafen  any  voice 
that  might  tell  of  the  settled  life  of  the 
old  civilized  world,  and  shut  us  forever 
into  the  wilderness.  A  good  story- 
teller in  those  days  was  always  sure  of 
a  warm  seat  at  the  hearth-stone,  and 
the  delighted  homage  of  children  ;  and 
in  all  Oldtown  there  was  no  better 
story-teller  than  Sam  Lawson. 

"  Do,  do  tell  us  a  story,"  said  Har- 
ry, pressing  upon  him  and  opening 
very  wide  blue  eyes,  in  which  undoubt- 
ing  faith  shone  as  in  a  mirror;  "and 
let  it  be  something  strange,  and  differ- 
ent from  common." 

"  Wai,  I  know  lots  o'  strange  things," 
said  Sam,  looking  mysteriously  into  the 
fire.  "  Why,  I  know  things  that  ef  I 
should  tell,  why  people  might  say  they 
wa'n't  so  ;  but  then  they  is  so,  for  all 
that." 

"  O  do,  do  tell  us." 

"  Why,  I  should  scare  ye  to  death, 
mebbe,"  said  Sam,  doubtingly. 

"  O  pooh  !  no  you  would  n't,"  we 
both  burst  out  at  once. 

But  Sam  was  possessed  by  a  reticent 
spirit,  and  loved  dearly  to  be  wooed 
and  importuned  ;  and  so  he  only  took 
up  the  great  kitchen  tongs  and  smote 
on  the  hickory  forestick,  when  it  flew 
apart  in  the  middle  and  scattered  a 
shower  of  clear,  bright  coals  all  over 
the  hearth. 

"  Mercy  on  us,  Sam  Lawson  !  "  said 
Aunt  Lois,  in  an  indignant  voice,  spin- 
ning round  from  her  dish-washing. 

"  Don't  you  worry  a  grain,  Miss 
.Lois,"  said  Sam,  composedly.  "  I  see 
that  are  stick  was  e'en  a'most  in  two, 
and  I  thought  I  'd  jest  settle  it.  I  '11 
sweep  up  the  coals  now,"  he  added, 


1 870.] 


Oldtown  Fireside  Stories. 


689 


vigorously  applying  a  turkey-wing  to 
the  purpose,  as  he  knelt  on  the  hearth, 
his  spare,  lean  figure  glowing  in  the 
blaze  of  the  firelight,  and  getting  quite 
flushed  with  exertion. 

"  There,  now,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
brushed  over  and  under  and  between 
the  fire-irons,  and  pursued  the  retreat- 
ing ashes  so  far  into  the  red,  fiery  cita- 
del that  his  finger-ends  were  burning 
and  tingling,  "  that  are  's  done  now  as 
well  as  Hepsy  herself  could  'a'  done  it. 
I  allers  sweeps  up  the  haarth  ;  I  think 
it 's  part  o'  the  man's  bisness  when  he 
makes  the  fire.  But  Hepsy  's  so  used 
to  seein'  me  a  doin'  on't  that  she  don't 
see  now  kind  o'  merit  in  't.  It 's  just  as 
Parson  Lothrop  said  in  his  sermon, — 
folks  allers  overlook  their  common 
marcies  —  " 

"  But  come,  Sam,  that  story,"  said 
Harry  and  I,  coaxingly,  pressing  upon 
him  and  pulling  him  down  into  his  seat 
in  the  corner. 

"  Lordy  massy,  these  'ere  young 
uns  !  "  said  Sam,  "  there  's  never  no 
contentin'  on  'em ;  ye  tell  'em  one  sto- 
ry, and  they  jest  swallows  it  as  a  dog 
does  a  gob  o'  meat,  and  they  're  all 
ready  for  another.  What  do  ye  want 
to  hear  now  ?  " 

Now  the  fact  was  that  Sam's  stories 
had  been  told  us  so  often  that  they 
were  all  arranged  and  ticketed  in  our 
minds.  We  knew  every  word  in  them 
and  could  set  him  right  if  he  varied  a 
hair  from  the  usual  track,  and  still  the 
interest  in  them  was  unabated.  Still 
we  shivered  and  clung  to  his  knee  at 
the  mysterious  parts,  and  felt  gentle, 
cold  chills  run  down  our  spines  at  ap- 
propriate places.  We  were  always  in 
the  most  receptive  and  sympathetic 
condition.  To-night,  in  particular,  was 
one  of  those  thundering  stormy  ones 
when  the  winds  appeared  to  be  hold- 
ing a  perfect  mad  carnival  over  my 
grandfather's  house.  They  yelled  and 
squealed  round  the  corners.  They 
collected  in  troops  and  came  tumbling 
and  roaring  down  chimney.  They 
shook  and  rattled  the  buttery  door  and 
the  sink-room  door  and  the  cellar  door 
and  the  chamber  door,  with  a  constant 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  152.  44 


undertone  of  squeak  and  clatter,  as  if 
at  every  door  were  a  cold,  discontented 
spirit,  tired  of  the  chill  outside,  and 
longing  for  the  warmth  and  comfort 
within. 

"Wai,  boys,"  said  Sam,  confiden- 
tially, "  what  '11  ye  have  ? " 

"  Tell  us  '  Come  down,  come  down,' " 
we  both  shouted  with  one  voice.  This 
was  in  our  mind  a  No.  I  among  Sam's 
stories. 

"  Ye  mus'  n't  be  frightened,  now," 
said  Sam,  paternally. 

"  O  no,  we  ar'  n't  frightened  ever? 
said  we  both  in  one  breath. 

"  Not  when  ye  go  down  the  cellar 
arter  cider?"  said  Sam,  with  severe 
scrutiny.  "  Ef  ye  should  be  down  cel- 
lar and  the  candle  should  go  out 
now  ?  " 

"  I  ain't,"  said  I  ;  "I  ain't  afraid  of 
anything ;  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to 
be  afraid  in  my  life." 

"  Wai,  then,"  said  Sam,  «  I  '11  tell  ye. 
This  'ere  's  what  Cap'n  Eb  Sawin  told 
me,  when  I  was  a  boy  about  your  big- 
ness, I  reckon. 

"  Cap'n  Eb  Sawin  was  a  most  re- 
spectable man  ;  your  gran'ther  knew 
him  very  well,  and  he  was  a  deacon  in 
the  church  in  Dedham  afore  he  died. 
He  was  at  Lexington  when  the  fust 
gun  was  fired  agin  the  British.  He 
was  a  drefHe  smart  man,  Cap'n  Eb  was, 
and  driv  team  a  good  many  years 
atween  here  and  Boston.  He  married 
Lois  Peabody  that  was  cousin  to  your 
gran'ther  then.  Lois  was  a  rael  sensi- 
ble woman,  and  I  've  heard  her  tell  the 
story  as  he  told  her,  and  it  was  jest  as 
he  told  it  to  me,  jest  exactly  ;  and  I 
shall  never  forget  it  if  I  live  to  be  nine 
hundred  years  old,  like  Mathusaleh. 

"Ye  see,  along  back  in  them  times, 
there  used  to  be  a  fellow  come  round 
these  'ere  parts  spring  and  fall  a  ped- 
dlin'  goods,  with  his  pack  on  his  back, 
and  his  name  was  Jehiel  Lommedieu. 
Nobody  rightly  knew  where  he  come 
from.  He  was  n't  much  of  a  talker, 
but  the  women  rather  liked  him,  and 
kind  o'  liked  to  have  him  round  ;  wo- 
men will  like  some  fellows,  when  men 
can't  see  no  sort  o'  reason  why  they 


6  go 


Otdtown  Fireside  Stories. 


[June, 


should,  and  they  liked  this  'ere  Lom- 
medieu,  though  he  was  kind  o'  mourn- 
ful and  thin  and  shad-bellied,  and  had 
n't  nothin'  to  say  for  himself.  But  it 
got  to  be  so  that  the  women  would 
count  and  calculate,  so  many  weeks 
afore  't  was  time  for  Lommedieu  to  be 
along,  and  they  'd  make  up  ginger- 
snaps  •  and  preserves  and  pies,  and 
make  him  stay  to  tea  at  the  houses, 
and  feed  him  up  on  the  best  there  was  ; 
and  the  story  went  round  that  he  was 
a  courtin'  Phebe  Ann  Parker,  or  Phebe 
Ann  was  a  courtin'  him,  —  folks  did  n't 
rightly  know  which.  Wai,  all  of  a  sud- 
den Lommedieu  stopped  comin'  round, 
and  nobody  knew  why,  only  jest  he 
did  n't  come.  It  turned  out  that  Phebe 
Ann  Parker  had  got  a  letter  from  him 
sayin'  he  'd  be  along  afore  Thanks- 
giving, but  he  did  n't  come,  neither 
afore  nor  at  Thanksgiving  time,  nor 
arter,  nor  next  spring  ;  and  finally  the 
women  they  gin  up  lookin'  for  him. 
Some  said  he  was  dead,  some  said  he 
was  gone  to  Canada,  and  some  said  he 
hed  gone  over  to  the  old  country.  As 
to  Phebe  Ann,  she  acted  like  a  gal  o' 
sense,  and  married  'Bijah  Moss  and 
thought  no  more  'bout  it.  She  said  she 
was  sartin  that  all  things  was  ordered 
out  for  the  best,  and  it  was  jest  as  well 
folks  could  n't  always  have  their  own 
way  ;  and  so  in  time  Lommedieu  was 
gone  out  o'  folks'  minds,  much  as  a 
last  year's  apple-blossom.  It 's  relly 
aflfectin'  to  think  how  little  these  'ere 
folks  is  missed  that 's  so  much  sot  by ! 
There  ain't  nobody,  ef  they  's  ever  so 
important,  but  what  the  world  gets  to 
goin'  on  without  'em  pretty  much  as  it 
did  with  'em,  though  there  's  some  little 
flurry  at  fust.  Wai,  the  last  thing  that 
was  in  anybody's  mind  was  that  they 
ever  should  hear  from  Lommedieu 
ag'in.  But  there  ain't  nothin'  but  what 
has  its  time  o'  turnin'  up,  and  it  seems 
his  turn  was  to  come. 

"  Wai,  ye  see  't  was  the  nineteenth 
o'  March  when  Cap'n  Eb  Sawin  started 
with  a  team  for  Boston.  That  day 
there  come  on  about  the  biggest  snow- 
storm that  there  'd  been  in  them  parts 
sence  the  oldest  man  could  remember. 


'Twas  this  'ere  fine  siftin'  snow  that 
drives  in  your  face  like  needles,  with  a 
wind  to  cut  your  nose  off:  it  made 
teamin'  pretty  tedious  work.  Cap'n 
Eb  was  about  the  toughest  man  in 
them  parts.  He  'd  spent  days  in  the 
woods  a  loggin',  and  he  'd  been  up  to 
the  deestrict  o'  Maine  a  lumberin',  and 
was  about  up  to  any  sort  o'  thing  a 
man  gen'ally  could  be  up  to ;  but 
these  'ere  March  winds  sometimes 
does  set  on  a  fellow  so  that  neither 
natur'  nor  grace  can  stan'  'em.  The 
Cap'n  used  to  say  he  could  stan'  any 
wind  that  blew  one  way  :t  time  for  five 
minutes,  but  come  to  winds  that  blew 
all  four  p'ints  at  the  same  minit,  why 
they  flustered  him. 

"  Wai,  that  was  the  sort  o'  weather 
it  was  all  day,  and  by  sundown  Cap'n 
Eb  he  got  clean  bewildered,  so  that  he 
lost  his  road,  and  when  night  came  on 
he  did  n't  know  nothin'  where  he  was. 
Ye  see  the  country  was  all  under  drift, 
and  the  air  so  thick  with  snow  that  he 
could  n't  see  a  foot  afore  him,  and  the 
fact  was  he  got  off  the  Boston  road 
without  knowin'  it  and  came  out  at  a 
pair  o'  bars  nigh  upon  Sherburn, 
where  old  Cack  Sparrock's  mill  is. 
Your  gran'ther  used  to  know  old  Cack, 
boys.  He  was  a  drefful  drinkin'  old 
crittur  that  lived  there  all  alone  in  the 
woods  by  himself,  a  tendin'  saw  and 
grist  mill.  He  wan't  allers  jest  what 
he  was  then.  Time  was  that  Cack  was 
a  pretty  consid?ably  likely  young  man, 
and  his  wife-  was  a  very  respectable 
woman,  —  Deacon  Amos  Petengall's 
dater,  from  Sherburn.  But  ye  see, 
the  year  arter  his  wife  died  Cack  he 
gin  up  goin'  to  meetin'  Sundays,  and 
all  the  tithingmen  and  selectmen  could 
do  they  could  n't  get  him  out  to  meet- 
in'  ;  and  when  a  man  neglects  means 
o'  grace  and  sanctuary  privileges  there 
ain't  .no  sayin'  what  he  '11  do  next. 
Why,  boys,  jist  think  on  't !  an  immor- 
tal crittur  lyin'  round  loose  all  day 
Sunday,  and  not  puttin'  on  so  much  as 
a  clean  shirt,  when  all  'spectable  folks 
has  on  their  best  close  and  is  to  meet- 
in'  worshippin  the  Lord  !  What  can 
you  spect  to  come  of  it  when  he  lies 


1 8/a] 


Oldtown  Fireside  Stories. 


691 


idlin'  round  in  his  old  week-day  close, 
fishing  or  some  sich,  but  what  the  Devil 
should  be  arter  him  at  last,  as  he  was 
arteroldCack?" 

Here  Sam  winked  impressively  to 
my  grandfather  in  the  opposite  corner, 
to  call  his  attention  to  the  moral  which 
he  was  interweaving  with  his  narrative. 

"  Wai,  ye  see,  Cap'n  Eb  he  told  me 
that  when  he  come  to  them  bars  and 
looked  up  and  saw  the  dark  a  corn- 
in'  down  and  the  storm  a  thickenin'  up, 
he  felt  that  things  was  gettin'  pretty 
consid'able  serious.  There  was  a  dark 
piece  o'  woods  on  ahead  of  him  inside 
the  bars,  and  he  knew  come  to  get  in 
there  the  light  would  give  out  clean. 
So  he  jest  thought  he  'd  take  the  hoss 
out  o'  the  team  and  go  ahead  a  little, 
and  see  where  he  was.  So  he  driv  his 
oxen  up  ag'in  the  fence  and  took  out 
the  hoss  and  got  on  him,  and  pushed 
along  through  the  woods,  not  rightly 
knowin'  where  he  was  goin'. 

"  Wai,  afore  long  he  see  a  light 
through  the  trees,  and  sure  enough  he 
come  out  to  Cack  Sparrock's  old  mill. 

"  It  was  a  pretty  consid'able  gloomy 
sort  of  a  place,  that  are  old  mill  was. 
There  was  a  great  fall  of  water  that  come 
rushin'  down  the  rocks  and  fell  in  a 
deep  pool,  and  it  sounded  sort  o'  wild 
and  lonesome,  but  Cap'n  Eb  he  knocked 
on  the  door  with  his  whip-handle  and 
got  in. 

"  There,  to  be  sure,  sot  old  Cack  be- 
side a  great  blazin'  fire,  with  his  rum- 
jug  at  his  elbow ;  he  was  a  drefful  fel- 
low to  drink,  Cack  was  ;  for  all  that, 
there  was  some  good  in  him,  for  he  was 
pleasant  spoken  and  'bliging,  and  he 
made  the  Cap'n  welcome. 

" '  Ye  see,  Cack,'  said  Cap'n  Eb, '  I  'm 
off  my  road,  and  got  snowed  up  down 
by  your  bars,'  says  he. 

" '  Want  ter  know  ! '  says  Cack  ;  '  cal- 
culate you  '11  jest  have  to  camp  down 
here  till  mornin','  says  he. 

"  Wai,  so  old  Cack  he  got  out  his 
tin  lantern,  and  went  with  Cap'n  Eb 
back  to  the  bars  to  help  him  fetch  along 
his  critturs  ;  he  told  him  he  could  put 
'em  under  the  mill-shed.  So  they  got 
the  critturs  up  to  the  shed  and  got  the 


cart  under,  and  by  that  time  the  storm 
was  awful. 

"  But  Cack  he  made  a  great  roaring 
fire,  'cause  ye  see  Cack  allers  had  slab- 
wood  a  plenty  from  his  mill,  and  a 
roarin'  fire  is  jest  so  much  company. 
It  sort  o'  keeps  a  fellow's  spirits  up, 
a  good  fire  does.  So  Cack,  he  sot  on 
his  old  teakettle  and  made  a  swinge- 
ing lot  o'  toddy,  and  he  and  Cap'n  Eb 
were  havin'  a  tol'able  comfortable  time 
there.  Cack  was  a  pretty  good  hand 
to  tell  stories,  and  Cap'n  Eb  warnt  no 
ways  backward  in  that  line,  and  kep' 
up  his  end  pretty  well,  and  pretty  soon 
they  was  a  roarin'  and  haw-hawin'  in- 
side about  as  loud  as  the  storm  outside, 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  'bout  midnight, 
there  come  a  loud  rap  on  the  door. 

"  '  Lordy  massy !  what 's  that  ? '  says 
Cack.  Folks  is  rather  startled  allers 
to  be  checked  up  sudden  when  they 
are  a  carryin'  on  and  laughin',  and  it 
was  such  an  awful  blowy  night,  it  was 
a  little  scary  to  have  a  rap  on  the  door. 

"  Wai,  they  waited  a  minit,  and  did  n't 
hear  nothin'  but  the  wind  a  screechin' 
round  the  chimbley ;  and  old  Cack  was 
jest  goin'  on  with  his  story,  when  the 
rap  come  ag'in,  harder  'n  ever,  as  if  it'd 
shook  the  door  open. 

"'Wai,'  says  old  Cack,  '  if  'tis  the 
Devil,  we  'd  jest  as  good  's  open  and 
have  it  out  with  him  to  onst,'  says  he; 
and  so  he  got  up  and  opened  the  door, 
and  sure  enough  there  was  old  Ke- 
tury  there.  Expect  you  've  heard 
your  grandma  tell  about  old  Ketury. 
She  used  to  come  to  meetin's  some- 
times, and  her  husband  was  one  o'  the 
praying  Indians,  but  Ketury  was  one 
of  the  rael  wild  sort,  and  you  could  n't 
no  more  convert  her  than  you  could 
convert  a  wild-cat  or  a  painter  (pan- 
ther). Lordy  massy,  Ketury  used  to 
come  to  meetin'  and  sit  there  on  them 
Indian  benches,  and  when  the  second 
bell  was  a  tollin',  and  when  Parson 
Lothrop  and  his  wife  was  comin'  up  the 
broad  aisle,  and  everybody  in  the  house 
ris'  up  and  stood,  Ketury  would  sit 
there  and  look  at  'em  out  o'  the  corner 
o'  her  eyes,  and  folks  used  to  say  she 
rattled  them  necklaces  o'  rattlesnakes' 


692 


Oldtown  Fireside  Stories. 


[June, 


tails  and  wild-cat  teeth  and  sich  like 
heathen  trumpery,  and  looked  for  all 
the  world  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  old 
Sarpent  himself  was  in  her.  I  've  seen 
her  sit  and  look  at  Lady  Lothrop  out 
o'  the  corner  o'  her  eyes,  and  her  old 
brown  baggy  neck  would  kind  o'  twist 
and  work,  and  her  eyes  they  looked  so, 
that  't  was  enough  to  scare  a  body. 
For  all  the  world  she  looked  jest  as  if 
she  was  a  workin'  up  to  spring  at  her. 
Lady  Lothrop  was  jest  as  kind  to  Ke- 
tury  as  she  always  was  to  every  poor 
crittur.  She  'd  bow  and  smile  as  gra- 
cious to  her  when  meetin'  was  over, 
and  she  come  down  the  aisle,  passin' 
out  o'  meetin' ;  but  Ketury  never  took 
no  notice.  Ye  see  Ketury's  father  was 
one  o'  those  great  powows  of  Martha's 
Vineyard,  and  people  used  to  say  she 
was  set  apart  when  she  was  a  child  to 
the  service  o'  the  Devil ;  any  way,  she 
never  could  be  made  nothin'  of  in  a 
Christian  way.  She  come  down  to 
Parson  Lothrop's  study  once  or  twice 
to  be  catechised,  but  he  could  n't  get  a 
word  out  o'  her,  and  she  kind  o'  seemed 
to  sit  scornful  while  he  was  a  talkin'. 
Folks  said  if  it  was  in  old  times  Ketury 
would  n't  have  been  allowed  to  go  on 
so,  but  Parson  Lothrop 's  so  sort  o 
mild,  he  let  her  take  pretty  much  her 
own  way.  Everybody  thought  that 
Ketury  was  a  witch  ;  at  least  she 
knew  consid'able  more  'n  she  ought 
to  know,  and  so  they  was  kind  o'  fraid 
on  her.  Cap'n  Eb  says  he  never  see 
a  fellow  seem  scareder  than  Cack  did 
when  he  see  Ketury  a  standin'  there  ! 
"Why  ye  see,  boys,  she  was  as  with- 
ered and  wrinkled  and  brown  as  an  old 
frosted  punkin-vine,  and  her  little  snaky 
eyes  sparkled  and  snapped,  and  it  made 
yer  head  kind  o'  dizzy  to  look  at  'em, 
and  folks  used  to  say  that  anybody  that 
Ketury  got  mad  at  was  sure  to  get  the 
worst  of  it,  fust  or  last ;  and  so  no  mat- 
ter what  day  or  hour  Ketury  had  a 
mind  to  rap  at  anybody's  door,  folks 
gen'lly  thought  it  was  best  to  let  her 
in ;  but  then,  they  never  thought  her 
coming  was  for  any  good,  for  she  was 
just  like  the  wind,  —  she  came  when  the 
fit  was  on  her,  she  stayed  jest  so  long 


as  it  pleased  her,  and  went  when  she  got 
ready,  and  not  before.  Ketury  under- 
stood English,  and  could  talk  it  well 
enough,  but  always  seemed  to  scorn  it, 
and  was  allers  mowin'  and  mutterin' 
to  herself  in  Indian,  and  winkin'  and 
blinkin'  as  if  she  saw  more  folks  round 
than  you  did,  so  that  she  wa' n't  no 
ways  pleasant  company,  and  yet  every- 
body took  good  care  to  be  polite  to  her. 

"  So  old  Cack  asked  her  to  come  in, 
and  did  n't  make  no  question  where 
she  come  from  or  what  she  come  on ; 
but  he  knew  it  was  twelve  good  miles 
from  where  she  lived  to  his  hut,  and 
the  snow  was  drifted  above  her  mid- 
dle, and  Cap'n  Eb  declared  that  there 
wa'n't  no  track  nor  sign  o'  a  track  of 
anybody's  coming  through  that  snow 
next  morning." 

"'How  did  she  get  there,  then?' 
said  I. 

"  *  Did  n't  ye  never  see  brown  leaves 
a  ridin'  on  the  wind  ?  Well,'  Cap'n 
Eb,  he  says,  '  she  came  on  the  wind,' 
and  I  'm  sure  it  was  strong  enough  to 
fetch  her.  But  Cack  he  got  her  down 
into  the  warm  corner,  and  he  poured 
her  out  a  mug  o'  hot  toddy  and  give 
her ;  but  ye  see  her  bein'  there  sort  o} 
stopped  the  conversation,  for  she  sot 
there  a  rockin'  back'rds  and  for'ards 
a  sippin'  her  toddy,  and  a  mutterin' 
and  looking  up  chimbley. 

"  Cap'n  Eb  says  in  all  his  born  days 
he  never  hearn  such  screeches  and 
yells  as  the  wind  give  over  that  chim- 
bley, and  old  Cack  got  so  frightened 
you  could  fairly  hear  his  teeth  chatter. 

"But  Cap'n  Eb  he  was  a  putty 
brave  man,  and  he  wa'n't  goin'  to  have 
conversation  stopped  by  no  woman, 
witch  or  no  witch  ;  and  so  when  he  see 
her  mutterin'  and  looking  up  chimbley, 
he  spoke  up,  and  says  he,  '  Well,  Ke- 
tury, what  do  you  see,'  says  he  ?  '  Come, 
out  with  it,  don't  keep  it  to  yourself.' 
Ye  see  Cap'n  Eb  was  a  hearty  fellow, 
and  then  he  was  a  leetle  warmed  up 
with  the  toddy. 

"  Then  he  said  he  see  an  evil  kind 
o'  smile  on  Ketury's  face,  and  she  rat- 
tled her  necklace  o'  bones  and  snakes' 
tails,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  snap,  and 


1870.] 


Oldtown  Fireside  Stories. 


693 


she  looked  up  the  chimbley  and  called 
out,  '  Come  down,  come  down,  let 's 
see  who  ye  be.' 

"  Then  there  was  a  scratching  and  a 
rumblin'  and  a  groan,  and  a  pair  of 
feet  come  down  the  chimbley,  and  stood 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  haarth,  the 
toes  pi'ntin'  out'rds,  with  shoes  and 
silver  buckles  a  shining  in  the  firelight. 
,  Cap'n  Eb  says  he  never  come  so  near 
bein'  scared  in  his  life,  and  as  to  old 
Cack  he  jest  wilted  right  down  in  his 
chair. 

"  Then  old  Ketury  got  up  and  reached 
her  stick  up  chimbley,  and  called  out 
louder,  '  Come  down,  come  down,  let's 
see  who  ye  be  ' ;  and  sure  enough  down 
came  a  pair  o'  legs  and  j'ined  right  on 
to  the  feet ;  good  fair  legs  they  was, 
with  ribbed  stockings  and  leather 
breeches. 

"  '  Wai,  we  're  in  for  it  now,'  says 
Cap'n  Eb ;  '  go  it,  Ketury,  and  let 's 
have  the  rest  on  him.' 

"  Ketury  did  n't  seem  to  mind  him  ; 
she  stood  there  as  stiff  as  a  stake  and 
kep'  callin'  out,  '  Come  down,  come 
down,  let's  see  who  ye  be  ' ;  and  then 
come  down  the  body  of  a  man  with  a 
brown  coat  and  yellow  vest,  and  j'ined 
right  on  to  the  legs,  but  there  wa'n't  no 
arms  to  it.  Then  Ketury  shook  her  stick 
up  chimbley,  and  called,  '  Come  doivn, 
come  down  'y  and  there  came  down  a 
pair  o'  arms  and  went  on  each  side  o' 
the  body,  and  there  stood  a  man  all 
finished,  only  there  wa'n't  no  head  on 
him. 

"  <  Wai,  Ketury,'  says  Cap'n  Eb, '  this 
'ere  's  getting  serious.  I  'spec  you  must 
finish  him  up,  and  let's  see  what  he 
wants  of  us.' 

"  Then  Ketury  called  out  once  more 
louder  'n  ever,  '  Come  down,  come 
down,  let 's  see  who  ye  be  '  ;  and  sure 
enough  down  comes  a  man's  head  and 
settled  on  the  shoulders  straight  enough, 
and  Cap'n  Eb,  the  minit  he  sot  eyes  on 
him  knew  he  was  Jehiel  Lommedieu. 

"  Old  Cack  knew  him  too,  and  he  fell 
flat  on  his  face,  and  prayed  the  Lord  to 
have  mercy  on  his  soul ;  but  Cap'n  Eb 
he  was  for  gettin'  to  the  bottom  of  mat- 
ters, and  not  have  his  scare  for  nothin', 


so  he  says  to  him,  'What  do  you  want, 
now  you  have  come  ?  ' 

"  The  man  he  did  n't  speak,  he  only 
sort  o'  moaned  and  p'inted  to  the  chim- 
bley ;  he  seemed  to  try  to  speak  but 
could  n't,  for  ye  see  it  is  n't  often  that 
his  sort  o'  folks  is  permitted  to  speak  ; 
but  just  then  there  came  a  screechin' 
blast  o'  wind,  and  blowed  the  door 
open,  and  blowed  the  smoke  and  fire 
all  out  into  the  room,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  a  whirlwind  and  darkness  and 
moans  and  screeches  ;  and  when  it  all 
cleared  up,  Ketury  and  the  man  was 
both  gone,  and  only  old  Cack  lay  on 
the  ground  rolling  and  moaning  as  if 
he  'd  die. 

"Wai,  Cap'n  Eb  he  picked  him  up, 
and  built  up  the  fire,  and  sort  o'  com- 
forted him  up,  'cause  the  crittur  was  in 
distress  o'  mind  that  was  drefful.  The 
awful  Providence  ye  see  had  awakened 
him,  and  his  sin  had  been  sent  home 
to  his  soul,  and  he  was  under  such  con- 
viction that  it  all  had  to  come  out,  — 
how  old  Cack's  father  had  murdered 
poor  Lommedieu  for  his  money,  and 
Cack  had  been  privy  to  it,  and  helped 
his  father  build  the  body  up  in  that 
very  chimbley ;  and  he  said  that  he 
had  n't  had  neither  peace  nor  rest  since 
then,  and  that  was  what  had  driv'  him 
away  from  ordinances,  for  ye  know  sin- 
nin'  will  always  make  a  man  leave 
prayin'.  Wai,  Cack  did  n't  live  but  a 
day  or  two.  Cap'n  Eb  he  got  the  min- 
ister o'  Sherburn  and  one  o'  the  select- 
men down  to  see  him,  and  they  took 
his  deposition.  He  seemed  railly  quite 
penitent,  and  Parson  Carryl  he  prayed 
with  him,  and  was  faithful  in  settin' 
home  the  providence  to  his  soul,  and 
so  at  the  eleventh  hour  poor  old  Cack 
might  have  got  in,  —  at  least  it  looks 
a  leetle  like  it.  He  was  distressed  to 
think  he  could  n't  live  to  be  hung.  He 
sort  o'  seemed  to  think  that  if  he  was 
fairly  tried  and  hung  it  would  make  it 
all  square.  He  made  Parson  Carryl 
promise  to  have  the  old  mill  pulled 
down  and  bury  the  body,  and  after  he 
was  dead  they  did  it. 

"  Cap'n  Eb  he  was  one  of  a  .party  o' 
eight  that  pulled  down  the  chimbley, 


694 


Let  us  be  Cheerful. 


[June, 


and  there  sure  enough  was  the  skele- 
ton of  poor  Lommedieu. 

"  So  there  you  see,  boys,  there  can't 
be  no  iniquity  so  hid  but  what  it  '11 
come  out.  The  wild  -Indians  of  the 
forest  and  the  stormy  winds  and  tem- 
pests j'ined  together  to  bring  out  this 
'ere." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Aunt  Lois, 
sharply,  "  I  never  believed  that  story." 

"  Why,  Lois,"  said  my  grandmother, 
"  Captain  Eb  Sawin  was  a  regular 
church-member  and  a  most  respecta- 
ble man." 

"  Law,  mother,  I  don't  doubt  he 
thought  so.  I  suppose  he  and  Cack 
got  drinking  toddy  together  till  he  got 
asleep  and  dreamed  it.  I  would  n't 
believe  such  a  thing  if  it  did  happen 


right  before  my  face  and  eyes.  I  should 
only  think  I  was  crazy,  that 's  all." 

"  Come,  Lois,  if  I  was  you  I  would 
n't  talk  so  like  a  Sadducee,"  said  my 
grandmother.  "  What  would  become  of 
all  the  accounts  in  Dr.  Cotton  Mather's 
Magnilly  if  folks  were  like  you  ?  " 

"  Wai,"  said  Sam  Lawson,  drooping 
contemplatively  over  the  coals,  and 
gazing  into  the  fire,  "there's  a  putty 
consid'able  sight  o'  things  in  this 
world  that 's  true ;  and  then  ag'in 
there  's  a  sight  o'  things  that  ain't  true. 
Now  my  old  gran'ther  used  to  say 
'  Boys,'  says  he,  '  if  ye  want  to  lead  a 
pleasant  and  prosperous  life,  ye  must 
contrive  allers  to  keep  jest  the  happy 
meditm  between  truth  and  falsehood.' 
Now  that  are  's  my  doctrine." 


LET    US    BE    CHEERFUL. 


THE  world  has  not  yet  got  beyond 
the  old  philosophies,  so  far  as  phi- 
losophy goes.  Science,  of  course,  is 
another  thing  ;  but  if  man  has  gone 
ahead  in  the  knowledge  of  matter,  he 
has  not  made  much  progress  in  the 
knowledge  of  mind,  and  philosophy  and 
abstract  speculations  remain  pretty 
much  where  they  were  centuries  ago. 
And  among  the  various  dualities  into 
which  mankind  can  be  divided,  De- 
mocritus  who  laughed,  and  Heraclitus 
who  wept,  may  be  taken  as  the  types  of 
one  very  large  system  of  classification. 
There  are  still  those  who  make  the 
best  of  everything,  even  when  things 
are  bad,  who  see  the  silver  lining  to 
the  cloud,  and  hold  on  to  the  hope  of 
the  lane  turning  at  last ;  and  there  are 
those  who  make  the  worst  of  what  is 
good,  who  growl  about  the  sun  hav- 
ing spots  and  the  morning  light  its 
vapors,  and  persist  in  their  belief  that 
night  has  never*  a  day  to  follow,  and 
even  more,  that  noon  is  very  much 
like  night  upon  the  whole  ;  and  they 
don't  see  much  difference  between 


dusk  and  dawn,  whatever  you  may  see. 
There  are  still  those  who  hold  that  love 
and  fame  are  but  vanity,  when  all  is 
told,  and  those  who  can  see  a  certain 
gracious  little  use  in  vanity  itself; 
those  who  give  in  to  the  worship  of 
sorrow,  and  those  who  subscribe  to 
the  creed  of  cheerfulness  ;  those  who 
live  always  in  mephitic  vapors  valley- 
born,  and  those  who  dwell  on  moun- 
tain-tops, and  breast  the  broad  breezes 
rejoicing. 

Cheerfulness  is  not  entirely,  as  it 
pleases  some  sour-blooded  folks  to  say, 
a  mere  matter  of  good  digestion,  or  the 
result  of  a  well-set  electric  current :  a 
thing,  therefore,  as  little  under  one's  own 
control  as  an  attack  of  neuralgia  or  a 
fit  of  the  gout,  and  deserving  no  more 
commendation,  than  these  deserve  cen- 
sure ;  it  is  much  more  a  matter  of  men- 
tal power,  though  also,  let  it  be  granted 
honestly,  somewhat  traceable  to  phys- 
ical condition  ;  that  is,  it  is  a  frame  of 
mind  that  can  be  induced  by  a  deter- 
mined will  ;  and,  above  all,  it  is  the 
product  of  an  unselfish  nature.  That 


1 870.] 


Let  us  be  Cheerful. 


695 


peevish  despair  which  some  people  call 
tenderness  of  mind  is  nine  times  out 
of  ten  simple  selfishness  ;  and  lowness 
of  spirits  is  euphemistic  for  mental  in- 
dolence, —  that  kind  of  indolence  which 
will  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  cheerful ; 
which  lets  itself  drift  into  foreboding 
and  the  enduring  fear  of  disaster,  be- 
cause foreboding  and  fear,  being  pas- 
sive states,  are  less  difficult  to  compass 
than  the  active  energy  of  hope  and 
cheerfulness.  Let  no  one  pride  himself 
on  his  faculty  of  gloom  ;  he  might  as 
well  pride  himself  on  the  possession  of 
a  squint  or  a  hump. 

Neither  is  cheerfulness  want  of  sym- 
pathy with  others  in  their  troubles.  On 
the  contrary,  no  one  knows  so  well  as 
a  cheerful  person  what  are  the  difficul- 
ties to  be  overcome,  and  the  amount  of 
temptation  to  despair  to  be  resisted. 
It  is  so  much  easier  to  keep  down  in 
the  low  levels,  and  to  make  one's  final 
abode  in  the  Slough  of  Despond,  than 
to  struggle  upward  for  the  high  lands, 
or  to  strike  out  for  the  dry  places,  that 
cheerfulness  is  literally  a  step  in  ad- 
vance, giving  a  wider  horizon  and  an 
additional  experience  ;  but  a  step  made 
only  by  effort  and  at  great  cost.  And  I 
presume  there  is  no  possible  question 
as  to  which  knows  most,  the  person 
who  has  gone  forward,  or  the  one  who 
has  lagged  behind  ;  the  person  who 
has  learnt  an  extra  lesson,  or  the  one 
who  has  doubled  down  the  page  for 
finis,  and  shut  the  book  between  its 
clasps.  Moping  and  gloom  are  want 
of  sympathy  of  the  will ;  and  despair- 
ing views  are  by  no  means  the  best 
coin  wherewith  to  redeem  your  own  or 
another's  disaster.  What  is  the  good 
to  be  had  from  a  person  who  comes  to 
your  house  when  you  are  in  trouble, 
and  makes  your  burden  heavier  by  the 
weight  of  his  own  forebodings  ?  Say, 
your  child  is  ill,  and  you  are  in  cruel 
anxiety  ;  does  it  help  you  to  tell  you 

that  poor  Mrs.  A 's  sweet  boy  was 

not  half  so  bad  as  yours,  and  yet  it  died, 
though  the  doctors  all  said  it  was  recov- 
ering ?  or  is  it  better  for  you  to  hear, 
Yes,  your  child  is  dangerously  ill,  cer- 
tainly, and  there  is  cause  for  grave 


anxiety  and  the  need  of  the  most  watch- 
ful care ;  but  even  worse  cases  have 
been  known  to  recover,  given  that 
care ;  and  while  there  is  life  there  is 
hope :  a  trite  proverb,  granted,  but 
sometimes  forgotten  in  the  pressure 
of  a  great  dread  !  Which  would  you 
rather  have,  vinegar  and  red  pepper 
rubbed  into  your  bleeding  wounds,  or 
wine  and  oil  poured  over  them  ?  Nei- 
ther the  vinegar  nor  the  oil  will  heal, 
but  between  irritating  and  soothing 
what  must  be  borne  either  way,  surely 
the  soothing  is  the  best!  Again,  if 
you  are  in  that  situation  where  you 
want  all  your  energies  to  fight  yourself 
as  clear  as  may  be  of  the  ruin  that 
must  fall  with  greater  or  less  force  on 
all  concerned,  is  it  to  the  strengthening 
of  your  hands  to  be  told  that  nothing 
is  of  any  good,  that  you  might  just  as 
well  let  all  go  by  the  board  quietly  as 
make  a  stand  against  the  wreck  ;  that 
you  can  save  nothing  out  of  the  fire, 
and  will  only  burn  your  fingers  by 
thrusting  them  into  the  flames  ?  Who 
is  the  more  likely  to  do  you  good  ser- 
vice, a  narrow-chested  Heraclitus,  who 
prophesies  of  evil  things  and  assures 
your  defeat  by  unbuckling  your  armor, 
or  a  robust  and  brave-hearted  Democ- 
ritus,  who  says,  fight  to  the  last  and 
remember  that  never  a  battle  is  lost 
till  it  is  won  ;  who  points  out  to  you 
this  undefended  corner  in  the  enemy's 
ramparts,  and  that  weak  point  in  his 
lines,  and  who  gives  you  the  stimulus 
of  hope  and  manly  energy  to  go  on 
with  ? 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  giving  up, 
because  you  are  afraid  you  can  do  no 
good  by  fighting,  one  of  the  most  cra- 
ven things  in  the  whole  world  ;  and 
never  to  know  when  one  is  beaten  has 
made  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  what  it  is. 
I  grant  you,  peevishness  with  some 
people  is  so  ingrained  and  of  the  very 
fibre  of  their  being,  that  they  do  not 
want  to  be  heartened  up,  and  indeed 
will  not  bear  it;  calling  you  cruel, 
coarse,  unfeeling,  if  you  speak  to  them 
cheerfully  of  their  concerns  and  hope- 
fully of  their  troubles,  —  their  animos- 
ity being  in  exact  ratio  with  their  peev* 


696 


Let  us  be  Cheerful. 


[June, 


ishness.  They  are  of  those  who  will  be 
drowned  and  nobody  shall  help  them  ; 
who  like  to  stick  knives  into  their  own 
flesh,  and  rub  red  pepper  into  the  gap- 
ing wounds  afterwards.  But  I  am  not 
speaking  of  these,  who  may  well  be 
left  in  the  living  tomb  of  their  own 
building,  but  of  the  general  run  of  folk 
who  are  influenced  by  their  society, 
and  either  heartened  or  depressed  ac- 
cording to  the  tone  of  their  compan- 
ions, — •  of  those  souls  of  wax  which 
take  the  shape  of  any  mould  in  which 
they  may  be  run  by  chance  or  circum- 
stance, and  who  are  therefore  pressed 
into  the  abject  form  of  fear,  or  who 
come  out  with  the  nobler  bearing  of 
courage,  according  to  the  temper  of 
the  last  mind  which  has  manipulated 
them.  Those  who  are  strong  can  af- 
ford to  despise  extraneous  influences  ; 
but  we  are  not  all  strong,  and  one  is 
bound  to  consider  one's  weaker  breth- 
ren. 

The  greatest  difficulty  that  besets 
the  path  of  the  cheerful  is  in  the  close 
companionship  of  the  gloomy.  Any 
one  who  can  undergo  this  ordeal  and 
come  out  of  it  still  cheerful  is  a  hero, 
or,  still  more,  a  heroine,  —  "  still  more," 
because  of  the  greater  impressibil- 
ity of  women.  Ah  !  there  are  many 
such  small,  unseen  dramas  of  heroism 
enacted  at  this  moment  in  quiet  fam- 
ilies and  subordinate  positions,  which 
does  not  make  it  less  a  matter  of  hero- 
ism, demanding  our  admiration  and 
best  sympathy,  when  we  find  a  heart 
that  is  strong  enough,  not  only  to  bear 
its  own  burden  with  dignity,  but  also 
to  endure  cheerfully  that  far  heavier 
burden  of  a  comrade's  gloom.  This  is 
not  so  difficult  a  task  for  a  period,  per- 
haps ;  but  it  is  almost  impossible  for  a 
lifetime.  I  do  not  say  quite,  but  al- 
most ;  for  some  people  have  a  large 
and  beautiful  power  of  sustainment, 
and  can  nourish  their  souls,  not  only 
by  the  power  of  self-support,  but  in  the 
very  teeth  of  enforced  starvation.  But 
what  a  life  it  is,  if  you  are  of  a  brave 
and  cheerful  nature,  to  be  closely  asso- 
ciated with  depressed  and  sour  and 
gloomy  folk  !  You  come  down  in  the 


morning  serene,  happy,  gay.  The  air 
is  sweet,  the  birds  are  singing  in  the 
flowery  bushes,  the  sun  glints  pleas- 
antly on  the  shining  laurel  leaves,  the 
flowers  send  out  their  fresh  sweet 
morning  scents,  and  you  take  joy  in 
your  existence,  and  are  glad  to  be  one 
of  the  great  multitude  of  the  living;  but 
your  gloom-haunted  companion  can  see 
no  gladness  in  all  this.  Like  the  prin- 
cess in  the  fairy-tale,  or  the  time-hon- 
ored Sybarite  of  tradition,  a  bean  is 
under  the  seven  feather-beds,  a  rose- 
leaf  is  crumpled  on  the  flowery  couch  ; 
there  is  no  rest  or  joy  where  such  mis- 
fortunes exist,  and  the  glory  of  Icha- 
bod  has  departed.  You  say  something 
bright  and  pleasant ;  it  may  be  some- 
thing very  futile,  perhaps  a  trifle  silly, 
but  it  is  at  least  a  fresh  and  honest 
little  bubble  out  of  the  wellspring  of 
happiness  in  your  own  cheerful  heart : 
you  are  met  by  a  growl,  by  a  sarcasm, 
or  by  a  chilling  silence,  with  an  air  of 
life  being  far  too  grave  a  matter  for 
such  levity  as  yours  to  be  admitted. 
Then  you  fall  back  upon  yourself  again  ; 
and  it  all  depends  on  the  depth  of  that 
wellspring  within  whether  you  are  sub- 
stantially saddened  or  only  temporarily 
depressed  for  want  of  leave  wherein  to 
expand  ;  whether  you  lose  of  the  sum  of 
your  moral  vitality,  or  merely  suffer  by 
the  barrenness  of  another.  You  must 
be  exceptionally  brave  and  happy-heart- 
ed if  you  can  bear  with  this  kind  of 
thing  for  any  length  of  time  uninjured  : 
and  no  one  in  his  right  mind  would 
bear  it  at  all  if  he  could  escape  from  it. 
Only  those  who  have  tried  it  know 
the  extent  of  the  anguish  of  soul  that 
results  from  perpetual  companionship 
with  a  gloomy  temper,  and  how  far 
worse  than  all  the  inevitable  ills  of 
life  is  that  self-made  evil  of  moroseness, 
which  will  neither  be  cheerful  for  its  own 
part  nor  suffer  the  cheerfulness  of  oth- 
ers. A  man  of  this  temper  once  brought 
it  as  a  serious  accusation  against  the 
moral  nature  of  his  wife,  who  was  a 
bright  and  enjoying  woman,  that  she 
"looked  for  happiness  from  life."  To 
look  for  happiness  was  to  his  mind  an 
evidence  of  shallowness,  of  levity,  of 


i  S/o.] 


Let  us  be  Cheerful. 


697 


sensuality,  a  hungering  after  the  grosser 
fleshpots  not  to  be  tolerated  by  those 
who  fed  on  more  ethereal  manna.  He 
did  not  think  that  any  one  had  the 
right  to  look  for  happiness  in  this  val- 
ley of  the  shadow.  Dwelling  among 
the  tombs  as  he  did,  by  preference,  and 
carrying  the  pall  with  which  he  draped 
all  life,  he  imposed  on  others  the 
gloomy  worship  of  sorrow  which  he 
found  profitable  for  his  own  sad  soul : 
and  those  who  disputed  his  gaunt,  grim 
theology  were  worse  than  pagans  to 
his  mind,  and  below  the  dignity  of 
grown  men. 

Your  morose  people  are  always  ac- 
cusing their  cheerful  friends  of  levity. 
Unjustly  enough  ;  for  hope  and  cour- 
age are  surely  not  incompatible  with 
any  amount  of  deep  feeling  and  serious 
thought ;  as  neither  are  these  necessa- 
rily connected  with  gloom.  It  is  simply 
a  question  of  inclination  of  the  balance, 
and  whether  the  scale  is  more  heavily 
weighted  for  good  or  for  ill.  The  mys- 
tery of  all  the  sin  and  misery  lying  in 
life  remains  the  same  mystery  still, 
•whether  we  accept  it  in  cheerful  faith 
as  to  its  ultimate  and  hidden  good,  or 
whether  we  mourn  over  its  hopeless 
and  irremediable  sadness.  The  cloud 
is  there,  but  so  is  the  sun  above  it. 
Which,  then,  shall  it  be,  the  shadow 
only,  or  the  remembrance  of  the  hid- 
den sun  ?  The  gloomy  say  the  first, 
the  cheerful  hold  to  the  last ;  and  of 
the  two  the  cheerful  are  the  wiser,  the 
truer,  and  the  more  substantially  re- 
ligious. The  worship  of  sorrow  is  not 
religion  ;  it  is  superstition,  and  a  fierce 
fanatic  fetishism  ;  but  religion,  as  the 
best  thoughts  of  the  best  men  have  for- 
mulized  it  for  us,  —  no  !  it  is  not  that  ! 

Of  all  the  religions  which  man  has 
yet  made  for  himself,  the  ancient  Greek 
was  undoubtedly  the  most  cheerful  and 
heartsome.  Very  little  of  the  purely 
tragic,  and  still  less  of  the  grim  Mani- 
chean  element  entered  therein.  It 
had  no  imps  or  demons,  no  afreets, 
djinns,  or  ghouls,  as  in  the  Persian 
mythology  ;  the  theory  of  a  huge  mas- 
ter-devil roaming  through  the  world, 
seeking  to-day  the  souls  of  men  and 


making  use  of  their  very  affections 
and  virtues  for  that  purpose,  the  basic 
idea  of  which  came  also  from  Persia, 
while  the  perfected  and  hideous  super- 
structure was  Judaic,  was  as  foreign  to 
its  cheerful  spirit  as  the  bloody  rites  of 
Moloch  or  the  doctrine  of  an  offended 
deity  living  in  enduring  enmity  with  and 
estrangement  from  his  creatures.  The 
nearest  approach  to  the  Christian  idea 
of  devils  which  it  made  for  itself  was 
in  its  fauns  and  older  satyrs  :  but  these 
were  but  weak  archetypes  of  our  grim 
Satan,  Miltonic,  or  of  the  more  familiar 
and  degraded  popular  idea,  and  scarce- 
ly to  be  classed  as  of  his  clan  at  all. 
The  central  idea  of  the  faith  was  light, 
not  gloom  ;  and  to  this  day  the  world 
is  the  better  and  more  beautiful  for  the 
cheerful  creed  of  Hellas  !  The  mon- 
strous fiends  and  horrible  pictures  of 
hell's  mouth,  by  which  mediaeval  priests 
and  preachers  sought  to  terrify  their 
rude  hearers  from  evil  into  good,  are 
already  forgotten ;  but  the  happy  fan- 
cies of  that  sweet  elder  time  when  the 
gods  and  goddesses  dwelt  among  men, 
and  the  forces  of  nature  were  depicted 
as  beautiful  and  benign  individualities, 
remain  still  in  the  hearts  of  those  who, 
though  they  have  learnt  to  consider 
them  as  just  so  many  allegories,  have 
continued  also  to  love  them  as  allego- 
ries expressive  of  enduring  truth  ;  per- 
haps truth  as  great  and  as  noble  as  is  to 
be  found  in  the  legends  of  saints  and 
the  asceticism  of  devotees. 

Almost  all  great  poets,  that  is,  the 
greatest,  have  been  men  of  cheerful  na- 
ture ;  while,  singularly  enough,  almost 
all  half-great  men,  second-class  poets, 
have  been  moony  and  mopy.  No  one 
will  venture  to  say  that  the  healthy 
cheerfulness  which  shines  out  like  the 
sunlight  from  Homer,  from  Shake- 
speare, from  Virgil,  and  even  from  Mil- 
ton, though  in  this  last  tempered  with 
so  much  stateliness  and  dignity  as  to 
appear  almost  sad,  is  due  to  shallow- 
ness  of  perception  or  to  frivolity  of  feel- 
ing. To  be  sure,  Dante,  as  great  a 
man  as  any,  was  weighed  down  with 
gloom  and  sadness,  living  in  the  world 
as  in  a  charnel-house,  and  seeing  cor- 


698 


Let  us  be  Cheerful. 


[June, 


ruption  and  decay  everywhere.  But 
no  other  man,  as  great  as  he,  was  so 
sad  ;  though  the  crowd  of  minor  poets 
and  poetasters  in  all  ages  have  been 
lachrymose  and  uncomfortable  fellows 
enough,  and  have  taken  broken-hearted 
views  of  everything  within  the  range  of 
their  vision  at  all.  Granting  that  this 
sorrowful  appreciation  of  the  difficulties 
of  life  is  a  point  beyond  the  careless 
levity  of  the  shallow-pated,  or  the  fool's 
paradise  of  the  lotus-eater,  still  there  is 
a  point  beyond  that  again,  where  depth 
and  cheerfulness  can  unite,  and  where 
the  highest  philosophy  would  express 
itself  in  the  serenest  faith. 

If  only  in  the  way  of  help  over  bad 
passes,  cheerfulness  is  such  an  invalu- 
able stirrup -companion  through  life! 
Nothing  puts  one  over  those  same  bad 
passes  so  well  when  they  are  fairly 
come  at  and  inevitable,  as  the  cheery 
belief  that  they  are  temporary  and  con- 
querable. To  shut  one's  eyes,  and  go 
doggedly  at  one's  fences,  is  certainly 
one  way  of  clearing  them  ;  but  a  better 
way  is  to  be  able  to  look  quietly  at  one's 
dangers  and  calculate  calmly  one's 
difficulties  as  they  stand  full  in  view  ; 
to  brace  one's  self  to  bear  bravely  and 
endure  cheerfully,  or  to  break  through 
the  quickest  hedge  at  any  cost  of  rent 
flesh,  if  bearing  and  enduring  do  not  an- 
swer, or  are  incompatible  with  dignity. 
But  peevish  people  neither  break  bold- 
ly nor  bear  cheerfully.  They  sit  down 
under  their  troubles,  and  they  mope  or 
growl  according  to  their  temperament ; 
of  the  magnanimity  of  cheerfulness 
they  know  nothing.  In  fact,  continual 
gloominess  so  enervates  the  nature, 
that  men  and  women  given  to  this 
vice  become  at  last  incapable  of  ener- 
getic action,  and  could  as  soon  square 
the  circle  as  make  themselves  happy 
with  what  they  have  :  they  are  always 
wrong  in  their  circumstances  some- 
how, and  always  suffering  because 
of  external  things,  not  because  of 
internal  feelings.  If  only  such  and 
such  things  were  different !  —  if  only 
some  one  would  go  or  some  one 
would  come,  if  this  wall  was  thrown 
down  or  that  fence  built  up,  —  they 


would  be  quite  happy.  Foolish  peo- 
ple !  they  never  think  that  state  is  be- 
ing, and  that  happiness  or  unhappiness 
comes  from  within  rather  than  from 
without,  and  that  those  who  wish  to  be 
happy  may  be  happy,  outside  abso- 
lute ruin  and  desolation  of  circum- 
stance and  soul;  still  those  who  wish 
to  be  miserable  have  only  so  to  will 
in  order  to  be  gratified,  the  world 
being  too  busy  to  give  its  time  to 
smoothing  down  the  hairy  backs  of  blue 
devils.  Besides,  what  use  is  there  in 
gloom  ?  In  this  phantasmagoric  life 
of  ours,  "where  nothing  is,  but  all  things 
seem,"  where  we  are  what  we  believe 
ourselves  to  be,  and  have  in  proportion 
to  our  faith,  what  good  or  use  is  there 
in  fancying  everything  worse  than  it 
is,  and  filling  one's  moral  paint-pot 
with  lampblack  instead  of  rose -color 
and  azurine  ?  The  mind  is  as  a  haunt- 
ed chamber,  where  the  will  can  summon 
what  shapes  it  pleases,  —  angels  or  de- 
mons, good  genii  or  bad,  —  as  it  choos- 
es for  its  own  account ;  and  while  the 
cheerful  live  in  the  midst  of  smiling 
spirits,  bright-eyed  and  golden-haired, 
with  brave  words  and  happy  issues  to 
help  in  times  of  difficulty,  the  gloomy 
call  about  them  an  array  of  moping, 
mowing  imps,  with  lank,  lean  jaws,  and 
bleary,  cast-down  eyes,  pointing  with 
skinny  fingers  to  the  altar  of  eternal 
sorrow,  the  altar  at  which  Death  stands 
as  the  high-priest,  offering  up  the  sac- 
rifice of  human  souls  and  human  joys. 
But  angels  or  imps,  they  are  essentially 
born  of  the  mind  alone,  and  are  prod- 
ucts of  the  will  ;  and  he  who  wishes  to 
change  his  company  has  only  to  re- 
member that  matchless  motto,  Velle  est 
agere,to  find  the  thing  done.  "Stone 
walls  do  not  a  prison  make,  nor  iron 
bars  a  cage,"  sang  the  brave  old  cava- 
lier. And  no  poet's  lyre  ever  gave  forth 
a  truer  note. 

No  doctrine  is  more  important  to  im- 
press on  people  than  this  of  cheerful- 
ness being  able  to  make  its  own  joy; 
the  finding  of  life  being  in  accordance 
with  the  spirit  of  the  seeker,  far  more 
than  with  any  possible  run  of  circum- 
stances. Even  sorrow  can  be  better 


I  S/o.] 


Master  Treadwell. 


699 


borne  if  there  is  a  cheerful  nature  for 
the  melancholy  porterage, —  melancholy 
at  the  best !  —  while  a  peevish  temper 
turns  happiness  itself  to  gloom,  and 
spoils  the  harmony  of  the  sweetest 
music.  The  only  case  in  which  the 
collapse  of  cheerfulness  is  excusable  is 
when  a  bright,  enjoying,  and  energetic 
nature  is  chained  up  in  the  same  yoke 
with  a  gloomy,  sour,  and  narrow  soul; 
when  the  blither  and  braver  is  under 
the  harrow  drawn  by  the  meagre  and 


the  melancholy;  when  a  free,  full, 
frank  nature  is  stunted,  clipped,  pressed 
back,  imprisoned,  and  denied  the  hap- 
piness which  is  the  God-given  right  of 
all  men  by  the  tyranny  and  perverse- 
ness  of  a  comrade.  Then  if  the  chain 
cannot  be  broken,  no  one  can  wonder 
if  the  wounded  spirit  sinks  exhausted 
from  its  many  blows,  and  if  what  was 
once  bright  and  smiling  cheerfulness 
puts  on  the  grave  aspect  of  strong- 
hearted  endurance  only. 


MASTER    TREADWELL. 


WHIST  still  has  its  lovers  and 
chess  its  admirers,  but  does  any- 
body play  backgammon  now,  I  won- 
der ?  or  has  that  fine  aristocratic  old 
game,  like  ombre  and  quadrille,  become 
a  thing  of  the  past,  played  only  by  the 
shades  of  our  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers ?  In  my  time,  —  in  the  days 
of  candles,  comfort,  and  woodfires, — 
backgammon  was  very  fashionable,  and 
was  thought  by  fine  ladies  and  fine  gen- 
tlemen to  be  a  more  elegant  as  well 
as  a  more  pleasant  kill-time  than  check- 
ers or  draughts.  The  nabobs  of  Rich- 
port  even  preferred  it  to  whist  itself. 
These  "  nabobs "  were  a  number  of 
mahogany-faced  shipmasters  of  much 
wealth  and  prodigious  self-importance. 
They  lived  in  big  houses  in  the  polite 
and  genteel  world  of  "  India  Square." 
They  drank  the  best  old  port,  and  dined 
on  the  fattest  beef  and  the  juiciest  mut- 
ton. They  went  bravely  garbed  in  the 
finest  broadcloth,  and  their  wives  and 
daughters  rustled  in  the  richest  silks. 
Aboard  ship  these  grim  and  grizzled 
monarchs  of  the  quarter-deck  were  as 
brisk  as  the  breeze  and  as  restless  as 
the  sea  ;  but  on  shore  they  were  the 
idlest  and  most  useless  men  outside  of 
an  almshouse  or  a  custom-house.  Had 
it  not  been  for  backgammon,  they  would 
have  died  of  the  spleen  or  ennui  ere 
their  ships  were  ready  for  new  voyages. 
Doctor  Johnson  said  that  a  tavern  chair 


was  preferable  to  a  throne.  Addison 
liked  Button's  humble  coffee-house  bet- 
ter than  magnificent  Holland  House. 
And  the  nabobs  of  "  India  Square " 
preferred  Plummer  Wedgwood's  shop 
to  their  own  handsome  parlors  and 
comfortable  sitting-rooms  ;  and  when 
at  home  from  sea  they  passed  most  of 
their  time  in  that  favorite  loafing-place, 
enveloped  in  tobacco  -  smoke,  telling 
Munchausen-like  stories,  and  playing 
backgammon. 

Plummer  Wedgwood,  although  he 
stood  behind  a  counter,  and  weighed 
out  sugar,  tea,  and  spices,  was  a  gen- 
tleman. He  never  insulted  his  custom- 
ers—  as  the  little  -  souled,  twopenny 
grocer  of  the  present  day  does  —  by 
hanging  up  in  his  store  such  foolish 
and  offensive  placards  as  these  :  "  No 
SMOKING,"  "  TERMS  CASH,"  "  No 
ROOM  FOR  LOAFERS."  Though  not  a 
smoker  himself,  he  was  no  enemy  of  the 
"great  plant."  In  fact,  he  rather  liked 
the  smell  of  burning  tobacco,  and  loved 
to  see  his  friends  enjoying  their  cigars. 
As  for  giving  credit,  —  that  was  his 
weakness.  He  trusted  everybody.  He 
was  proud  of  having  the  names  of  so 
many  of  his  townspeople  in  his  books. 
And  although  he  dealt  mostly  with 
those  who  could  pay  and  who  did  pay, 
he  had  quite  a  fortune  owing  him  when 
he  gave  up  business.  During  the  last 
month  or  two  of  his  life,  when  you  will 


700 


Master  Treadwell, 


[June, 


say  he  had  better  have  been  reading 
his  Bible  and  weaning  himself  from 
the  world,  Plummer  Wedgwood  whiled 
away  many  an  hour  in  looking  over 
his  old  day-books  and  ledgers.  The 
pages  which  he  examined  with  the  most 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  were  not  those 
whereon  were  written  in  his  beautiful 
business  hand  the  aristocratic  names 
of  Hough  and  Dale  and  Trask,  but 
those  which  contained  the  unsettled 
accounts  of  the  widows,  superannuated 
sailors,  etc.,  whom  he  had  supplied 
with  many  of  the  necessaries  of  life, 
knowing  at  the  time  that  there  was  not 
the  least  probability  of  his  ever  being 
paid.  The  amount  of  those  unsettled 
accounts,  O  noble  Wedgwood  !  let  us 
hope  was  placed  upon  the  credit  side 
of  thy  page  in  the  great  ledger  above. 

And  loafers  !  Plummer  Wedgwood 
loved  them,  and  gave  up  his  back  shop 
to  them.  This  back  shop  had  two 
large  sunny  windows  that  looked  upon 
the  busy  wharves  and  the  beautiful 
harbor.  Its  walls  were  covered  with 
faded,  quaint  old  house-paper,  on  which 
were  depicted  beasts  and  birds  un- 
known to  natural  history.  In  truth, 
it  was  a  pleasant,  comfortable,  good- 
sized  room,  once  the  kitchen  of  Mad- 
am Whittemore ;  there  was  the  very 
oven  in  which  madam's  bread  and 
beans  were  baked  a  half-century  ago, 
and  the  deep,  roomy  closet  in  which 
she  kept  her 

"  Pies,  puddings,  and  tarts. 

Even  after  Captain  Ben  Northwood 
(who  used  to  play  backgammon  at  sea 
with  his  cabin-boys)  lost  his  sight,  he 
made  his  accustomed  visits  to  Wedg- 
wood's grocery-store.  If  he  could  not 
play  backgammon,  he  could  listen  to 
the  congenial  conversation  which  was 
always  carried  on  there,  and  gladden  his 
heart  by  the  dear  familiar  sound  of  the 
shaking  dice.  It  was  both  a  pitiful  and 
a  pleasant  sight  to  see  cherry-lipped 
Fanny  Adams  escorting  her  blind, 
blithe  old  grandfather  to  Plummer 
Wedgwood's  door.  How  fondly  the  lit- 
tle maid  clung  to  grandpapa's  arm,  and 


how  merrily  she  chattered  all  the  way  ! 
Fanny  prospered  in  life,  let  me  paren- 
thetically inform  the  reader,  and  is 
now  a  comely  elderly  lady,  with  I  know 
not  how  many  loving  grandsons  and 
granddaughters. 

Rich  and  grouty  Captain  Edward 
Currier  (vulgarly  called  Ned  Kyer), 
who  married  the  beautiful  West-Indian 
heiress,  used  to  ride  in  his  coach  to 
this  resort  of  the  backgammon-players 
of  Richport.  At  about  ten  of  the  clock 
in  the  forenoon  during  the  summer 
solstice  (the  Captain  passed  his  winters 
in  Havana),  his  elegant  plain  carriage, 
drawn  by  two  fine  coal-black  steeds, 
would  drive  grandly  up  in  front  of 
Wedgwood's  shop.  The  bowing,  smil- 
ing, white-aproned  grocer  would  help 
the  purse-proud  loafer  to  alight,  and 
then  conduct  him  very  politely  to  the 
back  shop,  where  he  was  warmly  wel- 
comed by  the  backgammon-players. 

These  mighty  men  of  the  sea  pre- 
tended that  anybody,  rich  or  poor,  cap- 
tain of  a  fine  ship  or  skipper  of  a  little 
contemptible  fishing-smack,  who  could 
tell  a  good  story,  laugh  at  a. good  joke, 
and  play  backgammon,  was  welcome 
to  a  seat  in  Plummer  Wedgwood's 
back  shop.  There  was,  however,  great 
commotion  among  the  frequenters  of 
Madam  Whittemore's  ancient  kitchen, 
when,  one  winterly  night,  rusty  little 
Mr.  Crafts,  the  fishmonger,  walked 
into  the  room  and  took  a  seat  at  the 
table.  He  was  an  excellent  backgam- 
mon-player, and  had  long  desired  to 
try  his  skill  with  the  great  players  of 
Richport,  and  so  informed  one  of  his 
aristocratic  customers,  who  jestingly 
said  he  had  better  go  to  Wedgwood's, 
and  let  them  see  what  he  could  do. 
At  this  intrusion  of  the  commonality 
in  the  person  of  Mr.  Crafts  the  dice 
ceased  to  rattle  and  the  noisy  tongues 
were  silent.  For  a  moment  or  two  the 
company  were  paralyzed  with  amaze- 
ment, and  did  nothing  but  stare  at  the 
bold  intruder,  who  was  evidently  con- 
siderably surprised  at  the  sensation  he 
had  made.  He  soon  took  a  very  un- 
ceremonious leave,  and  whenever  there- 
after he  had  occasion  to  pass  Plummer 


1 870.] 


Master  Treadwell. 


701 


Wedgwood's  shop,  he  went  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street. 

If  these  proud  and  haughty  loafers 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  the 
poor  fishmonger,  they  petted  and  made 
much  of  Harbord,  the  sexton.  But 
Harbord  wore  a  broadcloth  coat  and 
had  a  fashionable  wife.  He  was  a 
politer  man  than  the  parson,  and  could 
bow  nearly  as  elegantly  as  the  dancing- 
master  himself.  Madam  Currier  said 
she  had  no  doubt  of  his  being  a  gentle- 
man in  heaven,  —  he  was  almost  one 
on  earth.  With  what  an  air  he  would 
usher  a  fine  lady  up  the  aisle  to  her 
pew  !  and  how  gracefully  he  would  trip 
up  the  pulpit  stairs  to  hand  a  note  to 
the  clergyman !  He  was  a  favorite 
with  the  ladies,  and  always  had  a  bit 
of  fresh  gossip  or  a  welcome  compli- 
ment for  them.  And  —  perhaps  this 
was  the  crowning  merit  of  the  man  — 
he  dug  such  beautiful,  genteel-looking 
graves  that,  as  Miss  Nancy  Pearson 
once  observed,  one  would  never  want 
to  leave  them  to  go  wandering  idly 
about  at  night,  frightening  good  people 
and  setting  the  dogs  a  howling.  Har- 
bord had  a  deal  of  leisure  time,  es- 
pecially during  the  healthy  season  of 
the  year,  and  passed  most  of  it  at  Plum- 
mer  Wedgwood's.  He  was  an  admira- 
ble listener,  and  had  a  very  apprecia- 
tive smile.  With  the  exception  of 
Master  Treadwell,  the  sexton  was  per- 
haps the  best  backgammon-player  in 
Richport. 

This  Treadwell  was  a  character,  and 
deserves  to  be  painted  in  brighter  and 
fresher  colors  than  I  have  upon  my 
palette.  He  was  the  only  son  of  a 
poor  clergyman,  who  obscurely  but  con- 
tentedly passed  the  best  and  ripest 
years  of  his  life  in  preaching  to  a  few 
farmers  and  mechanics  in  a  little  town 
among  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire. 
Besides  the  consolations  of  the  Gospel 
and  the  pious  pleasures  of  his  holy 
calling,  this  good  priest  had  one  worldly 
delight,  one  earthly  solace,  — backgam- 
mon, —  which  he  sometimes  played  with 
the  lawyer  and  sometimes  with  one  of 
his  own  deacons.  Do  you  object  to  a 


divine  playing  backgammon  ?  It  is  true 
that  in  France  the  clergy  were  once  for- 
bidden to  play  chess  ;  and  it  is  equally 
true  that  in  England  they  were  not 
permitted  to  partake  of  the  dessert  at 
dinner.  But  do  you  believe  it  sinful  or 
improper  for  your  pastor  to  eat  a  slice 
of  plum-pudding  or  a  piece  of  mince- 
pie  ?  Swift  called  backgammon  an 
ecclesiastical  game,  and  said  that  a 
clergyman  could  play  it  conscientiously. 
The  great  and  good  Luther  used  to 
pass  an  hour  or  two  after  dinner  at  the 
backgammon-table.  But  Parson  Tread- 
well  soon  had  a  new  player  to  cope 
with,  —  his  own  son,  his  darling  Jo- 
tham,  who  at  the  age  of  nine  years  (the 
precocious  youth  !)  actually  gammoned 
his  father.  From  that  day  forth  great 
things  were  expected  of  thee,  Jotham 
Treadwell.  It  was  said  —  by  the  en- 
vious parents  of  dull  and  loutish  sons, 
no  doubt  —  that  the  minister  was  so 
constantly  engaged  in  playing  back- 
gammon with  his  boy,  that  he  found  no 
time  to  write  his  sermons,  and  had  to 
stand  up  in  the  pulpit  on  Sunday  and 
preach  old  well-remembered  discourses. 
O  poor  little  congregation  of  Christian 
worshippers,  longing  for  new  truth, 
hungry  for  the  fresh  bread  of  life,  did 
your  good  shepherd  weary  you  with 
stale  morality  ?  Did  he  feed  you  with 
old  musty  crumbs  of  theology,  the 
fragments  and  remains  of  former  re- 
pasts ? 

When  young  Treadwell  got  appointed 
teacher  of  the  winter  term  of  the  dis- 
trict school,  his  delighted  .parents  be- 
lieved that  the  days  of  their  son's  great- 
ness and  glory  were  rapidly  approach- 
ing, if  they  had  not  actually  arrived. 
Undoubtedly  Jotham  might,  like  his 
predecessor,  have  taught  this  school 
till  old  age  had  compelled  him  to  lay 
down  the  pedagogue's  potent  sceptre, 
the  ferrule,  had  not  the  meddlesome 
new  committee  discovered  that  he  pre- 
ferred giving  his  scholars  lessons  in 
backgammon  to  teaching  them  reading, 
writing,  and  arithmetic.  And  as  these 
men  thought  that  their  sons  and  daugh- 
ters could  better  dispense  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  art  and  practice  of  back- 


702 


Master  Tread^vell. 


[June, 


gammon-playing  than  remain  ignorant 
of  the  multiplication-table  and  the  rule 
of  three,  Master  Treadwell  soon  had  a 
successor. 

One  morning,  a  few  days  after  the 
loss  of  his  pedagogic  honors  and  emol- 
uments, Jotham  astonished  his  parents 
by  saying  that  he  was  going  out  into 
the  world  to  seek  his  fortune. 

"  Fortune,"  said  his  father,  "  is  an 
arrant  coquette,  who  oftentimes  confers 
her  favors  upon  those  who  follow  not 
in  her  train." 

"  Why  go  among  strangers  ?"  plead- 
ed the  good  mother.  "  Why  leave 
home  and  friends  ?  Be  patient,  and 
abide  the  Lord's  time  ;  we  all  shall  be 
rich  when  the  French  claims  are  paid." 

Ah  !  how  many  indigent  gentlefolks, 
the  sons,  daughters,  and  widows  of 
ruined  sea-captains  and  bankrupt  mer- 
chants, lived  on  from  day  to  day,  from 
year  to  year,  in  happy  expectation  of 
the  immediate  settlement  of  the  French 
claims ! 

Notwithstanding  his  parents'  gentle 
protestations,  Jotham  left  the  place  of 
his  "  kindly  engendure,"  and  set  out 
upon  his  expedition  in  search  of  that 
glittering  bawble,  wealth.  At  his  de- 
parture his  mother  gave  him  her  bless- 
ing and  a  bottle  of  opodeldoc.  His 
father  enriched  him  with  temporal  and 
spiritual  advice,  and,  as  a  solace  for  his 
lonely,  idle  hours,  presented  him  with 
six  of  his  longest  doctrinal  sermons. 
But  silver  and  gold  he  had  none  to 
give  him.  Jotham,  however,  was  not 
an  impecunious  traveller.  He  was  one 
of  those  "  close  hunks,"  who,  when 
they  get  hold  of  a  dollar,  keep  it  till 
death  or  dire  necessity  compels  them 
to  part  with  it.  He  had  stowed  away 
in  some  safe  and  secret  pocket  every 
cent  of  his  school-keeping  money,  and 
nearly  all  of  the  money  he  had  earned 
by  surveying. 

From  pleasant,  breezy  little  Pippin- 
ville  (his  native  town)  Treadwell  went 
to  Portsmouth  and  opened  a  writing- 
school  ;  but  not  meeting  with  much 
success,  he  withdrew  his  specimens  of 
calligraphy  from  the  gaze  of  an  unap- 
preciative  public,  and  voyaged  to  Ban- 


gor  in  the  schooner  Susan  Jane.  There 
he  taught  school  successfully  for  sev- 
eral years,  and  introduced  backgam- 
mon among  the  lumbermen  of  Maine. 
From  Bangor  he  embarked  in  the 
packet  for  Boston,  and  narrowly  es- 
caped being  wrecked  upon  Norman's 
Woe.  He  said  that  this  rough  passage 
killed  in  him  what  little  of  the  sailor  he 
had  inherited  from  his  maternal  grand- 
father, who  was  a  famous  navigator  in 
his  day,  and  commanded  one  of  Oba- 
diah  Chadwell's  ships.  In  Boston  Mas- 
ter Treadwell  "clerked  it"  for  three  or 
four  years  in  a  flour  and  grain  store  on 
Long  Wharf.  He  boarded  in  his  em- 
ployer's family,  and  played  backgam- 
mon almost  every  evening  with  his 
employer's  daughter,  whom  he  loved 
and  would  have  married  if  she  had  not 
died  during  their  courtship.  Soon  after 
the  loss  of  his  sweetheart,  Treadwell 
left  the  grain-dealer's  employ  and  went 
to  Newbury  and  took  a  five  years'  lease 
of  the  mill  on  the  Artichoke.  Here, 
when  the  grist  was  all  ground,  or  the 
water  was  low,  Master  Treadwell,  now 
a  dusty  "  meal-cap  miller,"  played  back- 
gammon with  his  hired  man,  or  with  any 
passing  acquaintance  whom  he  could 
coax  to  stop  and  have  a  game  with 
him.  At  the  expiration  of  his  lease 
Treadwell  returned  to  Boston  prepared 
to  act  a  new  part  in  the  tragi-comedy 
of  life.  There  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Captain  John  Godbold,  a  Rich- 
port  shipmaster,  who  was  peddling  out 
a  cargo  of  molasses  among  the  grocers 
and  distillers.  The  Captain  was  so 
delighted  with  Master  Treadwell  that 
he  took  him  home  with  him  to  Richport, 
and  played  backgammon  with  him  day 
and  night  for  a  week.  And  Treadwell 
was  so  pleased  with  Richport  and  the 
backgammon -loving  shipmasters  and 
ship-owners  to  whom  Godbold  intro- 
duced him,  that  he  resolved  to  remain 
there  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  if  he  could 
get  anything  to  do.  Richport  has  a  won- 
derful predilection  for  strangers,  and 
generally  prefers  them  to  her  own  citi- 
zens, whom  she  too  often  neglects, 
giving  her  business  to  unknown  new- 
comers, who  pocket  her  money  and 


1 8;o.] 


Master  Treadwell. 


703 


laugh  at  her  primitive  manners  and 
old-fashioned  ways.  Through  the  in- 
fluence of  Captain  Godbold,  Treadwell 
was  appointed  teacher  of  the  Somes 
School ;  but  the  pupils  were  so  wild 
and  unruly  he  could  do  nothing  with 
them,  and  he  begged  the  committee  to 
choose  his  successor.  Almost  imme- 
diately after  giving  up  the  school  Mas- 
ter Treadwell  was  elected  tax-collector, 
in  place  of  superannuated  Mr.  Pew. 
Nowadays,  except  in  little  obscure 
country  towns,  the  collector  sits  in  his 
office  and  takes  the  people's  money. 
But  in  Master  Treadwell's  time  your 
tax-collector  went  from  house  to  house 
after  the  taxes,  and  at  many  of  them  he 
had  to  call  again  and  again  and  yet 
again  before  he  got  the  cash.  Of 
all  knocks  at  the  door,  from  the  bang 
of  the  well-remembered  beggar  to  the 
loud,  impatient  thump  of  the  Yankee 
Autolycus,  the  too-well-known  rap  of 
the  tax-collector  was  the  most  unpleas- 
ant. From  rich  and  from  poor  did  these 
"  ink-horn  varlets  "  receive  an  uncour- 
teous  greeting.  Peter  Pounce  groaned 
and  growled  and  swore  while  he  reluc- 
tantly counted  out  the  amount  of  his 
tax  ;  and  Hodge  grudgingly  and  grum- 
blingly  paid  the  trifle  (no  trifle  to  him) 
which  the  collector  demanded.  Poor 
Mr.  Pew !  they  say  he  was  a  well- 
fleshed  man  ere  the  unkind  fates  made 
him  a  tax-collector ;  when  he  resigned 
the  office  he  was  a  mere  bundle  of  skin 
and  bones.  For  years  he  bore  bravely 
the  scoffs  and  rebuffs  of  the  fierce  and 
fiery  Captain  John  Godbold,  who  swore 
he  was  always  outrageously  overtaxed. 
But  the  stout-hearted  collector  quailed 
and  cowered  before  the  terrible  tongue- 
batteries  of  Madam  Vinson.  Mrs.  Vin- 
son  was  a  proud,  handsome,  high-tem- 
pered old  woman,  the  wealthy  widow 
of  a  Richport  shipmaster.  She  was  a 
mammon-worshipper,  and  counted  her 
gold  (of  which  she  kept  a  goodly  sup- 
ply in  the  house)  as  devoutly  as  a  good 
Catholic  tells  her  beads.  Most  people 
love  the  spring,  and  hail  its  return  with 
delight.  But  Madam  Vinson  hated  this 
vernal  season  of  the  year,  and  grew 
cross  and  uneasy  when  she  saw  the 


grass  growing  green  in  her  sunny  front 
yard.  For  with  the  birds  and  flowers 
of  spring  came  the  assessors.  They 
and  the  tax-collector  were  the  torments 
of  her  life.  All  the  winter  through  she 
dreaded  the  advent  of  the  assessors 
in  the  spring  ;  and  after  their  unwel- 
come visit  was  over,  she  began  to  hoard 
up  her  anger  against  the  arrival  of  the 
tax-collector  in  the  autumn. 

For  Madam  Vinson  the  sea  had  an  ir- 
resistible fascination.  Many  a  nipping 
winter's  day,  when  the  blazing  wood- 
fire  hardly  took  the  chill  out  of  the 
room,  she  would  sit  at  the  window, 
unmindful  of  the  cold,  unmindful  of  the 
friends  that  sat  by  her  fire  and  "  chatted 
the  hours  away,"  and  gaze  upon  the 
illimitable  ocean.  Many  a  summer 
morning,  ere  the  robins  had  breakfasted, 
she  was  at  the  window,  watching  some 
distant  sail  or  listening  to  the  melan- 
choly song  of  the  sea.  When  Master 
Treadwell  called  to  collect  madam's 
tax,  he  found  her  sitting  in  her  com- 
fortable easy-chair,  looking  eagerly  sea- 
ward. He,  with  a  Yankee's  observing 
eye,  glanced  round  the  neat  and  pleas- 
ant apartment,  and  noticed  with  pleas- 
ure the  quaint  old  pictures  upon  the 
walls,  the  tall,  loudly  ticking  Willard 
clock  in  the  corner,  and  the  handsome 
mahogany  backgammon  -  board  under 
the  antique  work-table.  All  people,  it 
is  said,  have  their  "  blind  sides,"  their 
assailable  points.  Backgammon  was 
Madam  Vinson's  weakness,  and  Tread- 
well  knew  it,  and  hoped  to  profit  by  it. 

"  What !  are  you  the  new  tax-col- 
lector?" exclaimed  Mrs.  Vinson,  ris- 
ing from  her  chair,  and  snatching  the 
tax-bill  from  the  Master's  hand.  "  You 
look  as  if  you  were  too  much  of  a  gen- 
tleman for  such  contemptible  business 
as  this." 

"  Madam,"  replied  Treadwell,  bow- 
ing in  a  manner  that  would  have  done 
honor  to  Daniel  Webster  himself,  "  no 
one  can  be  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
do  his  duty." 

"  Duty  !  "  she  screamed.  "  Don't  try 
to  humbug  me  with  that  cant !  When 
men  would  do  the  Devil's  dirty  work 
they  talk  of  duty  !  " 


704 


Master  Treadwell. 


[June, 


Madam  Vinson  was  determined  to 
show  Master  Treadwell  no  mercy.  She 
scolded  him.  She  laughed  at  him.  She 
called  him  all  the  ugly  names  in  her 
copious  vocabulary  of  abuse.  After 
pouring  all  the  vials  of  her  wrath  upon 
the  bland  and  unruffled  collector,  Mrs. 
Vinson  fumbled  awhile  in  her  capa- 
cious pocket,  and  at  las't  fished  up  from 
the  depths  of  that  wonderful  receptacle 
of  conveniences  a  key,  with  which  she 
mysteriously  unlocked  a  little  closet  in 
the  front  entry.  She  soon  returned 
to  the  sitting-room  with  an  apronful 
of  money,  —  glittering  golden  eagles, 
bright  silver  dollars,  and  crisp  new 
bank-bills.  After  carefully  counting 
this  money,  she  carried  it  all  back  to 
the  closet,  saying,  as  she  coolly  re- 
turned the  key  to  her  pocket,  "  I  can't 
pay  your  bill  to-day,  Mr.  What's-your- 
name."  Then  pointing  to  the  door, 
bade  the  collector  good  morning. 

"But  before  I  go,"  said  Treadwell, 
"  I  should  like  to  play  a  game  of  back- 
gammon with  you,  madam." 

"What !  you  a  backgammon-player?" 

"  Yes,  madam.  I  was  brought  up  on 
theology  and  backgammon." 

"  Then  you  are  not  quite  so  big  a 
fool  as  I  took  you  to  be." 

"  O,  no  indeed." 

"Well,  Mr.  Collector,"  said  the  lady, 
as  Treadwell  was  placing  the  men  upon 
the  board,  "if  you  gammon  me,  you 
shall  have  the  tax  to-day." 

They  played  six  games,  and  Tread- 
well  gammoned  Madam  Vinson  four 
times. 

"  There  's  your  money,"  said  madam, 
handing  the  collector  a  roll  of  bills  ; 
"  but  don't  you  dare  to  tell  Sam  Tarbox 
that  I  paid  my  tax  the  first  time  you 
called." 

But  Treadwell  did  inform  Sam  Tar- 
box,  the  town  treasurer,  of  his  success 
in  collecting  Madam  Vinson's  tax,  and 
that  worthy  sung  the  Master's  praise 
in  the  ears  of  all  his  friends.  And 
Treadwell  became  the  hero  of  the  hour, 
and  for  a  day  his  masterly  achieve- 
ment in  tax-collecting  was  the  theme 
of  conversation  at  half  the  tea-tables 
ia  Richport.  At  Plummer  Wedgwood's 


shop  he  was  overwhelmed  with  admira- 
tion. The  nabobs  of  "  India  Square  " 
forgot  their  greatness  in  his  presence, 
and  considered  it  an  honor  to  be  gam- 
moned by  Master  Treadwell.  The 
ladies  were  interested  in  him ;  and 
when  they  learned  that  he  was  a  bach- 
elor, there  was,  believe  me,  no  slight 
flutter  and  commotion  among  the  wid- 
ows and  elderly  spinsters.  Wherever 
he  went  to  dine  or  to  take  tea  —  and 
he  was  now  a  welcome  guest  in  a  score 
of  the  first  families  of  Richport  —  he 
made  himself  a  prodigious  favorite  with 
the  women,  from  miss  in  her  teens  to 
grandmamma  in  her  dotage.  Dr.  Cal- 
kin's two  daughters,  who  had  long  been 
in  the  matrimonial  market,  were  madly 
in  love  with  Treadwell,  and  tried  to 
captivate  him  with  their  faded  beauty 
and  old-fashioned  coquetry.  Miss 
Amelia,  the  schoolmistress,  bought 
with  her  hard-earned  money  a  splendid 
blue  silk  dress  with  which  to  dazzle 
Master  Treadwell  into  admiration  ;  and 
Miss  Pamela,  the  female  Papanti,  who 
had  inducted  two  or  three  generations 
of  children  into  "  the  shapely  and  salu- 
tary art  of  dancing,"  gave  up  whist,  and 
devoted  the  time  she  formerly  gave  to 
cards  to  backgammon,  —  and  all  to  ob- 
tain the  smiling  approbation  of  the 
backgammon-playing  tax-collector.  In 
brief,  these  ancient  maidens  did  all 
they  well  could  to  win  this  man's  love, 
but  they  had  neither  youth  nor  wealth, 
and  he  passed  them  by. 

The  fact  was  that  at  the  very  time 
when  the  Misses  Calkin  were  trying 
so  hard  to  "  catch  "  Master  Treadwell, 
he  was  courting  Mrs.  Prindall,  the 
widow  of  Solomon  Prindall,  master 
and  owner  of  the  good  brig  Amazon. 
Treadwell  liked  the  manners  and  ap- 
pearance of  Mrs.  Prindall,  and  was 
greatly  in  love  with  her  comfortable  con- 
venient house  and  snug  little  fortune. 
But  he  had  a  rival, —  Captain  John 
Godbold.  Captain  Godbold  "  roamed 
the  blue  deep  "  in  the  brig  Minerva  (the 
ugly  old  craft !  how  he  loved  her),  and 
made  in  the  Surinam  trade  what  was 
called  in  his  time  a  handsome  fortune. 
He  was  a  surly,  narrow-minded,  fiery- 


1 870.] 


Master  Treadwell. 


705 


tempered  man.  Even  in  his  most 
genial  moments  his  conversation  was 
spiced  with  profanity  and  bristled  with 
ill-nature.  When  angry  —  and  he  was 
angered  at  anything  or  at  nothing  — 
how  he  swore  !  This  human  bulldog, 
—  this  seafaring  Squire  Weston,  had  a 
marvellously  handsome  daughter.  She 
was  one  of  those  black-eyed  girls  that, 
as  Quevedo  says,  carry  fire  in  their 
eyes.  She  made  many  a  heart  ache  in 
her  day.  Poor  thing !  her  triumphs 
were  many,  but  her  reign  was  short. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  I  may  tell  the  story 
of  Edith  Godbold's  life. 

Mrs.  Prindall  was  an  old  flame  of 
Godbold's,  and  would,  it  was  said,  have 
married  him  in  preference  to  Captain 
Prindall,  had  not  the  turbulent  wooer 
frightened  and  disgusted  her  with  his 
profanity.  Through  all  the  years  of  his 
wedded  life  Captain  Godbold  had  never 
forgotten  his  comely  youthful  love ; 
and  when  informed  that  Captain  Prin- 
dall was  lost  at  sea  he  clapped  his 
hands  for  joy,  and  told  poor  Mrs.  God- 
bold,  who  was  then  in  the  last  stages 
of  consumption,  that  Kate  Prindall 
should  be  his  second  wife.  Had  he 
dared  he  would  have  made  love  to  Mrs. 
Prindall  at  his  wife's  funeral.  After 
waiting  impatiently  nearly  three  weeks 
for  decorum's  sake, — for  even  this 
hasty  suitor  admitted  that  it  would  not 
look  well  for  a  gentleman  to  go  a-court- 
ing  till  his  wife  had  been  dead  a  proper 
time,  — .he  determined  to  defer  the  bus- 
iness no  longer,  but  to  propose  to  the 
widow  at  once,  "  Else,"  as  he  said  to  his 
housekeeper,  "  some  d — d  fellow  or 
other  will  snap  her  up."  Accordingly 
the  Captain  dressed  himself  in  his  best, 
and  went  and  offered  himself  to  Mrs. 
Prindall.  She  refused  him,  and  de- 
clared that  she  had  no  intention  of  ever 
marrying  again.  Captain  John  believed, 
with  Mr.  Collins,  in  one  of  Miss  Aus- 
ten's novels,  that  it  is  usual  with  ladies 
to  reject  the  addresses  of  the  man 
whom  they  secretly  mean  to  accept, 
and  therefore  he  was  not  at  all  dis- 
couraged by  the  widow's  "  JVo."  He 
gave  her  a  good  many  chances  of  be- 
coming Mrs.  Godbold.  For  the  next 
-  VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  152.  45 


eight  or  ten  years  he  called  upon  Mrs. 
Prindall  as  often  as  once  in  every  six 
months,  and  renewed  his  offer.  He 
became  such  a  tremendous  bore  at  last, 
and  offended  her  so  much  with  his 
violent  and  profane  protestations  of 
love,  that  Mrs.  Prindall  resolved  to  put 
an  end  to  his  visits  by  espousing  Tread- 
well.  The  Captain,  in  his  numerous 
calls  upon  the  widow,  had  frequently 
found  Treadwell  at  her  house,  playing 
backgammon ;  but  he  never  seriously 
thought  that  the  tax-collector  was  mak- 
ing love  to  the  lady.  When  told  that 
Mrs.  Prindall  was  going  to  marry  Mas- 
ter Treadwell,  Godbold  was  a  dreadfully 
angry  man,  and  said  to  his  informant : 
"  You  lie,  sir !  She  will  never  have 
the  d— d  beggar  !  "  The  Captain  then 
took  his  hat,  and  left  the  house.  In  a 
few  minutes  after  there  was  a  porten- 
tous knock  at  Mrs.  Prindall's  door, 
and  Dorcas,  the  ancient  serving-woman, 
ushered  Captain  John  Godbold  into 
the  parlor. 

41  Madam,"  said  he  to  the  widow,  as 
he  entered  the  room,  "do  you  know 
what  devilish  lies  folks  are  telling  about 
you  ?  They  say  you  are  going  to  wed 
that  vagabond  of  a  tax-collector ! " 
The  widow,  flushing  with  anger,  re- 
plied :  "  If  you  have  been  told  that  I 
am  going  to  marry  Jotham  Treadwell, 
you  had  better  believe  it,  for  't  is  the 
truth  !  "  For  a  few  moments  passion 
rendered  Godbold  speechless,  and  ha 
went  spinning  round  the  room  like  a 
humming-top.  He  spun  himself  out  of 
the  parlor  into  the  entry,  and  out  of 
the  entry  into  the  yard,  where,  partly 
recovering  his  speech,  he  sputtered  out 
a  number  of  oaths  and  curses.  At  the 
tea-table  that  afternoon  Captain  John 
raved  profanely  about  the  fickleness 
and  perfidy  of  woman,  and  told  the 
story  of  his  wrongs  to  his  housekeeper, 
Miss  Polly  Younger.  Polly  sympa- 
thized with  the  Captain,  and  unhesitat- 
ingly declared  that  the  Widow  Prindall 
was  a  fool. 

"D — n  it,  Polly,"  said  Godbold, 
clasping  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing 
her,  "  you  are  a  sensible  girl,  and  by 
• ,  I  '11  marry  you ! "  And  marry  her 


706 


Master  Treadwell. 


[June, 


he  did,  and  a  good  and  loving  wife  she 
made  him. 

Godbold  and  Treadwell  were  married 
in  the  same  week,  though  not  on  the 
same  day.  Godbold  and  his  "bloom- 
ing, blushing  bride  "  made  a  wedding 
tour  to  Boston,  and  lived  in  luxury 
and  grandeur  at  the  Elm  Street  Ho- 
tel for  three  whole  days.  Treadwell 
thought  wedding  tours  a  humbug, 
and  passed  his  honeymoon  at  home, 
happily  and  industriously  employed 
in  examining  his  wife's  papers  and 
carefully  ascertaining  the  value  of  his 
matrimonial  prize.  Indeed,  so  busy 
was  he  for  a  while  with  plans  for  the 
economical  management  of  Mrs.  Tread- 
well's  property,  that  he  only  had  time  to 
devote  a  single  brief  hour  each  day  to 
backgammon.  He  was  a  believer  in 
the  old  miserly  maxim,  "  A  penny  saved 
is  a  penny  earned."  Mrs.  Treadwell, 
he  discovered,  had,  considerably  to  the 
detriment  of  her  health  and  wealth, 
lived  too  extravagantly  hitherto.  But 
now  all  luxuries  and  superfluities  must 
be  dispensed  with,  he  said.  The  gro- 
cer's bill  should  be  reduced,  and  the 
butcher  need  not  call  oftener  than 
twice  or  thrice  a  month. 

Master  Cabra,  in  the  true  and  divert- 
ing history  of  Paul  the  Sharper,  pre- 
tended to  prefer  turnips  to  partridges, 
and  Master  Treadwell  professed  to  like 
fish  better  than  poultry  or  butcher's 
meat. 

"  Surely,  my  dear,"  argued  Treadwell 
with  his  wife,  who  dearly  loved  her 
beefsteak  and  mutton-chop  ;  "  't  is  a 
shameful  extravagance  to  have  meat 
three  or  four  times  a  week.  Now,  tfsh 
is  good  and  nutritious  and  cheap,  and, 
in  the  opinion  of  a  great  French  philos- 
opher and  epicure,  its  taste  is  more  del- 
icate than  that  of  the  flesh  of  animals." 
Therefore,  save  when  fish  were  scarce 
and  dear,  Treadwell  and  his  spouse  lux- 
uriated on  cod  and  haddock  and  mack- 
erel. The  tattling  neighbors  said  it  was 
Friday  every  day  in  the  week  in  the 
tax-collector's  family.  But  they  knew 
better,  those  meddlesome,  calumniat- 
ing neighbors.  The  Treadwell  family 
did  not  dine  upon  fish  more  than  four 


days  out  of  the  seven,  except  when  the 
Master,  who  was  "a  brother  of  the 
angle,"  caught  a  mess  of  "  cunners " 
on  some  non-fish  day. 

Mrs.  Treadwell  used  "  loaf  sugar  " 
in  her  tea,  whereat  her  economical 
husband  shook  his  head  disapprovingly. 
"  Brown  sugar  is  good  enough  for  me, 
and  I  trust,  my  dear,  that  what 's  good 
enough  for  me  will  do  for  you."  But 
Mrs.  Treadwell,  who  was  a  great  lover 
of  the  "  China  luxury,"  and  thought 
that  brown  sugar  would  destroy  the 
delicate  flavor  of  her  choice  Hyson,  de- 
clared, with  no  little  warmth,  that  she 
could  afford  to  have  "  loaf  sugar,"  and 
should  not  give  it  up  to  please  anybody. 
She  did  give  it  up,  however,  and  was 
even  induced  to  drink  an  inferior  qual- 
ity of  tea  in  place  of  her  favorite 
Hyson. 

Mrs.  Treadwell  was  likewise  fond  of 
fine  clothes,  and  loved  to  appear  at 
church  on  Sunday  in  handsome,  fash- 
ionable attire.  One  day,  a  few  months 
after  her  marriage,  she  took  a  number 
of  patterns  of  dress  stuff  from  her  work- 
basket,  and  spreading  them  out  upon 
the  table,  asked  her  husband  which  of 
them  would  make  her  the  most  becom- 
ing garment. 

"Is  it  possible,"  exclaimed  Tread- 
well,  with  surprise,  "that  you  are  think- 
ing of  buying  another  new  dress  ? 
Why  !  you  have  dresses  enough  to  last 
you  your  lifetime." 

"'Tis  no  such  thing,  Mr.  Tread- 
well,"  rejoined  his  wife.  "  I  've  hardly 
a  decent  gown  to  my  back,  and  must 
have  a  dress  off  this  beautiful  green 
silk.  Will  you  give  me  the  money  to 
pay  for  it  or  shall  I  have  it  charged  ? " 

The  Master,  you  must  know,  collect- 
ed his  wife's  rents  and  dividends,  and 
kept  the  key  of  her  cash-box  in  his 
pocket,  and  whenever  she  wanted  any 
money  she  had  to  apply  to  him.  In 
this  particular  instance,  knowing  that 
Mrs.  Treadwell's  wardrobe  was  rich  in- 
silks  that  "stood  on  end,"  he  refused 
to  give  her  a  cent,  and  forbade  her 
to  run  in  debt  at  the  mercer's.  She 
was  indignant,  and  talked,  as  Pepys 
would  say,  "huge  high."  She  said 


1870.] 


Master  Treadivell. 


707 


things  had  come  to  a  fine  pass  indeed, 
if  she,  who  was  worth  twenty  thousand 
dollars,  could  not  have  a  new  gown 
when  she  pleased.  Then  she  cried, 
saying  between  the  sobs  that  her  hus- 
band was  a  mean,  contemptible  man, 
and  she  a  very  fool  for  marrying  such 
a  curmudgeon.  Then,  wiping  her  eyes, 
and  shaking  her  head  angrily,  she 
vowed  she  would  cease  to  attend  pub- 
lic worship  on  the  Sabbath,  unless  she 
could  make  as  good  an  appearance  as 
her  neighbors.  To  this  last  assertion 
Treadwell,  who  was  amusing  himself  at 
the  backgammon-table  by  seeing  how 
many  times  he  could  thrown  doub- 
lets, replied  by  saying  that  if  his  wife 
was  not  going  to  church  any  more  he 
would  sell  her  pew  and  put  the  money 
at  interest  And  the  pew  would  have 
been  sold,  had  not  Mrs.  Treadwell  con- 
tinued to  occupy  it  as  heretofore,  or 
rather  a  small  part  of  it,  for  her  hus- 
band had,  much  to  her  displeasure,  let 
all  the  seats  but  two.  Dorcas,  the  old 
servant,  who,  on  stormy  Sundays  as 
well  as  on  fine,  had,  for  I  know  not 
how  many  years,  modestly  filled  the 
little  corner  seat  of  the  big,  old-fash- 
ioned family  pew,  was  driven  to  the 
gallery,  among  the  poor  and  penniless 
Christians  from  the  almshouse.  If 
her  new  master  could  have  had  his 
way,  she  herself  would  have  been  sent 
to  the  workhouse,  —  that  purgatory 
of  the  indigent  and  friendless.  Like 
Scott's  Jenny  Dennison,  like  Mary  Mit- 
ford's  Mrs.  Mosse,  Dorcas  was  of  the 
antique  world, 

"  When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed." 

Mrs.  Treadwell  appreciated  her  old 
domestic,  and  was  tenderly  attached 
to  the  faithful  creature,  and  said  that  if 
Dorcas  went  to  the  poorhouse  she  went 
with  her.  Finding  that  his  wife  was 
really  in  earnest,  and  bethinking  him 
that  possibly  Dorcas,  though  aged  and 
infirm,  was  worth  the  pittance  it  cost  to 
feed  and  clothe  her,  Treadwell  thought 
ir  best  to  let  his  helpmate  do  as  she 
liked  in  this  matter.  So,  as  long  as 
her  kind  mistress  lived,  Dorcas  went 
pottering  round  among  the  pans  and 
kettles  in  Master  Treadwell's  kitchen. 


Although  Mrs.  Treadwell  did  not  ap- 
preciate her  husband's  economical  man- 
agement of  her  property,  and  grievous- 
ly felt  the  loss  of -her  accustomed  liberty 
of  spending  her  money  as  freely  and 
foolishly  as  she  pleased,  she  never  com- 
plained of  his  parsimony  to  anybody 
save  one  or  two  of  her  bosom  friends, 
who  of  course  did  not  violate  her  con- 
fidence by  talking  of  the  matter  with 
their  compeers.  Yet,  somehow  or  oth- 
er, the  several  reforms  in  the  lady's 
household  economy  were  known,  not 
only  to  all  the  neighborhood,  but  to  half 
the  town.  Indeed,  Treadwell's  name 
grew  to  be  a  synonyme  for  penurious- 
ness  ;  and  it  used  to  be  said  that  many 
an  extravagant  young  housekeeper  was 
frightened  almost  into  prudence  and 
thrift  by  her  husband  threatening  to 
adopt  the  tax-collector's  system  of  fru- 
gality. The  women  of  course  pitied 
Mrs.  Treadwell,  and  said  she  was  a  fool 
to  submit  so  tamely  to  her  husband's  tyr- 
annical usurpations.  Madam  Vinson, 
however,  declared  that  Master  Tread- 
well  was  doing  a  wise  and  commendable 
thing  in  repressing  his  wife's  love  of 
fashionable  apparel  and  high  living. 
Madam  Vinson,  to  be  sure,  was  a  covet- 
ous person  herself,  and,  like  Shenstone's 
Abbess,  added  profuseness  to  the  seven 
deadly  sins.  But  even  I  myself,  who 
hold  with  Burke  that  all  parsimony  is 
of  a  quality  approaching  to  unkindness, 
believe  that  the  tax-collector,  notwith- 
standing his  close-fisted  prudence  and 
Elwes-like  frugality,  was  a  better  hus- 
band than  most  of  his  female  censors 
drew  in  the  lottery  of  marriage.  Though 
he  spoke  many  an  unwehcome  truth  to 
his  wife,  and  generally  answered  her 
applications  for  money  with  an  em- 
phatic "  No,"  he  never  abused  her 
with  foul  language,  or  even  scolded 
her  otherwise  than  in  a  gentlemanly 
manner.  And  when  she  was  ill,  how 
kind,  how  deferential,  how  attentive 
he  was  !  He  did  not  believe  in  doctors, 
however,  and  never  willingly  permitted 
one  to  enter  his  house.  He  disliked 
their  drugs  and  their  bills,  and  pre- 
ferred to  save  his  wife's  money  by  doc- 
toring her  himself  with  a  few  simple 


708 


Master  Treadwell. 


[June, 


roots  and  herbs,  which,  if  they  did  no 
good,  certainly  did  no  harm.  And  when 
she  was  convalescent,  how  careful  he 
was  that  her  diet  should  be  light  and 
spare !  How  learnedly  he  expatiated 
on  the  nutritive  and  sanative  qualities 
of  oat-meal  !  How  eloquent  he  grew  in 
praise  of  meal-porridge  and  water-gruel ! 
How  admirably  he  discoursed  upon 
"  shells,"  proving  beyond  a  peradven- 
ture  that  they  were  better  and  whole- 
somer  than  chocolate,  which  Mrs. 
Treadwell  was  excessively  fond  of! 
But  his  masterpiece  of  learning,  elo- 
quence, and  Jesuitical  reasoning  was 
his  attempt  to  convince  his  wife,  who 
was  just  recovering  from  a  severe  fit  of 
indisposition,  and  was  craving  some 
appetizing  morsel,  some  relishing  tid- 
bit, that  a  smoked  herring  was  superior 
to  a  broiled  chicken.  At  the  Master's 
panegyric  on  herring  John  Bachalen 
would  have  wept  for  joy,  and  Father 
Prout  have  laughed  with  delight.  But 
her  husband's  rhetoric  was  lost  upon 
Mrs.  Treadwell,  who  at  the  conclusion, 
as  at  the  beginning  of  his  speech,  clam- 
ored for  chicken.  I  believe  the  matter 
was  settled  by  a  compromise  in  the  form 
of  a  slice  of  not  too  tender  beefsteak. 

Although  Mrs.  Treadwell  was  a  true 
and  faithful  wife,  and  loved  her  husband, 
almost  as  much  as  she  did  her  bank- 
stock  and  real  estate,  she  was  not  one 
of  those  foolish  fond  women  who  think 
it  necessary  to  their  happiness  to  have 
their  lord  forever  at  their  side.  The 
truth  was,  both  she  and  Dorcas  were 
happier  and  more  at  their  ease  when 
Treadwell  was  away  than  when  he  was 
at  home,  kindly  overlooking  their  la- 
bors and  giving  them  an  occasional 
word  of  instruction  in  the  frugal  man- 
agement of  their  domestic  concerns,  as, 
for  instance,  how  to  heat  the  Dutch- 
oven  with  the  least  wood,  and  how  to 
sweep  the  room  in  a  way  not  to  wear 
the  broom  out.  And  after  putting  his 
wife's  pecuniary  affairs  in  excellent 
condition,  and  reducing  her  personal 
and  household  expenditures  to  the 
smallest  possible  sum,  he  passed  near- 
ly all  his  time  in  circumambulating  the 
streets  in  his  official  character,  and 


in  playing  backgammon  at  Plummer 
Wedgwood's  grocery.  Treadwell,  after 
amusing  himself  with  hunting  up  de- 
linquent tax-payers,  and  dunning  his 
wife's  tenants  for  rent,  would  fall 
to  work  at  backgammon  with  won- 
derful energy  and  industry.  In  truth, 
backgammon  was  to  Master  Tread- 
well  what  whist  was  to  Mrs.  Battle : 
it  was  "his  business,  his  duty,  the 
thing  he  came  into  the  world  to  do." 
He  played  backgammon  —  as  Cava- 
nagh  played  "fives,"  or  as  Josie  D. 
plays  croquet  —  in  its  perfection.  His 
lucky  throws  and  masterly  moves  were 
the  wonder  and  admiration  of  all  by- 
standers. Except  in  the  winter-time, 
when,  in  commiseration  of  his  wood- 
pile, he  indulged  himself  in  a  long 
morning  nap,  Treadwell  was  an  early 
riser,  and  often  went  down  to  the 
store  before  breakfast  and  had  a  game 
or  two  of  backgammon  with  Plummer 
Wedgwood's  shop-boy.  After  playing 
busily  all  day  —  as  he  commonly  did  in 
those  seasons  of  the  year  when  he  had  lit- 
tle or  nothing  to  do  as  a  tax-collector  — 
he  always  felt  like  playing  all  night,  and 
dreaded  to  hear  the  nine-o'clock  bell, 
for  at  its  clamorous  peal  the  stores  in 
Richport  were  closed,  and  the  back- 
gammon-players were  driven  from  their 
comfortable  loafing-place.  Treadwell 
occasionally  invited  some  one  or  other 
of  his  friends  to  his  house  after  the  shop 
was  shut ;  and  there,  by  the  dim  light 
of  a  tallow  candle,  they  played  back- 
gammon till  midnight  or  later. 

In  politics  Master  Treadwell  was  a 
Whig,  not  because  he  believed  in  the 
principles  and  professions  of  that  party, 
but  for  the  good  and  sufficient  reason 
that,  as  far  as  his  observation  went,  the 
Whigs  played  backgammon  and  the 
Democrats  played  checkers.  But  the 
tax-collector  was  so  little  of  a  partisan 
that  he  lit  his  fire  with  loco-foco  matches, 
and  offended  some  of  his  Whig  friends 
by  voting  now  and  then  with  the  Demo- 
crats at  March  meeting.  The  fact 
was,  Treadwell  was  indefatigable  in 
his  attempts  to  prevent  the  least  in- 
crease of  taxation,  and  therefore  when 


1 870.] 


Master  Treadwell. 


709 


the  Whigs  of  Richport  advocated  the 
making  of  new  roads  and  the  building 
of  new  school-houses,  he,  with  the  Dem- 
ocrats, who  of  course  opposed  every- 
thing their  antagonists  contended  for, 
voted,  to  quote  from  one  of  his  own 
town-meeting  speeches,  "against  these 
shameful  and  outrageous  projects  for 
the  depletion  of  the  town  treasury 
and  the  enlargement  of  the  town  debt." 
For  a  few  years  the  Democrats,  rein- 
forced by  the  tax  -  collector  and  a  few 
wealthy  Whigs  who  cared  more  for 
their  pockets  than  for  their  principles, 
were,  in  the  language  of  Dr.  Ellery 
Bray,  "successful  in  their  attempts  to 
stop  the  march  of  improvement  and 
stay  the  progress  of  civilization."  At 
last,  however,  the  people,  without  dis- 
tinction of  party,  believing  in  the  words 
of  their  champion  Dr.  Bray,  "  that  the 
time  had  come  for  them  to  vindicate 
their  rights  and  redress  their  wrongs," 
rose  in  their  might  and,  in  spite  of 
Master  Treadwell's  influence  and  Mas- 
ter Treadwell's  eloquence,  voted  to 
build  two  new  roads  and  erect  three 
new  school  -  houses.  "  Well,"  said 
Treadwell  to  himself,  as  he  left  the  hall 
after  the  adjournment  of  that  memora- 
ble March  meeting,  "if  these  paltry 
poll  -  tax  payers,  who  now  outnumber 
and  outvote  the  men  of  wealth  and 
sense,  are  going  to  squander  away 
other  folks'  money  at  this  rate,  I  may 
as  well  get  a  little  of  it  while  't  is  go- 
ing myself." 

At  the  next  town  meeting  he  said  he 
could  not  afford  to  collect  the  taxes 
another  year  for  the  compensation  he 
had  hitherto  received.  His  townsmen, 
however,  practising  in  this  instance  the 
economy  he  had  so  often  preached  to 
them,  refused  to  give  him  any  addi- 
tional remuneration.  Whereat  Master 
Treadwell,  surprisingly  angry  for  so 
mild-tempered  a  man,  jumped  up  and 
gave  the  people  a  piece  of  his  mind. 
To  his  hasty  and  unwise  remarks  Dr. 
Bray  replied  by  nominating  Zachariah 
Chard  for  tax-collector.  And  before 
Treadwell  had  fairly  recovered  his  usu- 
al serenity,  Chard  was  chosen  as  his 
successor. 


Master  Treadwell  professed  that  he 
was  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  toils  and  troub- 
les of  his  ill-paying  office,  although  at 
heart  vexed  that  it  had  slipped  from  his 
grasp.  He  missed  his  official  dignity 
and  self-importance.  He  even  missed 
the  angry  looks  and  unkind  words  of 
those  who  had  as  lief  receive  a  call 
from  the  Devil  as  from  the  tax-gatherer. 
And  he  missed  the  money  the  most  of 
all.  It  is  true  his  emoluments  were 
provokingly  small,  but  they  were  much 
too  large  for  any  pocket  save  his  own. 

It  was  solely  for  the  public  good  and 
the  gratification  of  his  natural,  inborn 
love  of  frugality,  that  Master  Treadwell 
had  labored  so  strenuously  hitherto  to 
keep  the  town  expenses  down.  Now, 
however,  being  a  tax -payer  himself, 
and  having  a  pecuniary  interest  in  the 
matter,  he  was  more  bitterly  opposed 
than  ever  to  all  such  costly  superflui- 
ties as  new  roads  and  new  school- 
houses.  It  was  laughable,  it  was  pitia- 
ble, and  reminded  one  of  Don  Quixote's 
heroic  encounter  with  the  unchivalrous 
windmills,  and  Mrs.  Partington's  brave 
but  unequal  contest  with  the  Atlantic 
Ocean,  to  see  how  vigorously  and 
valiantly  Treadwell  and  a  few  opulent 
graybeards  fought,  at  each  semi-annual 
town-meeting,  against  the  liberal  and 
progressive  spirit  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  But  the  citizens  of  Richport, 
disregarding  the  ex-tax-collector's  prot- 
estations and  denunciations,  continued 
to  vote  liberal  appropriations  of  money 
for  such  idle  and  extravagant  purposes 
as  taking  care  of  the  poor,  keeping  the 
streets  in  a  passable  condition,  and 
providing  schools  for  the  children. 

Master  Treadwell  could  not  walk  the 
streets  without  being  annoyed  at  the 
sight  of  paupers  whom  the  town  had  to 
support  and  of  children  whom  the 
town  had  to  educate.  He  never  passed 
a  school-house  without  shaking  his 
head  angrily,  and  muttering  to  himself 
something  about  the  folly  and  presump- 
tion of  a  certain  Mr.  Horace  Mann. 
Though  married  himself,  he  spoke  dis- 
respectfully of  the  institution  of  mar- 
riage, and  said  there  should  be  a  law 
to  prevent  so  many  young  fools  from 


710 


Master  Treadwell. 


[June, 


rushing  into  matrimony  and  swarming 
the  world  with  children  for  the  wealthy 
tax-payers  to  educate. 

Richport  was  not  now  the  place  it 
was  when  Treadwell  first  knew  the 
town.  Its  foreign  commerce  was  de- 
caying. Its  old  aristocratic  society  was 
dying  out.  Strangers  were  seen  in  the 
streets,  and  strange  names  were  upon 
too  many  of  the  signs.  Plummer  Wedg- 
wood's name  was  still  over  the  grocery 
door,  but  Plummer  Wedgwood  himself 
no  longer  stood  bowing  and  smiling  be- 
hind the  counter.  And  new  faces  were 
seen  and  old  faces  missed  in  Plummer 
Wedgwood's  back  shop.  Democrats 
and  checkers  were  tolerated  now  in 
Madam  Whittemore's  old  kitchen. 
When  Treadwell  saw  that  veteran 
Whig  and  backgammon  -  player,  Cap- 
tain John  Godbold,  condescending  to 
puzzle  himself  with  checkers,  he  felt 
that  the  days  of  the  great  Whig  party 
were  numbered. 

While  Master  Treadwell  was  fret- 
ting at  Godbold's  apostasy,  Mrs.  Tread- 
well  was  taken  dangerously  ill  with  her 
old  hereditary  disease,  the  erysipelas. 
The  Master,  nobly  superior  to  his  pre- 
judices against  the  medical  faculty,  gen- 
erously permitted  the  sick  woman  to 
have  a  physician.  But  as  the  doctor 
came  out  of  the  house  death  went  in. 
Old  Dorcas  was  dreadfully  shocked  by 
her  mistress's  death,  and  Treadwell,  no 
doubt,  painfully  felt  his  loss.  Yet  with 
all  his  sorrow  he  kept  a  close  watch 
upon  Dorcas's  strapping  grand-niece 
(who  came  to  help  her  venerable  kins- 
woman make  ready  for  the  funeral),  and 
made,  it  was  said,  a  shrewd  bargain 
with  Harbord  the  sexton. 

The  late  Mrs.  Treadwell  had  a  good- 
ly number  of  friends  and  relatives,  a 
crowd  of  whom  came  flocking  to  her 
funeral.  I  am  afraid  their  sorrow  for 
the  dead  lady  was  changed  into  anger 
against  her  living  husband,  when  they 
found  that  there  was  not  a  carriage  of 
any  sort  or  description  for  the  mourn- 
ers. Master  Treadwell  disliked  all 
funeral  pomp  and  parade,  and  did  not 
see  the  necessity  nor  the  propriety  of 
going  to  the  expense  of  giving  his 


neighbors  a  free  ride,  on  this  melan- 
choly occasion.  And  he  had,  perhaps^ 
withal  a  curiosity  to  see  how  many  of 
his  late  wife's  dear  friends  cared  enough 
for  her  to  follow  her  remains  to  the 
grave  on  foot.  The  day  was  fine  and 
the  walking  good,  yet  of  all  that  house- 
ful of  people  not  quite  a  score  walked 
with  Treadwell  and  the  clergyman  to 
the  burial-ground. 

Miss  Nancy  Pearson,  who  did  not 
turn  her  back  upon  the  deceased  Mrs. 
Treadwell  till  she  saw  her  put  to  bed, 
and,  as  it  were,  comfortably  tucked  up 
for  the  long,  last  sleep,  said  that  the 
master  shed  several  quite  large  tears 
at  his  wife's  grave.  "  Poor  man  !  " 
continued  Miss  Nancy,  "he  had  cause 
to  weep,  for  at  Mrs.  Treadwell's  death 
he  lost  all  control  of  her  property." 
But  when  her  relatives  examined  the 
affairs  of  the  departed  lady,  they  found, 
to  their  grief  and  indignation,  that  all 
her  wealth  was  in  Treadwell's  posses- 
sion. 

Dorcas,  who  never  had  any  great  love 
for  the  Master,  declared  to  her  grand- 
niece,  as  they  were  putting  the  house 
in  order  after  the  funeral,  that,  now  her 
.poor  dear  mistress  was  gone,  she  would 
rather  go  to  the  workhouse  than  have 
to  thank  Jotham  Treadwell  for  a  home. 
Whereupon  the  grand-niece,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Sally,  and  whose 
surname  was  Ober,  and  who  was  the 
wife  of  a  Richport  fisherman,  kindly 
gave  her  ancient  kinswoman  an  invita- 
tion to  come  and  live  with  her.  Dorcas 
gladly  accepted  the  offer,  and  in  a  few 
days  she  was  comfortably  and  content- 
edly established  in  Mrs.  Ober's  family. 

As  the  backgammon  -  players  were 
rapidly  decreasing,  and  the  rates  of 
taxation  rapidly  increasing,  in  Rich- 
port,  Master  Treadwell,  instead  of 
seeking  for  a  housekeeper,  resolved  to 
leave  the  place,  and  return  to  his  native 
New  Hampshire  hills.  And  before  the 
grass  was  growing  on  his  wife's  grave 
he  was  gone.  He  found  that  the  breezy 
little  village  of  his  nativity  was  now  a 
busy,  bustling  town,  with  free  schools 
all  the  year  round,  and  a  weekly  news- 


8;o.] 


An  Idlers  Idyl. 


711 


paper,  "The  New  Hampshire  Uni- 
verse." The  next  number  of  the  Uni- 
verse published  after  Treadwell's  arrival 
in  Pippinville  contained  a  paragraph  or 
two  upon  that  gentleman,  in  which  it  was 
stated,  with  the  remarkable  accuracy  of  a 
first-class  journal,  that  "  Mr.  Treadwell, 
having  accumulated  in  the  sister  State 
of  Massachusetts  a  large  fortune  in  the 
fishing  business,  has  returned  to  Pip- 
pinville, the  place  of  his  birth ;  and 
here,  let  us  trust,  he  will  pass  the  many 
remaining  years  of  his  honorable  and 
useful  life  in  promoting,  not  only  his 
own  comfort  and  happiness,  but  the 
welfare  and  prosperity  of  this  town." 
So  well  known  is  the  ingratitude  of 
man,  that  no  one  will  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  Master  Treadwell  did  not 
thank  the  editor  of  the  Universe  for 
his  co'mplimentary  remarks,  nor  even 
subscribe  for  his  paper.  And  yet  Tread- 
well  must  have  known  that  to  the  arti- 
cle in  the  Universe  he  was  indebted 
for  the  honor  and  attentions  he  re- 


ceived from  several  of  the  citizens  of 
Pippinville.  He  had  not  been  in  the 
place  a  week,  before  he  was  asked  to 
head  a  subscription  for  a  new  church, 
to  .join  three  charitable  societies,  to 
contribute  to  the  missionary  fund,  to 
give  a  new  banner  to  the  Pippinville 
Artillery,  and  a  new  bell  to  the  Ortho- 
dox meeting-house.  These  "honors 
and  distinctions  "  were  so  little  appre- 
ciated by  the  Master  that  he  packed 
his  trunk,  paid  his  hotel  bill,  and  left 
Pippinville  in  dismay,  and  set  out  in 
search  of  some  Utopia  of  conservatism, 
where  public  improvements  were  un- 
known, and  free  schools  undreamed  of, 
where  taxes  were  fabulously  low,  and 
the  cost  of  living  fabulously  small.  Is 
Master  Treadwell  still  travelling  wea- 
rily from  town  to  town  in  quest  of  his 
vanishing  Utopia  ?  or  is  he  at  rest  in 
some  quiet  graveyard,  where  the  tax- 
collector  never  comes  with  his  bill,  nor 
the  beggars  in  broadcloth  with  their 
subscription-papers  ? 


AN     IDLER'S     IDYL. 

A  BORROWED  boat,  a  certain  sky, 
A  tide  whereon  to  dream  and  drift, 
Delay  that  never  seems  delay, 
Are  more  to  me  than  gain  or  gift. 

A  boat  is  broader  than  a  hearth, 
To  borrow  better  than  to  own, 

For  Care  is  in  a  manner  blind, 
And  follows  Thrift  by  touch  alone. 

The  miller's  heart  is  in  his  toll, 
The  sower's  thoughts  plod  to  and  fro, 

And  who  hath  anything  at  sea 

Forebodeth  winds  that  never  blow. 


Then,  Life,  for  thee  the  idle  oar, 

A  drowsy  tide  to  drift  upon, 
An  air  that  hints  of  hills  new-mown, 

To  lull  thee  when  thy  dreams  come  on. 


712 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  [June, 


THE    CORRESPONDENCE    OF    NAPOLEON    BONAPARTE.* 


MR.  BENJAMIN  DISRAELI 
won  many  friends,  and  softened 
the  animosity  of  some  enemies,  by  a 
sentence  in  the  Preface  to  his  edition 
ot  his  father's  writings :  "  My  father 
was  wont  to  say,  that  the  best  monu- 
ment to  an  author  was  a  good  edition 
of  his  works  ;  it  is  my  purpose  that  he 
should  possess  this  memorial."  The 
pious  intention  was  worthily  executed, 
and  the  edition  will  remain,  as  long  as 
men  care  for  curious  odds  and  ends  of 
knowledge,  a  monument  both  to  father 
and  son. 

The  Bonapartes  owed  such  a  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  the  head  of  their  fam- 
ily ;  for,  however  the  account  may  final- 
ly stand  between  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
and  mankind,  no  one  can  deny  that  to 
him  his  relations  owe  the  whole  of  their 
importance  in  the  world.  He  was  ever 
mindful  of  what  is  due  to  kindred  ;  he 
was  fatally  generous  to  his  family  ;  and 
it  was  not  for  them  to  regard  his  fame 
merely  as  part  of  their  inheritance,  to 
be  expended  or  husbanded  according 
to  their  convenience  or  caprice.  More- 
over, a  good  and  complete  edition  of 
the  writings  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  — 
.who  was  at  least  the  consummate  speci- 
men of  his  kind  of  man,  and  as  such 
worthy  of  attentive  study  —  would  have 
been  a  boon  so  precious  and  interest- 
ing, that  it  would  have  atoned  for  much 
which  his  present  representatives  have 
done  amiss.  The  work  would  have 
been  dearly  purchased,  but  it  would 
have  remained  a  solid  addition  to  our 
means  of  knowing  one  another. 

In  the  issue  of  costly  works  there  is 
usually,  in  these  times,  a  publisher  and 
an  editor;  and  few  literary  workmen 
have  been  so  blessed  in  their  career  as 
not  to  know  what  it  is  to  have,  in  the 
back  office,  veiled  from  the  general  view, 
a  timid  or  an  embarrassed  publisher, 

*  Correspondance  de  Napoleon  i«»,  public  par 
Ordre  del'Empereur  Napoldon  III.  Paris.  1858- 
.869. 


who  shrinks  from  liberal  expenditure 
and  trembles  when  one  subscriber 
writes  a  fault-finding  letter.  The  edi- 
tor of  this  collection  is  Prince  Jerome, 
who  was  aided  by  a  corps  of  assistants. 
These  gentlemen  appear  to  have  done 
their  work  with  fidelity,  giving  the  text 
with  exactness,  and  avoiding  all  eluci- 
dation except  such  as  they  alone  pos- 
sessed the  means  of  affording.  The 
copy  before  us,  which  was  sent  for  in 
the  ordinary  way,  contains  a  large 
number  of  minute  corrections  with  the 
pen,  and  there  are  many  other  indica- 
tions, too  trifling  for  mention,  tending 
to  show  that  the  editors  have  done 
their  duty  as  well  as  they  were  permit- 
ted to  do  it. 

But  they  had  a  publisher,  that  "  half- 
scared  literary  man,"  who  is  called  Na- 
poleon III.  He  appears  to  have  both- 
ered the  zealous  but  irresponsible  ed- 
itors extremely.  They  had  no  throne 
to  lose,  no  necks  in  danger  of  the 
guillotine.  The  issue  of  the  letters, 
which  was  begun  in  1858,  came  to  an 
abrupt  conclusion  in  1869,  with  the 
publication  of  volume  twenty-eighth, 
which  is  only  half  as  thick  as  the 
others.  The  twenty-seventh  volume 
fell  short  a  hundred  and  twenty  pages, 
but  the  twenty-eighth  is  so  thin  as  to 
destroy  the  uniformity  of  the  set,  and 
gives  a  rather  ridiculous  dwindling  ap- 
pearance to  it,  not  without  significance 
to  the  minds  of  the  Irreconcilables. 
The  last  utterance  of  Napoleon  given 
in  this  collection  is  the  famous  Pro- 
test, dated  August  4,  1815,  written  on 
board  the  Bellerophon,  against  his  de- 
tention as  a  captive  by  the  British  gov- 
ernment. But  we  learn  from  a  "  Re- 
port to  the  Emperor,"  prefixed  to  vol- 
ume twentieth,  that  as  late  as  1867 
Prince  Jerome  expected  and  intended 
to  include  the  letters  and  documents 
dictated  at  St.  Helena.  He  had  cal- 
culated that  the  productions  of  the 
Emperor  in  exile  "would  form  only 


1 870.] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


713 


three  or  four  volumes,"  which  would 
be  given  to  the  world  by  the  end  of  the 
year  1869.  But  they  did  not  appear. 
After  a  pause  of  some  months,  a  New 
Series  is  announced,  to  consist  only  of 
the  letters  written  in  exile,  and  these 
volumes  are  now  issuing.  We  shall  not 
wait  for  them,  however ;  for,  besides 
the  fact  that  we  do  not  need  more 
material  for  our  purpose,  there  is  no 
knowing  what  other  change  of  plan 
may  occur  in  the  councils  of  a  family 
now  more  than  "half-scared." 

The  publisher  has  unmercifully 
scrimped  the  editors  in  point  of  ex- 
penditure ;  for  not  only  is  the  paper 
cheap  and  fluffy,  but  the  publication 
has  been  continually  retarded  by  want 
of  money.  "  If,"  explains  Prince  Je- 
rome, "  our  task  has  not  proceeded 
more  rapidly,  it  is  because  we  believed 
it  our  duty  to  institute  researches  in 
the  archives  of  Germany,  England, 
Spain,  Italy,  Portugal.  These  re- 
searches, little  as  they  have  cost,  have 
so  lessened  the  fund  at  our  disposal, 
that  we  have  found  it  out  of  our  power 
to  bear  the  expense  of  printing  a  great- 
er number  of  volumes  without  going 

beyond  our  allowance The  time 

afforded  us  by  the  slenderness  of  our 
resources  we  have  turned  to  account 
in  examining  documents  beyond  the 
period  reached  in  the  volumes  given  to 
the  printer,  thus  diminishing  our  gen- 
eral expenditures."  One  toilet  the  less 
in  a  week  for  Eugenie  would  have  re- 
lieved the  editor's  embarrassment. 

In  all  these  volumes,  though  they  av- 
erage more  than  six  hundred  pages 
each,  and  contain  twenty-two  thousand 
and  sixty-seven  letters  and  documents, 
there  is  revealed  no  fact  so  remarkable 
as  the  one  intimated  in  the  passage 
just  quoted,  namely,  that  the  letters 
of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  published  by 
his  family  half  a  century  after  his  death, 
in  twenty-eight  volumes,  sold  at  seven 
francs  a  volume,  did  not  pay  expenses  ! 
Little  as  our  grandfathers,  who  saw 
him  at  the  summit  of  his  power,  the 
terror  of  the  world  and  the  delirium  of 
France,  may  have  believed  in  the  dura- 
tion of  his  throne,  few  among  them 


would  have  hazarded  the  prediction 
that  the  mere  curiosity  of  the  world 
with  regard  to  him  would  have  so  near- 
ly died  out  in  fifty  years.  These  vol- 
umes, whatever  their  defects  and  omis- 
sions may  be,  do  really  admit  the  read- 
er behind  the  scenes  of  the  most  start- 
ling, rapid,  and  tremendous  melodrama 
ever  played  with  real  fire  and  real  can- 
non, real  kings  and  real  emperors'  daugh- 
ters ;  and  yet  they  do  not  sell,  and  we 
find  the  custodians  of  some  of  our  most 
important  libraries  hesitating  whether 
it  is  worth  while  to  add  them  to  their 
store.  This  is  the  more  strange  from 
the  evident  intention  of  the  persons  in- 
terested to  publish  the  work  on  strict 
business  principles.  It  is  cheaply  ed- 
ited ;  it  is  sold  at  a  fair  booksellers' 
price  ;  and  the  public  are  twice  notified 
in  each  volume  that  the  rights  of  trans- 
lation and  of  republication  are  reserved, 
or  that  every  one  infringing  will  be 
prosecuted.  Carlyle  has  lived  to  see  his 
prediction  of  forty  years  ago  fulfilled 
in  good  part :  "  The  time  may  come 
when  Napoleon  himself  will  be  better 
known  for  his  laws  than  for  his  battles, 
and  the  victory  of  Waterloo  prove  less 
momentous  than  the  opening  of  the 
first  Mechanics'  Institute."  This  was 
a  bold  remark  to  utter  in  1829,  under 


the 


very 


nose   of  Wellington.      How 


commonplace  it  seems  in  1870  !  The 
prophecy  would  have  been  already  ful- 
filled to  the  letter,  if  it  had  read  thus  : 
"  The  time  may  come  when  Napoleon 
himself  will  be  more  esteemed  for  his 
laws  than  for  his  battles,  and  the  vic- 
tory of  Waterloo  prove  less  momentous 
than  the  founding  of  the  first  Working- 
men's  Protective  Union." 

There  is,  very  naturally,  a  distrust 
of  this  publication  in  France.  French- 
men know  very  well  who  the  publisher 
in  the  back  office  is  ;  what  he  is  ;  what 
his  motive  was  in  issuing  the  work  ; 
and  whether  he  would  be  likely  to  give 
the  world  a  sight  of  a  document  calcu- 
lated to  weaken  the  spell  of  Napoleon's 
name  in  France.  People  of  our  race, 
we  think,  need  not  share  this  distrust: 
for  the  family  concerned  in  publishing 
the  correspondence  of  Napoleon,  much 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


as  they  might  wish  and  intend  to  make 
his  fame  subservient  to  their  interests, 
would  not  know  how  to  present  him  in 
the  most  favorable  light  to  the  outside 
world.  They  would  be  as  likely  to 
suppress  passages  honorable  to  him  as 
passages  dishonorable.  They  would 
be  likely  to  glory  in  some  letters  that 
would  offend  an  American,  English, 
or  German  reader.  When  a  whole 
family  have  been  eating  garlic,  they 
may  gather  after  dinner  about  the  head 
of  the  house,  and  the  children  may 
c\jmb  into  his  lap,  and  hug  him  close 
around  the  neck,  and  none  of  them  will 
be  able  to  discover  anything  wrong  in 
his  breath.  To  us  these  volumes  ex- 
hibit the  man,  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
We  may  believe  Prince  Jerome  when 
he  says  :  <;  Let  your  Majesty  be  pleased 
to  remark  to  what  a  proof  we  submit 
the  memory  of  Napoleon  I.  We  place 
in  the  clearest  light  all  the  acts  of  his 
government ;  we  reveal  the  secret  of 

his  inmost   thoughts We   have 

faith  in  the  public  reason."  Doubtless 
the  editor  felt  himself  justified  in  com- 
mending the  work  to  "  the  judgment  of 
enlightened  men  "  as  a  "  loyal  publica- 
tion." 

Certainly  there  is  enough  of  detail 
and  minutiae  to  satisfy  the  most  raven- 
ous collector.  Letter  No.  8089,  ad- 
dressed to  Berthier,  is  to  this  effect : 
"  My  cousin,  the  words  of  my  writing 
which  you  cannot  make  out  are  batail- 
lon  d^elite  suisse"  No.  20093,  to  the 
Empress  Marie-Louise,  is  :  "  Madame 
and  dear  Friend,  I  have  received  the 
letter  in  which  you  say  that  you  re- 
ceived the  Archchancellor  in  bed.  It 
is  my  desire  that,  in  no  circumstances 
and  under  no  pretext,  you  receive  any 
one  in  bed,  whosoever  he  may  be.  It 
is  not  permitted  to  a  woman  under 
thirty."  No  21591,  written  at  Elba,  to 
an  officer  of  the  household  :  "  I  think 
it  will  be  necessary  for  all  the  books 
asked  for  Leghorn  to  be  rebound. 
Order  that,  if  possible,  an  N  shall  be 
put  upon  each."  There  are  hundreds 
of  notes  as  brief  and  trivial  as  these,  as 
well  as  a  vast  number  of  the  answers 
scrawled  upon  the  notes  of  ministers 


submitting  minor  questions  of  adminis- 
tration to  the  master.  Napoleon  Bo- 
naparte is  within  the  covers  of  these 
volumes,  and  he  can  be  extracted  from 
them  by  those  who  will  take  the  trou- 
ble. 

Upon  turning  over  the  first  volume,  — 
which  begins  with  the  siege  of  Toulon 
and  includes  the  conquest  of  Italy,  — 
we  are  struck  at  once  with  the  maturity 
of  mind  and  character  exhibited  by 
the  artillery  officer  of  twenty-four.  He 
seems  to  have  been  completely  formed 
before  he  had  held  a  command.  He 
never  equalled,  as  Emperor,  the  ex- 
ploits of  the  young  general.  We  see 
in  his  earliest  letters  every  trait  that 
distinguished  him  afterwards,  and  we 
see  him  also  employing  the  methods 
and  devices  which  marked  his  policy 
when  he  gave  laws  to  a  continent.  These 
first  letters  give  the  impression  that  at 
twenty-four  he  could  have  fought  Aus- 
terlitz  as  well  as  he  did  at  thirty-five, 
and  Waterloo  better  than  at  forty-six. 
The  young  man  is  betrayed,  here  and 
there,  by  a  tendency  to  moralize,  and  a 
habit  of  uttering  neat  generalities,  such 
as  :  "  It  is  artillery  that  takes  places,  — 
infantry  can  only  help  "  ;  or,  "  Three 
fourths  of  men  occupy  themselves  with 
necessary  things  only  when  they  feel 
the  need  of  them";  or,  "In  artillery, 
the  most  difficult  operation  is  the  for- 
mation of  a  siege-train."  But,  gener- 
ally speaking,  the  mature  Napoleon  is 
exhibited,  and  the  whole  of  his  career  is 
foreshadowed  in  the  few  letters  relating 
to  his  capture  of  Toulon  in  1793.  We 
see  in  them,  what  we  see  in  all  his 
military  achievements,  first,  that  the 
sure  way  of  doing  the  thing  was  re- 
vealed to  him  at  a  glance  ;  that  that 
sure  way  was  so  simple  that,  when 
pointed  out,  every  man  not  an  abso- 
lute fool  saw  it  as  plainly  as  he  did, 
and  wondered  why  no  one  had  thought 
of  it  before  ;  that  then  he  executed 
his  plan  with  the  precision  of  math- 
ematics ;  and,  finally,  that  he  knew 
how  to  relate  what  he  had  done  so  as 
to  intoxicate  Frenchmen,  and  concen- 
trate their  admiration  on  himself.  He 
had  no  sooner  surveyed  the  situation 


8;o.] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


at  Toulon,  than  he  perceived  a  point 
from  which  a  few  pieces  of  cannon 
could  force  the  English  fleet  from  the 
roads.  But  there  were  no  cannon  at 
command.  Then  he  writes  clear,  mas- 
terly letters  to  the  government,  begging 
cannon.  After  two  months  of  letter- 
writing  and  intense  effort  in  camp,  the 
cannon  are  placed  in  position,  and  all 
falls  out  exactly  as  the  young  officer 
had  predicted. 

From  that  time,  by  the  mere  natural 
ascendency  of  genius  over  ordinary 
mortals,  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  the 
ruling  mind  of  the  French  Republic. 
Sitting  quietly  at  his  desk  in  a  govern- 
ment office  in  Paris,  he  evidently  pro- 
vided the  Committee  of  Public  Safety 
with  whatever  they  had  of  continental 
policy  and  administrative  skill.  He 
suggested  their  plans  ;  he  wrote  their 
important  letters ;  he  gave  away  some 
of  their  good  places.  Already  he  had 
acquired  the  habit  of  surveying  the 
whole  scene  of  European  politics,  and 
of  seeking  vulnerable  points  in  the  en- 
emies' line  at  a  great  distance  from  the 
actual  seat  of  war.  Just  as  the  Emper- 
or fought  England  in  Spain  and  Russia, 
so  now  the  officer  of  artillery  proposed 
to  make  a  diversion  in  favor  of  be- 
leaguered France  by  going  to  Constan- 
tinople and  rousing  Turkey  to  arms 
against  allied  Russia  and  Austria.  Be- 
fore he  had  suppressed  the  riots  in 
Paris  in  1795,  before  he  had  held  an 
independent  command  of  any  kind  ; 
before  his  name  was  generally  known 
in  France,  he  could  write  to  his  brother 
Joseph  :  "  I  am  attached  at  this  moment 
to  the  Topographical  Bureau  of  the 

Committee  of  Public  Safety If  I 

ask  it,  I  shall  be  despatched  to  Turkey 
as  General  of  Artillery,  sent  by  the 
government  to  organize  the  artillery  of 
the  Grand  Seigneur,  with  a  handsome 
allowance  and  a  very  flattering  title  of 
envoy.  I  shall  name  you  consul,  and 
Villeneuve  engineer,  to  go  with  me." 
And  in  the  same  note,  he  tells  his  broth- 
er that  he  is  charged  by  the  committee 
with  the  direction  of  the  armies  and  the 
formation  of  plans  of  campaign.  Who 
governs  a  country  in  time  of  war,  if  not 


he  who  suggests  its  foreign  policy  and 
devises  its  plans  of  campaign  ? 

These  letters,  written  before  his  fame 
existed,  show  him  to  us  in  a  light 
wholly  amiable  and  admirable.  He  is 
in  love  with  Josephine,  and  tells  Joseph 
that  it  is  not  impossible  "the  folly  may 
seize  him  to  marry,"  and  asks  his  broth- 
er's advice.  The  following  passage, 
written  to  Joseph  in  September,  1795, 
a  month  before  the  "whiff  of  grape- 
shot"  from  General  Bonaparte's  field 
guns  terminated  the  Revolution,  is  a 
pleasing  specimen  of  his  family  epistles 
of  the  time.  He  is  looking  out  for  a 
good  post  for  Joseph  :  "  I  shall  remain 
in  Paris  specially  for  your  affair.  You 
ought  not,  whatever  happens,  to  fear  for 
me.  I  have  for  friends  all  the  people 
of  worth,  of  whatever  party  or  opinion 
they  may  be.  Mariette "  (conserva- 
tive member  of  the  Committee  of  Safe- 
ty) "  is  extremely  zealous  for  me  ;  you 
know  his  opinion.  Doulcet "  (mem- 
ber of  the  convention  of  moderate  pol- 
itics) '*  I  am  closely  allied  with.  You 
know  my  other  friends  of  opposite 
views I  am  content  with  (broth- 
er) Louis.  He  fulfils  my  hope,  and  the 
expectation  I  had  formed  of  him.  He 
is  a  good  fellow  ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
one  after  my  own  heart ;  warmth,  intel- 
ligence, health,  talent,  straightforward- 
ness, good-nature,  —  all  are  united  in 
him.  You  know,  my  dear  brother,  that 
I  live  only  by  the  pleasure  I  give  my 
relations.  If  my  hopes  are  seconded 
by  that  good  fortune  which  never  aban- 
dons me  in  my  enterprises,  I  shall  be 
able  to  make  you  happy,  and  fulfil  your 
desires.  .  .  .'.  To-morrow  I  shall  have 
three  horses,  which  will  permit  me  to 
ride  a  little  in  a  cab,  and  enable  me  to 
attend  to  all  my  affairs.  Adieu,  my 
dear  fellow  ;  amuse  yourself ;  all  goes 
well ;  be  gay.  Think  of  my  affair,  for 
I  long  to  have  a  house  of  my  own." 

All  his  letters  to  Joseph  at  this  hap- 
py, hopeful  time  are  in  the  same  tone. 
He  appears  in  them  the  virtuous  young 
man,  distinguished  in  his  profession, 
honestly  in  love,  and  looking  forward 
to  the  possession  of  a  home,  devoted  to 
his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  striving  to 


716 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


benefit  them,  writing  to  Joseph  his  old- 
est brother  every  day,  the  life,  stay,  and 
boast  of  his  family.  He  was  a  good 
Republican,  too,  although  of  the  more 
conservative  wing.  "  The  government," 
he  writes  to  Joseph,  September  12, 
1795,  "is  to  be  organized  at  once;  a 
tranquil  day  dawns  upon  the  destinies 
of  France.  There  is  a  primary  assem- 
bly which  has  asked  for  a  king.  That 
has  provoked  laughter"  Doubtless  he 
joined  in  the  laughter  ;  for,  so  far  as 
we  can  judge  from  his  letters,  he  heart- 
ily accepted  the  Revolution,  and  val- 
ued himself  upon  his  political  ortho- 
doxy. "  Passions  are  inflamed,"  he 
wrote  a  few  days  after ;  "  the  moment 
appears  critical  ;  but  the  genius  of 
liberty  never  abandons  its  defenders. 
All  our  armies  triumph." 

When  next  he  wrote  to  the  head  of 
the  family,  it  was  to  announce  to  him 
the  event  which  put  him  directly  upon 
the  road  to  his  great  fortune,  —  the  dis- 
persion of  the  mob  at  the  Tuileries, 
October  6,  1795.  "  At  length,"  he 
began,  "  all  is  finished  ;  my  first  thought 
is  to  give  you  the  news."  The  brief 
note  ends  :  "  We  have  disarmed  the  sec- 
tions, and  all  is  calm.  As  usual,  I  have 
not  a  scratch."  Five  months  after,  we 
find  him  on  the  same  day  announcing 
his  marriage  to  the  Directory,  and,  set- 
ting off  to  take  command  of  the  French 
army  in  the  native  land  of  his  ances- 
tors, Italy. 

Persons  who  remain  during  long 
periods  of  time  the  idols  of  a  multitude 
usually  possess,  along  with  other  gifts, 
a  keen  eye  for  effect,  a  histrionic  talent 
which  enables  them,  in  a  pleasing  and 
striking  manner,  to  exhibit  and  exag- 
gerate their  own  good  qualities.  This 
wonderful  being  was  not  a  hypocrite  ; 
nor,  at  this  part  of  his  career,  was  he, 
in  any  vulgar  sense,  an  actor  ;  but  he 
possessed  naturally  an  acute  sense  of 
the  decorous  and  the  becoming ;  and 
now,  on  his  way  to  Italy,  he  gave  a 
proof  of  it.  The  earliest  letter  of  his 
which  we  have  seen  in  print  is  one 
written  to  his  mother,  when  he  was  a 
boy  of  sixteen  ;  and  it  is  signed,  "  Na- 
poleone  di  Buonaparte."  Just  before 


leaving  Paris  for  Italy  he  signed  his 
marriage  contract  with  Josephine,  in 
the  presence  of  a  notary,  thus :  "  Na- 
polione  Buonaparte  "  ;  and  his  previ- 
ous letters  in  this  collection  are  all 
signed  in  the  Italian  form,  "Buona- 
parte." But  now,  being  at  Toulon 
within  a  few  miles  of  the  beautiful  land 
of  his  fathers,  which  he  was  about  to 
overrun  and  pillage,  he  appears  to  have 
awakened  to  the  impropriety  of  spoiling 
Italy  while  bearing  an  Italian  name. 
At  Toulon,  for  the  first  time  in  his  pub- 
lic career,  he  spells  his  name  "  Bona- 
parte "  ;  a  form  from  which  he  never  af- 
ter departed.  It  is  significant,  that  the 
very  page  which  shows  this  new  spell- 
ing contains  the  proclamation  offering 
fair  Italy  to  the  hunger  and  rapacity 
of  French  troops  :  "  Soldiers  :  You  are 
naked,  ill-fed.  The  government  owes 
you  much,  it  can  give  you  nothing. 
The  patien-ce,  the  courage  you  have 
shown  in  the  midst  of  these  rocks  are 
admirable  ;  but  they  procure  you  no 
glory  :  no  lustre  from  them  is  reflected 
upon  you.  I  desire  to  lead  you  into 
the  most  fertile  plains  of  the  world. 
Wealthy  provinces,  great  cities,  will  be 
in  your  power.  You  will  find  in  them 
honor,  glory,  riches.  Soldiers  of  Italy, 
will  you  be  wanting  in  courage  or  in 
constancy  ? "  Certainly  we  must  ap- 
prove the  taste  of  a  man  of  Italian  lin- 
eage in  Frenchifying  his  name  a  little 
before  issuing  such  a  proclamation. 

With  regard  to  those  Italian  cam- 
paigns, to  which  the  first  three  vol- 
umes of  this  work  are  chiefly  devoted, 
the  correspondence  of  the  commanding 
general  confirms  what  military  men 
have  often  remarked,  that  they  were 
Napoleon's  greatest.  The  dash,  the 
brilliancy,  the  rapidity  of  his  opera- 
tions are  less  apparent  when  the  mind 
is  detained  by  fifteen  hundred  pages  of 
orders,  letters,  and  documents  ;  but  we 
see  more  clearly  than  ever  what  a  mas- 
ter of  his  art  he  was.  In  fifteen  days 
after  setting  foot  upon  Italian  soil  he 
had  given  the  world  assurance  of  a  gen- 
eral. There  was  then  in  Europe  no 
general  but  himself,  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  for  him  to  continue  his 


1870.] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


717 


method  until  the  continent  was  his  own. 
A  great  artist  is  not  apt  to  talk  much 
about  the  processes  by  which  he  pro- 
duces his  great  effects,  and,  according- 
ly, there  are  not  many  passages  in 
these  letters  upon  the  art  of  winning 
victories.  The  reader  can  see  Napo- 
leon winning-  them  ;  but  it  is  only  at 
long  intervals  that  we  meet  a  sentence 
that  betrays  the  master's  method.  One 
such  as  this  :  "  The  enemy,  in  the  Aus- 
trian manner,  will  make  three  attacks  ; 
by  the  Levante,  by  Novi,  and  by  Mon- 
tonotte  :  refuse  two  of  those  attacks, 
and  direct  all  your  forces  upon  the 
third."  This  is  another  :  "  In  military 
operations,  hours  decide  success  and 
campaigns."  This  is  another  :  "  One 
bad  general  is  better  than  two  good 
ones.  War,  like  government,  is  an 
affair  of  tact."  And  this  another :  "  If 
the  English  attack  you,  and  yow  experi- 
ence vicissitudes,  always  bear  in  mind 
these  three  things  :  reunion  of  forces, 
activity,  and  firm  resolution  to  perish 
with  glory.  These  are  the  three  great 
principles  of  the  military  art  which 
have  rendered  fortune  favorable  to  me 
in  all  my  operations.  Death  is  noth- 
ing ;  but  to  live  vanquished  and  with- 
out glory  is  to  die  every  day."  In  the 
spirit  of  this  last  passage  his  Italian 
campaigns  were  conducted  ;  especial- 
ly when,  after  a  long  series  of  triumphs, 
his  lines  were  broken  and  his  hold 
upon  Italy  endangered.  The  celerity 
with  which  his  scattered  forces  were 
reunited  and  hurled  upon  the  enemy, 
and  the  personal  daring  of  the  young 
general,  restored  his  fortunes  before 
the  news  of  his  disaster  had  crossed 
the  Alps.  For  the  benefit  of  young 
soldiers,  however,  who  may  think  that 
victories  can  be  won  by  following  max- 
ims, we  must  add  one  of  Napoleon's 
own  comments  upon  the  general  op- 
posed to  him  in  Italy  :  "  He  has  the 
audacity  of  fury,  not  that  of  genius." 

It  was  in  Italy  that  General  Bona- 
parte exhibited  his  talents  and  revealed 
his  moral  defects.  We  have  seen  that 
he  roused  his  ragged  and  hungry  sol- 
diers by  appealing  to  their  vanity,  appe- 
tite, and  avarice.  They  took  him  at  his 


word.  No  sooner  had  he  given  them 
victory  in  the  wealthy  provinces  of  Italy, 
and  possession  of  some  of  its  rich 
towns,  than  they  proceeded  to  do  pre- 
cisely what  he  had  invited  them  to  do, 
"  The  soldier  without  bread,"  he  writes, 
a  few  days  after  entering  Italy,  "yields 
to  such  excesses  of  fury  as  make  me 

blush  to  be  a  man I  am  going  to 

make  some  terrible  examples.  I  shall 
restore  order,  or  I  shall  cease  to  com- 
mand these  brigands To-morrow 

we  shoot  some  soldiers  and  a  corporal 
who  stole  vases  from  a  church."  When 
next  he  addressed  his  soldiers,  he  be- 
gan by  recounting  to  them,  that  in  fif- 
teen days  they  had  won  six  victories, 
taken  twenty-one  flags  and  fifty-five 
cannons,  conquered  the  best  part  of 
Piedmont,  captured  fifteen  thousand 
prisoners,  and  killed  or  wounded  ten 
thousand  men  ;  but  he  ended  by  say- 
ing :  "  I  shall  not  permit  brigands  to 

soil  our  laurels Pillagers  shall  be 

shot  without  mercy  ;  several  have  been 
already."  And  he  assured  the  people 
of  Italy,  in  the  same  proclamation,  that 
the  French  army  had  come  only  to 
break  their  chains  ;  that  the  French 
were  friends  of  every  people  ;  and  that 
their  property,  their  religion,  and  their 
usages  should  be  respected.  "  We 
make  war  as  generous  enemies ;  hos- 
tile only  to  the  tyrants  who  abase 
you." 

All  of  which  signified  that  General 
Bonaparte  meant  to  have  an  army, 
instead  of  a  horde  of  robbers,  and  that 
he  reserved  to  himself  the  right  to  plun- 
der. 

Probably  no  revelation  of  these  vol- 
umes will  more  surprise  the  general 
reader  than  the  prodigious  extent  of 
his  spoliation  of  the  "  property  "  of  his 
countrymen  in  Italy;  especially  that 
portion  of  their  property  which  the 
world  regards  as  sacred,  and  which 
really  was  and  is  most  proper  to  that 
beautiful  land,  —  pictures,  statuary,  and 
other  treasures  of  art.  That  the  king- 
doms, states,  and  cities  of  conquered 
Italy  should  be  laid  under  contribution 
and  compelled  to  disgorge,  each  its 
proportion  of  millions,  was  to  have 


7i8 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


been  expected  ;  at  least,  might  have 
been  forgiven.  But  the  reader  of  the 
correspondence  feels  that  in  that  whole- 
sale picture-stealing  Bonaparte  fell  far 
below  the  natural  level  of  his  char- 
acter. It  might  have  been  pardoned  in 
a  Massdna,  but  it  was  infinitely  be- 
neath Napoleon  Bonaparte,  —  the  man 
of  intellect  and  breeding,  whose  an- 
cestors had  contributed  something  to 
what  constitutes  the  sole  glory  of  mod- 
ern Italy,  its  art  and  literature.  He 
knew  better ;  for  at  Milan  the  young 
conqueror  had  written  to  an  astronomer 
of  the  university  :  "  The  sciences  which 
honor  the  human  mind,  the  arts  that 
embellish  life  and  transmit  great  deeds 
to  posterity,  ought  to  be  especially  hon- 
ored by  free  governments.  All  men  of 
genius,  all  those  who  have  obtained  an 
eminent  rank  in  the  republic  of  letters, 
are  Frenchmen,  in  whatever  country 
they  may  have  been  born."  When 
these  brave  words  were  penned  he  had 
already  sent  to  Paris  for  a  corps  of  art- 
ists to  come  and  select  the  works  of  art 
best  worth  stealing. 

From  the  mass  of  letters  relating  to 
the  systematic  plunder  of  Italy  we 
select  a  few  sentences  showing  how 
General  Bonaparte  squeezed  the  Pope. 
We  copy  from  the  Armistice  of  June 
6,  1796,  only  premising  that  the  Pope 
fared  no  worse  than  his  neighbors  : 
"  Art.  8.  The  Pope  will  deliver  to 
the  French  Republic  one  hundred 
pictures,  vases,  or  statues,  to  be  chosen 
by  the  commissioners  who  will  be  sent 
to  Rome  ;  among  which  will  be  com- 
prised, for  certain,  the  bronze  bust  of 
Junius  Brutus  and  the  one  in  marble 
of  Marcus  Brutus,  both  from  the  Capi- 
tol;  and  five  hundred  manuscripts,  at 
the  choice  of  the  commissioners.  Art. 
9.  The  Pope  will  pay  to  the  French 
Republic  twenty-one  millions  of  francs, 
....  independent  of  the  contributions 
which  will  be  raised  in  Bologna,  Ferrara, 
and  Faenza."  This  large  sum  was  to 
be  all  paid  in  three  months.  Nor  did 
the  conqueror  remain  content  with  the 
hundred  works  of  art  demanded  in  the 
Armistice.  We  find  at  the  end  of  vol- 
ume third  of  the  correspondence  a 


catalogue,  drawn  up  in  form  and  signed 
by  the  French  commissioners,  of  the 
works  of  art  selected  by  them  at  Rome, 
and  sent  to  Paris  "in  the  year  VI.  of 
the  French  Republic  one  and  indivisi- 
ble," which  we  style  1797.  The  list 
comprises  about  eight  hundred  objects  ; 
among  which  are  six  colossal  statues 
and  six  groups  of  statuary.  The  rest 
are  statues,  busts,  fragments,  bronzes, 
medallions,  and  vases.  The  readers 
of  this  interesting  catalogue  may  be 
excused  for  not  comprehending  what 
such  spoliation  of  Roman  churches  and 
galleries  had  in  common  with  deliver- 
ing Italy  from  its  tyrants.  The  tyrants 
were  squeezed  and  left ;  it  was  the 
\rorks  of  art  from  which  Italy  was  de- 
livered. 

At  a  later  period  of  the  negotiations 
we  observe  that  the  insatiable  con- 
queror'demanded  more  of  the  precious 
manuscripts  of  the  Vatican  than  the 
number  named  in  the  Article.  In  re- 
counting to  the  Directory  the  treasures 
extracted  from  the  Papal  dominions  he 
remarks  :  "  The  Papal  commissioners 
yielded  with  a  good  grace  everything 
except  the  manuscripts,  which  they 
were  unwilling  to  give  up ;  and  we 
have  had  to  reduce  our  demand  from 
two  or  three  thousand  to  five  hundred." 
His  letter  to  the  Directory  (No.  685, 
Vol.  I.  p.  431),  in  which  he  exults  over 
the  plunder  of  the  Pope,  is  more  ban- 
dit-like than  any  other  in  the  collection. 
We  learn  from  it  that,  besides  the 
works  of  art  already  mentioned,  and 
besides  retaining  some  of  the  Pope's 
best  provinces,  he  obtained  from  him 
in  all  thirty-four  million  seven  hun- 
dred thousand  francs.  He  also  informs 
the  Directory  that  he  would  have  wrung 
from  him  a  few  millions  more,  if  he  had 
not  been  interfered  with  by  their  com- 
missioners. "  I  am  consoled"  he  adds, 
"by  the  fact  that  what  we  have  got 
surpasses  the  terms  of  your  instruc- 
tions." 

Was  there  ever  such  a  godsend  to 
nn  unpopular  government  as  this  young 
general  was  to  the  Directory  of  1796? 
Victory  alone  would  have  sufficed  ;  but 
here  was  a  general,  who,  besides  send- 


1 8;o.] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


719 


ing  home  the  most  thrilling  bulletins, 
kept  consigning  to  a  drained  treasury 
whole  wagon-trains  of  wealth.  "Twen- 
ty-four wagon-loads,"  he  wrote  from 
Bologna  in  July,  1796,  "of  hemp  and 

silk  set  out   to-day  for   Nice I 

am  getting  together  at  Tortona  all  the 
silver  plate  and  jewels,  which  I  shall 
send  to  Paris  by  Chambery.  I  hope 
that  convoy  alone  will  be  worth  five  or 
six  millions.  I  shall  add  as  much  in 
money."  But  what  should  he  do  with 
the  plunder  of  Rome  ?  "  The  statues 
can  only  be  transported  by  sea,  and  it 
would  be  imprudent  to  trust  them, that 
way.  We  must  box  them  up,  then,  and 
leave  them  at  Rome." 

The  Pope,  we  repeat,  fared  no  worse 
than  the  other  princes  of  Italy.  From 
Milan  an  amazing  booty  was  sent  to 
Paris  ;  the  first  instalment  being,  as 
the  General  remarked,  "twenty  superb 
pictures,  chief  of  which  is  the  cele- 
brated St.  Jerome  of  Correggio,  which 
has  been  sold,  they  tell  me,  for  two 
hundred  thousand  francs."  Another 
item  — again  to  translate  from  the  Gen- 
eral's joyous  despatch  —  was  "  two  mil- 
lions in  jewelry  and  ingots,  the  proceeds 
of  different  contributions."  Other  let- 
ters announce  to  the  Directory  the 
coming  of  rare  plants  from  the  public 
gardens  of  Italy,  of  a  fine  collection  of 
serpents  from  a  museum,  and  other 
natural  curiosities.  He  is  so  consider- 
ate as  to  send  them  "  a  hundred  of  the 
finest  carriage  horses  of  Lombardy," 
to  replace  "  the  ordinary  horses  that 
draw  your  carriages."  But  enough  of 
larceny,  grand  and  petit.  Let  us  come 
to  the  volumes  which  show  how  king- 
doms were  stolen,  and  how  poor  France 
was  kept  reeling  drunk  while  her  life- 
blood  was  drained. 

At  St.  Helena,  in  conversation  with 
the  companions  of  his  exile,  Napoleon 
designated  the  moment  when  he  first 
felt  the  stirrings  of  lawless  ambition. 
"  It  was  not  till  after  Lodi,"  he  said, 
"that  I  was  struck  with  the  possibility 
of  my  becoming  a  decided  actor  on  the 
scene  of  political  events.  Then  was 
enkindled  the  first  spark  of  a  lofty  am- 
bition." Having  a  lively  recollection  of 


this  sentence,  which  we  read  long  ago 
in  Mr.  Abbott's  entertaining  volume 
upon  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena,  we  had 
the  curiosity  to  turn  to  the  letters  writ- 
ten by  General  Bonaparte  at  the  time, 
to  see  if  there  was  anything  in  them  to 
confirm  his  statement.  Yes  :  just  after 
Lodi,  for  the  first  time  he  begins  to 
protest  and  swear  that  his  only  ambi- 
tion is  to  serve  France  in  any  capacity 
which  the  Directory  may  be  pleased  to 
assign  him.  Five  days  after  his  troops 
had  given  him,  at  the  bridge  of  Lodi, 
that  surprising  proof  of  devotion,  he 
writes  to  his  patron,  Carnot :  "  Wheth- 
er I  make  war  here  or  elsewhere  is 
indifferent  to  me.  To  serve  my  coun- 
try, to  deserve  from  posterity  one  leaf 
of  our  history,  to  give  the  government 
proofs  of  my  attachment  and  devotion, 
—  this  is  all  my  ambition."  It  is  a 
touch  worthy  of  Shakespeare.  Thus 
might  the  great  dramatist  have  indi- 
cated the  birth  of  an  ambition. 

It  was  after  Lodi,  too,  that  he  showed 
his  eager  promptitude  to  reward  those 
who  served  him,  and  his  tact  in  adapt- 
ing the  reward  to  the  nature  of  the  case. 
The  battle  of  Lodi  was  won  by  the  col- 
umn that  rushed  across  the  bridge  in  the 
face  of  thirty  pieces  of  cannon  and  the 
fire  of  infantry.  The  General  caused  a 
printed  list  of  the  names  of  the  men  com- 
posing the  column  to  be  posted  in  every 
district  of  France  where  any  one  of 
them  resided  !  Could  any  reward  have 
been  more  thrilling  to  the  men  or 
more  promotive  of  the  next  conscrip- 
tion ?  At  a  later  day  it  became  a  cus- 
tom with  him  to  have  such  lists  posted 
upon  the  parish  churches  of  the  soldiers 
whom  he  desired  to  honor.  But  when 
once  a  priest  presumed  to  read  the  list 
to  his  parishioners  in  the  church,  the 
master  wrote  from  Vienna  to  the  min- 
ister of  police  to  forbid  the  repetition 
of  the  act;  because,  said  he,  in  sub- 
stance, if  priests  may  announce  victo- 
ries, they  may  comment  upon  them, 
and  if  bad  news  should  arrive,  they 
may  comment  upon  that.  "  Priests 
must  be  used  with  civility,  but  not 
made  too  much  of." 

From    Italy    the  young   conqueror, 


720 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


after  a  short  interval  of  busy  prepara- 
tion at  Paris,  betakes  himself  to  Egypt, 
in  pursuance  of  his  policy  of  striking 
England  through  her  dependencies  and 
allies.  No  one,  with  this  correspond- 
ence before  him,  can  say  that  he  was 
sent  to  Egypt  by  the  Directory,  in  or- 
der to  get  him  out  of  the  way.  It  was 
his  own  conception.  He  was  master 
of  France  almost  as  much  in  1798  as 
he  was  in  1805  ;  and  the  tone  of  his 
letters  in  1798  is  as  much  the  tone  of 
the  master  as  in  1805.  The  very  order 
assigning  him  to  the  command  of  the 
army  destined  for  Egypt  was  penned 
by  himself;  and  in  preparing  the  expe- 
dition, the  Directory  did  nothing  but 
sign  what  he  dictated.  His  object  was 
to  dispossess  the  English  of  their  In- 
dian empire,  using  Egypt  as  a  base  of 
operations  ;  and  he  spoke  of  the  enter- 
prise, in  a  confidential  letter,  as  "  the 
greatest  ever  executed  among  men." 
Only  it  was  not  "executed!"  Nelson 
destroyed  the  French  fleet  at  the  bat- 
tle of  the  Nile,  and  blockaded  Egypt 
with  such  sleepless  vigilance  that  Gen- 
eral Bonaparte  and  his  army  were,  in 
effect,  prisoners  of  war.  The  General 
himself  informed  the  Directory  that, 
during  the  eighteen  months  of  his  resi- 
dence in  Egypt,  he  only  heard  from 
Paris  once  ;  and  then  he  received  part 
of  his  despatches,  snatched  by  the  cou- 
rier from  his  grounded  boat  a  moment 
before  his  English  pursuers  clutched  it. 
It  was  an  error  to  land  a  French  army 
in  Egypt  while  the  English  were  mas- 
ters of  the  sea  ;  «but  it  is  evident  from 
the  correspondence  that  General  Bo- 
naparte really  believed  the  French  fleet 
a  match  for  the  English.  He  was  not 
aware  that  in  Horatio  Nelson  the  Eng- 
lish possessed  an  admiral  who  trebled 
the  force  of  every  fleet  that  he  com- 
manded. 

The  correspondence,  reticent  as  it  is 
concerning  whatever  tends  to  exhibit 
Napoleon  vulnerable,  shows  plainly 
enough  that  it  was  Nelson  who  de- 
stroyed him.  Nelson  hit  him  two 
blows,  —  Nile  and  Trafalgar.  By  the 
battle  of  the  Nile  he  penned  him  in 
Egypt,  killed  his  Indian  projects,  and 


reduced  him  to  absolute  paralysis  for 
a  year  and  a  half.  By  Trafalgar  he 
again  destroyed  the  French  naval 
power,  made  invasion  of  England  im- 
possible, and  compelled  Napoleon  to 
continue  his  policy  of  fighting  England 
upon  the  territories  of  her  allies.  In 
other  words,  he  penned  him  in  the 
continent  of  Europe.  This  led  to  that 
prodigious  extension  of  his  operations, 
until  he  had  vast  armies  in  Spain,  Italy, 
Prussia,  Russia,  and  France,  and  had 
so  distended  his  "empire,"  that  ten 
cold  nights  in  Russia  at  the  time  when 
his  power  seemed  greatest  caused  his 
ruin.  This  was  Nelson's  work,  and 
well  Napoleon  knew  it ;  for  there  is 
not  in  all  these  volumes  one  allusion 
to  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  It  is  a  tell- 
tale silence.  Amid  the  bulletins  of 
Austerlitz,  few  except  the  master  knew 
what  had  happened  upon  the  ocean ; 
and  except  himself  perhaps  no  one 
comprehended  its  importance. 

But  to  glean  a  trait  or  two  from  the 
Egyptian  letters.  The  mighty  man  of 
war,  it  seems,  was  subject  to  sea-sick- 
ness. "  Have  a  good  bed  prepared  for 
me,"  he  writes  to  Admiral  Brueys  be- 
fore leaving  Paris,  "as  for  a  man  who 
will  be  sick  during  the  whole  passage." 
In  Egypt,  where  he  was  absolute  mas- 
ter, he  had  an  opportunity  to  rehearse 
the  drama  of  the  French  Empire,  and 
he  displayed  all  the  devices  of  the 
emperor  which  the  scene  admitted. 
Despising  all  religions,  he  showed  that 
he  could  flatter,  use,  and  laugh  at  any 
religion  that  chanced  to  be  available 
for  his  purpose.  At  Malta,  on  his  way 
to  Egypt,  wishing  to  employ  the  bishop 
to  conciliate  the  people  of  the  island,  he 
wrote  to  him  :  "  I  know  of  no  character 
more  respectable  or  more  worthy  of  the 
veneration  of  men,  than  a  priest  who, 
full  of  the  true  spirit  of  the  Gospel,  is 
persuaded  that  it  is  his  duty  to  obey 
the  temporal  power,  and  to  maintain 
peace,  tranquillity,  and  union  in  the 
midst  of  his  diocese."  A  few  days 
after  he  issued  to  his  troops  the  proc- 
lamation in  which  he  enjoined  them 
to  pay  respect  to  "  the  Egyptian  Muftis 
and  Imams,  as  you  have  to  rabbis  and 


1 870,] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


721 


bishops."  He  continued  thus  :  "  Show 
the  same  tolerance  for  the  ceremonies 
prescribed  by  the  Koran  as  you  have 
for  convents,  for  synagogues,  for  the 
religion  of  Moses  and  of  Jesus  Christ. 
The  Roman  legions  protected  all  re- 
ligions." He  went  himself  far  beyond 
the  letter  of  this  order  ;  for  he  cele- 
brated the  religious  festivals  of  the 
Mohammedans  with  all  the  'emphasis 
and  splendor  possible  in  the  circum- 
stances. From  Cairo  he  wrote  to  one 
of  his  generals  :  "  We  celebrated  here 
the  feast  of  the  Prophet  with  a  pomp 
and  fervor  which  have  almost  merited 
for  me  the  title  of  Saint"  ;  and  he  or- 
dered commanders  of  ports  and  garri- 
sons to  do  the  same. 

In  Egypt  as  in  Italy,  he  would  per- 
mit no  one  to  plunder  but  himself;  and 
it  was  here  that  he  put  in  practice  the 
only  device  for  preventing  pillage  which 
has  ever  answered  its  purpose.  It  con- 
sisted in  holding  each  division  of  an 
army  responsible  for  the  misconduct 
of  the  individuals  composing  it.  A 
theft  or  an  act  of  violence  having  been 
committed,  the  perpetrators,  if  discov- 
ered, were  to  make  good  the  damage, 
or  pay  the  forfeit  with  their  lives.  If 
they  were  not  discovered,  then  their 
company  was  assessed  to  make  up  the 
amount.  If  the  company  could  not  be 
ascertained,  then  the  regiment,  brigade, 
or  division.  This  was  a  masterly  de- 
vice, and  it  has  become  part  of  the  mili- 
tary code  of  nations.  But  the  plunder 
of  Egypt,  on  system,  by  the  orders  of 
the  General  commanding,  was  great 
and  continuous  ;  for  the  French  army, 
severed  from  the  world  without,  had  no 
resource  but  to  subsist  upon  the  fertile 
province  upon  which  it  had  descended. 
It  will  not  exalt  the  world's  opinion  of 
the  Commanding  General  to  discover, 
in  his  correspondence,  such  notes  as  the 
following  :  "  Citizen  Poussielgue,  Gen- 
eral Dumas  "  (father  of  the  novelist) 
"knows  the  house  of  a  bey  where  there 
is  a  buried  treasure.  Arrange  with  him 
for  the  digging  necessary  to  find  it." 
Another  engaging  epistle  begins  thus  : 
"  You  did  well,  citizen  general,  in  having 
the  five  villagers  shot  who  revolted.  I 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  152.  46 


desire  much  to  learn  that  you  have 
mounted  your  cavalry.  The  shortest 
way,  I  believe,  will  be  this  :  Order  each 
village  to  furnish  you  two  good  horses. 
Do  not  accept  any  bad  ones  ;  and 
make  the  villages  which  do  not  furnish 
theirs  in  five  days  pay  a  fine  of  one 
thousand  talari.  (  This  is  an  infallible 
means  of  having  the  six  hundred  horses 

you  require Demand  bridles  and 

saddles  as  well." 

He  found  leisure  to  establish  an  In- 
stitute in  Egypt,  on  the  model  of  that 
of  France.  At  the  first  sitting  the 
Commanding  General  proposed  the 
following  questions  :  Are  our  army 
bread  -  ovens  susceptible  of  improve- 
ment ?  Is  there  any  substitute  in 
Egypt  for  the  hop  in  making  beer? 
How  is  the  waiter  of  the  Nile  cleared 
and  kept  cool  ?  Which  is  best  for 
us  at  Cairo,  to  construct  water-mills 
or  wind-mills  ?  Can  gunpowder  be 
made  in  Egypt  ?  What  is  the  condi- 
tion in  Egypt  of  jurisprudence,  the 
judiciary,  and  education,  and  what  im- 
provements in  either  are  possible,  and 
desired  by  the  people  of  the  country  ? 
He  was  making  himself  very  much  at 
home  in  Egypt,  evidently  meant  to 
stay  there,  had  sent  to  Paris  for  a 
troop  of  comedians,  and  was  medi- 
tating vast  plans  for  the  improvement 
of  the  country. 

But  in  August,  1799,  a  package  of 
English  newspapers,  of  which  the  most 
recent  was  nine  weeks  old,  fell  into  the 
General's  hands,  and  gave  him  infor- 
mation that  made  him  willing  to  risk 
capture  in  order  to  get  to  France : 
Italy  lost !  The  French  beaten  in  Ger- 
many in  two  pitched  battles,  and  com- 
pelled to  recross  the  Rhine  !  The 
Russians  marching  to  join  the  coali- 
tion !  The  English  blockading  every 
port,  and  lording  it  on  every  sea  !  The 
Directory  distrusted,  inactive,  imbe- 
cile !  France  beleaguered  on  every 
side,  and  threatened  with  dissolution  ! 
His  mind  was  made  up  on  the  instant. 
In  eleven  days  he  was  ready  to  go. 
His  paper  of  secret  instructions  to  Kle- 
ber,  whom  he  left  in  command,  betrays 
his  perfect  satisfaction  with  what  he 


722 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


had  done  in  Egypt,  his  entire  convic- 
tion of  the  right  of  the  French  to  pos- 
sess and  hold  the  country.  "Accus- 
tomed," he  says,  "  to  look  for  the 
reward  of  my  pains  and  labors  in  the 
opinion  of  posterity,  I  abandon  Egypt 
with  the  keenest  regret."  Another  sen- 
tence is  significant :  "  You  will  find 
subjoined  a  cipher  for  your  correspond- 
ence with  the  government,  and  an- 
other for  your  correspondence  with  me." 
In  three  months  General  Bona- 
parte and  the  "  government "  were  one 
and  the  same.  The  very  company  of 
comedians  which  he  had  written  for  as 
General  Bonaparte  he  sent  to  Egypt 
as  First  Consul.  He  was  absolute 
master  of  France,  a  fact  which  he  an- 
nounced to  the  people  in  the  following 
neat  and  epigrammatic  manner  :  "  Citi- 
zens, the  Revolution  is  fixed  in  the  prin- 
ciples that  began  it.  IT  is  FINISHED." 
Yes  ;  it  was  finished,  and  it  was  Gen- 
eral Bonaparte  who  gave  it  the  fin- 
ishing blow.  Whether  he  could  have 
saved  it  can  never  be  known,  because 
he  did  not  try  ;  and  his  talents  were  so 
prodigious  that  it  is  impossible  to  say 
what  he  might  or  might  not  have  done, 
if  he  had  had  the  "  lofty  ambition  "  to 
help  the  French  govern  themselves. 
There  was  so  much  that  was  large  and 
generous  in  this  man,  that  we  cannot 
always  resist  the  impression  that  he 
was  capable  of  something  much  better 
than  the  tawdry  role  into  which  he 
lapsed.  But  human  nature  is  so  limit- 
ed a  thing,  that  there  is  not  room  in  an 
individual  for  more  than  one  decided 
talent  ;  and  that  talent,  when  it  is  emi- 
nent, is  apt  to  bewilder,  mislead,  and 
dominate  the  possessor  of  it.  The  suc- 
cesses of  this  sublime  adventurer,  be- 
sides being  rapid  and  immense,  were 
of  the  very  kind  that  most  dazzle  and 
mislead.  He  found  France  impov- 
erished, misgoverned,  anarchic,  with- 
out an  ally,  defeated,  discouraged,  with 
powerful  foes  on  every  side,  on  land 
and  sea.  In  two  years  what  a  change  ! 
Internal  tranquillity,  universal  joy  and 
exultation,  enemies  signally  beaten, 
territories  enlarged,  the  treasury  re- 
plenished, and  peace  restored !  In 


1799  he  might  have  risen  to  the  height 
of  the  great  citizen  ;  he  might  have 
fought  in  the  service  of  France,  and 
when  he  had  delivered  her  from  her 
enemies,  he  might  have  lent  his  great 
administrative  abilities  to  the  restora- 
tion of  internal  peace  and  prosperity, 
without  despoiling  her  of  that  hope  of 
liberty  cherished  through  so  many 
years  of  suffering  and  blood.  This  was 
possible  in  1799,  but  not  in  1801. 

But  how  marvellously  well  he  en- 
acted the  part  of  the  ruler  of  a  free 
people  !  How  adroitly  this  foreigner 
flattered  the  amiable  and  generous 
people  whom  he  had  subjugated  !  In 
announcing  the  peace  of  1801,  he  played 
upon  their  vanity  and  their  patriotism 
with  singular  skill,  throwing  upon  them 
all  the  glory  of  his  achievements  in  the 
field :  "  Frenchmen,  you  enjoy  at  length 
that  entire  peace  which  you  have  mer- 
ited by  efforts  so  long  continued  and 
so  generous.  The  world  contains  for 
you  only  friendly  nations,  and  upon 
every  sea  hospitable  ports  are  open  to 

your  ships Let  us  perfect,  but, 

above  all,  let  us  teach  the  rising  gener- 
ation to  cherish,  our  institutions  and 
our  laws.  Let  them  grow  up  to  pro- 
mote civil  equality,  public  liberty,  na- 
tional prosperity.  Let  us  carry  into 
the  workshop,  the  farm,  the  studio,  that 
ardor,  that  constancy,  that  patience, 
which  have  astonished  Europe  in  all 

our  difficulties Let    us   be   the 

support  and  example  of  the  peoples 
who  surround  us.  Let  the  foreigner, 
whom  curiosity  draws  into  our  midst, 
linger  among  us  attached  by  the  charm 
of  our  manners,  the  spectacle  of  our 
union,  the  attraction  of  our  pleasures  ; 
let  him  return  to  his  country  more 
friendly  to  us  than  he  came,  a  wiser 
and  a  better  man."  Soon  after  appeared 
the  first  of  his  annual  messages,  his 
"Expose  de  la  Situation  de  la  Repub- 
Jique"  modelled  closely  (as  to  the  form 
only)  upon  the  messages  of  our  Presi- 
dents, although  longer  than  those  of 
Washington,  Adams,  or  Jefferson  ;  —  a 
message  without  a  legislature  which 
could  act  upon  it  !  "  It  is  with  sweet 
satisfaction  that  the  government  offers 


1870.]  The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


723 


to  the  nation  a  view  of  public  affairs 
during  the  year  that  has  passed."  The 
government  was  a  general  of  the  French 
army,  and  his  message  was  ingenious, 
intoxicating  flattery  of  the  most  sus- 
ceptible people  in  the  world. 

Was  all  this  mere  coarse,  conscious 
hypocrisy  on  the  part  of  General  Bo- 
naparte ?  We  think  not.  Great  his- 
trionic personages,  like  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, appear  sometimes  to  dazzle  and 
deceive  themselves.  Men  familiar  with 
Brigham  Young  tell  us  that  that  stu- 
pendous American  Turk  is  one  tenth 
sincere ;  and  it  is  the  fraction  of  sin- 
cerity which  gives  him  his  power  over 
his  followers.  There  are  pages  in  these 
volumes  that  exhibit  Napoleon  to  us  in 
the  threefold  character  of  hero,  actor, 
and  spectator ;  as  though  David  Gar- 
rick  should  play  Richard  III.,  be  Rich- 
ard III.,  and  see  Richard  III.,  all  on 
the  same  evening ;  himself  lost  in  the 
marvels  of  the  scene,  deceived  by  his 
own  acting,  and  dazzled  by  his  own  ex- 
ploits. We  cannot  believe  that  this 
delirious  Expose  was  a  thing  contrived 
to  deceive  and  captivate  the  French 
people.  He  had  seen  such  striking 
things  done  at  the  word  of  command, 
that  he  seems  to  have  supposed  all 
things  possible  to  a  great  soldier.  He 
appears  to  have  thought  that  national 
institutions,  industries,  lyceums,  col- 
leges, universities,  durable  alliances, 
and  national  welfare  could  be  sum- 
moned into  being  at  the  tap  of  the 
drum.  "  Thirty  lyceums,"  said  he, 
"wisely  distributed  over  the  territory 
of  the  Republic,  will  embrace  all  its 
extent  by  their  influence,  will  shed 
upon  every  part  of  it  the  lustre  of  their 
acquisitions  and  their  triumphs,  will 
strike  foreigners  with  admiration,  and 
will  be  for  them  what  some  celebrated 
schools  of  Germany  and  England  once 
were  for  us,  what  some  famous  univer- 
sities were  which,  seen  from  a  distance, 
commanded  the  admiration  and  re- 
spect of  Europe."  The  whole  message 
is  in  this  taste.  Poor  man  !  Poor 
France  ! 

The  great  question  of  the  reign  of 
Napoleon  is  :  Which  was  to  blame  for 


breaking  the  peace  of  Amiens,  the 
English  government  or  the  French  ? 
This  correspondence  confirms  the  con- 
stant assertion  of  French  historians, 
that  the  responsibility  is  to  be  laid  at 
England's  door.  Bonaparte  wanted 
peace :  that  is  plain.  Peace  was  his 
interest :  that  is  undeniable.  Eng- 
land had  agreed  to  evacuate  Malta,  and 
when  the  time  came  refused  to  give 
it  up  :  that  also  is  certain.  England 
should  have  frankly  accepted  Napoleon 
as  head  of  the  French  government,  and 
forborne  to  give  a  pretext  for  breaking 
the  peace  to  a  man  so  exquisitely  skilled 
in  the  use  of  deadly  weapons.  On  the 
other  hand,  what  absurdity  more  com- 
plete than  for  France  to  go  to  war  with 
Great  Britain  for  a  little  distant  island 
in  which  neither  of  them  had  any  rights  ? 
We  cannot  dwell  upon  this  point,  al- 
though there  is  no  volume  of  the  cor- 
respondence in  which  Napoleon's  tal- 
ents are  more  brilliantly  exhibited  than 
in  the  one  which  contains  his  letters  and 
instructions  previous  to  the  declaration 
of  war  in  1802.  He  had  the  advantage 
of  being  technically  in  the  right ;  and 
England  labored  under  the  disadvantage 
of  putting  forward  a  pretext,  instead  of 
the  real  grievance.  Napoleon's  match- 
less skill  in  the  use  of  deadly  weapons 
was  the  real  grievance.  The  peace  was 
broken,  coalitions  were  formed  and  re- 
newed, because  four  crowned  persons 
in  Europe  felt  that  they  were  not  safe 
while  such  a  man  controlled  the  re- 
sources and  commanded  the  armies  of 
France. 

Behold  him  now  at  the  summit  of  his 
power.  The  volumes  devoted  to  this 
part  of  his  career  are  precious  to  the 
French  people  at  the  present  moment, 
when  they  are  preparing  to  expel  the 
Bonaparte  intruders  from  their  terri- 
tory. If,  on  the  one  hand,  they  show 
him  a  very  great  general,  on  the  other, 
they  reveal  so  clearly  the  essential 
littleness  of  the  man,  and  expose  so 
fully  the  artifices  by  which  he  ruled, 
that  the  spell  conjured  up  in  France  by 
his  very  bones  twenty  years  ago  can 
never  be  conjured  up  again.  This  pub- 
lication kills  Napoleonism  past  resur- 


724 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


rection.  It  shows  to  an  attentive  read- 
er that  Napoleon's  personal  ambition 
was  not  "  lofty,"  as  he  termed  it,  but 
personal,  i.  e.  low  and  small  ;  and  that 
the  means  by  which  he  gratified  it  were 
often  base,  often  despicable,  often  ri- 
diculous. The  desire  of  this  man's 
heart  was  to  be  admitted  to  the  circle 
of  European  kings,  and  then  to  be  the 
most  powerful  of  them  all.  We  could 
only  make  this  clear  to  the  reader 
by  going  carefully  over  the  whole  of 
his  dealings  with  the  reigning  families 
of  Europe,  which  would  more  than 
exhaust  our  space.  The  truth  shines 
out  in  hundreds  of  passages,  and  it 
excludes  him  forever  from  the  rank  of 
the  great,  whose  ambition  is  to  become 
eminent  by  serving  their  kind.  He 
was  so  little  superior  in  moral  dis- 
cernment to  the  ordinary  mortal,  that 
he  thought  it  grander  to  be  the  Freder- 
ick William  of  a  country  than  its  Bis- 
marck;  to  be  a  George  III.  than  a 
Nelson  or  a  Chatham.  So  little  had  he 
reflected  upon  men  and  governments, 
that  he  did  not  know  the  proper  place 
of  a  man  of  great  talent ;  which  is  not 
at  the  head  of  a  nation,  but  in  a  place 
subordinate. 

The  proper  head  of  a  nation  is  a 
sound  average  man,  —  one  whom  the 
average  citizen  can  recognize  as  a  man 
and  a  brother ;  one  who  will  keep  the 
brilliant  minister,  the  great  general,  al- 
ways in  mind  of  the  homely  material 
with  which  governments  have  to  deal ; 
one  who  will  embody  and  represent  the 
•vis  inertia;  of  things.  Bismarck,  firmly 
astride  of  Prussia,  would  ride  that  great 
kingdom  to  the  Devil ;  as  Bonaparte 
did  France ;  as  Hamilton  might  the 
United  States,  if  average  human  nature 
had  not  stood  in  his  way,  represented 
in  the  august  person  of  George  Wash- 
ington. It  is  mankind  whom  the  head 
of  a  government  should  represent.  The 
exceptionally  gifted  individual  who 
serves  under  him  needs  his  restraining 
slowness  and  caution,  as  much  as  the 
chief  needs  the  light  and  help  of  minds 
specially  endowed. 

Of  all  this  Napoleon  knew  nothing. 
His  poor  ambition  was  to  reign.  "  For 


the  Pope,"  said  he,  "I  am  Charle- 
magne, because  I  reunite  the  crown  of 
France  to  that  of  the  Lombards  "  ;  and 
he  told  his  brother  Joseph,  when  he 
put  him  up  as  king  of  Naples,  that  he 
wished  his  "  blood  "  to  reign  in  Naples 
as  long  as  in  France,  for  "the  kingdom 
of  Naples  was  necessary  to  him."  It 
is  at  once  ludicrous  and  affecting  to  see 
such  a  man  so  infatuated  with  the  part 
he  was  playing,  to  read  in  his  letters  to 
kings,  emperors,  and  popes  such  ex- 
pressions as,  "my  house,"  "the  prin- 
ces of  my  house,"  "  my  capital  "  (mean- 
ing Paris),  "my  good  city  of  Lyons," 
"my  armies,"  "ray  fleet,"  "my  peo- 
ples," "  my  empire,"  "  my  kingdom  of 
Italy";  and  to  read  elaborate  papers 
rearranging  states  and  nations  in  which 
everything  was  considered,  except  the 
will  of  the  people  inhabiting  them. 

Nothing  will  astound  the  reader  of 
these  volumes  more  than  the  bulletins, 
dictated  by  Napoleon  on  the  field,  and 
published  in  the  Moniteur  by  his  com- 
mand. It  was  those  bulletins  that  kept 
France  in  a  state  of  delirium,  and 
drew  to  distant  fields  of  carnage  the 
flower  of  her  youth  and  the  annual 
harvest  of  her  educated  talent.  He 
was  accustomed  to  send  every  day  or 
two  from  the  seat  of  war,  when  anything 
extraordinary  had  occurred,  chatty,  an- 
ecdotical  bulletins,  designed  chiefly  to 
keep  up  the  martial  frenzy  of  the 
French  ;  but  he  inserted  also  many 
paragraphs  intended  to  sow  dissension 
among  his  enemies  ;  knowing  well  that 
these  documents  would  be  closely 
scanned  at  every  court,  club,  and  head- 
quarters in  Europe.  Those  anecdotes 
of  the  devotion  of  the  troops  to  the 
Emperor,  which  figure  in  so  many  biog- 
raphies and  histories,  here  they  are, 
where  they  originated,  in  the  bulletins 
dictated  by  Napoleon's  mouth,  corrected 
by  his  hand,  and  published  by  his  com- 
mand in  the  official  newspaper  of  his 
empire,  and  now  given  to  the  world  as 
part  of  his  correspondence  by  the  head 
of  his  family!  The  following  are  pas- 
sages from  the  Austerlitz  bulletins  :  — 

"  On  the  roth  "  (the  day  before  the 
battle),  "  the  Emperor,  from  the  height 


1 870.] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


725 


of  his  bivouac,  perceived,  with  joy  un- 
utterable the  Russians  beginning,  at 
two  cannon  fires'  distance  from  his  ad- 
vanced posts,  a  flank  movement  to  turn 
his  right.  Then  was  it  that  he  saw  to 
what  a  point  presumption  and  igno- 
rance of  the  art  of  war  had  led  astray 
the  counsels  of  that  brave  army.  Sev- 
eral times  the  Emperor  said  :  '  Before 
to-morrow  night  that  army  is  mine.'  " 

"  In  the  evening  he  wished  to  visit 
on  foot  and  incognito  all  the  bivouacs  ; 
but  scarcely  had  he  gone  a  few  steps 
than  he  was  recognized.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  depict  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  soldiers  when  they  saw  him.  In 
an  instant  bundles  of  straw  were  placed 
at  the  end  of  thousands  of  poles,  and 
eighty  thousand  men  presented  them- 
selves before  the  Emperor,  saluting 
him  with  acclamations  ;  some  compli- 
menting him  on  the  anniversary  of  his 
coronation  ;  others  saying  that  the  army 
would  present  its  bouquet  to  the  Em- 
peror to-morrow." 

To  any  one  who  ever  saw  an  army 
of  even  ten  thousand  men  in  the  field, 
the  entire  and  absolute  falsehood  of  all 
this  will  be  apparent.  The  imperial 
reporter  proceeds :  — 

"  One  of  the  oldest  grenadiers  ap- 
proached him,  and  said :  '  You  will 
have  no  need  to  expose  yourself.  I 
promise  you,  in  the  name  of  the  grena- 
diers of  the  army,  that  you  will  have  to 
fight  only  with  your  eyes,  and  that  we 
will  bring  you  to-morrow  the  flags  and 
artillery  of  the  Russian  army  by  way  of 
celebrating  the  anniversary  of  your 
coronation.'  The  Emperor  said,  upon 
entering  his  bivouac,  which  consisted 
of  a  sorry  straw  cabin  without  a  roof, 
which  his  grenadiers  had  made  for  him  : 
'  This  is  the  most  beautiful  evening  of 
my  life  ;  but  it  saddens  me  to  think 
that  I  shall  lose  a  good  number  of 
those  brave  fellows.  I  become  sensi- 
ble, from  the  grief  which  this  reflection 
causes  me,  that  they  are  truly  my  chil- 
dren ;  and,  indeed,  I  sometimes  re- 
proach myself  for  indulging  this  senti- 
ment, fearing  it  will  render  me  at  last 
unskilful  in  making  war.' 

"  At  the  moment  of  sunrise  the  or- 


ders were  given,  and  each  marshal  re- 
joined his  command  at  full  gallop. 
While  passing  along  the  front  of  sev- 
eral regiments,  the  Emperor  said : 
'  Soldiers,  we  must  end  this  campaign 
by  a  thunderbolt  which  will  confound 
the  pride  of  our  enemies'  ;  and  imme- 
diately, hats  at  the  end  of  bayonets  and 
cries  of  Vive  /'  Empereur  /  were  the 
veritable  signal  of  battle  !  " 

"  This  day  will  cost  tears  of  blood  at 
St.  Petersburg.  May  it  cause  them 
to  throw  back  with  indignation  the  gold 
of  England,  and  may  that  young  prince, 
whom  so  many  virtues  call  to  be  the 
father  of  his  subjects,  snatch  himself 
from  the  influence  of  those  thirty  cox- 
combs whom  England  artfully  seduces 
into  her  services,  and  whose  imperti- 
nences obscure  his  good  intentions, 
lose  him  the  love  of  his  soldiers,  and 
throw  him  into  operations  the  most 
erroneous.  Nature,  in  endowing  him. 
with  great  qualities,  called  him  to  be 

the  consoler  of  Europe Never 

was  there  a  more  horrible  field  of  bat- 
tle  May  so  much  bloodshed, 

may  so  many  miseries,  fall  at  length 
upon  the  perfidious  islanders  who  are 
the  cause  of  them  !  May  the  base  oli- 
garchs of  London  bear  the  anguish  of 
so  many  calamities  !  " 

"  The  Emperor  of  Germany"  (in  his 
interview  with  the  Emperor)  "  did  not 
conceal  the  contempt  which  the  con- 
duct of  England  had  given  both  him- 
self and  the  Emperor  of  Russia.  '  They 
are  shop-keepers,'  he  said  more  than 
once,  '  who  set  the  Continent  in  flames 
in  order  to  secure  for  themselves  the 
commerce  of  the  world.'  ....  Several 
times  the  Emperor  of  Germany  repeat- 
ed :  '  There  is  no  doubt  that  France  is 
in  the  right  in  her  quarrel  with  Eng- 
land.' ....  They  say  that  the  Em- 
peror said  to  the  Emperor  of  Germany, 
as  he  invited  him  to  come  nearer  the 
fire  of  his  bivouac :  '  I  receive  you  in 
the  only  palace  I  have  inhabited  these 
two  months.'  To  this  the  Emperor 
of  Germany  replied,  laughing:  'You 
turn  habitations  of  this  kind  to  such 
good  account  that  they  ought  to  please 
you.'  At  least)  this  is  what  those  pres- 


726 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


cut  thought  they  overheard.  The  nu- 
merous suite  of  the  two  princes  was  not 
so  far  off  that  they  could  not  hear  sev- 
eral things  ! 

"  The  corpses  have  been  counted. 
The  totals  are,  eighteen  thousand  Rus- 
sians killed,  six  hundred  Austrians, 
and  nine  hundred  French.  Seven  thou- 
sand wounded  Russians  are  on  our 
hands.  All  told,  we  have  three  thou- 
sand French  wounded.  General  Roger 
Valhubert  is  dead  of  his  wounds.  An 
hour  before  he  breathed  his  last  he 
wrote  to  the  Emperor :  *  I  could  have 
wished  to  do  more  for  you.  I  die  in 
an  hour.  The  loss  of  my  life  I  do  not 
regret,  since  I  have  participated  in  a 
victory  which  assures  you  a  happy 
reign.  As  often  as  you  shall  think  of 
the  brave  men  who  were  devoted  to 
you,  remember  me.  It  is  sufficient  for 
me  merely  to  tell  you  that  I  have  a 
family;  I  need  not  recommend  them 
to  your  care.'  " 

From  the  whole  of  the  bulletins  we 
could  gather,  perhaps,  two  hundred 
anecdotes  similar  in  character  and  pur- 
pose to  those  we  have  given  ;  and  we 
do  not  believe  that  ten  of  them  are  the 
exact  statements  of  fact.  They  were 
fictions  coined  to  make  France  willing 
to  bleed.  Interspersed  with  the  bulle- 
tins are  quiet,  business-like  notes  to 
the  Minister  of  War  and  others,  the 
burden  of  which  is  :  Conscripts,  con- 
scripts, conscripts;  send  me  conscripts ; 
armed  or  unarmed,  in  uniform  or  in 
Peasants''  rags,  no  matter;  send  forward 
conscripts  ! 

Appended  to  the  bulletins  are  de- 
crees giving  pensions  to  the  widows  of 
every  man  who  fell  in  the  last  battle, — 
six  thousand  francs  to  a  general's  wid- 
ow, and  two  hundred  to  a  private's.  Af- 
ter Austerlitz,  a  decree  was  published 
which  was  as  captivating  to  delirious 
France  as  it  was  unjust  to  the  army  in 
general :  "  We  adopt  all  the  children 
of  the  generals,  officers,  and  soldiers 
who  fell  at  the  battle  of  Austerlitz. 
They  will  be  maintained  and  reared  at 
our  expense,  —  the  boys  at  our  imperial 
palace  of  Rambouillet,  and  the  girls  at 
our  imperial  palace  of  Saint  Germain. 


The  boys  will  be  placed  in  situations, 
and  the  girls  dowered,  by  us.  To  their 
baptismal  and  family  names  they  will 
have  the  right  to  add  that  of  Napo- 
leon." No  man  ever  displayed  such 
art  in  rousing  a  nation  to  frenzy,  and 
silencing  its  reason.  If  space  allowed, 
we  could  give  a  catalogue  of  at  least  one 
hundred  different  devices  of  his  fertile 
mind  to  reward  and  signalize  soldiers 
who  served  him  with  conspicuous  devo- 
tion. Many  of  these  —  such  as  orders, 
medals,  flattering  mention,  and  inscrib- 
ing the  names  of  fallen  soldiers  upon 
Pompey's  pillar  —  were  of  a  costless  and 
sentimental  nature.  Others  —  such  as 
gifts  of  money,  pensions,  promotion  — 
were  of  a  solid  and  practical  character. 
Sometimes  he  would  order  a  picture 
painted  of  a  feat  of  arms,  and  decree 
that  the  uniform  of  the  soldiers  depicted 
should  be  that  of  the  corps  which  per- 
formed the  act.  Nor  was  he  lavish  of 
rewards  and  honors  ;  but  in  this,  as  in 
all  things  relating  to  war,  he  acted 
upon  system,  and  preserved  perfect 
coolness  of  judgment. 

And  while  by  these  various  arts  this 
Corsican  kept  average  France  in  de- 
lirium, the  superior  mind  and  judg- 
ment of  France  were  denied  all  utter- 
ance. We  have  marked  dozens  of 
passages  in  the  correspondence  show- 
ing this.  While  he  had  writers  in 
England  in  his  pay  for  the  purpose  of 
embarrassing  the  Ministry  and  making 
friends  for  himself  by  their  articles  in 
English  newspapers,  he  would  not  per- 
mit so  much  as  a  woman  to  live  in 
France  whom  he  suspected  of  having 
escaped  the  prevailing  madness.  Three 
times  he  orders  back  Madame  de  Stae'l, 
—  "  that  bird  of  evil  omen,"  as  he  styles 
her,  —  when  he  heard  she  had  ap- 
proached or  crossed  the  frontiers.  "  It 
is  the  intention  of  the  government,"  he 
wrote  in  1803,  "that  this  intriguing/J?r- 
eigner  shall  not  remain  in  France, 
where  her  family  has  done  harm 
enough."  Again,  in  1807,  he  speaks 
of  her  with  contemptuous  fury,  as  a 
"  crow "  whose  approach  foreboded 
mischief,  and  repeats  his  command  that 
she  be  kept  from  the  soil  of  PYance. 


1870.]  The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


727 


Nor  was  she  the  only  lady  whom  he 
feared  and  exiled,  because  he  saw  her 
sane  in  the  midst  of  lunatics.  As  to 
the  press,  not  a  paragraph  was  allowed 
to  appear  calculated  to  recall  French- 
men to  themselves  ;  and  not  a  line  es- 
caped his  vigilant  distrust,  if  it  pro- 
voked Frenchmen  to  ask  why  their 
countrymen  should  be  slaughtered  by 
thousands  in  Poland,  in  Spain,  in  Rus- 
sia, in  Austria,  in  Prussia,  for  a  quar- 
rel about  Malta, — an  island  of  no  in- 
terest to  France,  except  as  the  source 
of  Maltese  cats. 

For  military  men  we  must  find  room 
for  a  curious  order  addressed  to  Mar- 
shal Berthier  at  Boulogne,  in  1805,  just 
as  Napoleon  was  about  to  begin  that 
swift,  silent  march  across  Europe  which 
ended  at  Austerlitz.  It  shows  how  lit- 
tle magic  there  was  in  his  proceedings, 
and  by  what  homely,  plodding  labors 
the  most  brilliant  results  are  produced. 
"  My  cousin  "  (he  called  all  his  mar- 
shals cousin),  "  I  desire  you  to  have 
two  portable  boxes  made,  with  compart- 
ments ;  one  for  me  and  the  other  for 
yourself.  The  compartments  will  be 
arranged  in  such  a  way  that,  with  the 
aid  of  written  cards,  we  can  know  at  a 
glance  the  movements  of  all  the  Aus- 
trian troops,  regiment  by  regiment, 
batallion  by  batallion,  even  to  detach- 
ments of  any  considerable  magnitude. 
You  will  divide  the  compartments  into 
as  many  divisions  as  there  are  Austri- 
an armies,  and  you  will  reserve  some 
pigeon-holes  for  the  troops  which  the 
Emperor  of  Germany  has  in  Hungary, 
in  Bohemia,  and  in  the  interior  of  his 
states.  Every  fifteen  days  you  will 
send  me  a  statement  of  the  changes 
that  have  taken  place  during  the  pre- 
ceding fifteen  days  ;  availing  yourself 
for  this  purpose,  not  only  of  the  Ger- 
man and  Italian  newspapers,  but  of  all 
the  information  which  my  minister  for 
foreign  affairs  may  send  you ;  with 
whom  you  will  correspond  for  this  ob- 
ject. Employ  the  same  individual  to 
change  the  cards  and  to  draw  up  the 
statement  of  the  situation  of  the  Aus- 
trian armies  every  fifteen  days.  P.  S. 
you  must  intrust  this  business  to  a 


man  who  will  have  nothing  else  to  do, 
who  knows  German  well,  and  who  will 
take  all  the  German  and  Italian  papers, 
and  make  the  changes  which  they  indi- 
cate." 

Before  leaving  the  volumes,  which 
exhibit  him  in  the  plenitude  of  his 
power  and  glory,  we  offer  for  the  read- 
er's amusement  the  most  characteris- 
tic letter,  perhaps,  of  the  whole  collec- 
tion ;  one  written  in  1807,  to  that  good 
Louis  whom  young  General  Bonaparte 
had  so  cordially  praised  a  few  years 
before  as  a  lad  after  his  own  heart. 
Louis  was  now  called  King  of  Holland  ; 
and  trouble  enough  he  had  between  his 
own  amiable  dream  of  being  a  good 
to  Holland  and  the  determination  of  his 
brother  to  regard  Holland  only  in  the 
light  of  so  much  war  material.  Was 
ever  a  monarch  so  lectured,  bullied, 
berated,  and  insulted  as  poor  Louis 
was  in  this  epistle  ? 

"  I  have  received  your  letter  of  the 
24th  of  March.  You  say  that  you  have 
twenty  thousand  men  at  the  Grand 
Army.  You  do  not  believe  it  yourself; 
there  are  not  ten  thousand  ;  and  what 
men  !  It  is  not  marshals,  chevaliers, 
and  counts  that  we  want ;  we  want  sol- 
diers. If  you  go  on  so,  you  will  ren- 
der me  ridiculous  in  Holland. 

"You  govern  that  nation  too  much 
like  a  capuchin.  The  goodness  of  a 
king  ought  always  to  be  majestic,  and 
not  that  of  a  monk.  Nothing  is  worse 
than  that  great  number  of  journeys 
which  you  make  to  the  Hague,  unless 
it  be  the  contribution  made  by  your 
order  in  your  kingdom.  A  king  com- 
mands, and  asks  nothing  of  any  one  ; 
he  is  deemed  to  be  the  source  of  all 
power,  and  to  have  no  need  to  recur  to 
the  purse  of  others.  These  niceties, 
you  feel  them  not. 

"  Some  notions  occur  to  me  concern- 
ing the  re-establishment  of  your  nobili- 
ty, upon  which  I  wait  to  be  enlightened. 
Have  you  lost  your  senses  to  that 
point,  and  would  you  forget  to  such  a 
degree  what  you  owe  me  ?  You  speak 
always  in  your  letters  of  respect  and 
obedience  ;  but  it  is  deeds,  not  words, 
that  I  require.  Respect  and  obedience 


728 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


[June, 


consist  in  not  precipitating  measures  so 
important ;  for  Europe  cannot  imagine 
you  to  be  so  wanting  in  a  sense  of  duty 
as  to  do  certain  things  without  my  con- 
sent. I  shall  be  obliged  to  disavow 
you.  I  have  asked  for  the  document 
relating  to  the  re-establishment  of  the 
nobility.  Prepare  yourself  for  a  public 
mark  of  my  excessive  dissatisfaction. 

"  Despatch  no  maritime  expedition  ; 
the  season  is  passed.  Raise  national 
guards  to  defend  your  country.  Pay 
my  troops.  Raise  plenty  of  national 
conscripts.  A  prince  who,  the  first 
year  of  his  reign,  is  thought  to  be  so 
good,  is  a  prince  who  will  be  ridiculed 
in  the  second.  The  love  which  kings 
inspire  ought  to  be  a  masculine  love, 
mingled  with  a  respectful  fear  and  a 
great  opinion  of  their  merit.  When 
people  say  of  a  king  that  he  is  a  good 
man,  his  reign  is  a  failure.  How  can 
a  merely  good  man,  or  a  good  father, 
if  you  please,  sustain  the  charges  of  the 
throne,  suppress  the  malevolent,  and 
conduct  affairs  so  that  the  passions  of 
men  shall  be  hushed,  or  march  in  the 
direction  he  wishes  ?  The  first  thing 
you  ought  to  have  done,  and  I  advised 
you  to  do  it,  was  to  establish  the  con- 
scription. What  can  be  done  without 
an  army  ?  For,  can  one  call  a  mass  of 
deserters  an  army  ?  How  could  you 
avoid  feeling  (the  condition  of  your 
army  being  what  it  is)  that  the  creation 
of  marshals  was  a  thing  unsuitable  and 
ridiculous  ?  The  king  of  Naples  has 
none.  I  have  none  in  my  kingdom  of 
Italy.  Do  you  believe  that  if  forty 
French  vessels  should  be  united  to  five 
or  six  Dutch  barks,  that  Admiral  Ver 
Huell,  for  example,  in  his  quality  of 
marshal,  could  command  them  ?  There 
are  no  marshals  in  the  minor  king- 
doms ;  there  are  none  in  Bavaria,  in 
Sweden.  You  overwhelm  men  with 
honors  who  have  not  merited  them. 
You  go  too  fast  and  without  advice  ;  I 
have  offered  you  mine  ;  you  respond  by 
fine  compliments,  and  you  continue  to 
commit  follies. 

"  Your  quarrels  with  the  queen  reach 
the  public  ear.  Have  at  home  that  pa- 
ternal and  effeminate  character  which 


you  exhibit  in  the  government,  and  in 
public  affairs  practise  that  rigor  which 
you  show  in  domestic  matters.  You 
treat  a  young  wife  as  one  would  lead  a 
regiment.  Distrust  the  persons  who 
surround  you  ;  you  are  only  surrounded 
by  nobles.  The  opinion  of  those  peo- 
ple is  always  diametrically  opposite  to 
that  of  the  public.  Beware  of  them  ; 
you  begin  to  be  no  longer  popular 
either  at  Rotterdam  or  Amsterdam. 
The  Catholics  begin  to  be  afraid  of  you. 
Why  do  you  employ  none  of  them  ? 
Ought  you  not  to  protect  your  religion  ? 
All  that  shows  little  force  of  character. 
You  pay  court  too  much  to  a  part  of 
your  nation :  you  'offend  the  rest. 
What  have  the  chevaliers  done  to 
whom  you  have  given  decorations  ? 
Where  are  the  wounds  which  they  have 
received  for  their  country,  the  distin- 
guished talents  which  recommend  them, 
I  do  not  say  of  all,  but  of  three  fourths 
of  them  ?  Many  of  them  have  done 
service  to  the  English  party,  and  are 
the  cause  of  the  misfortunes  of  their 
country.  Was  it  necessary  to  ill  treat 
them  ?  No,  but  to  conciliate  all.  I  al- 
so have  some  emigres  in  office ;  but  I 
do  not  let  them  go  too  far,  and  whea 
they  think  they  are  near  carrying  a 
point,  they  are  further  from  it  than 
when  they  were  in  a  foreign  country : 
because  I  govern  by  system,  and  not 
by  weakness. 

"  You  have  the  best  and  the  most  vir- 
tuous of  wives,  and  you  render  her  un- 
happy. Let  her  dance  as  much  as  she 
wishes  ;  it  belongs  to  her  time  of  life. 
I  have  a  wife  forty  years  old  ;  from  the 
battle-field  I  write  to  her  to  go  to  balls  ; 
and  do  you  wish  that  a  wife  of  twenty 
years,  who  sees  her  life  passing,  who 
has  all  of  life's  illusions,  should  live  in  a 
cloister  ?  should  be  like  a  nurse,  always 
washing  her  baby  ?  You  attend  too 
much  to  your  domestic  affairs,  and 
not  enough  to  your  administration.  I 
should  not  say  all  this  to  you,  but  for 
the  interest  I  take  in  your  welfare. 
Make  the  mother  of  your  children  hap- 
py. You  have  only  one  means  of  doing 
so  ;  it  is  to  show  her  much  esteem  and 
confidence.  Unfortunately,  you  have 


1 8;o.] 


The  Correspondence  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


729 


a  too  virtuous  wife.  If  you  had  a  co- 
quette, she  would  lead  you  by  the  end 
of  the  nose.  But  you  have  a  wife  who 
respects  herself,  whom  the  mere  idea 
that  you  could  have  a  bad  opinion  of  her 
revolts  and  afflicts.  You  should  have 
had  a  wife  like  some  I  know  of  in 
Paris.  She  would  have  played  you 
false,  and  kept  you  at  her  knees.  It  is 
not  my  fault,  for  I  have  often  said  as 
much  to  your  wife. 

"  For  the  rest,  you  can  commit  fol- 
lies in  your  own  kingdom  ;  very  well ; 
but  I  shall  see  to  it  that  you  commit 
none  in  mine.  You  offer  your  decora- 
tions to  everybody  ;  many  persons  have 
written  to  me  who  have  no  title  to  them. 
I  am  sorry  that  you  did  not  feel  that 
you  were  wanting  in  proper  considera- 
tion towards  me.  I  am  resolved  that 
no  one  shall  wear  those  decorations 
near  me,  being  determined  not  to  wear 
them  myself.  If  you  ask  me  the  rea- 
son, I  shall  reply,  that  you  have  as  yet 
done  nothing  to  merit  that  men  should 
wear  your  portrait ;  that,  besides,  you 
have  instituted  the  order  without  my 
permission  ;  and  that,  finally,  you  give 
them  away  too  lavishly.  And  what 
have  all  those  people  done  who  sur- 
round you  to  whom  you  give  them  ?  " 

This  it  was  to  be  one  of  Napoleon's 
kings  !  He  lectures  Joseph,  Jerome, 
Lucien,  his  sisters,  and  even  his  uncle, 
Cardinal  Fesch  ;  not  always  with  such 
severity,  but  always  in  the  tone  of  the 
master.  To  Cardinal  Fesch,  his  am- 
bassador of  Rome,  he  once  wrote  :  "  I 
find  all  your  reflections  upon  Cardinal 
Ruffo  small  and  puerile.  You  are  in 
Rome  like  a  woman Don't  med- 
dle in  affairs  you  don't  understand." 
This  it  was  to  be  a  cardinal  of  Napole- 
on's making. 

The  suddenness  of  the  collapse  of 
this  showy  mockery  of  an  empire  is 
exhibited  in  the  correspondence  in  a 
manner  truly  affecting.  It  was  the 
freezing  to  death  of  thirty  thousand 
horses  that  destroyed  the  "  Grand 
Army,"  and  tumbled  the  empire  into 
chaos.  Burnt  out  of  Moscow  on  the 
Hth  of  September,  1812,  the  Emperor 
was  inconvenienced  certainly,  but  felt 


still  so  much  at  ease,  that  he  sent  a 
note,  sixteen  days  after,  to  his  librarian 
at  Paris,  scolding  him  for  not  keeping 
him  better  supplied  with  the  new  publi- 
cations ;  and  he  continued  for  another 
month  to  direct  even  the  police  of 
Paris  from  the  vicinity  of  the  burnt 
capital.  A  bulletin  written  on  the 
homeward  march,  October  23,  is  all 
glowing  with  victory,  and  recounts  the 
burning  of  Moscow  only  as  a  disaster 
and  shame  to  Russia  /  It  ends  thus  : 
"  The  people  of  Russia  do  not  remem- 
ber such  weather  as  we  have  had  here 
during  the  last  twenty  days.  We  en- 
joy the  sun  of  the  beautiful  days  of 
our  excursions  to  Fontainebleau.  The 
army  is  in  a  country  extremely  rich, 
which  can  compare  with  the  best  prov- 
inces of  France  and  Germany." 

This  was  written  on  the  23d  of 
October,  and  published  in  Paris  No- 
vember 1 6th.  As  late  as  November 
3d,  still  the  Emperor  wrote  to  one  of 
his  ministers  :  "  The  weather  continues 
to  be  very  fine  ;  a  circumstance  extreme- 
ly favorable  to  us."  Three  days  after, 
namely,  November  6,  1812,  the  icy 
*blast  swept  down  from  the  North  and 
chilled  the  army  to  the  marrow.  Ten 
nights  of  sudden,  premature  cold  killed 
or  disabled  nearly  all  the  horses  ;  which 
compelled  the  abandonment  or  destruc- 
tion of  all  the  provisions  that  the  men 
could  not  carry.  Clouds  of  Cossacks 
hovered  about  the  track  of  the  gaunt 
and  weary  troops.  Napoleon  was  twenty 
days  without  hearing  from  Paris.  The 
Grand  Army  perished,  and  the  empire 
was  no  more  ! 

He  died  game.  He  was  himself  to 
the  last.  As  soon  as  he  had  reached  a 
point  from  which  a  courier  could  be 
safely  despatched  to  Paris,  he  sent  an 
aide-de-camp  and  a  bulletin  to  break  the 
news  to  Europe.  He  would  not  trust 
anyone  to  write  the  paragraph  which 
he  ordered  the  aid  to  have  inserted  in 
German  journals  on  his  way  to.  Paris, 
but  gave  it  to  him  written  by  his  own 
hand.  On  the  2d  of  December,  from 
the  midst  of  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  his 
army,  with  ghastly  pallor  and  rigid  death 
on  every  side,  this  great  histrionic 


730 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [June, 


genius  wrote  the  following  orders  to 
the  aide-de-camp  charged  with  his  de- 
spatches :  — 

"  He  will  announce  everywhere  the 
arrival  of  ten  thousand  Russian  prison- 
ers, and  the  victory  won  upon  the  Ber- 
esina  in  which  we  took  six  thousand 
Russian  prisoners,  eight  flags,  and 

twelve  pieces  of  cannon He  will 

cause  to  be  inserted  everywhere  in  the 
Gazettes  :  '  M.  de  Montesquieu,  aide-de- 
camp, etc.,  has  passed  through,  bearing 
the  news  of  the  victory  of  Beresina  won 
by  the  Emperor  over  the  united  armies 
of  Admiral  Tchitchakof  and  General 
Wittgenstein.  He  carries  to  Paris  eight 
flags  taken  in  that  battle,  at  which  also 
six  thousand  prisoners  were  captured 
and  twelve  pieces  of  cannon.  When  this 
officer  left,  the  Emperor's  health  was 
excellent'  M.  de  Montesquieu  will  see 
to  it  that  this  paragraph  is  published  in 
the  Mayence  journal.  The  Due  de  Bas- 
sano  will  cause  it  to  be  put  into  the 
Vilna  papers  and  will  write  in  the  same 
strain  to  Vienna.  M.  de  Montesquieu 
will  travel  with  the  utmost  speed  in  or- 
der to  contradict  everywhere  the  false 
reports  which  may  have  been  spread* 
abroad.  He  will  explain  that  those 
two  (Russian)  corps  meant  to  cut  our 
line  in  two,  but  that  the  army  routed 


them  utterly,  and  has  arrived  at  Vilna, 
where  it  finds  numerous  depots,  which 
will  at  once  end  the  sufferings  which  it 
has  experienced." 

This  was  for  Prussia,  Austria,  Eng- 
land. But  it  would  not  do  for  France, 
which  must  instantly  supply  new  ar- 
mies. This  same  aide-de-camp  carried 
a  bulletin  for  the  Moniteur,  — long,  de- 
tailed, artful,  —  which,  with  mitigations, 
acquainted  the  French  people  that  "  a 
frightful  calamity  "  had  befallen  them. 
They  rallied  gallantly  to  the  support  of 
the  man  who  had  flattered  them  with 
such  transcendent  ability,  and  they 
fought  for  him  with  much  of  the  old 
courage  and  devotion.  It  did  not  suf- 
fice. Elba,  the  Hundred  Days,  Water- 
loo, the  Bellerophon,  complete  the 
story.  The  last  line  of  his  published 
correspondence  charges  England  with 
having  extended  to  a  fallen  foe  a  hos- 
pitable hand,  and  then,  when  he  had 
given  himself  up  in  good  faith,  "she 
immolated  him,"  —  elle  Vimmola  ! 
But  in  1806,  when  he  dethroned  the 
king  of  Naples,  he  wrote  thus  to  his 
brother  Joseph  :  "  The  king  of  Naples 
will  never  ascend  his  throne  again. 
You  will  explain  that  this  is  necessary 
to  the  repose  of  the  Continent  j  since 
he  has  twice  disturbed  it." 


THE   ENGLISH   GOVERNESS   AT   THE  SIAMESE   COURT. 


III. 


OF  Somdetch  Phra  Paramendr  Ma- 
ha  Mongkut,  late  supreme  king 
of  Siam,  it  may  safely  be  said  (for  all 
his  capricious  provocations  of  temper 
and  his  snappish  greed  of  power)  that 
he  was,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  epithet, 
the  most  remarkable  of  the  Oriental 
princes  of  the  present  century, — un- 
questionably the  most  distinguished  of 
all  the  supreme  rulers  of  Siam,  of 
whom  the  native  historians  enumerate 
not  less  than  forty,  reckoning  from  the 


founding  of  the  ancient  capital  (Ayudia 
or  Ayuo-deva,  "the  abode  of  gods") 
in  A.  D.  1350. 

He  was  the  legitimate  son  of  the  king 
Phra  Chou-Phra  Pooti-lootlah  ;  and  his 
mother,  daughter  of  the  youngest  sister 
of  the  King  Somdetch  Phra  Bouromah 
Rajah  Phra  Pooti  Yout  Fah,  was  one 
of  the  most  admired  princesses  of  her 
time,  and  is  described  as  equally  beau- 
tiful and  virtuous.  She  devoted  her- 
self assiduously  to  the  education  of  her 


1 8;o.] 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


731 


sons,  of  whom  the  second,  the  subject  of 
these  notes,  was  born  in  1804  ;  and  the 
youngest,  her  best  beloved,  was  the  late 
second  king  of  Siam. 

One  of  the  first, public  acts  of  the 
King  Phra  Pooti-lootlah  was  to  elevate 
to  the  highest  honors  of  the  state  his 
eldest  son  (the  Chowfa  Mongkut),  and 
proclaim  him  heir  -  apparent  to  the 
throne.  He  then  selected  twelve  no- 
blemen, distinguished  for  their  attain- 
ments, prudence,  and  virtue,  —  most 
conspicuous  among  them  the  venerable 
but  energetic  Duke  Somdetch  Ong  Yai, 
—  to  be  tutors  and  guardians  to  the 
lad.  By  these  he  was  carefully  taught 
in  all  the  learning  of  his  time  ;  Sanskrit 
and  Pali  formed  his  chief  study,  and 
from  the  first  he  aspired  to  proficiency 
in  Latin  and  English,  for  the  pursuit 
of  which  he  soon  found  opportunities 
among  the  missionaries.  His  transla- 
tions from  the  Sanskrit,  Pali,  and  Ma- 
gadthi  mark  him  as  an  authority  among 
Oriental  linguists ;  and  his  knowledge 
of  English,  though  never  perfect,  be- 
came at  least  extensive  and  varied ; 
so  that  he  could  correspond,  with  credit 
to  himself,  with  Englishmen  of. distinc- 
tion, such  as  the  Earl  of  Clarendon 
and  Lords  Stanley  and  Russell. 

In  his  eighteenth  year  he  married  a 
noble  lady,  descended  from  the  Phya 
Tak  Sinn,  who  bore  him  two  sons. 

Two  years  later  the  throne  became 
vacant  by  the  death  of  his  father ;  but 
his  elder  half-brother,  who,  through 
the  intrigues  of  his  mother,  had  se- 
cured a  footing  in  the,  favor  of  the 
Senabawdee,  was  inducted  by  that 
"Royal  Council"  into  power,  with  the 
title  of  Prabat  Somdetch  Phra  Nang 
Klou.  Unequal  to  the  exploit  of  un- 
seating the  usurper,  and  fearing  his 
unscrupulous  jealousy,  the  Chowfa 
Mongkut  took  refuge  in  a  monastery, 
and  entered  the  priesthood,*  leaving 
his  wife  and  two  sons  to  mourn  him 
as  one  dead  to  them.  In  this  self-im- 
posed celibacy  he  lived  throughout  the 
long  reign  of  his  half-brother,  which 
lasted  twenty-seven  years. 

In  the  calm  retreat  of  his  Buddhist 
*  See  the  first  of  these  papers. 


cloister  the  contemplative  tastes  of  the 
royal  scholar  found  fresh  entertain- 
ment, his  intellectual  aspirations  a  new 
incitement. 

He  labored  with  enthusiasm  for  the 
diffusion  of  religion  and  enlightenment, 
and,  above  all,  to  promote  a  higher  ap- 
preciation of  the  teachings  of  Buddha, 
to  whose  doctrines  he  devoted  himself 
with  exemplary  zeal  throughout  his 
sacerdotal  career.  From  the  Buddhist 
scriptures  he  compiled  with  reverent 
care  an  impressive  liturgy  for  his  own 
use.  His  private  charities  amounted 
annually  to  ten  thousand  ticals.  All 
the  fortune  he  accumulated,  from  the 
time  of  his  quitting  the  court  until  his 
return  to  it,  to  accept  the  diadem  of- 
fered by  the  Senabawdee,  he  expended 
either  in  charitable  distributions  or  in 
the  purchase  of  books,  sacred  manu- 
scripts, and  relics  for  his  monastery.* 

It  was  during  his  retirement  that  he 
wrote  that  notable  treatise  in  defence 
of  the  divinity  of  the  revelations  of 
Buddha,  in  which  he  essays  to  prove 
that  it  was  the  single  aim  of  the  great 
reformer  to  deliver  man  from  all  self- 
ish and  carnal  passions,  and  in  which 
he  uses  these  words  :  "  These  are  the 
only  obstacles  in  the  search  for  Truth. 
The  most  solid  wisdom  is  to  know  this, 
and  to  apply  one's  self  to  the  conquest 
of  one's  self.  This  it  is  to  become  the 
enlightened —  the  Buddha  !  "  And  he 
concludes  with  the  remark  of  Asoka, 
the  Indian  king  :  "  That  which  has  been 
delivered  unto  us  by  Buddha,  that  alone 
is  well  said,  and  worthy  of  our  soul's 
profoundest  homage." 

In  the  pursuit  of  his  appointed  ends 
Maha  Mongkut  was  active  and  perti- 
nacious ;  no  labors  wearied  him  nor 
pains  deterred  him.  Bef9re  the  arrival 
of  the  Protestant  missionaries,  in  1820, 
he  had  acquired  some  knowledge  of 
Latin  and  the  sciences  from  the  Jesuits  ; 

*  "  On  the  third  reign  he  [himself]  served  his  eldest 
royal  half-brother,  by  superintending  the  construction 
and  revision  of  royal  sacred  books  in  royal  libraries  ; 
so  he  was  appointed  the  principal  superintendent  of 
clergymen's  acts  and  works  of  Buddhist  religion,  and 
selector  of  religious  learned  wise  men  in  the  country, 
during  the  third  reign."  —  From  the  pen  of  Mahet 
Mongkut. 


732 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [June, 


but  when  the  Protestants  came  he  mani- 
fested a  positive  preference  for  their 
methods  of  instruction,  inviting  one  or 
another  of  them  daily  to  his  temple,  to 
aid  him  in  the  study  of  English.  Final- 
ly he  placed  himself  under  the  perma- 
nent tutorship  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Caswell, 
an  American  missionary  ;  and  in  order 
to  encourage  his  preceptor  to  visit  him 
frequently,  he  fitted  up  a  convenient 
resting-place  for  him  on  the  route  to 
the  temple,  where  that  excellent  man 
might  teach  the  poorer  people  who 
gathered  to  hear  him.  Under  Mr. 
Caswell  he  made  extraordinary  pro- 
gress in  advanced  and  liberal  ideas  of 
government,  commerce,  even  religion. 
He  never  hesitated  to  express  his  re- 
spect for  the  fundamental  principles  of 
Christianity;  but  once,  when  pressed 
too  closely  by  his  reverend  moonshee 
with  what  he  regarded  as  the  more  pre- 
tentious and  apocryphal  portions  of  the 
Bible,  he  checked  that  gentleman's  ad- 
vance with  the  remark  that  has  ever 
been  remembered  against  him,  "  I  hate 
the  Bible  mostly  /  " 

As  High-Priest. of  Siam  —  the  mystic 
and  potential  office  to  which  he  was  in 
the  end  exalted  —  he  became  the  head 
of  a  new  school,  professing  strictly  the 
pure  philosophy  inculcated  by  Buddha  : 
"  the  law  of  Compensation,  of  Many 
Births,  and  of  final  Niphan,"  *  —  but 
not  Nihilism,  as  the  word  and  the  idea 
are  commonly  defined.  It  is  only  to 
the  idea  of  God  as  an  ever-active 
Creator  that  the  new  school  of  Budd- 
hists is  opposed,  —  not  to  the  Deity  as 
a  primal  source,  from  whose  thought 
and  pleasure  sprang  all  forms  of  mat- 
ter ;  nor  can  they  be  brought  to  admit 
the  need  of  miraculous  intervention  in 
the  order  of  nature. 

In  this  connection,  it  may  not  be  out 
of  place  to  mention  a  remark  that  the 
king  (still  speaking  as  a  high-priest, 
having  authority)  once  made  to  me,  on 
the  subject  of  the  miracles  recorded  in 
the  Bible:  — 

"You  say  that  marriage  is  a  holy  in- 
stitution ;  and  I  believe  it  is  esteemed 
a  sacrament  by  one  of  the  principal 

*  Attainment  of  beatitude. 


branches  of  your  sect.  It  is,  of  all  the 
laws  of  the  universe,  the  most  wise  and 
incontestable,  pervading  all  forms  bf 
animal  and  vegetable  life.  Yet  your 
God  (meaning  the  Christian's  God)  has 
stigmatized  it  as  unholy,  in  that  he 
would  not  permit  his  Son  to  be  born 
in  the  ordinary  way  ;  but  must  needs 
perform  a  miracle  in  order  to  give  birth 
to  one  divinely  inspired.  Buddha  was 
divinely  inspired,  but  he  was  only  man. 
Thus  it  seems  to  me  he  is  the  greater 
of  the  two,  because  out  of  his  own  heart 
he  studied  humanity,  which  is  but  an- 
other form  of  divinity;  and,  the  carnal 
mind  being  by  this  contemplation  sub- 
dued, he  became  the  Divinely  Enliglit- 
ened." 

When  his  teacher  had  begun  to  en- 
tertain hopes  that  he  would  one  day 
become  a  Christian,  he  came  out  open- 
ly against  the  idea,  declaring  that  he 
entertained  no  thought  of  such  a 
change.  He  admonished  the  mission- 
aries not  to  deceive  themselves,  saying  : 
"  You  must  not  imagine  that  any  of  my 
party  will  ever  become  Christians.  We 
cannot  embrace  what  we  consider  a 
foolish  religion." 

In  the 'beginning  of  the  year  1851 
his  supreme  majesty,  Prabat  Somdetch 
Phra  Nang  Klou,  fell  ill,  and  gradually 
declined  until  the  3d  of  April,  when  he 
expired,  and  the  throne  was  again  va- 
cant. The  dying  sovereign  urged  with 
all  his  influence  that  the  succession 
should  fall  to  his  eldest  son  ;  but  in  the 
assembly  of  the  Senabawdee,  Som- 
detch Ong  Yai  (father  of  the  present 
Prime  Minister  of  Siam),  supported  by 
Somdetch  Ong  Noi,  vehemently  de- 
clared himself  in  favor  of  the  high- 
priest  Chowfa  Mongkut. 

This  struck  terror  to  the  "  illegiti- 
mates," and  mainly  availed  to  quell 
the  rising  storm  of  partisan  conflict. 
Moreover,  Ong  Yai  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  surround  the  persons 
of  the  princes  with  a  formidable  guard, 
and  to  distribute  an  overwhelming 
force  of  militia  in  all  quarters  of  the 
city,  ready  for  instant  action  at  a  signal 
from  him. 

On  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  April, 


1 8;o.] 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


733 


after  being  formally  apprised  of  his  elec- 
tion, the  Chowfa  was  borne  in  state  to 
a  residence  adjoining  the  Phra  Saat, 
to  await  the  auspicious  day  of  cor- 
onation, —  the  1 5th  of  the  following 
month,  as  fixed  by  the  court  astrolo- 
gers ;  and  when  it  came  it  was  hailed 
by  all  classes  of  the  people  with  im- 
moderate demonstrations  of  joy  ;  for 
to  their  priest  king,  more  sacred  than  a 
conqueror,  they  were  drawn  by  bonds 
of  superstition  as  well  as  of  pride  and 
affection. 

The  ceremony  of  coronation  is  very 
peculiar. 

In  the  centre  of  the  Inner  Hall  of 
Audience  of  the  royal  palace,  on  a  high 
platform,  richly  gilded  and  adorned,  is 
placed  a  circular  golden  basin,  called  in 
the  court  language  Mangala  B/iagavat 
thong,  —  "  the  Golden  Circlet  of  Power." 
Within  this  basin  is  deposited  the  an- 
cient Phra-Batt,  or  golden  stool,  the 
whole  being  surmounted  by  a  quad- 
rangular canopy,  under  a  tapering, 
nine-storied  umbrella  in  the  form  of  a 
pagoda,  from  ten  to  twelve  feet  high, 
and  profusely  gilt.  Directly  over  the 
centre  of  the  canopy  is  deposited  a  vase 
containing  consecrated  waters,  which 
have  been  prayed  over  nine  times,  and 
poured  through  nine  different  circular 
vessels  in  their  passage  to  the  sacred 
receptacle.  These  waters  must  be 
drawn  from  the  very  sources  of  the 
chief  rivers  of  Siam  ;  and  reservoirs 
for  their  preservation  are  provided  in 
the  precincts  of  the  temples  at  Bang- 
kok. 

In  the  mouth  of  this  vessel  is  a  tube 
representing  the  pericarp  of  a  lotos  after 
its  petals  have  fallen  off;  and  this, 
called  Sukla  Utapala  Atmano,  "the 
White  Lotos  of  Life,"  symbolizes  the 
beauty  of  pure  conduct. 

The  king  elect,  arrayed  in  a  simple 
white  robe,  takes  his  seat  on  the  golden 
stool.  A  Brahmin  priest  then  presents 
to  him  some  water  in  a  small  cup  of 
gold,  lotos  -  shaped.  This  water  has 
previously  been  filtered  through  nine 
different  forms  of  matter,  commencing 
with  earth,  then  ashes,  wheaten  flour, 
rice  flour,  powdered  lotos  and  jessa- 


mine, dust  of  iron,  gold,  and  charcoal, 
and  finally  flame ;  each  a  symbol,  not 
merely  of  the  indestructibility  of  ele- 
ment, but  also  of  its  presence  in  all 
animate  or  inanimate  matter.  Into 
this  water  the  king  elect  dips  his  right 
hand,  and  passes  it  over  his  head.  Im- 
mediately the  choir  join  in  an  inspiring 
chant,  the  signal  for  the  inverting,  by 
means  of  a  pulley,  of  the  vessel  over 
the  canopy  ;  and  the  consecrated  waters 
descend  through  another  lotos  flower, 
in  a  lively  shower,  on  the  head  of  the 
king.  This  shower  represents  celestial 
blessings. 

A  Buddhist  priest  then  advances 
and  pours  a  goblet  of  water  over  the 
royal  person.  He  is  imitated,  first 
by  the  Brahmin  priests,  next  by  the 
princes  and  princesses  royal.  The  ves- 
sels used  for  this  purpose  are  of  the 
chank  or  conch  shell,  richly  orna- 
mented. Then  come  the  nobles  of  high- 
est rank,  bearing  cups  of  gold,  silver, 
earthenware,  pinchbeck,  samil,  and 
tankwah  (metallic  compositions  pecu- 
liar to  Siam).  The  materials  of  which 
the  vessels  for  this  royal  bath  are  com- 
posed must  be  of  not  less  than  seven 
kinds.  Last  of  all,  the  Prime  Minister 
of  the  realm  advances  with  a  cup  of 
iron  ;  and  the  sacred  bath  is  finished. 

Now  the  king  descends  into  the 
golden  basin,  "  Mangala  Bhagavat 
thong,"  where  he  is  anointed  with 
nine  varieties  of  perfumed  oil,  and 
dipped  in  fine  dust  brought  from  the 
bed  of  the  Ganges.  He  is  then  arrayed 
in  regal  robes. 

On  the  throne,  which  is  in  the  south 
end  of  the  hall,  and  octagonal,  hav- 
ing eight  seats,  corresponding  to  eight 
points  of  the  compass,  the  king  first 
seats  himself  facing  the  north,  and  so 
on,  moving  eastward,  facing  each  point 
in  its  order.  On  the  top  step  of  each 
seat  crouch  two  priests,  Buddhist  and 
Brahmin,  who  present  to  him  another 
bowl  of  water,  which  he  drinks  and 
sprinkles  on  his  face,  each  time  re- 
peating, by  responses  with  the  priests, 
the  following  prayer  :  — 

Priests.  Be  thou  learned  in  the  laws 
of  nature,  and  of  the  universe  !  J 


734 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [June, 


King.  Inspire  me,  O  Thou  who  wert 
a  law  unto  thyself! 

P.  Be  thou  endowed  with  all  wisdom, 
and  all  acts  of  industry  ! 

K.  Inspire  me  with  all  knowledge,  O 
Thou  the  Enlightened  ! 

P.  Let  Mercy  and  Truth  be  thy  right 
and  left  arms  of  life  ! 

K.  Inspire  me,  O  Thou  who  hast 
proved  all  Truth  and  all  Mercy ! 

P.  Let  the  Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars 
bless  thee  ! 

K.  All  praise  to  Thee,  through  whom 
all  forms  are  conquered  ! 

P.  Let  the  earth,  air,  and  waters 
bless  thee  ! 

K.  Through  the  merit  of  Thee,  O 
thou  conqueror  of  Death  !  * 

These  prayers  ended,  the  priests 
conduct  the  king  to  another  throne, 
facing  the  east,  and  still  more  magnifi- 
cent. Here  the  insignia  of  his  sover- 
eignty are  presented  to  him  ;  — first  the 
sword,  then  the  sceptre ;  two  mas- 
sive chains  are  suspended  from  his 
neck  ;  and  lastly  the  crown  is  set  upon 
his  head,  when  instantly  he  is  saluted 
by  roar  of  cannon  without  and  music 
within. 

Then  he  is  presented  with  the  golden 
slippers,  the  fan,  the  umbrella  of  roy- 
alty, rings  set  with  huge  diamonds  for 
each  of  his  forefingers,  and  the  various 
Siamese  weapons  of  war :  these  he 
merely  accepts,  and  returns  to  his  at- 
tendants. 

The  ceremony  concludes  with  an  ad- 
dress from  the  priests,  exhorting  him 
to  be  pure  in  his  sovereign  and  sacred 
office  ;  and  a  reply  from  himself,  where- 
in he  solemnly  vows  to  be  a  just,  up- 
right, and  faithful  ruler  of  his  people. 
Last  of  all,  a  golden  tray  is  handed  to 
him,  from  which,  as  he  descends  from 
his  throne,  he  scatters  gold  and  silver 
flowers  among  the  audience. 

The  following  day  is  devoted  to  a 
more  public  enthronement.  His  Maj- 
esty, attired  more  sumptuously  than 
before,  is  presented  to  all  his  court 

*  For  these  translations  I  am  indebted  to  his 
Majesty,  Maha  Mongkut ;  as  well  as  for  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  several  symbols  used  in  this  and 
other  sole«nn  rites  of  the  Buddhists. 


and  to  a  more  general  audience.  After 
the  customary  salutations  by  prostra- 
tion, and  salutes  of  cannon  and  music, 
the  Premier  and  other  principal  minis- 
ters read  short  addresses,  in  delivering 
over  to  the  king  the  control  pf  their 
respective  departments.  His  Majesty 
replies  briefly  ;  there  is  a  general  salute 
from  all  forts,  war  vessels,  and  mer- 
chant shipping ;  and  the  remainder  of 
the  day  is  devoted  to  feasting  and  va- 
rious enjoyment. 

Immediately  after  the  crowning  of 
Maha  Mongkut,  his  Majesty  repaired 
to  the  palace  of  the  Second  King,  where 
the  ceremony  of  subordinate  corona- 
tion differed  from  that  just  described 
only  in  the  circumstance  that  the  con- 
secrated waters  were  poured  over  the 
person  of  the  second  king,  and  the  in- 
signia presented  to  him,  by  the  supreme 
sovereign. 

Five  days  later  a  public  procession 
made  the  circuit  of  the  palace  and  city 
walls  in  a  peculiar  circumambulatory 
march  of  mystic  significance,  with 
feasting,  dramatic  entertainments,  and 
fireworks.  The  concourse  assembled 
to  take  part  in  those  brilliant  demon- 
strations has  never  since  been  equalled 
in  any  public  display  in  Siam. 

Thus  the  two  royal  brothers,  with 
views  more  liberal,  as  to  religion,  edu- 
cation, foreign  trade,  and  intercourse, 
than  the  most  enlightened  of  their 
predecessors  had  .entertained,  were 
firmly  seated  on  the  throne  ;  and  every 
citizen,  native  or  foreign,  began  to  look 
with  confidence  for  the  dawn  of  better 
times. 

Nor  did  the  newly  crowned  sover- 
eign forget  his  friends  and  teachers, 
the  American  missionaries.  He  sent 
for  them,  and  thanked  them  cordially 
for  all  that  they  had  taught  him,  assur- 
ing them  that  it  was  his  earnest  desire 
to  administer  his  government  after  the 
model  of  the  limited  monarchy  of  Eng- 
land ;  and  to  introduce  schools,  where 
the  Siamese  youth  might  be  well  taught 
in  the  English  language  and  literature, 
and  the  sciences  of  Europe.* 

*  In  this  connection  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Bradley, 
Caswell,  House,  and  Matoon  are  entitled  to  spe- 


1870.]          The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


735 


There  can  be  no  just  doubt  that,  at 
the  time,  it  was  his  sincere  purpose 
to  carry  these  generous  impulses  into 
practical  effect ;  for  certainly  he  was, 
in  every  moral  and  intellectual  respect, 
nobly  superior  to  his  predecessor  ;  and 
to  his  dying  hour  he  was  conspicuous 
for  his  attachment  to  a  sound  philoso- 
phy and  the  purest  maxims  of  Buddha. 
Yet  we  find  in  him  a  deplorable  exam- 
ple of  the  degrading  influence  on  the 
human  mind  of  the  greed  of  posses- 
sions and  power,  and  of  the  infelicities 
that  attend  it ;  for  though  he  promptly 
set  about  the  reforming  of  abuses  in  the 
several  departments  of  his  government, 
and  invited  the  ladies  of  the  American 
mission  to  teach  in  his  new  harem, 
nevertheless  he  soon  began  to  indulge 
his  avaricious  and  sensual  propensities, 
and  cast  a  jealous  eye  upon  the  influ- 
ence of  the  prime  minister,  the  son  of 
his  stanch  old  friend,  the  Duke  Ong 
Yai,  to  whom  he  owed  almost  the 
crown  itself,  and  of  his  younger  broth- 
er, the  second  king,  and  of  the  neigh- 
boring princes  of  Chiengmai  and  Co- 
chin-China.  He  presently  offended 
those  who,  by  their  resolute  display  of 
loyalty  in  his  hour  of  peril,  had  seated 
him  safely  on  the  throne  of  his  ances- 
tors. 

From  this  time  he  was  continually 
exposed  to  disappointment,  mortifica- 
tion, slights  from  abroad,  and  conspir- 
acy at  home.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  steadfast  adherence  of  the  second 
king  and  the  prime  minister,  the  scep- 
tre would  have  been  wrested  from  his 
grasp  and  bestowed  upon  his  more 
popular  brother. 

Yet  notwithstanding  all  this,  he  ap- 
peared, to  those  who  observed  him 
only  on  the  public  stage  of  affairs,  to 

cial  mention.  To  their  united  influence  Siam  un- 
questionably owes  much,  if  not  all,  of  her  present 
advancement  and  prosperity.  Nor  would  I  be 
thought  to  detract  from  the  high  praise  that  is  due 
to  their  fellow-laborers  in  the  cause  of  Christianity, 
the  Roman  Catholic  missionaries,  who  are,  and  ever 
have  been,  indefatigable  in  their  exertions  for  the 
good  of  the  country.  Especially  will  the  name  of 
the  excellent  bishop,  Monseigneur  Pallegorit,  be 
held  in  honor  and  affection  by  people  of  all  creeds 
and  tongues  in  Siam,  as  that  of  a  pure  and  devoted 
follower  of  our  common  Redeemer. 


rule  with  wisdom,  to  consult  the  wel- 
fare of  his  subjects,  to  be  concerned 
for  the  integrity  of  justice  and  the 
purity  of  manners  and  conversation  in 
his  own  court,  and  careful,  by  a  pru- 
dent administration,  to  confirm  his  pow- 
er at  home  and  his  prestige  abroad. 
Considered  apart  from  his  domestic 
relations,  he  was,  in  many  respects,  an 
able  and  virtuous  ruler.  His  foreign 
policy  was  liberal ;  he  extended  tolera- 
tion to  all  religious  sects  ;  he  expended 
a  generous  portion  of  his  revenues  in 
public  improvements  ;  monasteries,' 
temples,  bazaars,  canals,  bridges,  arose 
at  his  bidding  on  every  side ;  and 
though  he  fell  short  of  his  early  prom- 
ise, he  did  much  to  improve  the  condi- 
tion of  his  subjects. 

For  example,  at  the  instance  of  her 
Britannic  Majesty's  Consul,  the  Hon- 
orable Thomas  George  Knox,  he  re- 
moved the  heavy  boat-tax  that  had  so 
oppressed  the  poorer  masses  of  the 
Siamese,  and  constructed  good  roads, 
and  improved  the  international  cham- 
bers of  judicature. 

But,  as  husband  and  kinsman  his 
character  assumes  a  most  revolting  as- 
pect. Envious,  revengeful,  subtle,  he 
was  as  fickle  and  petulant  as  he  was 
suspicious  and  cruel.  His  brother, 
even  the  offspring  of  his  brother,  be- 
came to  him  objects  of  jealousy,  if  not 
of  hatred.  Their  friends  must,  he 
thought,  be  his  enemies  ;  and  applause 
bestowed  upon  them  was  odious  to  his 
soul.  There  were  many  horrid  trage- 
dies in  his  harem,  in  which  he  enacted 
the  part  of  a  barbarian  and  a  despot. 
Plainly,  his  conduct,  as  the  head  of 
a  great  family  to  whom  his  will  was  a 
law  of  terror,  reflects  abiding  disgrace 
upon  his  name.  Yet  it  had  this  re- 
deeming feature,  that  he  tenderly  loved 
those  of  his  children  whose  mothers 
had  been  agreeable  to  him.  He  never 
snubbed  or  slighted  them  ;  and  for 
the  little  princess.  Chowfa-Ying,  whose 
mother  had  been  to  him  a  most  gentle 
and  devoted  wife,  his  affection  was  very 
strong  and  enduring. 

But  to  turn  from  the  contemplation 
of  his  private  traits?  so  contradictory 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.         [June, 


and  offensive,  to  the  consideration  of 
his  public  acts,  so  liberal  and  benefi- 
cent. Sereral  commercial  treaties  of 
the  first  importance  were  concluded 
with  foreign  powers  during  his  reign. 
In  the  first  place,  the  Siamese  govern- 
ment voluntarily  reduced  the  measure- 
ment duties  on  foreign  shipping,  from 
nineteen  hundred  to  one  thousand 
ticals  per  fathom  of  ship's  beam.  This 
was  a  brave  stride  in  the  direction  of  a 
sound  commercial  policy,  and  an  ear- 
nest of  greater  inducements  to  enter- 
prising traders  from  abroad.  In  1855 
a  new  treaty  of  commerce  was  nego- 
tiated with  his  Majesty's  government 
by  H.  B.  M.'s  plenipotentiary,  Sir  John 
Bowring,  which  proved  of  very  positive 
advantage  to  both  parties.  On  the  2gth 
of  May,  1856,  a  new  treaty,  substan- 
tially like  that  with  Great  Britain,  was 
procured  by  Townsend  Harris,  .Esq., 
representing  the  United  States  ;  and 
later  in  the  same  year  still  another,  in 
favor  of  France,  through  H.  I.  M.'s  En- 
voy, M.  Montigny. 

Before  that  time  Portugal  had  been 
the  only  foreign  government  having  a 
consul  residing  at  Bangkok.  Now  the 
way  was  opened  to  admit  a  resident 
consul  of  each  of  the  treaty  powers  ; 
and  shortly  millions  of  dollars  flowed 
into  Siam  annually  by  channels  through 
which  but  a  few  tens  of  thousands  had 
been  drawn  before.  Foreign  traders 
and  merchants  flocked  to  Bangkok  and 
established  rice-mills,  factories  for  the 
production  of  sugar  and  oil,  and  ware- 
houses for  the  importation  of  European 
fabrics.  They  found  a  ready  market 
for  their  wares,  and  an  aspect  of  thrift 
and  comfort  began  to  enliven  the  once 
neglected  and  cheerless  land. 

A  new  and  superb  palace  was  erected, 
after  the  model  of  Windsor  Castle,  to- 
gether with  numerous  royal  residences 
in  different  parts  of  the  country.  The 
nobility  began  to  emulate  the  activity 
and  munificence  of  their  sovereign,  and 
to  compete  with  each  other  in  the 
grandeur  of  their  dwellings  and  the 
splendor  of  their  corteges. 

So  prosperous  did  the  country  be- 
come under  the  bemgn  influence  of  for- 


eign trade  and  civilization,  that  other 
treaties  were  speedily  concluded  with 
almost  every  nation  under  the  sun,  and 
his  Majesty  found  it  necessary  to  ac- 
credit Sir  John  Bowring  as  plenipoten- 
tiary for  Siam  abroad. 

Early  in  this  reign  the  appointment 
of  harbor-master  at  Bangkok  was  con- 
ferred upon  an  English  gentleman,  who 
proved  so  efficient  in  his  functions  that 
he  was  distinguished  with  the  fifth  title 
of  a  Siamese  noble.  Next  came  a  French 
commander  and  a  French  band-master 
for  the  royal  troops.  Then  a  custom- 
house was  established,  and  a"  live  Yan- 
kee "  installed  at  the  head  of  it,  who 
was  also  glorified  with  a  title  of  honor. 
Finally  a  police  force  was  organized, 
composed  of  trusty  Malays  hired  from 
Singapore,  and  commanded  by  one  of 
the  most  energetic  Englishmen  to  be 
found  in  the  East, —  a  measure  which 
has  done  more  than  all  others  to  pro- 
mote a  comfortable  sense  of  "  law  and 
order "  throughout  the  city  and  out- 
skirts of  Bangkok.  It  is  to  be  remem- 
bered, however,  in  justice  to  the  British 
Consul-General  in  Siam,  Mr.  Thomas 
George  Knox,  that  the  sure  though 
silent  influence  was  his,  whereby  the 
minds  of  the  king  and  the  prime  min- 
ister were  led  to  appreciate  the  bene- 
fits that  must  accrue  from  these  foreign 
innovations. 

The  privilege  of  constructing,  on  lib- 
eral terms,  a  line  of  telegraph  through 
Maulmain  to  Singapore,  with  a  branch 
to  Bangkok,  has  been  granted  to  the 
Singapore  Telegraph  Company  ;  and 
finally,  a  sanatarium  has  been  erected 
on  the  coast  at  Anghin,  for  the  benefit 
of  native  and  foreign  residents  needing 
the  invigoration  of  sea-air.* 

During  his  retirement  in  the  monas- 

*  "  His  Excellency  Chow  Pliya  Bhibnkrwongs 
Maha  Kosa  Dliipude,  the  Phraklang,  Minister  for 
Foreign  Affairs,  has  built  a  sanatarium  at  Anghin, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  public.  It  is  for  benefit  of  the 
Siamese,  Europeans,  or  Americans,  to  go  and  occupy 
when  unwell  to  restore  their  health.  All  are  cor- 
dially invited  to  go  there  for  a  suitable  length  of 
time  and  be  happy  ;  but  are  requested  not  to  remain 
month  after  month  and  year  after  year,  and  regard  it 
as  a  place  without  an  owner.  To  regard  it  in  this 
way  cannot  be  allowed,  for  it  is  public  property  and 
others  should  go  and  stop  there  also."  — Advertise- 
ment, Siam  Monitor,  August  29,  1868. 


i8/o.]         The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


737 


tery  the  king  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis, 
from  which  he  perfectly  recovered  ;  but 
it  left  its  mark  on  his  face,  in  the  form  of 
a  peculiar  falling  of  the  under  lip  on  the 
right  side.  In  person  he  was  of  middle 
stature,  slightly  built,  of  regular  fea- 
tures and  fair  complexion.  In  early 
life  he  lost  most  of  his  teeth,  but  he 
had  had  them  replaced  with  a  set  made 
from  Japan  wood,  —  a  secret  that  he 
kept  very  sensitively  to  the  day  of  his 
death. 

Capable  at  times  of  the  noblest  im- 
pulses, he  was  equally  capable  of  the 
basest  actions.  Extremely  accessible 
to  praise,  he  indiscriminately  enter- 
tained every  form  of  flattery ;  but  his 
fickleness  was  such  that  no  courtier 
could  cajole  him  long.  Among  his 
favorite  women  was  the  beautiful  Prin- 
cess Tongoo  Soopia,  sister  to  the  un- 
fortunate Sultan  Mahmoud,  ex -rajah 
of  Pahang.  Falling  fiercely  in  love 
with  her  on  her  presentation  at  his 
court,  he  procured  her  for  his  harem, 
against  her  will,  and  as  a  hostage  for 
the  good  faith  of  her  brother ;  but  as 
she,  being  Mohammedan,  ever  main- 
tained toward  him  a  deportment  of  tran- 
quil indifference,  he  soon  tired  of  her, 
and  finally  dismissed  her  to  a  wretched 
life  of  obsoleteness  and  neglect  within 
the  palace  walls. 

The  only  woman  who  ever  managed 
him  with  acknowledged  success  was 
Khoon  Chom  Piem  :  hardly  pretty,  but 
well  formed,  and  of  versatile  tact,  totally 
uneducated,  of  barely  respectable  birth, 
—  being  Chinese  on  her  father's  side, — 
yet  withal  endowed  with  a  nice  intuitive 
appreciation  of  character.  Once  con- 
scious of  her  growing  influence  over  the 
king,  she  contrived  to  foster  and  exer- 
cise it  for  years,  with  but  a  slight  rebuff 
now  and  then.  Being  modest  to  a 
fault,  even  at  times  obnoxious  to  the 
imputation  of  prudishness,  she  habitu- 
ally feigned  excuses  for  non-attendance 
in  his  Majesty's  chambers,  —  such  as 
delicate  health,  the  nursing  of  her  chil- 
dren, mourning  for  the  death  of  this  or 
that  relative,  —  and  voluntarily  visited 
him  only  at  rare  intervals.  In  the 
course  of  six  years  she  amassed  con- 

VOL.  xxv.  —  NO.  152.  47 


siderable  treasure,  procured  good  places 
at  court  for  members  of  her  family,  and 
was  the  means  of  bringing  many  China- 
men to  the  notice  of  the  king.  At  the 
same  time  she  lived  in  continual  fear, 
was  warily  humble  and  conciliating 
toward  her  rival  sisters,  who  pitied 
rather  than  envied  her,  and  retained  in 
her  pay  most  of  the  female  executive 
force  in  the  palace. 

In  his  daily  habits  his  Majesty  was 
remarkably  industrious  and  frugal.  His 
devotion  to  the  study  of  astronomy 
never  abated,  and  he  calculated  with 
respectable  accuracy  the  great  solar 
eclipse  of  August,  1868. 

The  French  government  having  sent 
a  special  commission,  under  command 
of  the  Baron  Hugon  le  Tourneur,  to 
observe  the  eclipse  in  Siam,  the  king 
erected,  at  a  place  called  Hua  Wann 
("  the  Whale's  Head  ")  a  commodious 
observatory,  beside  numerous  pavilions 
varying  in  size  and  magnificence,  for 
his  Majesty  and  retinue,  the  French 
commission,  the  Governor  of  Singapore 
(Colonel  Ord)  and  suite,  who  had  been 
invited  to  Bangkok  by  the  king,  and 
for  ministers  and  nobles  of  Siam.  Pro- 
vision was  made,  at  the  cost  of  govern- 
ment, for  the  regal  entertainment,  in  a 
town  of  booths  and  tabernacles,  of  the 
vast  concourse  of  natives  and  Euro- 
peans who  followed  his  Majesty  from 
the  capital  to  witness  the  sublime  phe- 
nomenon ;  and  a  herd  of  fifty  noble 
elephants  were  brought  from  the  an- 
cient city  of  Ayudia  for  service  and 
display. 

The  prospect  becoming  dubious  and 
gloomy  just  at  the  time  of  first  contact 
(ten  o'clock),  the  Prime  Minister  archly 
invited  the  foreigners  who  believed  in 
an  overruling  Providence  to  pray  to 
him,  "  that  he  may  be  pleased  to  dis-  ;t 
perse  the  clouds  long  eflough  to  afford 
us  a  good  view  of  the  grandest  of 
eclipses."  Presently  the  clouds  were 
partially  withdrawn  from  the  sun,  and 
his  Majesty  observing  that  one  twen- 
tieth of  the  disk  was  obscured,  an- 
nounced the  fact  to  his  own  people  by 
firing  a  cannon  ;  and  immediately  pipes 
screamed  and  trumpets  blared  in  the 


738 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [June, 


royal  pavilion,  —  a  tribute  of  reverence 
to  the  traditional  fable  about  the  Angel 
Rahoo  swallowing  the  sun.  Both  the 
king  and  prime  minister,  scorning  the 
restraints  of  dignity,  were  fairly  boister- 
ous in  their  demonstrations  of  triumph 
and  delight ;  the  latter  skipping  from 
point  to  point  to  squint  through  his  long 
telescope.  At  the  instant  of  absolute 
totality,  when  the  very  last  ray  of  the 
sun  had  become  extinct,  his  Excellency 
shouted,  "  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  !  " 
and  scientifically  disgraced  himself. 
Leaving  his  spyglass  swinging,  he  ran 
through  the  gateway  of  his  pavilion, 
and  cried  to  his  prostrate  wives, 
"  Henceforth,  will  you  not  believe  the 
foreigners  ? " 

But  that  other  Excellency,  Chow 
Phya  Bhudharabhay,  Minister  for 
Northern  Siam,  more  orthodox,  sat  in 
dumfoundered  faith,  and  gaped  at  the 
awful  deglutition  of  the  Angel  Rahoo. 

The  government  expended  not  less 
than  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  on 
this  scientific  expedition,  and  a  dele- 
gation from  the  foreign  community  of 
Bangkok  approached  his  Majesty  with 
an  address  of  thanks  for  his  indiscrimi- 
nate hospitality. 

But  the  extraordinary  excitement, 
and  exposure  to  the  noxious  atmos- 
phere of  the  jungle,  proved  inimical  to 
the  constitution  of  the  king.  On  his 
return  to  Bangkok  he  complained  of 
general  weariness  and  prostration, 
which  was  the  prelude  to  fever.  For- 
eign physicians  were  consulted,  but  at 
no  stage  of  the  case  was  any  Euro- 
pean treatment  employed.  He  rapidly 
grew  worse,  and  was  soon  past  saving. 
On  the  day  before  his  death  he  called 
to  his  bedside  his  nearest  relatives, 
and  parted  among  them  such  of  his 
personal  effects  as  were  most  prized  by 
him,  saying,  *'  I  have  no  more  need 
of  these  things.  I  must  give  up  my 
life  also."  Buddhist  priests  were  con- 
stant in  attendance,  and  he  seemed  to 
derive  much  comfort  from  their  prayers 
and  exhortations.  In  the  evening  he 
wrote  with  his  own  hand  a  tender 
farewell  to  the  mothers  of  his  many 
children,  —  eighty-one  in  number.  On 


the  morning  of  his  last  day  (October  i, 
1 868)  he  dictated  in  the  Pali  language 
a  farewell  address  to  the  Buddhist 
priesthood,  the  spirit  of  which  was  ad- 
mirable, and  clearly  manifested  the 
faith  of  the  dying  man  in  the  doctrines 
of  the  Reformer ;  for  he  hesitated  not  to 
say  :  "  Farewell,  ye  faithful  followers 
of  Buddha,  to  whom  death  is  nothing, 
even  as  all  earthly  existence  is  vain, 
all  things  mutable,  and  death  inevita- 
ble. Presently  I  shall  myself  submit 
to  that  stern  necessity.  Farewell !  for 
I  go  only  a  little  before  you." 

Feeling  sure  that  he  must  die  before 
midnight,  he  summoned  his  royal  half- 
brother,  H.  R.  H.  Krom  Hluang  Wong- 
sah,  his  Excellency  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter, Chow  Phya  Kralahome,  and  others, 
and  solemnly  imposed  upon  them  the 
care  of  his  eldest  son,  the  Chowfa  Chu- 
lalonkorn,  and  of  his  kingdom  ;  at  the 
same  time  expressing  his  last  earthly 
wish,  that  the  Senabawdee,  in  electing 
his  successor,  would  give  their  voices 
for  one  who  should  conciliate  all  par- 
ties, that  the  country  might  not  be  dis- 
tracted by  dissensions  on  that  question. 
He  then  told  them  he  was  about  to  fin- 
ish his  course,  and  implored  them  not 
to  give  way  to  grief,  "  nor  to  any  sud- 
den surprise,"  that  he  should  leave 
them  thus;  "'tis  an  event  that  must 
befall  all  creatures  that  come  into  this 
world,  and  may  not  be  avoided."  Then 
turning  his  gaze  upon  a  small  image  of 
his  adored  Teacher,  he  seemed  for  some 
time  absorbed  in  awful  contemplation. 
"  Such  is  life  !  "  Those  were  actually 
the  last  words  of  this  most  remarkable 
Buddhist  king.  He  died  like  a  philos- 
opher, calmly  and  sententiously  solilo- 
quizing on  death  and  its  inevitability. 
At  the  final  moment,  no  one  being 
near  save  his  adopted  son,  Phya  Bu- 
root,  he  raised  his  hands  before  his 
face,  as  in  his  accustomed  posture 
of  devotion  ;  then  suddenly  his  head 
dropped  backward,  and  he  was  gone. 

That  very  night,  without  disorder  or 
debate,  the  Senabawdee  elected  his  eld- 
est son,  Somdetch  Chowfa  Chulalon- 
korn,  to  succeed  him  ;  and  the  Prince 
George  Washington,  eldest  son  of  the 


1870.]          The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


739 


late  second  king,  to  succeed  to  his 
father's  subordinate  throne,  under  the 
title  of  Krom  Phra  Raja  Bowawn  Sah- 
than  Mongkoon.  The  title  of  the  pres- 
ent supreme  king  (my  amiable  and 
very  promising  scholar)  is  Prabat  Som- 
detch  Phra  Paramendr  Maha  Chula- 
lonkorn  Kate  Klou  Chou-yu-Hua. 

"  Do  you  understand  the  word  '  char- 
ity,' or  maitree,  as  your  apostle  St. 
P.aul  explains  it  in  the  thirteenth  chap- 
ter of  his  first  epistle  to  the  Corinthi- 
ans ? "  said  his  Majesty  to  me  one 
morning,  when  he  had  been  discussing 
the  religion  of  Sakyamuni,  the  Buddha. 

"  I  believe  I  do,  your  Majesty,"  was 
my  reply. 

"  Then,  tell  me,  what  does  St.  Paul 
really  mean,  to  what  custom  does  he 
allude,  when  he  says.  '  Even  if  I  give 
my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not 
charity,  it  profiteth  me  nothing  ?  '  " 

"  Custom !  "  said  I.  "  I  do  not  know 
of  any  custom.  The  giving  of  the  body 
to  be  burned  is  by  him  esteemed  the 
highest  act  of  devotion,  the  purest  sac- 
rifice man  can  make  for  man." 

"  You  have  said  well.  It  is  the  high- 
est act  of  devotion  that  can  be  made, 
or  performed,  by  man  for  man,  —  that 
giving  of  his  body  to  be  burned.  But 
if  it  is  done  from  a  spirit  of  opposition, 
for  the  sake  of  fame,  or  popular  ap- 
plause, or  for  any  other  such  motive, 
is  it  still  to  be  regarded  as  the  highest 
act  of  sacrifice  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  St.  Paul  means  : 
the  motive  consecrates  the  deed." 

"  But  all  men  are  not  fortified  with 
the  self-control  which  should  fit  them 
to  be  great  exemplars  ;  and  of  the 
many  who  have  appeared  in  that  char- 
acter, if  strict  inquiry  were  made,  their 
virtue  would  be  found  to  proceed  from 
any  other  than  the  true  and  pure  spirit. 
Sometimes  it  is  indolence,  sometimes 
restlessness,  sometimes  vanity,  impa- 
tient for  its  gratification,  and  rushing 
to  assume  the  part  of  humility  for  the 
purpose  of  self-delusion." 

"  Now,"  said  the  king,  taking  sever- 
al of  his  long  strides  in  the  vestibule 
of  his  library,  and  declaiming  with  his 


habitual  emphasis,  "St.  Paul,  in  this 
chapter,  evidently  and  strongly  applies 
the  Buddhist's  word  maitree,  or  maikree, 
as  pronounced  by  some  Sanskrit  schol- 
ars ;  and  explains  it  through  the  Buddh- 
ist's custom  of  giving  the  body  to  be 
burned,  which  was  practised  centuries 
before  the  Christian  era,  and  is  found 
unchanged  in  parts  of  China,  Ceylon, 
and  Siam,  to  this  day.  The  giving  of 
the  body  to  be  burned  has  ever  been 
considered  by  devout  Buddhists  the 
most  exalted  act  of  self-abnegation. 

"  To  give  all  one's  goods  to  feed  the 
poor  is  common  in  this  country,  with 
princes  and  people,  —  who  often  keep 
back  nothing  (not  even  one  coivree,  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  cent)  to  provide 
for  themselves  a  handful  of  rice.  But 
then  they  stand  in  no  fear  of  starvation  ; 
for  death  by  hunger  is  unknown  where 
Buddhism  is  preached  and  practised. 

"  I  know  a  man,  of  royal  parentage, 
and  once  possessed  of  untold  riches. 
In  his  youth  he  felt  such  pity  for  the 
poor,  the  old,  the  sick,  and  such  as 
were  troubled  and  sorrowful,  that  he 
became  melancholy,  and  after  spending 
several  years  in  the  continual  relief  of 
the  needy  and  helpless,  he,  in  a  mo- 
ment, gave  all  his  goods,  in  a  word 
ALL,  '  to  feed  the  poor.'  This  man  has 
never  heard  of  St.  Paul  or  his  writings  ; 
but  he  knows,  and  tries  to  comprehend 
in  its  fulness,  the  Buddhist  word  mai- 
tree. 

"  At  thirty  he  became  a  priest.  For 
five  years  he  had  toiled  as  a  gardener  ; 
for  that  was  the  occupation  he  pre- 
ferred, because  in  the  pursuit  of  it  he 
acquired  much  useful  knowledge  of  the 
medicinal  properties  of  plants,  and  so 
became  a  ready  physician  to  those  who 
could  not  pay  for  their  healing.  But 
he  could  not  rest  content  with  so  imper- 
fect a  life,  while  the  way  to  perfect 
knowledge  of  excellence,  truth,  and 
charity  remained  open  to  him ;  so  he 
became  a  priest. 

"  This  happened  sixty-five  years  ago. 
Now  he  is  ninety-five  years  old;  and,  I 
fear,  has  not  yet  found  the  truth  and 
excellence  he  has  been  in  search  of  so 
long.  But  I  know  no  greater  man  thaa 


740 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Couet.          [June, 


he.  He  is  great  in  the  Christian  sense, 
loving,  pitiful,  forbearing,  pure. 

"  Once,  when  he  was  a  gardener,  he 
was  robbed  of  his  few  poor  tools  by  one 
whom  he  had  befriended  in  many  ways. 
Some  time  after  that,  the  king  met  him, 
and  inquired  of  his  necessities.  He 
said  he  needed  tools  for  his  gardening. 
A  great  abundance  of  such  implements 
was  sent  to  him  ;  and  immediately  he 
shared  them  with  his  neighbors,  taking 
care  to  send  the  most  and  best  to  the 
man  who  had  robbed  him. 

"  Of  the  little  that  remained  to  him, 
he  gave  freely  to  all  who  lacked.  Not 
his  own,  but  another's  wants,  were  his 
sole  argument  in  asking  or  bestowing. 
Now,  he  is  great  in  the  Buddhist  sense, 
also,  —  not  loving  life  nor  fearing  death, 
desiring  nothing  the  world  can  give, 
beyond  the  peace  of  a  beatified  spirit. 
This  man  —  who  is  now  the  High- 
Priest  of  Siam  —  would,  without  so  much 
as  a  thought  of  shrinking,  give  his 
body,  alive  or  dead,  to  be  burned,  if  so 
he  might  obtain  one  glimpse  of  eternal 
truth,  or  save  one  soul  from  death  or 


More  than  eighteen  months  after  the 
first  king  of  Siam  had  entertained  me 
with  this  essentially  Buddhistic  argu- 
ment, and  its  simple  and  impressive  il- 
lustration, a  party  of  pages  hurried  me 
away  with  them,  just  as  the  setting  sun 
was  trailing  his  last  long,  lingering 
shadows  through  the  porches  of  the 
palace.  His  Majesty  required  my 
presence  ;  and  his  Majesty's  commands 
were  absolute  and  instant.  "  Find  and 
fetch  !  "  No  delay  was  to  be  thought 
of,  no  question  answered,  no  explana- 
tion afforded,  no  excuse  entertained. 
So,  with  resignation  I  followed  my 
guides,  who  led  the  way  to  the  monas- 
tery of  Watt  Rajah  Bahdet  Sang 
("  Temple  by  order  of  the  king  ").  But 
having  some  experience  of  the  moods 
and  humors  of  his  Majesty,  my  mind 
was  not  wholly  free  from  uneasiness. 
Generally,  such  impetuous  summoning 
foreboded  an  interview  the  reverse  of 
agreeable. 

The  sun  had  set  in  glory  below  the 


red  horizon,  when  I  entered  the  exten- 
sive range  of  monastic  buildings  that  ad- 
join the  temple.  Wide  tracts  of  waving 
corn  and  avenues  of  oleanders  screened 
from  view  the  distant  city,  with  its  pa- 
godas and  palaces.  The  air  was  fresh 
and  balmy,  and  seemed  to  sigh  plain- 
tively among  the  betel  and  cocoa 
palms  that  skirt  the  monastery. 

The  pages  left  me  seated  on  a  stone 
step,  and  ran  to  announce  my  presence 
to  the  king.  Long  after  the  moon  had 
come  out  clear  and  cool,  and  I  had  be- 
gun to  wonder  where  all  this  would 
end,  a  young  man,  robed  in  pure 
white,  and  bearing  in  one  hand  a  small 
lighted  taper,  and  a  lily  in  the  other, 
beckoned  me  to  enter,  and  follow  him  ; 
and  as  we  traversed  the  long,  low  pas- 
sages that  separate  the  cells  of  the 
priests,  the  weird  sound  of  voices, 
chanting  the  hymns  of  the  Buddhist 
liturgy,  fell  upon  my  ear.  The  dark- 
ness, the  loneliness,  the  measured  mon- 
otone, distant  and  dreamy,  —  all  was 
most  romantic  and  exciting,  even  to  a 
matter-of-fact  Englishwoman  like  my- 
self. 

As  the  page  approached  the  thresh- 
old of  one  of  the  cells,  he  whispered 
to  me  in  a  voice  full  of  entreaty  to 
put  off  my  shoes ;  at  the  same  time 
prostrating  himself  with  a  movement 
and  expression  of  the  most  abject 
humility  before  the  door,  where  he 
remained,  without  changing  his  pos- 
ture. I  stooped  involuntarily,  and 
scanned  curiously,  anxiously,  the  scene 
within  the  cell.  There  sat  the  king; 
and  at  a  sign  from  him  I  presently  en- 
tered, and  sat  down  beside  him. 

On  a  rude  pallet,  about  six  and  a 
half  feet  long,  and  not  more  than  three 
feet  wide,  and  with  a  bare  block  of 
wood  for  a  pillow,  lay  a  dying  priest. 
A  simple  garment  of  faded  yellow  cov- 
ered his  person  ;  his  hands  were  folded 
on  his  breast ;  his  head  was  bald,  and 
the  few  blanched  hairs  that  might  have 
remained  to  fringe  his  sunken  temples 
had  been  carefully  shorn,  —  his  eye- 
brows, too,  were  closely  shaven  ;  his  feet 
were  bare  and  exposed  ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed,  not  in  the  vacant  stare  of  death, 


1870.]          The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


741 


but  with  solemn  contemplation  or  scru- 
tiny, upward.  No  sign  of  disquiet  was 
there,  no  external  suggestion  of  pain  or 
trouble  ;  I  was  at  once  startled  and  puz- 
zled. Was  he  dying  or  acting  ? 

In  the  attitude  of  his  person,  in  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  I  beheld 
sublime  reverence,  repose,  absorption. 
He  seemed  to  be  communing  with  some 
spiritual  presence. 

My  entrance  and  approach  made  no 
change  in  him.  At  his  right  side  was 
a  dim  taper  in  a  gold  candlestick  ;  on 
the  left  a  dainty  golden  vase,  filled  with 
white  lilies,  freshly  gathered :  these 
were  offerings  from  the  king.  One  of 
the  lilies  had  been  laid  on  his  breast, 
and  contrasted  touchingly  with  the  din- 
gy, faded  yellow  of  his  robe.  Just  over 
the  region  of  the  heart  lay  a  coil  of 
unspun  cotton  thread,  which,  being  di- 
vided into  seventy-seven  filaments,  was 
distributed  to  the  hands  of  priests,  who, 
closely  seated,  quite  filled  the  cell,  so  that 
none  could  have  moved  without  difficul- 
ty. Before  each  priest  were  a  lighted  ta- 
per and  a  lily,  symbols  of  faith  and  purity. 
From  time  to  time  one  or  other  of  that 
solemn  company  raised  his  voice,  and 
chanted  strangely ;  and  all  the  choir 
responded  in  unison.  These  were  the 
words,  as  they  were  afterward  trans- 
lated for  me  by  the  king. 

First  Voice.  Sang-Khang  sara  nang 
gach'  cha  mi  !  (Thou  Excellence,  or 
Perfection  !  I  take  refuge  in  thee.) 

All.  Nama  Pootho  sang  Khang  sara 
nang  gach'  cha  mi !  (Thou  who  art 
named  Pootho  !  —  Either  God,  Boodha, 
or  Mercy,  —  I  take  refuge  in  thee.) 

First  Voice.  Tuti  ampi  sang  Khang 
sara  nang  gach'  cha  mi !  (Thou  Holy 
One  !  I  take  refuge  in  thee.) 

All.  Te  satiya  sang  Khang  sara 
nang  gach'  cha  mi  !  (Thou  Truth,  I 
take  refuge  in  thee.) 

As  the  sound  of  the  prayer  fell  on 
his  ear,  a  flickering  smile  lit  up  the 
pale,  sallow  countenance  of  the  dying 
man,  with  a  visible  mild  radiance,  as 
though  the  charity  and  humility  of  his 
nature,  in  departing,  left  the  light  of 
their  loveliness  there.  The  absorbing 
rapture  of  that  look,  which  seemed  to 


overtake  the  invisible,  was  almost  too 
holy  to  gaze  upon.  Riches,  station, 
honors,  kindred,  he  had  resigned  them 
all,  more  than  half  a  century  since, 
in  his  love  for  the  poor  and  his  long- 
ing after  truth.  Here  was  none  of  the 
wavering  or  vagueness  or  incoherence 
of  a  wandering,  delirious  death.  He 
was  going  to  his  clear,  eternal  calm. 
With  a  smile  of  perfect  peace  he  said  : 
"  To  your  Majesty  I  commend  the 
poor ;  and  this  that  remains  of  me  I 
give  to  be  burned."  And  that,  his  last 
gift,  was  indeed  his  all. 

I  can  imagine  no  spectacle  more 
worthy  to  excite  a  compassionate  emo- 
tion, to  impart  an  abiding  impression 
of  reverence,  than  the  tranquil  dying  of 
that  good  old  "  pagan."  Gradually  his 
breathing  became  more  laborious  ;  and 
presently,  turning  with  a  great  effort 
toward  the  king,  he  said,  Chan-chat 
pai  damni !  —  "I  will  go  now  !  " 
Instantly  the  priests  joined  in  a  loud 
psalm  and  chant,  "  Phra  Arahang  sang 
Khang  sara  nang  gach'  cha  mi !  "  (Thou 
Sacred  One,  I  take  refuge  in  thee.)  A 
few  minutes  more,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
High-Priest  of  Siam  had  calmly  breathed 
itself  away.  The  eyes  were  open  and 
fixed ;  the  hands  still  clasped  ;  the  ex- 
pression sweetly  content.  My  heart 
and  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  yet  I  was 
comforted.  By  what  hope  ?  I  know 
not,  for  I  dared  not  question  it. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  I 
was  again  summoned  by  his  Majesty 
to  witness  the  burning  of  that  body. 

It  was  carried  to  the  cemetery,  Watt 
Sah  Kate  ;  and  there  men,  hired  to 
do  such  dreadful  offices  upon  the  dead, 
cut  off  all  the  flesh,  and  flung  it  to  the 
hungry  dogs  that  haunt  that  monstrous 
garbage-field  of  Buddhism.  The  bones, 
and  all  that  remained  upon  them,  were 
thoroughly  burned ;  and  the  ashes, 
carefully  gathered  in  an  earthen  pot, 
were  scattered  in  the  little  gardens  of 
wretches  too  poor  to  buy  manure.  All 
that  was  left  now  of  the  venerable 
devotee  was  the  remembrance  of  a 
look. 

"  This,"  said  the  king,  as  I  turned 
away  sickened  and  sorrowful,  "is  to 


742 


The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court.          [June, 


give  one's  body  to  be  burned.  This  is 
what  your  St.  Paul  had  in  his  mind, — 
this  custom  of  our  Buddhist  ancestors, 
—  this  complete  self-abnegation,  in  life 
and  in  death,  —  when  he  said,  '  Even 
if  I  give  my  body  to  be  burned,  and 
have  not  charity  \maitree\  it  profiteth 
me  nothing." 

The  renascence  of  Buddhism  sought 
to  eliminate  from  the  arrogant  and  im- 
pious pantheisms  of  Egypt,  India,  and 
Greece  a  simple  and  pure  philosophy, 
upholding  virtue  as  man's  greatest 
good  and  highest  reward.  It  taught 
that  the  only  object  worthy  of  his  no- 
blest aspirations  was  to  render  the 
soul  (itself  an  emanation  from  God)  fit 
to  be  absorbed  back  again  into  the 
Divine  essence  from  which  it  sprang. 
The  single  aim,  therefore,  of  pure  Budd- 
hism seems  to  have  been  to  rouse  men 
to  an  inward  contemplation  of  the  divin- 
ity of  their  own  nature  ;  to  fix  their 
thoughts  on  the  spiritual  life  within,  as 
the  only  real  and  true  life ;  to  teach  them 
to  disregard  all  earthly  distinctions,  con- 
ditions, privileges,  enjoyments,  priva- 
tions, sorrows,  sufferings  ;  and  thus  to 
incite  them  to  continual  efforts  in  the 
direction  of  the  highest  ideals  of  pa- 
tience, purity,  self-denial. 

Buddhism  cannot  be  clearly  defined 
by  its  visible  results  to-day.  There  are 
more  things  in  that  subtile,  mystical 
enigma,  called  in  the  Pali  Nirwana, 
in  the  Birmese  Niban,  in  the  Siamese 
Niphan,  than  are  dreamed  of  in  our 
philosophy.  With  the  idea  of  Niphan 
in  his  theology,  it  were  absurdly  false 
to  say  the  Buddhist  has  no  God.  His 
Decalogue  *  is  as  plain  and  imperative 
as  the  Christian's  :  — 

I.  From   the   meanest   insect  up  to 
man   thou   shalt  kill  no   animal  what- 
soever. 

II.  Thou  shalt  not  steal. 

III.  Thou  shalt  not  violate  the  wife 
of  another,  nor  his  concubine. 

IV.  Thou  shalt  speak  no  word  that 
is  false. 

V.  Thou   shalt   not  drink  wine,  nor 
anything  that  may  intoxicate. 

*  Translated  from  the  Pali. 


VI.  Thou  shalt  avoid  all  anger,  ha- 
tred, and  bitter  language. 

VII.  Thou  shalt  not  indulge  in  idle 
and  vain  talk. 

VIII.  Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neigh- 
bor's goods. 

IX.  Thou  shalt  not  harbor  envy,  nor 
pride,    nor    revenge,    nor    malice,   nor 
the   desire  of  thy  neighbors  death  or 
misfortune. 

X.  Thou   shalt   not  follow  the   doc- 
trines of  false  gods. 

Whosoever  abstains  from  these  for- 
bidden things  is  said  to  "  observe  Si- 
lah";  and  whosoever  shall  faithfully 
observe  Silah,  in  all  his  successive 
metempsychoses,  shall  continually  in- 
crease in  virtue  and  purity,  until  at 
length  he  shall  become  worthy  to  be- 
hold God,  and  hear  his  voice  ;  and  so 
he  shall  obtain  Niphan.  "  Be  assidu- 
ous in  bestowing  alms,  in  practising 
virtue,  in  observing  Silah,  in  perform- 
ing Bavana  prayer ;  and  above  all 
in  adoring  Guadama,  the  true  God. 
Reverence  likewise  his  laws  and  his 
priests." 

In  the  royal  private  temple,  Watt 
Phra  Keau,  on  the  Buddhist  Sabato, 
or  One-thee-sin,  I  have  contemplated, 
with  a  respect  approved  by  all  true  re- 
ligious feeling,  the  devout  deportment 
of  that  elite  congregation  of  pagans. 

The  women  sat  in  circles,  and  each 
displayed  her  vase  of  flowers  and  her 
lighted  taper  before  her.  In  front  of 
all  were  a  number  of  my  younger  pupils, 
the  royal  children,  in  circles  also. 
Close  by  the  altar,  on  a  low  square 
stool,  overlaid  with  a  thin  cushion  of 
silk,  sat  the  high-priest,  Chow-Khoon- 
Sah.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  concave 
fan,  lined  with  pale  green  silk,  the  back 
richly  embroidered,  jewelled,  and  gilt.* 
He  was  draped  in  a  yellow  robe,  not 
unlike  the  Roman  toga,  a  loose  and 
flowing  habit,  closed  below  the  waist, 
but  open  from  the  throat  to  the  girdle, 
which  was  simply  a  band  of  yellow 
cloth,  bound  tightly.  From  the  shoul- 
ders hung  two  narrow  strips,  also  yel- 
low, descending  over  the  robe  to  the 
feet,  and  resembling  the  scapular  worn 
by  certain  orders  of  the  Roman  Cath- 


1870.]          The  English  Governess  at  the  Siamese  Court. 


743 


olic  clergy.  At  his  side  was  an  open 
watch  of  gold,  the  gift  of  his  sovereign. 
At  his  feet  sat  seventeen  disciples, 
shading  their  faces  with  fans  less  richly 
adorned. 

We  put  off  our  shoes,  —  my  child  and 
I,  —  having  respect  for  the  ancient  pre- 
judice against  them  ;  \  feeling  not  so 
much  reverence  for  the  place  as  for  the 
hearts  that  worshipped  there,  caring  to 
display  not  so  much  the  love  of  wisdom 
as  the  wisdom  of  love  ;  and  well  were 
we  repaid  by  the  grateful  smile  of  rec- 
ognition that  greeted  us  as  we  en- 
tered. 

We  sat  down  cross-legged.  No  need 
to  hush  my  boy,  —  the  silence  there,  so 
subduing,  checked  with  its  mysterious 
awe  even  his  inquisitive  young  mind. 
The  venerable  high-priest  sat  with  his 
face  jealously  covered,  lest  his  eyes 
should  tempt  his  thoughts  to  stray.  I 
changed  my  position  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  his  countenance ;  he  drew  his  fan- 
veil  more  closely,  giving  me  a  quick 
but  gentle  half-glance  of  remonstrance. 
Then  raising  his  eyes,  with  lids  near- 
ly closed,  he  chanted  in  an  infantile, 
wailing  tone. 

That  was  the  opening  prayer.  At 
once  the  whole  congregation  raised 
themselves  on  their  knees  and,  all  to- 
gether, prostrated  themselves  thrice 
profoundly,  thrice  touching  the  pol- 
ished brass  floor  with  their  foreheads  ; 
and  then,  with  heads  bowed,  and  palms 
folded,  and  eyes  closed,  they  delivered 

*  The  fan  is  used  to  cover  the  face.  Jewelled 
fans  are  marks  of  distinction  among  the  priesthood. 

t  "  Put  off  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet,  for  the 
place  whereon  thou  standest  is  holy  ground." 


the  responses  after  the  priest,  much  in 
the  manner  of  the  English  liturgy, 
first  the  priest,  then  the  people,  and 
finally  all  together.  There  was  no  sing- 
ing, no  standing  up  and  sitting  down, 
no  changing  of  robes  or  places,  no 
turning  the  face  to  the  altar,  nor  north, 
nor  south,  nor  east,  nor  west.  All 
knelt  still,  with  hands  folded  straight 
before  them,  and  eyes  strictly,  tightly 
closed.  Indeed,  there  were  faces  there 
that  expressed  devotion  and  piety,  the 
humblest  and  the  purest,  as  the  lips 
murmured,  "O  Thou  Eternal  One,  Thou 
perfection  of  Time,  Thou  truest  Truth, 
Thou  immutable  essence  of  all  Change, 
Thou  most  excellent  radiance  of  Mer- 
cy, Thou  infinite  Compassion,  Thou 
Pity,  Thou  Charity  !  " 

I  lost  some  of  the  responses  in  the 
simultaneous  repetition,  and  did  but 
imperfectly  comprehend  the  exhorta- 
tion that  followed,  in  which  was  incul- 
cated the  strictest  practice  of  charity, 
in  a  manner  so  pathetic,  and  so  gentle, 
as  might  be  wisely  imitated  by  the 
most  orthodox  of  Christian  priests. 

There  was  majesty  in  the  humility 
of  those  pagan  worshippers,  and  in 
their  shame  of  self  they  were  sublime. 
I  leave  both  the  truth  and  the  error  to 
Him  who  alone  can  soar  to  the  bright 
heights  of  the  one  and  sound  the  dark 
depths  of  the  other ;  and  take  to  myself 
the  lesson,  to  be  read  in  the  shrinking 
forms  and  hidden  faces  of  those  patient 
waiters  for  a  far-off  glimmering  Light, 
—  the  lesson  wherefrom  I  learn,  in 
thanking  God  for  the  light  of  Chris- 
tianity, to  thank  him  for  its  shadow 
too,  which  is  Buddhism. 


744 


The  Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder, 


[June, 


THE    LOGIC    OF    MARRIAGE    AND    MURDER. 


IT  is  altogether  probable  that  before 
this  reaches  the  reader,  Daniel 
McFarland,  who  killed  A.  D.  Richard- 
son, will  have  been  acquitted  of  mur- 
der, on  the  ground  of  insanity.  But, 
let  the  trial  issue  as  it  may,  the  inter- 
ests of  justice  do  not  appear  to  be 
very  largely  involved  in  it.  If  McFar- 
land is  acquitted,  it  will  not  be  because 
he  deserves  to  live,  but  because  his  at- 
torneys have  the  requisite  amount  of 
audacity,  and  his  jurymen  the  requi- 
site amount  of  credulity,  to  secure  that 
boon  to  him.  Neither  if  he  be  con- 
demned, will  it  be  because  he  actually 
deserves  to  die,  but  because  the  con- 
science of  every  civilized  community 
exacts,  ever  and  anon,  the  immolation 
of  a  victim  to  purge  its  own  accumu- 
lated but  unacknowledged  guilt.  It  is 
clear  to  me,  indeed,  as  it  must  be, 
I  conceive,  to  every  unsophisticated 
judgment,  that  McFarland  committed 
a  foul  and  cowardly  murder  ;  and  it  is 
equally  clear  that  the  law  which  visits 
murder  with  death  will  be  outraged  by 
his  acquittal.  But  what  I  wish  to  urge 
upon  the  attention  of  the  reader  is, 
that  the  blame,  which  in  that  event 
would  seem  obviously  to  reflect  itself 
upon  the  administration  of  justice 
among  us,  has  in  reality  a  deeper 
ground  ;  that  it  attaches,  in  fact  and 
primarily,  to  the  social  constitution  un- 
der which  we  live,  inasmuch  as  that 
constitution  makes  the  true  sanction  of 
marriage  to  be  force,  not  freedom. 

I  do  not  pretend,  of  course,  to  any 
knowledge  of  McFarland's  character, 
apart  from  the  testimony  adduced  upon 
the  trial,  but  it  is  fair  to  infer  from  this 
that  he  is  a  man  of  maudlin  egotism 
or  self-pity,  prone  to  assassination, 
but  afraid  to  encounter  its  risks  ;  in 
short,  a  man  of  savage  tendencies 
when  provoked,  without  the  courage 
which  on  occasion  redeems  the  savage 
and  renders  him  picturesque.  And  yet 
this  man,  thus  characterized,  is  en- 


dowed by  the  law  with  a  strictly  per- 
sonal property  in  his  wife ;  that  is,  a 
property  quite  irrespective  of  his  essen- 
tial nature  and  habits,  provided  he  can 
in  any  way  contrive  to  keep  up  a  plaus- 
ible appearance  before  the  world.  Un- 
der these  circumstances,  accordingly, 
given  such  a  man  as  McFarland,  and 
such  a  woman  as  his  wife,  what  is  the 
inevitable  result  ?  "  Inevitable,"  I  say, 
considering  the  motives  usually  opera- 
tive in  human  conduct.  In  the  first 
place,  the  "  marriage  "  of  the  ill-fated 
pair  confesses  itself  a  loathsome  concu- 
binage. In  the  next  place,  the  wife  — 
all  whose  instincts,  in  true  marriage,  are 
towards  submission  —  is  driven  by  those 
very  instincts  themselves  ^o  disown 
every  obligation  imposed  upon  her  by 
this  false  marriage.  In  the  third  place, 
the  husband  —  all  whose  instincts,  even 
in  true  marriage,  are  towards  dominion 
—  is  driven,  now  that  his  purely  legal 
property  in  his  wife  is  menaced,  to  in- 
sist upon  it  with  unmanly  zeal ;  so  that, 
if  he  cannot  succeed  in  reducing  his 
revolted  vassal  to  her  former  servitude, 
he  is  almost  sure  to  grasp  his  remedy 
in  some  vile  and  dastardly  revenge  in- 
flicted either  directly  upon  herself,  or 
else  indirectly  upon  somebody  clear  to 
her.  And  then,  finally,  what  the  out- 
raged law  of  the  land  is  much  too  often 
successfully  invoked  to  do,  is  to  dis- 
semble its  just  indignation  at  crime, 
and  absolve  the  criminal  of  his  guilt, 
by  authorizing  instead  an  unscrupu- 
lous defamation  of  the  character  of  his 
victim. 

Such  is  the  state  of  things  which,  in 
my  opinion,  makes  it  absurd  to  pre- 
tend that  the  interests  of  justice  are 
involved,  save  in  a  merely  derivative 
or  secondary  manner,  either  in  the  ac- 
quittal or  the  condemnation  of  McFar- 
land. These  interests  are  directly  vio- 
lated, not  by  the  exceptional  but  by  the 
habitual  judgment  we  cherish  in  regard 
to  marriage  ;  and  it  is  only  an  indirect 


1 8;o.] 


The  Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder. 


745 


violation   they  encounter,  when    some 
self-indulgent    ruffian    presumes    upon 
the  current  sentimental  morality  of  the 
community  to  right  his  own  conceded 
wrongs   in   his   own  tempestuous  way. 
In  other  words,  the  interests  of  justice 
are  flagrantly,  though  of  course  uncon- 
sciously, violated,  whenever  the  exist- 
ing  marriage   is   publicly  enforced,  or 
not  left  to  its  own  free  determination  ; 
and  this  sneaking  McFarland  iniquity 
is  only  a  premature  flowering  of  that 
insane  root.     I  know  very  well  that  the 
family  institution  or  the  interests  of  in- 
heritance, alone,  control  marriage,  and 
keep    it    the    grovelling,   unhandsome 
thing  it  is.     And  I  have  no  objection, 
doubtless,  but,  on  the  contrary,  all  man- 
ner of  good-will,  toward  society  guar- 
anteeing  every  man's  domestic  peace 
and    honor   against    defilement.      But 
you   can*  only  fortify  the   family  bond 
against  outward  aggression  by  purify- 
ing it  from  within.     Guarantee  the  fam- 
ily against   inward  harm,  —  the   harm 
which   flows   from   the  degradation  of 
the    marriage    sentiment,  —  and    then 
you   will  see  clearly  how  to  shield  it 
from    all    outward    harm,   or  such   as 
arises   from   the   interference   of  third 
parties.     Marriage   is   only  recognized 
at  present  as  the  basis   of  the  family 
unity.     It  is  held  to  be  properly  servile 
to  that  interest.      That  is  to  say,  you 
claim  a  free   or  spiritual   basis  for   a 
fixed  or  material  superstructure.    Take 
extreme  good  care,  then,  that  there  be 
some  harmony  or  proportion  kept  be- 
tween the  two.    You  may,  indeed,  spirit- 
ualize your  superstructure,  or   enlarge 
your  family  unity,   as    much    as    you 
please ;    but    you    cannot    materialize 
your  base,  or  reduce   marriage  from  a 
living  spirit   to   a   dead  letter,  without 
erelong   bringing   your  house  in  ruins 
about   your   ears.      Marriage    is  noto- 
riously, and  first  of  all,  a  free  or  spirit- 
ual relation   of  the  parties    to   it,  and 
only,    or  altogether,   in   subordination 
to  that,  an  obligatory  or  material  cove- 
nant.     What  right  have    I,  if   I    am 
habitually  false,   tyrannical,   or   simply 
self-seeking,  to  the  affection  of  wife  or 
child,  unless,  indeed,  they  be  as  degrad- 


ed as  myself?  No  doubt  I  have  a 
right  to  their  forbearance,  so  long  as 
I  do  not  impose  my  will  upon  them  ; 
but  not  even  to  that,  a  moment  longer. 
The  moment  I  claim  authority  over 
them,  or,  being  what  I  am,  seek  to 
coerce  their  well-grounded  disgust  and 
aversion  by  an  appeal  to  the  existing 
constitution  of  society,  I  lose  all  claim 
—  unless,  indeed,  they  be  very  excep- 
tional persons  —  even  to  their  forbear- 
ance, and  deserve  to  be  treated  only  as 
a  madman.  Undoubtedly  I  should  be 
so  treated  in  a  perfectly  righteous  state 
of  society ;  that  is,  such  a  state  as  im- 
plied just  and  equal  relations  between 
each  and  all,  and  not,  as  now,  an  organ- 
ized inequality  or  injustice.  Let  me 
repeat,  then,  with  all  unreserve,  that 
the  obligation  which  we  owe  even  to 
the  family,  considered  as  the  germ  or 
nucleus  of  our  existing  civilization, 
binds  us  to  relieve  marriage  of  its  con- 
ventional degradation,  by  affirming  its 
absolute  or  unconditional  sanctity  as 
the  supreme  law  of  human  life. 

"  All  this  is  easily  said,"  the  reader 
will  object;  "but  how  is  it  to  be  ac- 
tually done  ?  "  Let  me  reply  :  By  ad- 
ministering the  institution  no  longer 
primarily  in  the  interest  of  the  family, 
but  in  that  of  abstract  or  impersonal 
justice.  And  if  this  reply  still  appear 
enigmatical  to  the  reader,  let  me  solve 
his  doubts  by  seeking  an  illustration  of 
my  meaning  in  his  own  familiar  prac- 
tice. 

My  reader  no  doubt  is  sometimes 
liable,  like  everybody  else,  to  find  his 
domestic  rule  called  in  question  by 
child  or  servant.  And  when  this  is  the 
case,  what  does  he  usually  proceed  to 
do  ?  Madly  insist  upon  the  literal  alle- 
giance which  is  his  due  ?  Or  wisely  en- 
deavor to  placate  his  revolted  subjects 
by  teaching  them  that  the  outward 
homage  he  claims  from  them  is  only 
the  mask  of  a  higher  obligation  ttiey 
owe  to  themselves,  and  is  not  intended 
to  be  enforced  save  in  so  far  as  this 
higher  obligation  is  unrecognized  by 
them  ?  Unquestionably  the  latter.  He 
uses  all  diligence,  in  fact,  to  heal  the 
existing  breach,  and  obviate  future 


746 


The  Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder. 


[June, 


casualties  of  the  sort,  by  making  his 
rebellious  subjects  understand  that  it  is 
never  he,  but  always  they,  who  are  the 
true  end  or  spirit  of  the  law  embodied 
in  his  person;  so  that  whenever  they 
are  ready  to  discern  the  spiritual  scope 
of  the  law,  and  accept  all  the  obliga- 
tions it  imposes,  he  will  at  once  con- 
fess himself  functus  officio,  and  acquit 
them  of  all  further  allegiance.  He,  to 
be  sure,  is  the  provisional  head  of  the 
family,  but  they  are  the  family  itself; 
and  he  can  only  vindicate  his  headship, 
therefore,  by  persistently  ruling  the 
family  primarily  in  the  interest  of  jus- 
tice and  only  derivatively  thence  in 
his  own. 

Such  is  the  illustration  which  the 
reader's  own  habitual  practice  affords 
to  my  words,  when  I  say  that  society 
should  no  longer  administer  the  mar- 
riage institution  selfishly  but  justly. 
The  reader,  whenever  his  domestic 
rule  is  compromised  by  the  insubjec- 
tion  of  his  children  or  servants,  man- 
ages still  to  maintain  his  authority, 
and  recover  the  ground  he  has  lost, 
how  ?  By  brutally  compelling  submis- 
sion? No,  but  simply  by  spiritualizing 
his  sway,  or  claiming  for  it  a  social  in- 
stead of  a  selfish  sanction.  And  this 
is  what  society  has  got  to  do  in  order 
to  uphold  the  essential  sanctity  of  mar- 
riage, namely,  to  spiritualize  the  family 
evermore,  by  converting  it  from  the 
contemptible  fetish  it  is  in  itself,  hav- 
ing interests  at  variance  with  all  other 
families,  into  the  great  divine  society 
it  was  intended  to  represent,  whose 
unity  is  coextensive  with  all  mankind. 

Society,  as  constituted  by  the  family 
bond,  has  no  regard  for  marriage  on  its 
spiritual  or  religious,  nor  indeed  on  its 
moral,  but  only  on  its  economic,  side. 
It  does  not  care  a  jot  for  it  in  its  sub- 
jective aspect,  or  as  it  bears  upon  the 
parties  to  it,  but  only  in  its  objective 
aspect,  or  as  it  bears  upon  the  family, 
and  thence  upon  itself.  So  far,  conse- 
quently, as  our  existing  civilization  is 
concerned,  the  married  pair  are  free  to 
live  like  cat  and  dog ;  it  is  only  when 
their  discord  threatens  society,  by 
loosening  the  family  bond,  that  the 


latter  is  moved  to  interfere.  If  the 
married  pair  would  agree  to  subjective 
divorce,  while  still  maintaining  their 
objective  relation  to  society,  they  might 
carry  such  divorce  to  any  length  they 
pleased,  without  society  bestowing  a 
thought  upon  them.  "  I  did  not  en- 
join marriage  upon  you,"  society  says 
to  them.  "  I  found  you  disposed  to 
marriage  of  your  own  accord,  and  what 
I  did  was  skilfully  to  provide  for  my 
own  subsistence  and  perpetuity,  by 
availing  myself  of  that  free  and  gener- 
ous impulse  on  your  part,  and  promis- 
ing you  my  countenance  and  protection 
in  carrying  it  out.  In  short,  I  had  no 
devout,  but  a  purely  selfish,  end  in  rati- 
fying your  marriage,  and  have  no  real 
solicitude  as  to  whether  the  marriage 
itself  bring  you  happiness  or  misery. 
Thus  you  have  my  consent  to  be  to 
each  other,  in  all  moral  and  spirit- 
ual regards,  precisely  what  you  will,  so 
long  as  you  unflinchingly  promote  my 
economic  purposes,  in  rearing  and  ed- 
ucating the  family  upon  which  my  evo- 
lution is  contingent.  Do  this  faithfully, 
and  although  you  should  be  inwardly 
or  spiritually  as  disaffected  to  each 
other  as  the  poles,  I  will  firmly  close 
my  eyes  to  every  outward  or  moral 
sign  of  the  inward  fact  which  you  your- 
selves do  not  actually  force  upon  my 
attention.  Fail  to  do  it,  and  although 
I  myself  all  the  while  have  no  spiritual, 
but  only  a  mercenary  regard  for  mar- 
riage, I  will  not  fail  to  stigmatize  either 
party,  on  the  complaint  of  the  other, 
as  an  infamous  person,  for  infidelity  to 
ft.  I  know  absolutely  nothing  of  mar- 
riage in  itself,  or  for  its  own  sake,  that 
is,  as  a  law  of  human  nature.  I  only 
know  and  esteem  it  for  the  admirable 
uses  it  promotes  to  me.  And  you  have 
my  cordial  permission  consequently,  so 
long  as  you  do  nothing  to  estrange  it 
in  your  own  case  from  these  objective 
ends,  to  be  as  untrue  to  it  subjectively, 
or  in  spirit,  as  you  please." 

How  is  it  conceivable,  then,  under 
this  utterly  selfish  administration  of 
marriage,  that  marriage  itself  should  not 
be  degraded  to  the  mud  of  the  streets, 
or  that  the  civilization  which  it  breeds 


8;o.] 


The  Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder. 


747 


should  not  be  a  hotbed  of  every  cor- 
ruption possible  to  men's  perverted 
instincts  ?  What  frank  or  honest  rev- 
erence is  ever,  in  fact,  accorded  to  mar- 
riage ?  How  do  our  novelists  and 
farce-writers  deal  with  it  ?  Do  they 
not  habitually  treat  it  in  a  way  to  make 
fools  merry  and  wise  men  sad  ?  And 
why  is  this,  but  because  our  civic  ad- 
ministration robs  the  institution  of  its 
inherent  spiritual  lustre,  and  degrades 
it  into  a  mere  economic  necessity  ? 
Marriage  is,  in  truth,  the  crown  only  of 
the  most  perfect  culture  known  to  hu- 
manity. It  is  the  ineffaceable  sign  and 
seal  of  the  purest  and  highest  natures. 
And  yet  in  its  actual  administration  it 
has  become  the  privilege  of  every  filthy 
vagabond  to  whom  culture  is  unknown, 
and  who  finds  in  it  only  an  unlimited 
justification  of  his  natural  egotism  and 
lust.  Practically,  the  law  says  to  every 
such  man  :  "  Your  wife  is  your  personal 
property.  She  no  longer  stands  in- 
vested with  that  personal  sanctity 
which  every  woman  wears  naturally  to 
the  imagination  of  man,  for  she  has 
passed  into  your  ownership,  has  be- 
come your  chattel,  or  thing,  and  of 
course  nothing  can  be  sacred  to  you 
which  you  yourself  absolutely  own. 
Subject  her,  therefore,  to  your  basest 
personal  necessities  or  caprice  as  much 
as  you  will.  Compel  all  her  affections 
and  thoughts  into  your  service  by  what- 
ever methods  you  can  pursue  consist- 
ently with  your  own  love  to  yourself, 
or  your  own  instincts  of  self-preserva- 
tion, and  I  shall  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  say  to  you  in  the  premises. 
What  I  care  about  in  either  of  you  is, 
not  the  soul,  but  the  body  ;  not  the 
moral  being,  but  the  animal,  prolific  of 
offspring."  Suppose,  now,  that  the  sot, 
the  scamp,  the  ruffian,  the  simple  lout 
even,  thus  practically  addressed  by  so- 
ciety, finds  or  conceives  his  wife  to  be 
unfaithful  to  him,  and  in  a  moment  of 
vindictive  rage  takes  her  life  or  that 
of  her  lover,  imagined  or  real  ?  Has 
society  any  right  to  condemn  him  ?  Is 
he  not  reproducing  in  act  the  spirit  with 
which  society  has  always  inspired  him  ? 
How  is  any  remedy  conceivable  for 


these  things  short  of  an  actual  change 
of  administration  ;  that  is,  short  of 
allowing  an  absolute  or  independent 
sanctity  to  marriage,  by  ceasing  to  en- 
force it  any  longer  in  any  merely  civic 
interest,  or  any  interest  below  the  out- 
raged dignity  of  human  nature  itself? 
Of  course,  this  great  change  implies  a 
very  advanced  intelligence  on  the  part 
of  society,  a  very  advanced  social  con- 
sciousness ;  implies,  indeed,  that  same 
spirit  of  humiliation  or  self-surrender 
on  the  part  of  society  towards  its  chil- 
dren, which  we  have  just  seen  illus- 
trated by  the  head  of  the  family  towards 
his.  The  true  disease  of  civilization  is 
organic,  not  functional  ;  and  the  evils 
of  lying,  theft,  adultery,  and  murder, 
which  we  see  overlying  all  the  surface 
of  our  life,  are  only  so  many  symptoms, 
not  sources,  of  this  constitutional  infir- 
mity. Let  us  thank  God,  at  least,  that 
they  come  to  the  surface  in  such  rank 
luxuriance,  since  it  evidences  the  un- 
diminished  vigor  of  the  organization, 
internally,  to  throw  off  corruption,  or 
aspire  to  health  and  purity.  Injustice 
of  the  foulest  type  is  bred  in  the  bone 
of  our  civic  consciousness,  and  is, 
therefore,  inseparable  from  its  function- 
ing, let  that  functioning  be  convention- 
ally either  good  or  evil.  To  be  sure, 
the  injustice  in  question  being  consti- 
tutional, is  not  of  a  partial  character, 
and  therefore  escapes  a  hasty  observa- 
tion. It  does  not  bear  harder  upon 
one  person  than  another,  for  it  is  in 
reality  universal  or  all-pervasive  ;  and 
although  it  may  more  manifestly  come 
to  the  surface,  or  more  forcibly  arrest 
the  senses  in  one  place  than  in  anoth- 
er, it  really  eludes  a  rational  scrutiny 
nowhere,  but  confesses  itself  the  hid- 
den root  no  less  of  our  highest  conven- 
tional virtue  than  of  our  lowest  con- 
ventional vice. 

But  though  our  civic  unrighteous- 
ness be  thus  impartial,  it  is  only  on 
that  account  all  the  more  terribly  real 
and  earnest.  What  is  the  fundamen- 
tal axiom  upon  which  it  reposes  ?  It 
is  this,  namely :  That  a  normal  inequal- 
ity exists  between  society  and  the  in- 
dividual, or  between  the  universal  and 


748 


The  Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder. 


[June, 


the  particular  life  of  man  ;  hence,  that 
the  only  way  in  which  harmony  can 
ever  be  promoted  between  them,  is  by 
the  forcible  and  permanent  subjugation 
of  men's  private  to  their  public  inter- 
ests. It  is  not  supposed  that  any  right- 
ful or  normal  inequality  exists  between 
man  and  man,  but  only  between  the 
universal  and  the  individual  element  in 
existence ;  and  as  between  man  and 
man,  accordingly,  our  civic  conscience 
feels  itself  competent  to  mediate.  But 
between  man  and  society,  between  the 
part  and  the  whole,  or  the  individual 
and  the  mass,  this  inequality  is  held  to 
be  legitimate  and  inexorable  ;  so  that 
in  any  collision  of  interests  that  chances 
between  a  private  person  and  the  com- 
munity of  which  he  forms  a  part,  it  is 
held  to  be  absolutely  just  that  the 
former  defer  to  the  latter.  Hence  it 
happens  invariably,  that  the  best  con- 
ventional character  recognized  upon 
earth  is  that  of  the  man  who  volunta- 
rily surrenders  his  own  dignity  to  the 
presumed  exigencies  of  the  public  good. 
Hence,  also  it  is  that  martyrs  have 
enjoyed  so  great  a  repute  ;  and  that 
statesmen,  soldiers,  kings,  priests,  gov- 
ernors, —  public  functionaries  of  what- 
ever name,  in  short,  —  claim  a  greatly 
superior  social  consideration  to  that  of 
the  private  citizen. 

Jesus  Christ  was  the  first,  as  indeed 
he  has  been  as  yet  the  only  man  in  his- 
tory, livingly  to  refute  that  monstrous 
superstition.  The  Jewish  polity  —  the 
theocratic  empire  into  which  he  was 
born  —  was  originally  founded,  in  fact, 
upon  a  precisely  opposite  conception  of 
the  truth.  It  was  founded,  apparently, 
upon  the  axiomatic  principle  of  the 
subserviency  of  the  race  to  the  species, 
of  the  whole  to  the  part,  of  the  com- 
munity to  the  individual.  Else  why  was 
Abraham,  a  solitary  outcast  from  his 
country,  selected  by  the  Divine  will  to 
become  a  great  nation  in  whom  all  the 
families  of  the  earth  should  be  blest  ? 
Surely  it  is  not  in  his  personal,  but  only 
in  his  typical  character  that  Abraham 
makes  the  slightest  appeal  to  our  rev- 
erence ;  only  as  he  represents  the 
household  of  faith,  that  great  society 


or  brotherhood  of  the  race  which  was 
spiritually  to  spring  from  the  loins  of 
his  greatest  descendant,  and  of  which 
the  fundamental  maxim  is  that  "the 
greatest  serve  the  least."  The  Jewish 
people,  indeed,  so  long  as  it  remained 
faithful  to  its  father's  God,  was  lifted 
above  fear,  and  enjoyed  a  more  solid 
renown  than  has  befallen  any  other  na- 
tion. But  the  Jews  soon  grew  tired  of 
the  Divine  rule,  and  lusted  after  "  a 
king  to  judge  them  like  all  the  nations." 
Their  great  prophet  remonstrated  with 
them,  and  strove  to  arouse  their  fears  by 
showing  them  the  nature  of  the  tyran- 
ny they  invited.  He  said:  "  This  will 
be  the  manner  of  the  king  that  shall 
reign  above  you.  He  will  take  your 
sons  and  appoint  them  for  himself,  for 
his  chariots,  and  to  be  his  horsemen  ; 
and  some  shall  run  before  his  chariots. 
And  he  will  appoint  him  captains  over 
thousands,  and  captains  over  fifties, 
and  will  set  them  to  ear  his  grounds^ 
and  to  reap  his  harvest,  and  to  make 
his  instruments  of  war  and  instru- 
ments of  his  chariots.  And  he  will 
take  your  daughters  to  be  confection- 
ers, and  cooks,  and  bakers.  And  he 
will  take  your  fields,  and  your  vine- 
yards, and  your  olive-yards,  the  best  of 
them,  to  give  to  his  servants.  And  he 
will  take  your  men-servants  and  your 
maid-servants,  and  your  goodliest  young 
men,  and  your  asses,  and  put  them  to 
his  work.  He  will  take  the  tenth  of 
your  sheep,  and  ye  shall  be  his  servants. 
And  ye  shall  cry  out  in  that  day  be- 
cause of  your  king  which  ye  shall  have 
chosen  you,  and  the  Lord  will  not  hear 
you  in  that  day.  Nevertheless,  the 
people  refused  to  hear  the  voice  of 
Samuel ;  and  they  said,  Nay,  but  we 
will  have  a  king  over  us,  that  we,  also, 
may  be  like  all  the  nations,  and  that 
our  king  may  judge  us,  and  go  out  be- 
fore us,  and  fight  our  battles."  In  oth- 
er words,  Abraham's  descendants  had 
not  the  least  spiritual  apprehension  of 
the  great  humanitary  truth  which  under- 
lay their  remarkable  history,  and  was 
destined  to  be  finally  wrought  out  by  it ; 
so  that  when  Christ  came  he  found 
them  so  besotted  by  worldly  lusts,  as 


1 870.] 


The  Logic  of  Marriage  and  Murder. 


749 


cheerfully  to  swamp  piety  in  patriotism, 
and  esteem  every  one  good  or  evil  in 
heart,  not  as  he  related  himself  to  God 
and  man  universally,  but  only  as  he 
stood  affected  to  their  own  pretentious 
and  now  lapsed  nationality. 

In  fact,  so  perfectly  incorporate  has 
this  letter  of  nationality  become  with 


tween  every  individual  race,  nation,  or 
man,  and  all  other  races,  nations,  and 
men  put  together  ;  that  is  to  say,  be- 
tween the  strictly  individual  and  the 
strictly  universal  life  of  man,  or  the 
sphere  of  his  delight  and  that  of  his 
duty.  This  is  the  sheer  pith  and  scope 
of  the  Christian  Gospel,  to  affirm  a  nor- 


the  Jewish  consciousness,  that  none  of     mal,  but   hitherto  unsuspected,   unity, 


the  amazing  vicissitudes  of  their  histo- 
ry has  had  any  power  to  weaken  it ;  so 
that  to  this  very  day  they  carry  the 
stigma  of  their  infatuation  in  their  face, 
and  with  no  territorial  foothold  upon 
the  earth  to  separate  them  from  other 
nations,  are  yet  the  most  clearly  pro- 
nounced and  odious  type  of  nationality 
extant.  No  wonder,  then,  that  Christ, 
animated  by  so  utterly  antagonistic  a 
temper,  found  little  acceptance  at  their 
hands  !  In  truth,  he  performed  his 
thankless  office  under  such  terrific  odds 
at  the  scurvy  hands  he  came  to  bless, 
whether  Jew  or  Gentile,  that  it  is  only 
now,  in  this  nineteenth  century  of  his 
spiritual  sway,  that  men  are  beginning 
faintly  to  discern  the  true  breadth  of 
his  Gospel,  and  to  perceive  the  endless 
social  consequences  with  which  it  is 
fraught.  It  is,  in  fact,  rather  by  our 
instinct  than  by  our  intelligence,  rather 
by  our  hearts  than  by  our  minds,  that 
we  even  yet  are  able  to  perceive  that 
the  truth  which  moved  his  mighty  heart 
in  life,  and  bowed  his  majestic  head  in 
death,  was  no  such  paltry  figment  as 
that  of  the  equality  of  one  race,  or  one 
nation,  or  one  man,  with  another  race 
or  nation  or  man  ;  for  in  the  plane  of 
individuality  no  equality,  but  only  the 
greatest  possible  inequality,  exists  and 
reigns  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  truth 


and  not  division,  between  the  interests 
of  the  race  and  those  of  the  individual, 
or  between  the  empire  of  material  force 
in  human  affairs  and  that  of  spiritual 
freedom.  And  every  community,  civil 
or  religious,  which  constitutes  itself 
upon  the  opposite  intellectual  concep- 
tion, is  flagrantly  derelict  to  the  spirit 
of  Christ,  and  can  only  hope  to  escape 
the  judgments  incident  to  such  derelic- 
tion by  frankly  recognizing  the  error  of 
its  ways,  and  insisting  betimes  upon 
its  public  or  organic  interests  becom- 
ing—  no  longer  indifferent  as  now  — 
but  acutely  sensitive  and  tributary  to 
the  individual  dignity,  or  free  spiritual 
worth,  of  all  its  members.  Let  this 
grand  reform  be  practically  inaugurated 
in  however  minute  a  measure,  and  we 
should  at  once  feel  its  pacific  and  puri- 
fying sway  in  every  remotest  finger  and 
toe  of  our  associated  consciousness. 
Marriage,  especially,  would  soon  be- 
come garlanded  with  immortal  fresh- 
ness. For,  being  at  length  divorced 
from  the  disfiguring  servitude  it  has  al- 
ways been  under  to  the  merely  material 
instincts  of  society  or  the  race,  it  would 
be  left  free  to  assert  its  ineradicably 
spiritual  aims,  and  so  would,  erelong, 
avouch  itself  for  what  it  really  is,  the 
consummate  flowering  of  God's  infinite 
love  in  the  earth  of  our  finite  human 


of  a  normal  and  invincible  equality  be-     nature. 


750 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[June, 


REVIEWS   AND   LITERARY   NOTICES. 


The  Earthly  Paradise.    By  WILLIAM  MOR- 
RIS.     Part  III.     Boston:  Roberts  Broth- 


OF  late  it  would  seem  that  the  poet,  or 
maker,  has  turned  himself  too  wilfully  into 
the  versifier,  or  manufacturer.  And  when 
we  take  up  such  bulky  volumes  as  Mr. 
Morris  has  produced,  in  quick  succession, 
during  the  last  two  or  three  years,  we  have 
a  certain  overgrown  and  still  cumulative 
fear  or  suspicion  of  the  days  of  labor,  —  to 
say  nothing  of  nights  of  waking,  —  consumed 
in  doubtfully  profitable  factory-work.  This, 
we  say,  is  our  fear,  and  we  cannot  but 
feel  afterward  that  there  is  too  much  of 
realization.  For,  however  full  of  sweetness 
and  beauty  of  feeling  and  richness  of  words 
these  books  are,  their  sweetness  is  long 
drawn  out,  even  love  must  labor  strenu- 
ously through  them,  and  a  crude  surfeit 
reigns.  Often,  too,  their  stories  are  almost 
lost  in  the  telling.  Yes,  to  be  sure  it  is 
good  to  have  wide  fields  to  delay  and  wan- 
der in  sometimes,  to  feel  our  feet  tangled 
in  soft  luxuries  of  grass,  and  turn  back- 
ward and  sideways  to  pluck  posies  ;  but 
the  longest  way  around  is  not  the  nearest 
way  home  for  the  true  artist,  when  he 
wishes  to  lodge  himself  securely  overnight 
in  the  heart  of  his  reader.  He  may  find 
that  far-off,  invisible  person  tired  of  waiting 
(there  are  many  long -sitting  and  long- 
suffering  readers,  nevertheless),  with  the 
door  shut,  the  light  put  out,  and  —  is  he 
musing  or  asleep  ? 

The  third  part  of  "  The  Earthly  Para- 
dise "  contains  six  separate  poems,  —  two  for 
each  of  the  autumnal  months,  —  three  of 
which  are  from  old  Greek  fables  or  histo- 
ries, and  the  other  three  from  Northern 
sources.  For  the  former  Mr.  Morris  has 
taken  the  root  from  the  Greek  story,  and 
his  invention  has  supplied  new  leaves  and 
branches,  making  a  wide-spread  tree  for  us 
to  lie  under  in  summer  idleness.  These 
Greek  themes  are  "  The  Death  of  Paris," 
"  The  Story  of  Accontius  and  Cydippe," 
and  "  The  Story  of  Rhodope." 

"The  Death  of  Paris,"  with  which  the 
autumnal  period  of  Mr.  Morris's  book  opens, 
follows  with  slight  difference  the  sugges- 
tions of  the  classical  fable  ;  but  the  various 


speeches  seem  to  wound  and  hopelessly 
cripple  the  poem,  and  are  so  confused  as  to 
render  some  of  the  scenes  between  Paris 
and  GEnone  hardly  intelligible ;  we  only 
know  certainly  that  Paris  is  left  alone  at 
the  close,  and,  with  a  cry  for  Helen  on  his 
lips,  —  the  ruling  passion  breaking  out  at 
last,  —  is  dead. 

"  The  Story  of  Accontius  and  Cydippe  " 
was  in  the  original  a  pretty  little  story, 
but  Mr.  Morris  changes  it  somewhat  (no 
one  need  insist  on  the  history),  intro- 
ducing as  machinery  the  celestial  naked- 
ness of  Venus,  who  purveys  the  prepared 
apple  to  Accontius  in  a  dream  ;  and  he  is 
a  long  while  about  it,  —  thirty  pages  ;  this 
being  one  of  the  instances  we  have  hinted 
where  the  story  is  very  charmingly  dragged 
to  death,  or  luxuriously  lost,  in  the  narra- 
tion. 

"  The  Story  of  Rhodope  "  is,  we  believe, 
the  antique  thread  from  which  the  priceless 
modern  fairy-jewel  of  Cinderella  is  sus- 
pended. Mr.  Morris  introduces  Rhodope 
as  the  daughter,  late  born,  of  poor  and 
aged  parents ;  at  her  birth  a  dream  of  her 
father's  having  hinted  some  high  future 
which  awaits  her,  she  grows  up  under  the 
subtile  education  of  this  forecast,  a  stranger 
among  her  kindred  and  people,  dreaming 
and  longing,  beautiful,  but  cold  and  re- 
served. One  day,  while  her  father  is 
brooding  over  his  misfortunes  and  her  dis- 
content, he  shows  her  a  pair  of  jewelled 
and  wonderful  shoes  which  he  got  long  ago 
as  a  prize  in  some  sea-capture  ;  and  she, 
carrying  them  as  a  gift  from  him  to  the 
high-priest  of  a  neighboring  temple,  dream- 
fully tries  them  on,  and,  afterward  stopping 
for  a  bath  by  the  way,  leaves  them  on  the 
shore,  and  the  rape  by  the  eagle  follows. 
The  poem,  though  too  long,  and  tedious 
with  its  minute  descriptions  here  and  there, 
is  the  fullest  of  life,  and  seems  to  us  the 
most  satisfactory  piece  from  the  Greek 
themes  in  the  present  volume  ;  something 
of  reality  is  impressed  upon  us,  especially 
in  the  closing  portion,  where  the  separa- 
tion of  the  new  fate  from  the  old  life  and 
its  associations  takes  place,  affecting  us 
with  much  of  the  pathos  of  a  genuine  hu- 
man history.  Rhodope,  who  shows  a  ten- 
derness of  feeling  upon  the  sudden  change 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


751 


of  her  fortune,  is  desirous  of  having  her 
aged  parents  accompany  her  and  share  her 
great  change  ;  but  after  the  ship  that  bears 
her  away  is  parted  from  shore,  she  awakes 
from  an  abstraction  and  discovers  that  their 
hearts  failed  them  at  the  gangway,  that  they 
have  remained  behind,  and  that  her  new  life 
is  cut  off  by  fate  entirely  from  her  old  one. 
The  following  closing  stanzas  well  describe 
her  acceptation  of  this  destiny  :  — 

"  '  Where  is  my  father?  I  am  fain  to  speak 
Of  many  things  with  him,  we  two  alone  ; 
For  mid  these  winds  and  waves  my  heart  grows 

weak 

With  memory  of  the  days  forever  gone.' 
The  moon  was  bright,  the  swaying  lanterns  shone 
On  her  pale  face,  and  fluttering  garments  hem 
Each  stared  on  each,  and  silence  was  on  them. 

"And  midst  that  silence  a  new  lonely  pain, 
Like  sundering  death,  smote  on  her,  till  he  spake  : 
'  O  queen,  what  say'st  thou  ?  the  old  man  was  fain, 
He  told  us,  still  to  dwell  among  his  folk  ; 
He  said,  thou  knewest  he  might  not  bear  the  yoke 
Of  strange  eyes  watching  him  —  what  say  I  more, 
Surely  thou  know'st  he  never  left  the  shore  ? 

"  '  I  deemed  him  wise  and  true  :  but  give  command 
If  so  thou  wiliest ;  certes  no  great  thing 
It  is,  in  two  hours'  space  to  make  the  land, 
Though  much  the  land  wind  now  is  freshening.' 
One  slender  hand  to  the  rough  shrouds  did  cling, 
As  her  limbs  failed  ;  she  raised  the  other  one, 
And  moved  her  lips  to  bid  the  thing  be  done. 

"  Yet  no  words  came,  she  stood  upright  again, 
And  dropped  her  hand  and  said,  '  I  strive  with 

change, 

I  strive  with  death,  the  gods'  toy,  but  in  vain  : 
No,  otherwise  than  thus  might  all  be  strange." 
Therewith   she  turned,   her  unseeing  eyes   did 

range 

Wide  o'er  the  tumbling  waste  of  waters  gray, 
As  swift  the  black  ship  went  upon  her  way." 

The  other  three  poems  are  "  The  Land 
East  of  the  Sun  and  West  of  the  Moon/' 
"The  Man  who  never  laughed  again," 
and  "  The  Lovers  of  Gudrun."  The  first 
affects  us  vaguely  but  subtly,  and  seems  to 
have  in  it  somewhat  of  the  same  fairy-tale 
that  is  familiar  as  "  The  Sleeping  Beauty." 
It  pretends  to  be  a  dream,  and  its  impres- 
sion really  overtakes  us  as  a  dream  reaches 
us  by  daylight,  —  something  gossamer-like 
and  impalpable  that  escapes  and  eludes 
yet  charms  us.  The  poem  is  full  of  tender 
and  beautiful  passages,  —  sensuous  often, 
but  pure  as  the  white  nakedness  of  marble, 
—  and  is  written  in  the  octosyllabic  rhyme- 
verses,  which  are  often  managed  so  happily 
by  Mr.  Morris,  especially  in  his  effective 
modulations  and  skilful  use  of  pauses. 
Here  he  seems  to  have  closely  imitated 
Chaucer,  to  whom  his  method  and  manner 


have  been  carelessly  compared  by  people 
who  have  never  cared  to  read  Chaucer. 
But  he  can  hardly  be  credited  with  the 
real  simple,  hearty  directness  and  fresh- 
ness of  Chaucer.  His  simplicity  is  not  al- 
ways of  natural  birth,  for  in  it  we  too  often 
feel  the  constraint  of  labored  art  trying  un- 
successfully to  conceal  itself.  "The  Man 
who  never  laughed  again "  is  somewhat 
similar  in  its  suggestions  to  the  last ;  hav- 
ing mystery  and  enchantment  and  the  at- 
mosphere of  "  fairy  lands  forlorn." 

But  of  all  the  poems  in  this  new  volume, 
it  is  in  "  The  Lovers  of  Gudrun  "  that  we 
are  made  to  feel  that  we  are  in  presence  of 
assured  flesh  and  blood  and  the  hearts  of 
men  and  women  with  real  personality  and 
characters,  and  it  is  here,  we  think,  Mr. 
Morris  touches  us  most  surely.  "  The 
Lovers  of  Gudrun  "  is  a  story  of  Iceland, 
and  refers  to  the  period  of  the  introduction 
of  Christianity  into  that  island.  There  is 
more  of  human  action  herein,  with  a  series 
of  incidents  each  newly  interesting  to  the 
reader  ;  and  the  unhappy  loves  of  Gudrun 
with  Kiatan  and  Bodli,  Kiatan's  trusted 
foster-brother,  are  set  before  us  in  such  a 
way  as  to  fill  us  with  a  sense  of  genuine 
sorrow  and  suffering.  It  is  a  painful  story, 
—  a  sad  and  tragic  history.  It  is  written 
in  the  simpler  heroic  rhymed  verse,  and  is 
generally  straightforward  and  vigorous,  not 
wearying  us  with  languid  monotones,  as  do 
many  of  the  long  poems  in  stanzas  whose 
lines  are  too  often  oppressive  with  mono- 
syllables. This  poem  is  far  the  longest  in 
the  volume,  and,  as  the  poet  tells  us  in 
his  argument,  "  this  story  shows  how  two 
friends  loved  a  fair  woman,  and  how  he 
who  loved  her  best  had  her  to  wife,  though 
she  loved  him  little  or  not  at  all ;  and  how 
one  of  these  two  friends  gave  shame  to  and 
received  death  of  the  other,  who  in  his  turn 
came  to  his  end  by  reason  of  that  deed." 
The  following  final  closing  passage  in  which 
Gudrun,  in  her  blind  old  age,  answers  her 
son  Bodli's  question  as  to  which  of  her  four 
husbands  she  loved  the  best,  will  indicate 
perhaps  the  strong  quality  of  the  verse  and 
poem :  — 

"  Then  her  thin  hands  each  upon  each  she  pressed, 
And  her  face  quivered,  as  some  memory 
Were  hard  upon  her  : 

'  Ah,  son  !  years  go  by. 

When  we  are  young  this  year  we  call  the  worst 
That  we  can  know  ;  this  bitter  day  is  cursed, 
And  no  more  such  our  hearts  can  bear,  we  say. 
But  yet  as  time  from  us  falls  fast  away 
There  comes  a  day,  son,  when  all  this  is  fair 
And  sweet,  to  what,  still  living,  we  must  bear  — 


752 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[June, 


Bettered  is  bale  by  bale  that  follows  it, 
The  saw  saith.' 

Silent  both  awhile  did  sit 
Until  she  spake  again  :  '  Easy  to  tell 
About  them,  son,  my  memory  serves  me  well  ; 
A  great  chief  Thorkel  was,  bounteous  and  wise, 
And  ill  hap  seemed  his  death  in  all  men's  eyes. 
Bodli  thy  sire  was  mighty  of  his  hands  ; 
Scarce  better  dwelt  in  all  the  northern  lands  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  loved  him  well.     My  husband 

Thord 

Was  a  great  man,  —  wise  at  the  council-board, 
Well  learned  in  law.     For  Thorwal,  he  indeed, 
A  rash  weak  heart,  like  to  a  stinging  weed 
Must  be  pulled  up  —ah,  that  was  long  ago  !  ' 
Then  Bodli  smiled.   '  Thou  wouldst  not  have  me 

know 

Thy  thought,  O  mother,  —  these  things  know  I  well ; 
Old  folk  about  these  men  e'en  such  tales  tell.' 

She  said  :  'Alas,  O  son,  thou  ask'st  of  love  ! 
Long  folly  lasteth  ;  still  that  word  doth  move 
My  old  worn  heart  —  hearken  one  little  word, 
Then  ask  no  more  ;  ill  is  it  to  be  stirred 
To  vain  repining  for  the  vanished  days.' 

She  tunied,  until  her  sightless  eyes  did  gaze 
As  though  the  wall,  the  hills,  must  melt  away, 
And  show  her  Herdholt  in  the  twilight  gray  ; 
She  cried,  with  tremulous  voice  and  eyes  grown 

wet 

For  the  last  time,  whate'er  should  happen  yet, 
With  hands  stretched  out  for  all  that  she  had  lost : 
'I  did  the  worst  to  him  I  loved  the  most."  " 

The  last  line  refers,  of  course,  to  Kiartan 
(whose  home  was  Herdholt),  whom  she 
had  loved  passionately  and  to  whom  she 
had  been  betrothed  ;  through  a  fatal  mis- 
understanding, she  had  wedded  Bodli,  his 
foster-brother,  whom  she  did  not  love,  in- 
stead, —  thus  bringing  about  sorrow,  hatred, 
ruin,  and  death. 

These  poems,  we  think,  generally  com- 
pare favorably  with  those  in  the  preceding 
parts  of  "  The  Earthly  Paradise,"  though 
perhaps  no  one  of  them  floats  in  memory 
so  clear  in  its  charm  as  "The  Love  of 
Alcestis,"  or  touches  us  so  distinctly  as 
"The  Proud  King."  They  are  nearly  all 
brightened  through  frequently  with  fresh, 
healthful  landscapes,  painted  in  lines  that 
have  a  dewy  clearness  and  sweetness  ;  here 
is  such  a  picture  from  "  The  Lovers  of  Gud- 
run"  :  — 

"Then  the  man  turned  and  smote  his  horse  ;  but 

they 

Rode  slowly  by  the  borders  of  the  bay 
Upon  that  fresh  and  sunny  afternoon, 
Noting  the  sea-birds'  cry  and  surf's  soft  tune, 
Until  at  last  into  the  dale  they  came, 
[   And  saw  the  gilt  roof-ridge  of  Herdholt  flame 
In  the  bright  sunlight  on  the  fresh  grass, 
O'er  which  the  restless,  white-wooled  lambs  did 

pass 

And  querulous  gray  ewes  ;  and  wide  around, 
Near  and  far  up  the  dale,  they  heard  the  sound 
Of  lowing  kine,  and  the  blithe  neat-herd's  voice." 

But  in  this   third   part   of  Mr.    Morris's 


book,  wherein  we  have,  so  to  speak,  lost 
sight  of  the  prelude  to  the  poems  and  the 
embracing  fiction  that  gives  the  book  its 
general  title,  we  feel  that  the  machinery  is 
rather  an  added  weariness  and  interruption. 
The  company  by  whom  and  among  whom 
these  tales  are  feigned  to  be  told  appear 
vague  and  without  character,  —  ghostly  per- 
sonages, that  move  about  in  worlds  not  real- 
ized, and  seem  to  have  no  excuse  for  being 
anywhere.  Nor  are  the  little  pieces  of 
monotonous  boundary  verses  which  de- 
scribe the  beginning  and  the  ending  of  each 
month  very  desirable,  although  one  of  them, 
under  the  head  of  "  October,"  and  begin- 
ning, 

"  O  love,  turn  from  the  unchanging  sea,  and  gaze," 
is  as  delicious  in  tone  as  Indian  summer 
and  "  divinest  melancholy." 

"  Is  Mr.  Morris  a  great  poet  ? "  It  is 
very  easy  for  contemporary  critics  of  pro- 
phetic confidence  to  answer  this  question, 
and  take  the  far-off  province  of  their'great- 
grandchildren,  but  the  great-grandchildren 
still  think  they  have  the  better  right  to 
answer  for  themselves.  That  Mr.  Morris 
is  great  in  proportion  to  the  bulk  of  his 
books,  however,  we  may  venture  to  doubt. 
But  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  is  an  unusually 
sweet  and  fine  poet,  who  if  condensed  suffi- 
ciently would  find  more  present  readers  to 
delight  in  him  and  more  readers  in  the 
future  to  keep  him  from  being  forgotten. 
Enough  is  good  as  a  feast,  and  we  should 
want  more  than  enough  rather  than  have  it. 


An  Old-fashioned  Girl.  By  LOUISA  M. 
ALCOTT,  Author  of  "Little  Women." 
With  Illustrations.  Boston  :  Roberts 
Brothers. 

IF  we  said  that  Miss  Alcott,  as  a  writer 
for  young  people  just  getting  to  be  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  deserved  the  great 
good  luck  that  has  attended  her  books,  we 
should  be  using  an  unprofessional  frank- 
ness and  putting  in  print  something  we 
might  be  sorry  for  after  the  story  of  the 
"  Old-fashioned  Girl  "  had  grown  colder  in 
our  minds.  And  yet  it  is  a  pretty  story,  a 
very  pretty  story  \  and  almost  inexplicably 
pleasing,  since  it  is  made  up  of  such  plain 
material,  and  helped  off  with  no  sort  of  ad- 
venture or  sensation.  It  is  nothing,  in  fact, 
but  the  story  of  a  little  girl  from  the  coun- 
try, who  comes  to  visit  a  gay  city  family, 
where  there  is  a  fashionable  little  lady  of 
her  own  age,  with  a  snubbed  younger  sister, 


1870.] 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


753 


a  gruff,  good-hearted,  mischievous  brother, 
—  as  well  as  a  staid,  sensible  papa,  a  silly, 
sickly  mamma,  and  an  old-time  grand- 
mother. In  this  family  Polly  makes  her- 
self ever  so  lovely  and  useful,  so  that  all 
adore  her,  though  her  clothes  are  not  of 
the  latest  fashion,  nor  her  ideas,  nor  her 
principles  ;  and  by  and  by,  after  six  years, 
when  she  returns  again  to  the  city  to  give 
music-lessons  and  send  her  brother  to  col- 
lege, Mr.  Shaw  fails,  and  the  heartlessness 
of  fashionable  life,  which  his  children  had 
begun  to  suspect,  is  plain  to  them,  and 
Tom's  modish  fiancee  jilts  him,  and  Polly 
marries  him,  and  Fanny  Shaw  gets  the  good 
and  rich  and  elegant  Sydney,  who  never 
cared  for  her  money,  and  did  not  make  love 
to  her  till  she  was  poor.  That  is  about  all ; 
and  as  none  of  these  people  or  their  doings 
are  strange  or  remarkable,  we  rather  won- 
der where  the  power  of  the  story  lies. 
There 's  some  humor  in  it,  and  as  little  pa- 
thos as  possible,  and  a  great  deal  of  good 
sence,  but  also  some  poor  writing,  and  some 
bad  grammar.  One  enjoys  the  simple  tone, 
the  unsentimentalized  facts  of  common  ex- 
perience, and  the  truthfulness  of  many  of 
the  pictures  of  manners  and  persons.  Be- 
sides, people  always  like  to  read  of  kindly 
self-sacrifice,  and  sweetness,  and  purity, 
and  naturalness ;  and  this  is  what  Polly 
is,  and  what  her  character  teaches  in  a 
friendly  and  unobtrusive  way  to  every- 
body about  her.  The  story  thus  mirrors 
the  reader's  good-Will  in  her  well-doing, 
and  that  is  perhaps  what,  more  than  any 
other  thing,  makes  it  so  charming  and  com- 
fortable ;  but  if  it  is  not,  pleasing  the  little 
book  remains  nevertheless  ;  and  nobody 
can  be  the  worse  for  it.  Perhaps  it  is  late 
to  observe  that  the  scene  of  the  story  is 
in  Boston  ;  at  least,  the  locality  is  euphuis- 
tically  described  as  "  the  most  conceited  city 
in  New  England  " ;  and  we  suppose  Spring- 
field will  not  dispute  the  distinction  with 


Hereditary  Genius.  An  Inquiry  into  its 
Laws  and  Consequences.  By  FRANCIS 
GALVON,  F.  R.  S.  New  York :  D.  Ap- 
ple'.on  &  Co.  1870. 

THIS  interesting  and  well-digested  trea- 
tise opens  with  a  concession  which  seems  to 
us  quite  needless.  Mr.  Galton  hastens  to 
admit  that  his  views  concerning  the  trans- 
missibility  of  genius  by  inheritance  are  ' '  in 
contradiction  to  general  opinion."  We 

VOL.  XXV.— NO.   152.  48 


believe,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  crudely 
formed  opinions  of  the  general  public  are 
quite  as  often  to  be  found  on  Mr.  Gallon's 
side  as  on  the  opposite.  Uneducated  peo- 
ple always  expect  to  see  children  resemble 
their  parents  ;  and  to  such  an  extent  is  the 
theory  carried,  that  if  a  dissipated  man  dies 
leaving  a  son,  all  the  old  cronies  of  the 
neighborhood  will  wag  their  heads  and  pre- 
dict of  the  innocent  boy  that  "  he  is  going 
to  be  just  like  his  father."  Of  every  new- 
born child  the  question  is  asked,  Which  of 
his  parents  does  he  look  like?  and  every 
peculiarity  of  character,  temperament,  or 
personal  attitude,  which  he  may  manifest, 
is  ingeniously  traced  by  aunts,  uncles,  and 
admiring  "friends,  to  its  ancestral  sources. 
So  true  is  this  that  when  Mr.  Buckle  —  a 
writer  but  little  acquainted  with  biology,  in 
spite  of  his  vast  pretensions  —  made  bold  to 
deny  the  transmissibility  of  mental  and  mor- 
al characteristics,  he  expressly  recognized 
that  he  was  running  counter  to  a  "  popular 
prejudice." 

In  this  case,  however,  popular  prejudice 
is  unequivocally  supported  by  scientific  in- 
vestigation. The  thoroughly  educated  biol- 
ogist, or  even  the  intelligent  amateur  student 
of  the  laws  of  life,  is  the  last  person  who 
needs  to  read  a  treatise  like  Mr.  Galton's  in 
order  to  be  convinced  that  children  derive 
their  mental  capacities  as  well  as  their  phys- 
ical organizations  from  their  parents.  This 
point  has  been  so  often  illustrated,  and  has 
been  established  by  such  overwhelming 
evidence,  that  if  Mr.  Galton  had  aimed  at 
nothing  more  than  a  fresh  demonstration  of 
it,  his  book  would  hardly  have  had  any 
raison  d'etre.  Pure  biological  considera- 
tions, for  instance,  assure  us  that  a  man  like 
Newton  must  have  had  parents  of  rare  men- 
tal capacity,  even  though  they  have  done 
nothing  by  which  to  be  remembered  in  his- 
tory :  the  son  of  ordinary  parents  could  no 
more  have  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation 
than  the  offspring  of  a  pair  of  cart-horses 
could  win  the  Derby. 

But  Mr.  Galton  aims  at  something  more 
than  the  illustration  of  this  truism.  He 
aims  at  illustrating  the  character  and  extent 
of  the  limitations  under  which  the  principle 
of  heredity  works  ;  and  here  his  contribu- 
tions to  our  knowledge  of  the  subject  are 
both  novel  and  important. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  loose  thinking 
current,  both  as  to  the  kind  and  degree  of 
the  innate  differences  of  capacity  between 
different  men,  and  as  to  the  mode  in  which 


754 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[June, 


such  differences  are  transmitted  from  par- 
ents to  children.  Upon  both  of  these 
points  Mr.  Gallon  furnishes  ingeniously 
arranged  data  for  forming  precise  estimates. 
After  a  careful  comparison  of  biographical 
dictionaries,  etc.,  he  arrives  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  one  man  in  every  four  thousand 
becomes  by  his  own  exertions  sufficiently 
distinguished  to  leave  a  name  recorded  in 
history ;  while  about  one  man  in  every 
million  leaves  behind  him  an  illustrious 
name.  Then,  by  a  curious  calculation,  the 
principles  of  which  are  familiar  to  the  scien- 
tific student  of  statistics,  but  the  details  of 
which  are  too  voluminous  to  be  given  here, 
he  divides  men  into  sixteen  grades  jof  natural 
ability,  separated  by  equal  intervals.  The 
ascending  grades  are  designated  by  capitals, 
the  descending  by  lower-case  letters.  Thus 
a  and  A  representing  that  mediocrity  which 
may  be  found  to  characterize  most  provin- 
cial gatherings,  t,  for  instance,  would  denote 
the  class  of  decidedly  silly  persons,  e  would 
stand  for  those  who  are  half-witted,  g  for 
those  who  are  absolutely  idiotic  ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  D  would  include  the  mass 
of  men  who  obtain  the  ordinary  prizes  of  life, 
—  about  sixteen  thousand  in  each  million,  — 
F  represents  the  degree  of  eminence  achieved 
by  about  two  hundred  and  thirty-three  men 
in  each  million,  G  that  reached  by  fourteen 
in  each  million  ;  and,  finally,  X  includes  the 
wide  variety  of  grades  above  G,  forming  the 
class  of  men  whose  names  are  inseparably 
associated  in  history  with  the  best  achieve- 
ments of  the  age  in  which  they  have  lived. 
Thus  the  difference  between  extreme  X  and 
x  represents  the  difference  between  Shake- 
speare and  the  most  degraded  idiot  men- 
tioned in  medical  literature  ;  but  generally 
about  one  man  out  of  each  million  of  adult 
males  is  entitled  to  rank  somewhere  in  class 
X.  To  illustrate  the  actual  differences  in 
natural  capacity  between  these  grades,  Mr. 
Galton  cites  the  competitive  examinations  in 
mathematics  which  are  held  yearly  at  Cam- 
bridge. Of  the  four  hundred  students  who 
take  their  degrees  each  year,  —  and  who,  on 
the  whole,  rank  above  mediocrity,  say  in 
class  B  or  C,  —  one  hundred  regularly  apply 
for  mathematical  honors.  Of  these  about 
forty  succeed  in  becoming  "wranglers,"  and 
even  to  be  a  low  wrangler  is  considered  no 
small  honor,  since  it  is  a  passport  to  a  fel- 
lowship in  some  college.  Now  the  differ- 
ences in  the  number  of  marks  obtained  each 
year  "by  these  candidates  for  honors  is  at 
first  sight  astonishing.  Let  us  remember 


that  they  are  all  working  to  the  utmost  limit 
of  their  capacity,  like  oarsmen  in  a  race, 
and  that,  in  general,  they  have  had  about 
equally  good  opportunities  for  preparation. 
Well,  the  lowest  man  on  the  list  regularly 
obtains  less  than  three  hundred  marks ;  the 
lowest  or  fortieth  wrangler  obtains  about 
fifteen  hundred ;  the  second  wrangler  obtains 
from  four  thousand  to  five  thousand  ;  while 
the  first  or  senior  wrangler  does  not  fall 
short  of  seven  thousand  and  sometimes  reach- 
es nine  thousand  five  hundred.  In  the  ex- 
aminations for  classical  honors  the  figures 
are  similar  ;  and  no  better  proof  could  be 
desired  of  the  decided  superiority  of  some 
men  over  others  in  point  of  natural  ability. 
For,  in  spite  of  the  popular  prejudice,  the 
young  man  who  wins  university  honors 
must  be  several  degrees  above  mediocrity. 
He  may  be  an  Adams  or  a  Herschel,  belong- 
ing to  class  X ;  but  if,  disappointing  the 
sanguine  expectations  of  his  friends,  he  does 
not  rise  so  high  as  this,  he  will  at  least  be 
likely  to  obtain  a  place  in  class  E,  — to 
achieve  as  much  as  is  achieved  by  two  thou- 
sand four  hundred  and  twenty-three  men 
out  of  each  million.  And  the  difference 
between  the  "poll-man"  who,  from  lack  of 
ability,  obtains  no  honors  whatever,  and  the 
senior  wrangler,  will  represent  the  difference 
between  classes  B  and  C  on  the  one  hand, 
and  E  or  Fan.  the  other. 

Now  Mr.  Galton,  in  his  inquiry,  deals 
only  with  the  three  highest  classes,  F,  G, 
and  X.  His  object  is  to  estimate  the  prob- 
ability that  any  member  of  one  of  these 
classes  has  had  parents  or  will  have  children 
belonging  to  the  same  or  to  the  adjacent 
class.  And  it  is  to  this  end  that  he  has 
compiled  his  very  interesting,  though  by  no 
means  exhaustive,  series  of  statistical  tables. 

In  discussing  this  point  we  must  observe, 
first,  that  an  illustrious  man  (of  class  X)  is 
much  more  likely  to  have  had  eminent  par- 
ents than  to  have  eminent  children.  To 
produce  a  Pericles,  excellent  parents  are  ab- 
solutely essential ;  but  a  Pericles  often  pro- 
duces nothing  better  than  a  Paralos  and  a 
Xanthippos.  This  is  the  fact  which  so  often 
puzzles  those  who  would  trace  the  workings 
of  heredity  among  men  of  genius.  Yet  biolo- 
gy supplies  three  adequate  foundations  upon 
which  to  build  a  complete  explanation  of  it. 
In  the  first  place,  the  sons  of  great  geniuses 
are  likely  to  be  excessively  precocious. 
Now  excessive  precocity  indicates  that  the 
brain  is  increasing  in  complexity  of  structure 
faster  than  it  increases  in  mass  and  weight. 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


755 


In  other  words,  it  develops  faster  than  it 
grows ;  and  it  is  a  law  of  biology  that  de- 
velopment is  antagonistic  to  growth ;  the 
force  used  up  in  the  one  process  is  not  avail- 
able for  the  other.  Consequently  the  exces- 
sively precocious  sons  of  geniuses  are  likely 
either  to  die  young  from  local  over-nutrition 
of  the  nervous  system,  or  else  to  stop  short 
in  mid-career  from  defective  brain-growth 
due  to  excessive  brain-development  In 
the  second  place,  "genius"  is  not  a  simple 
but  a  very  complex  phenomenon.  To  ob- 
tain a  place  high  up  in  class  X,  a  man  needs 
a  rare  combination  of  intellectual,  moral, 
and  physical  qualifications.  He  must  have 
vivid  imagination,  unusual  power  of  concen- 
trating his  attention,  inflexible  determina- 
tion, and  prodigious  capacity  for  work,  for 
the  triumphs  of  "genius "  are  not  to  be  won 
without  prolonged  labor.  Now  if  a  man 
possess  all  these  qualities,  gained  by  the  ad- 
dition of  the  various  good  qualities  possessed 
by  his  able  though  not  illustrious  parents,  it 
is  not  likely  that  he  will  transmit  them  all 
unimpaired  to  his  children.  His  son  may 
possess  them  all  save  the  vivid  imagination, 
in  which  case  he  will  be  perhaps  an  excellent 
routine-worker  instead  of  a  genius,  or  he 
may  inherit  all  save  the  rare  capacity  for 
continuous  work,  in  which  case  he  will  be  a 
brilliant  performer  of  trifles.  But  since  the 
mother,  although  a  sensible  woman  (say  of 
class  C  or  /?),  will  almost  inevitably  fall  very 
far  short  of  the  father,  the  chances  are  that 
the  son  will  miss  some  essential  quality,  and 
will  fall  into  class  E  or  F;  in  which  case 
his  achievements,  however  creditable,  will 
appear  very  meagre  compared  with  those  of 
his  father. 

But  the  third  and  chief  reason  why  the 
sons  of  great  geniuses  should  be  inferior  to 
their  fathers  is  to  be  found  in  the  law  of 
biology,  that  individuation  is  antagonistic  to 
reproduction.  That  is  to  say,  "the  attain- 
ment of  the  highest  possible  individual  ex- 
cellence is  incompatible  with  the  highest 
possible  manifestation  of  the  reproductive 
function."  This  law  holds  throughout  the 
vegetable  and  animal  kingdoms.  In  some 
lower  organisms,  the  birth  of  offspring  is 
the  signal  for  the  death  of  the  parent ;  re- 
production completely  checks  individuation. 
The  prime  functions  of  the  organism  are 
three,  —  nutrition,  nerve-action,  and  repro- 
duction. Now  in  a  man  of  extraordinary 
genius  (high  up  in  class  X )  nutrition  and 
nerve-action  are  likely  to  consume  the  force 
of  the  organism,  so  that  little  is  left  for 


reproduction.  What  is  spent  in  one  direc- 
tion must  be  hoarded  in  the  other.  To  pro- 
duce a  child  of  rare  mental  vigor  requires 
a  liberal  outlay  of  phosphorus  compounds. 
But  in  the  man  of  class  X  these  compounds 
are  liable  to  be  completely  absorbed  in  the 
support  of  the  brain.  Hence,  of  the  twenty 
or  thirty  greatest  men  who  have  lived,  one 
at  least  (Newton)  has  been  rendered  impo- 
tent by  excessive  brain-action,  many  have 
remained  unmarried,  and  only  two  or  three 
have  produced  sons  above  mediocrity. 

These  considerations  are  more  than  suffi- 
cient to  account  for  the  often  noticed  inferi- 
ority of  the  sons  of  great  men.  We  can  no 
more  produce  a  whole  race  of  Newtons  and 
Shakespeares  than  we  can  produce  perpetual 
motion  :  the  principle  involved  is  the  same 
in  both  cases.  A  Nicholas  Bacon  may 
produce  a  Francis  Bacon,  a  Bernardo  Tasso 
a  Torquato,  a  Philip  an  Alexander,  but  the 
culminating  genius  of  the  family  is  likely  to 
be  the  last.  We  do  not  mean  to  imply  that 
it  is  necessarily  so.  Sebastian  Bach  had 
twenty  children,  of  whom  three  are  immortal 
composers,  while  the  other  seventeen  were 
professional  musicians.  But  when  genius 
ends  in  sterility  or  mediocrity,  as  is  so  often 
the  case,  the  physiologist  has  ample  means 
of  accounting  for  the  phenomenon. 

In  spite  of  all  the  drawbacks  here  enumer- 
ated, and  concerning  which  Mr.  Gallon 
says  but  little,  more  than  half  of  tlie  cele- 
brated men  of  history  have  had  celebrated 
kindred.  The  fact  is  abundantly  proved 
and  illustrated  in  Mr.  Galton's  very  inter- 
esting tables,  which  exhibit  extensive  and 
careful  research,  though  we  notice  in  them 
several  serious  omissions.  Mr.  Galton 
gives  us  Pepin  Heristal,  Karl  Martel,  Pe- 
pin  the  Short,  and  Charlemagne ;  why 
should  he  not  have  added  that  Louis  IX. 
was  grandson  of  Philip  Augustus,  and 
grandfather  of  Philip  the  Fair?  Why  has 
he  omitted  the  long  line  of  hero-kings  who 
governed  England  from  Egbert  to  Edmund 
Ironside  ?  Why  has  he  failed  to  notice  the 
large  percentage  of  varied  ability  combined 
with  unequalled  personal  beauty  among  the 
royal  descendants  of  William  the  Conquer- 
or, down  to  Richard  III.  ?  And  why  is  he 
silent  about  the  Roman  Emperors  of  the 
house  of  Hohenstaufen,  a  family  in  which 
each  generation  seemed  to  outdo  the  pre- 
ceding one,  until  the  climax  was  reached  in 
Frederic  II.  ?  Besides  these  omissions,  we 
notice  a  few  inaccuracies.  Cardinal  Riche- 
lieu is  said  to  have  been  minister  under 


756 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[June, 


Louis  XIV.  On  pp.  173  and  190,  Jane 
Austen,  the  novelist,  is  confounded  with 
Sarah,  the  talented  wife  of  John  Austin. 
On  p.  216,  Humboldt  is  said  to  have  fin- 
ished his  "  Kosmos  "  set.  82  ;  he  died,  set. 
89,  without  having  quite  finished  it. 

Mr.  Gallon  concludes  with  some  interest- 
ing reflections  on  the  comparative  natural 
abilities  of  different  races.  We  think  he  is 
here  misled  by  the  assumption  that  the  varia- 
tions of  ability  are  equal  in  different  races. 
Thus  he  concludes  that  the  A  of  the  negro 
race  corresponds  to  our  c,  because  Tous- 
saint  1'Ouverture,  the  only  X  of  that  race, 
answers  to  our  F.  He  forgets  that  the  ne- 
gro race  has  produced  but  one  Toussaint 
1'Ouverture,  while  the  Aryan  race  produces 
Jf's  at  the  rate  of  one  in  each  million  of 
adult  males.  Taking  this  fact  into  the  ac- 
count, the  negro  average  will  be  found  to 
correspond  to  our  d.  With  reference  to 
the  Athenians  as  compared  with  the  English 
race,  Mr.  Galton  falls  into  a  more  pro- 
nounced error.  From  the  fact  that  Athens, 
with  an  average  population  of  about  twenty 
thousand  native  adult  males,  produced  four- 
teen Jfs  in  one  century,  he  concludes  that 
the  Athenian  A  corresponded  to  our  C,  so 
that  the  Athenians  surpassed  us  even  as  we 
surpass  the  negroes !  This  result  aston- 
ishes Mr.  Galton  himself,  and  is  no  doubt 
preposterous.  In  the  first  place  the  clas- 
sical scholar  will  dispute  four  of  his  JCs, 
namely,  Miltiades,  Aristides,  Kimon,  and 
Xenophon.  This  would  materially  alter  the 
result ;  but  a  far  more  fundamental  objec- 
tion remains.  England,  according  to  Mr. 
Galton,  regularly  possesses  six  contempora- 
ries who  will  rank  in  class  X.  We  grant 
this,  and  for  the  sake  of  clearness  name  the 
present  six  :  Spencer,  Mill,  Darwin,  Maine, 
Browning,  and  George  Eliot.  Now,  if  the 
Athenian  race  surpassed  ours  even  as  we 
surpass  the  negroes,  there  ought  to  have 
been  1355  Athenians  living  between  530 
and  430  B.  C.,  equal  in  ability  to  the  six 
persons  just  named.  This,  of  course, 
lands  us  in  an  absurdity ;  the  entire  an- 
nals of  the  human  race  will  barely  furnish 
400  names  as  illustrious  as  those  which  we 
have  taken  for  examples. 

The  wonderful  fertility  of  Athens  in 
great  men  cannot  be  explained  on  physio- 
logical grounds  alone.  Historical,  or,  rather, 
sociological  factors  were  at  work  in  causing 
this  anomalous  manifestation  of  genius,  and 
Mr.  Gallon's  is  only  one  of  the  many  cases 
in  which  biologists  have  erred  by  trying  to 


explain  too  much  with  the  materials  fur- 
nished by  their  own  science.  We  freely  ad- 
mit a  slight  superiority  of  the  Athenian  race 
over  our  own.  The  causes  of  it  lie  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  within  the  ken  of  the  historical 
inquirer,  but  we  have  not  space  to  examine 
them  here,  or  to  do  further  justice  to  Mr. 
Gallon's  excellent  book,  save  by  advising 
our  readers  to  study  it  carefully.  It  raises 
many  important  questions,  the  solution  of 
which  affords  a  good  opportunity  for  sharp- 
ening one's  wits  and  extending  one's  re- 
searches. 

Hedged  In.  By  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS, 
Author  of  "  The  Gates  Ajar,"  etc.  Bos- 
ton :  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

"  THE  book  is  a  poem,"  said  a  friend  of 
ours,  on  closing  this  volume.  The  criticism 
gives  in  a  nutshell  our  first  impression  of 
the  story  as  a  work  of  art.  Its  two  lead- 
ing characters,  Nixy  and  Mrs.  Purcell,  are 
ideal  women.  Neither  can  be  fairly  said  to. 
represent  a  class.  The  one  is  not  a  fit  in- 
mate of  a  Magdalen  asylum,  nor  is  the 
other  a  specimen  of  the  average  Christian 
woman,  as  the  Christian  world  goes.  Yet 
exception  to  the  make  of  the  story  on  this 
account  would  be  unjust.  Its  great  charm 
is  its  fidelity  to  the  best  possibilities  of 
character.  We  doubt  whether  literary  art 
can  do  much  that  is  worth  doing,  on  any 
other  principle,  to  adjust  the  relations  of 
fallen  to  unfallen  womanhood.  Any  such 
work  should  be  constructed  on  a  profound 
faith  in  humanity,  reaching  out  in  both 
directions ;  to  the  fallen,  conceiving  what 
they  may  be  ;  to  the  pure,  what  they  ought 
to  be.  In  this  idealizing  of  the  two  charac- 
ters most  difficult  of  representation  in  any 
natural  womanly  relations  to  each  other, 
Miss  Phelps  has  certainly  achieved  a  rare 
success. 

The  subordinate  personages  also  are  most 
of  them  drawn  with  a  singular  blending  of 
delicacy  and  power.  Mrs.  Myrtle,  Jacques, 
the  French  fiddler,  the  Scotch  landlady, 
Moll,  Dick,  and  "  No  23,"  are  all  clear-cut 
and  true.  In  versatility  and  in  literary 
finish,  the  book  is  far  in  advance  of  "  The 
Gates  Ajar  "  ;  and  in  power  it  exceeds  any- 
thing else  which  the  author  has  writlen. 

The  morality  of  "  Hedged  In,"  like  that 
of  almost  everything  which  Miss  Phelps  has 
published,  is  intense  and  intensely  Chris- 
tian. One  may  think  what  one  pleases  of 
her  conception  of  religious  faith,  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  she  is  keenly  in  ear- 


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757 


nest  in  it.  It  is  not  a  theology  but  a  life, 
and  she  means  it.  Matthew  Arnold  would 
classify  her  in  the  "  Hebrew,"  not  in  the 
"  Hellenic  "  school  of  moralists.  We  pre- 
sume that  she  would  be  content  with  that. 
Yet  there  is  nothing  acrid  in  her  moral 
judgments.  On  the  contrary,  she  wins  by 
a  certain  genial  and  hopeful  look  at  the 
worst  side  of  things.  If  nobody  is  quite 
angelic  in  her  thought,  neither  is  anybody 
'  satanic.  With  not  a  bit  of  sympathy  with 
the  effeminate  culture  which  sickens  at  the 
world  as  it  is,  she  takes  it  to  her  heart  with 
a  sad  yet  elastic  faith  in  its  destiny. 


Among  my  Books.  By  JAMES  RUSSELL 
LOWELL,  A.  M.,  Professor  of  Belles-Let- 
tres  in  Harvard  College.  Boston :  Fields, 
Osgood,  &  Co. 

THE  essays  which  form  this  book  are 
on  Dryden,  Shakespeare,  Witchcraft,  New 
England  two  centuries  ago,  Lessing,  and 
Rousseau,  and  they  are  among  the  most 
valuable  and  delightful  papers  that  their 
author  has  written,  —  that  is,  among  the 
best  that  any  one  has  written  in  our  day. 
That  on  Dryden  is  almost  an  ideal  criticism, 
and  expresses  for  most  readers  all  that  they 
hesitate  to  utter,  lest  they 

"  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess." 

It  leaves  the  imagination  in  entire  pos- 
session of  its  poet,  while  it  gives  the  mind 
something  of  Mr.  Lowell's  means  of  more 
clearly  and  distinctly  judging  him.  This  is 
so  perfectly  managed  that  the  reader  may 
with  no  great  immodesty  find  himself  think- 
ing, at  the  end,  that  it  had  always  been 
just  his  own  notion  of  Dryden. 

The  paper  on  Shakespeare  is  better  in 
parts  than  the  Dryden,  even,  but  is  less 
complete,  necessarily,  since  Shakespeare 
has  no  bounds  that  criticism  can  set,  and 
is  only  to  be  marked,'  as  to  his  height  and 
depth,  at  here  and  there  a  point.  Still,  this 
essay  seems  more  strongly  characterized 
than  any  of  the  rest  by  some  of  Mr.  Lowell's 
peculiar  traits,  and  the  whole  is  done  in 
a  wonderfully  light,  fresh,  and  racy  spirit. 
There  is  much,  of  course,  in  it  of  the  sort 
of  thing  which  will  always  make  him  a  puz- 
zle to  many  very  well-meaning  people,  who 
would  like  to  fix  his  character  as  that  of 
a  humorist,  or  satirist,  or  critic,  or  moralist, 
or  poet,  and  who  are  painfully  affected  when 
they  find  him  all  these  at  once.  In  his 
poetry  he  has  a  trick  of  singing  as  if  he  had 


been  thinking,  and  in  his  prose  of  thinking 
as  if  he  had  been  singing,  that  may  well  con- 
found the  single-minded  ;  some  good  hearts, 
without  heads  to  match,  have  been  troubled 
that  with  his  love  of  reform  he  has  so  small 
passion  for  reformers  ;  and  more  than  one 
learned  person  is  doubtless  shocked  at  his 
habit  of  studying  with  his  library  windows 
up,  and  letting  in  the  summer  morning  and 
the  talk  of  the  hired  man  in  the  meadow. 
A  man  who  in  a  serious  disquisition  caa 
speak  in  the  following  terms  of  the  classic 
principle,  as  we  moderns  know  it,  can  never 
be  other  than  a  mystery  to  many  wh* 
would  fain  have  him  for  a  friend  :  — 

"  So  far  as  all  the  classicism  then  attaina- 
ble was  concerned,  Shakespeare  got  it  as 
cheap  as  Goethe  did,  who  always  bought  it 
ready-made.  For  such  purposes  of  mere 
aesthetic  nourishment  Goethe  always  milked 
other  minds,  —  if  minds  those  ruminators 
and  digesters  of  antiquity  into  asses'  milk 
may  be  called.  There  were  plenty  of  pro- 
fessors who  were  forever  assiduously  brows- 
ing in  vales  of  Enna  and  on  Pentelican 
slopes  among  the  vestiges  of  antiquity, 
slowly  secreting  lacteous  facts,  and  not  one 
of  them  would  have  raised  his  head  from, 
that  exquisite  pasturage,  though  Pan  had 
made  music  through  his  pipe  of  reeds.  Did 
Goethe  wish  to  work  up  a  Greek  theme  ? 
He  drove  out  Herr  Bottiger,  for  example, 
among  that  fodder  delicious  to  him  for 
its  very  dryness,  that  sapless  Arcadia  of 
scholiasts,  let  him  graze,  ruminate,  and  go 
through  all  other  needful  processes  of  the 
antiquarian  organism,  then  got  him  quietly 
into  a  corner  and  milked  him.  The  prod- 
uct, after  standing  long  enough,  mantled 
over  with  the  rich  Goethean  cream,  from 
which  a  butter  could  be  churned,  if  not  pre- 
cisely classic,  quite  as  good  as  the  ancients 
could  have  made  out  of  the  same  material." 

It  is  seldom  that  Mr.  Lowell  barely  states 
his  conception  of  character  ;  he  clothes  it 
and  makes  it  charming  in  beautiful  or  gro- 
tesque figures,  and  his  notion  of  Dryden 
is  given  in  a  series  of  these.  "  Thrice  un- 
happy he  who,  born  to  see  things  as  they 
might  be,  is  schooled  by  circumstances  to 
see  people  as  they  are,  to  read  God  in  a 
prose  translation  .....  He  who  was  of  a 
stature  to  snatch  the  torch  of  life  that  flashes 
from  hand  to  hand  along  the  generations, 
over  the  heads  of  inferior  men,  chose  rather 
to  be  a  link-boy  to  the  stews."  "  But  this 
prosaic  element  in  Dryden  will  force  it- 
self upon  me.  As  I  read  him  I  cannot 
help  thinking  of  an  ostrich,  to  be  classed 


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Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[June, 


with  flying  things,  and  capable  what  with 
leap  and  flap  together,  of  leaving  the  earth 
for  a  longer  or  shorter  space,  but  loving  the 
open  plain  where  wing  and  foot  help  each 
other  to  something  that  is  both  flight  and 
run  at  once."  "  In  his  prose,  you  come 
upon  passages  that  persuade  you  he  is  a 
poet  in  spite  of  his  verses  so  often  turning 
state's  evidence  against  him  as  to  convince 
you  he  is  none.  He  is  a  prose-writer  with 
a  kind  of  aeolian  attachment."  "  His  mind 
(somewhat  solid  for  a  poet)  warmed  slowly, 
but  once  fairly  heated  through,  he  had 
more  of  that  good  luck  of  self-oblivion  than 
most  men."  "  His  phrase  is  always  a 
short-cut  to  his  sense,  for  his  estate  was  too 
spacious  for  him  to  need  that  trick  of  wind- 
ing the  path  of  his  thought  about,  and 
planting  it  out  with  clumps  of  epithet,  by 
which  the  landscape  gardens  of  literature 
give  to  a  paltry  half-acre  the  air  of  a  park." 

These  passages,  so  perfect  in  themselves, 
are  hurt  by  being  taken  from  their  context, 
where  they  are  each  a  climax,  and  grouped 
together  ;  but  the  reader  will  account  for 
this  injury  and  enjoy  them  none  the  less,  as 
he  recurs  to  them  in  Mr.  Lowell's  book. 
In  our  own  copy  we  marked  them  and  their 
kind  for  the  memorable  things  without 
thought  of  their  precise  use  here ;  and 
they  seem  forcible  illustrations  of  the  im- 
aginative or  creative  character  of  his 
criticism.  He  instinctively  strives  to  give 
his  sense  not  only  a  perfect  form  of  speech, 
but  to  make  it  a  tangible,  detachable,  por- 
table image :  the  critic  in  him  turns  artist 
or  poet,  upon  the  first  occasion.  Of  Dave- 
nant's  "  Gondibert,"  he  says  :  "  Its  shin- 
ing passages,  for  there  are  such,  remind 
one  of  distress  rockets  sent  up  at  intervals 
from  a  ship  just  about  to  founder,  and  sad- 
den rather  than  cheer  "  ;  of  the  early  New 
England  life,  "  If  there  be  any  poetry,  it  is 
something  that  cannot  be  helped,  —  the 
waste  of  the  water  over  the  dam  "  ;  of  the 
Puritans,  "  If  their  natures  flowered,  it  was 
out  of  sight,  like  the  fern  " ;  and  in  these 
and  other  like  passages  he  gives  meaning 
that  no  extent  of  comment  would  convey, 
and  throws  you,  in  a  pure  pleasure  of  some 
kind,  an  exquisite  touch  of  wit  or  of  poetry. 
We  must  own  amid  our  liking  that  we  have 
seen  it  doubted  whether  this  sort  of  writing 
be  true  criticism,  and  it  is  certain  that  not 
one  critic  in  a  thousand  can  follow  the 
costly  fashion :  we  should  all  ruin  our- 
selves upon  our  first  book-notice. 

Of  the  Rousseau  and  the  Lessing  in  this 
volume,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  they  are  of 


the  same  kind  as  the  Dryden,  but  of  less 
value  :  that  is,  they  less  completely  em- 
body literary  character  to  the  reader's  mind. 
But,  as  the  reader  will  learn  for  himself, 
what  they  lose  by  comparison  with  the 
Dryden,  here,  they  will  gain  by  contrast 
with  any  essays  out  of  the  book. 

Twilight  Hours  in  the  Adirondacks.  The 
Daily  Doings  and  Several  Sayings  of 
Seven  Sober,  Social,  Scientific  Students 
in  the  Great  Wilderness  of  Northern 
New  York,  variously  versified  in  Seven 
Hundred  and  Seventy-seven  lines.  By 
HOMER  D.  L.  SWEET,  Farmer  and 
Chronicler.  Syracuse  :  Wynkoops  and 
Leonard. 

MR.  SWEET  has  not  only  presented  his 
thoughts  to  the  public  with  uncommon 
advantages  of  tinted  paper,  gilt,  and  luxu- 
rious binding,  but  has  added  his  carte  de 
•visile,  framed,  and,  as  it  were,  festooned  in  his 
family  coat  of  arms  upon  the  second  page 
of  his  book,  thus  anticipating  the  curiosity 
that  every  one  will  have  to  see  him  after 
he  has  become  famous.  This,  however,  is 
somewhat  embarrassing  to  criticism,  a  shy 
muse,  who  does  not  confide  her  praise  or 
blame  to  the  public  with  the  same  naivete, 
when  the  author  is,  as  it  were,  looking  on 
with  a  long  line  of  baronial  ancestors  at 
his  back,  —  not  but  that  Mr.  Sweet's  face  is 
a  kind  and  amiable  one,  in  spite  of  its  noble 
heraldic  setting.  The  book  is  certainly 
handsome  in  every  way,  and  the  author 
might  justly  feel  the  pride  we  fancy  him  to 
have  in  it.  Neither  is  the  literary  conceit  a 
bad  one,  though  it  is  not  the  newest  in  the 
world,  —  the  poet  speaking  alternately  for 
himself,  the  historian,  the  engineer,  the 
traveller,  etc.,  his  comrades  in  an  Adiron- 
dack camp,  upon  the  various  subjects  that 
interest  such  various  people,  and  intending 
to  cast  about  all  the  romantic  charm  and 
picturesqueness  of  life  in  the  woods.  In 
this  effort  he  has  recourse  to  many  of  the 
known  measures  of  our  prosody,  and  has 
made  some  adventures  in  rhythm  for 
himself,  including  a  species  of  unlearned 
hexameter.  Yet  as  Mr.  Sweet  has  not,  to 
our  knowledge,  been  able  to  make  any  of 
his  characters  or  metres  utter  a  line  of  poe- 
try for  him,  we  cannot  feel  that  he  ought  to 
be  quite  satisfied  with  the  book  as  an  aes- 
thetic result,  though  perhaps  he  is  so.  In 
his  approaches  to  poetry  he  is,  as  they  say 
in  the  children's  game,  generally  cold,  some- 
times warm,  very  rarely  hot,  and  never 


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759 


burning  hot ;  and  this  is  all  the  odder  be- 
cause there  is  ever  so  much  human  nature 
in  the  book,  both  of  the  kind  that  is  meant 
and  of  the  kind  that  is  not  meant,  —  chiefly 
the  latter. 

The  most  successful  effort  of  all  is  that 
part  of  the  work  called  "  The  Farmer,"  in 
which  the  rustic  year  is  described  in  a  good, 
wholesome,  realistic  way,  with  a  true  feel- 
ing for  natural  beauty,  and  no  mean  effort 
to  poetize,  not  merely  the  homely  aspects 
of  country  life,  but  the  use  of  the  various 
inventions  and  appliances  which  are  sup- 
posed to  take  sentiment  out  of  farming. 
Here  is  a  fair  example  of  Mr.  Sweet's  man- 
ner, which  is  so  hearty  and  simple  that  it 
seems  a  pity  that  he  should  lack  just  the 
last  essential  grace  :  — 

"  See  yonder  meadow  just  three  quarters  mown, 

One  fourth  is  drawn  and  added  to  the  stock, 
Another  fourth  lies  flat,  by  Tedder  thrown. 

The  other  fourth  is  windrowed,  or  in  cock. 
Around  the  fence  an  old-time  mower  swings,  — 

The  spanking  bays  come  dancing  through  the 

gate, 
The  bar  is  dropped,  the  Clipper  Mower  rings. 

And  knows  no  wages  —  frets  not  when  't  is  late. 
"  Now  following  soon  the  kicking  Tedder  comes, 

And  in  the  air  the  emerald  bunches  flings  ; 
The   Sulky  Horse-rake    cleans   the   ground   like, 
combs, 

And  gathers  windrows  with  its  steely  springs. 
Some  men  are  opening  out  the  cocks  to  dry, 

From  last  night's  windrows  shaking  off  the  dew, 
A  bumble-bee  makes  one  young  urchin  fly,  — 

He  gets  the  bitter  with  the  sweet,  't  is  true. 
"  A  part  is  dry  and  can  be  taken  in, 

The  wagon  's  coming  with  the  men  and  forks, 
The  loose  boards  rattling  making  a  vexing  din, 

And  noisy  boys,  —  now  every  school-boy  works. 
The  heavy  forkfuls  rise  upon  the  rack, 

The  loader  treading  builds  it  true  and  square, 
The  sides  keeps  equal,  guided  by  the  track, 

The  boys  behind  with  hand-rakes  glean  with  care. 
"  They  reach  the  barn,  roll  in  upon  the  floor, 

The  men  and  boys  ascend  the  sweltering  mow, 
An  active  horse  stands  by  the  open  door, 

He  starts  the  fork,  and  pulleys  rattle  now. 
From  horse  to  load  the  rope  by  rafter  leads, 

The  great  heap  rises  o'er  the  purline  beam, 
A  click  !  't  is  dropped  ;  another  soon  succeeds  ; 

'T  is  off !  and  almost  easy  as  a  dream. 
"  We  view  again  this  scene  a  few  days  hence, 

In  harvest  days,  with  men  and  boys  and  teams, 
The  stalwart  cradler  cutting  by  the  fence, 

The  horses'  pathway  very  narrow  seems. 
The  flaming  Champion  Reaper  follows  soon, 

Around  the  field  a  Harvest  Hymn  it  sings, 
The  ripe  grain  falls  as  in  a  sudden  swoon, 

The  strong  rake  travels  its  eccentric  rings." 

There  is  an  equally  sincere  description 
of  a  threshing  as  it  is  performed  by  ma- 
chinery; and  we  like,  also,  Mr.  Sweet's  pic- 
tures of  the  different  rural  merry-makings, 
the  Fourth  of  July,  the  Paring  Bee,  the 


Husking,  and  so  forth  ;  and  as  mere  char- 
acter, as  a  mind  of  original  cut  (for  both 
the  splendor  and  quaintness  of  his  book 
betray  this),  in  a  world  where  most  minds 
seem  turned  out  ready-made  from  some 
great  slop-shop,  we  feel  that  he  is  not  to 
be  scorned.  We  can  fancy  him  a  good 
comrade  and  an  admirable  farmer,  a  worthy 
citizen,  and  an  esteemed  friend ;  but  a  poet 
—  no,  by  the  British  Classics  !  Though, 
after  all,  as  to  the  British  Classics  there  are 
people  among  them  harder  to  read  than 
Mr.  Sweet,  — if  he  will  take  this  for  a 
compliment. 

"  The  American  Colonies  previous  to  the 
Declaration  of  Independence"  (The  Ar- 
nold Prize  Essay,  read  in  the  Theatre  at 
Oxford,  June  9,  1869.)  By  JOHN  AN- 
DREW DOYLE,  B.  A.,  of  Baliol  College. 
"  Westward  the  course  of  Empire  takes 
its  way."  Rivingtons  :  London,  Oxford, 
and  Cambridge. 

NOTHING  does  more  to  stimulate  inter- 
national sympathy  than  to  have  a  foreigner 
write  the  biographies  of  our  great-grand- 
fathers. We,  at  least,  are  bound  to  think 
that  "it's  a  good  text,"  as  old  Dr.  Beech- 
er  used  to  say,  in  his  hearty  manner,  at  the 
beginning  of  a  sermon.  And  in  this  case, 
the  sermon  is  really  worthy  of  the  text, 
for  without  being  brilliant,  it  is  in  the 
highest  degree  candid,  careful,  and  appre- 
ciative. 

The  plan  of  the  book  is  well  and  briefly 
stated  in  the  Introduction  :  — 

"I  propose  in  this  essay  to  examine  a 
few  of  the  most  remarkable  in  that  course 
of  events  by  which  a  wilderness,  inhabited 
only  by  savages  and  wild  beasts,  was 
changed  in  less  than  two  hundred  years  in- 
to the  home  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  the 
civilized  powers  of  the  world.  For  this 
purpose  I  propose,  first,  to  glance  briefly 
and  in  outline  at  that  movement  which 
changed  the  sober,  homely  Englishman  of 
the  earliest  Tudor  reigns  into  the  enter- 
prising, versatile  Elizabethan  Englishman, 
and  which  moulded  the  gentry,  yeomanry, 
and  merchants  of  the  sixteenth  century  into 
a  race  of  navigators  and  explorers,  the 
boldest  and  most  adventurous  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen.  I  propose,  then,  to 
trace  fully  the  growth  of  the  several  colo- 
nies, to  illustrate  their  social  and  political 
life,  their  manners,  religion,  and  laws  ;  to 
pass  in  review  the  most  striking  incidents 
and  the  most  eminent  characters  in  their 


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[June, 


history ;  to  consider  their  relations  to  the 
savage  inhabitants. whom  they  drove  out, 
and  to  the  colonists  of  other  civilized  nations 
with  whom  they  came  in  contact ;  lastly,  to 
examine  the  principal  causes  which  gradu- 
ally alienated  and  finally  rent  them  asunder 
from  their  mother  country,  and  bound  them 
together  in  one  independent  empire." 

The  candor  of  Mr.  Doyle's  mind  is  well 
shown  in  his  remarks  on  the  character  of 
the  American  Puritan  as  distinct  from  the 
English  type.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  a  coun- 
tryman of  Matthew  Arnold  writing  this,  for 
instance :  — 

"  If  we  would  see  English  Puritanism  in 
its  best  form,  we  must  study  it  in  the  early 
fathers  of  New  England.  The  idea  that  a 
Puritan  was  a  tasteless  misanthrope  is  of 
course  absurd.  The  greatest  epic  and  the 
greatest  allegory  in  the  English  language 
are  a  sufficient  answer  to  that  charge.  But 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  Puritan  in 
England  too  often  acquired  the  morose  fa- 
naticism which  his  enemies  represented 
as  natural  to  him.  To  live  in  danger  of 
being  '  harried  out  of  the  land,'  and  hav- 
ing their  ears  grubbed  out  by  the  hang- 
man's knife,  is  not  calculated  to  make  men 
gentle  or  loving  to  the  world  around 
them.  In  New  England  all  this  was  differ- 
ent. There  the  Puritan  was  no  longer  a 
bondman  in  Egypt ;  he  had  reached  the 
Promised  Land.  The  dark  past  was  sep- 
arated from  him  by  a  vast  ocean,  the  bright 
future  was  what  he  had  to  live  for.  In 
England  we  have  almost  lost  sight  of  the 
domestic  and  civil  life  of  the  Puritan,  we 
know  him  only  as  a  preacher,  or  a  soldier ; 
if  we  would  contemplate  him  as  a  citizen 
we  must  turn  to  America."  (p.  76.)  And 
he  quotes  admiringly  the  well-known  say- 
ing of  John  Higginson,  that  "  New  England 
was  originally  a  plantation  religious,  not 
a  plantation  of  trade  ; .  .  .  .  and  if  any  make 
religion  as  twelve  and  the  world  as  thir- 
teen, such  an  one  hath  not  the  spirit  of  a 
true  New  England  man." 

When  the  author  comes  to  the  more  dif- 
ficult narrative  of  the  opening  events  of  the 
Revolution,  the  same  spirit  of  perfect  can- 
dor is  shown.  "  The  Americans,"  he  says, 
"were  asserting  and  recovering  freedom, 
if  not  for  themselves,  for  their  children's 
children."  He  thinks  that  the  success  of 
the  royal  arms  in  America  would  have 
brought  the  greatest  danger  to  English 
liberty,  and  quotes  Burke  and  Chatham  for 
similar  opinion.  "  To  such  a  pass,"  he 
frankly  says,  "  had  misgovernment  brought 


England,  that  our  only  hope  lay  in  the  in- 
capacity of  her  commanders  and  the  courage 
of  her  foes."  (pp.  186,  187.)  The  key  to  the 
whole  struggle  lay  in  this,  he  thinks,  that  it 
was  both  "  a  democratic  and  a  conservative 
revolution."  And  he  finally  declares  that, 
"  as  a  step  in  the  progress  of  the  human 
race,  the  American  rebellion  was  in  ad- 
vance of  any  movement  that  had  gone  be- 
fore it."  (p.  218.) 

Yet  the  book  is  written  without  a  tinge 
of  flattery  or  sycophancy ;  it  is  only  per- 
vaded by  that  perfectly  manly  spirit  of  fair 
play  which  we  once  loved  to  associate  with 
the  English  mind.  This  "Prize  Essay" 
really  deserves  republication,  for  there  is  no 
American  book  that  covers  so  satisfactorily 
the  precise  ground  here  comprised.  The 
only  thing  to  be  regretted  is  that  the  author 
suffered  from  the  drawback,  almost  inevi- 
table in  a  foreign  country,  of  not  possess- 
ing the  latest  special  authorities  upon 
many  points  he  treats.  Not  to  speak  of 
less  important  memoirs  or  monographs,  he 
writes  of  the  French  and  Indian  wars  with- 
out alluding  to  Parkman,  of  the  siege  of 
Boston  without  citing  Frothingham,  and  of 
the  witchcraft  delusion  without  a  .reference 
to  Upham.  Yet  so  completely  have  these 
writers,  each  in  his  special  department, 
superseded  the  authorities  whom  Mr. 
Doyle  cites,  that  it  is  as  if  an  American  were 
to  write  about  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. 
without  having  read  Froude.  It  is  remarka- 
ble, in  view  of  this  want  of  recent  authori- 
ties, that  we  note  so  few  errors  of  detail. 


Search  for  Winter  Sunbeams  in  Riviera, 
Corsica,  Algiers,  and  Spain.  By  SAMUEL 
S.  Cox.  With  numerous  Illustrations. 
New  York  :  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

MR.  Cox  dedicates  this  volume  to  his 
constituents  of  the  Sixth  Congressional 
District  of  New  York,  and  we  beg  to  as- 
sure such  of  that  highly  respectable  body 
as  can  read,  that  they  may  spend  their  time 
to  far  better  advantage  in  looking  over  their 
Congressman's  book  than  in  listening  to 
his  political  speeches  ;  and  that  if  they  were 
minded  to  hold  public  meetings,  and  read 
aloud  portions  of  it  to  their  illiterate  fellow- 
constituents,  they  would  be  doing  an  act 
favorable  to  civilization.  The  ground  over 
which  Mr.  Cox  passes  is  not  strange  to 
travel,  and  to  many  people  outside  of  his 
district  perhaps  there  would  be  no  great 
novelty  in  what  he  says.  Yet  he  writes  in 


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Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


amiable  spirit ;  he  has  a  lively  manner,  and 
he  is  an  intelligent  and  shrewd  observer. 
He  is  at  his  best  in  Africa,  which  has  not 
remembered  his  political  offences  against 
him  ;  and  when  he  gets  to  Spain  and  talks 
of  the  revolution  and  the  public  men,  he  is 
to  be  read  with  profit.  Of  course  we  come 
in  for  a  bull-fight :  but  it  is  not  produced 
for  a  thrilling  effect ;  and  there  is  very  little 
about  art,  and  that  is  some  compensation. 
The  descriptions  of  the  countries  and  peo- 
ple seen  are  clear  and  good ;  Mr.  Cox  has  a 
poetical  feeling  for  what  is  pretty  or  grand 
in  travel,  and  the  prevailing  modesty  of  his 
rhetoric  might  be  usefully  studied  by  his 
fellow-Congressmen,  and  any  young  roughs 
among  his  constituents  who  chance  to  be 
forecasting  the  succession  to  his  place.  Not 
that  we  think  his  style  good  as  a  general 
thing :  those  short  sentences,  following 
one  another  like  the  detonation  of  Chinese 
crackers  in  an  empty  barrel,  are  easy  things 
to  understand,  but  grace  or  music  is  not  in 
them ;  and  then  Mr.  Cox  has  sad  lapses  of 
taste.  As  to  his  humor,  it  is  dreadful,  com- 
ing out  in  puns,  and  the  like. 


Goethe's  Hermann  and  Dorothea.  Trans- 
lated by  ELLEN  FROTHINGHAM.  With 
Illustrations.  Boston :  Roberts  Broth- 
ers. 

Miss  FROTHINGHAM  has  for  the  most  part 
accomplished  very  well  a  task  which  is  not 
very  easy,  as  any  one  may  learn  who  will 
trouble  himself  to  turn  a  few  of  Goethe's 
lines  into  English  hexameters  so  faithful  to 
the  original  as  hers  are.  Perhaps  she  found 
her  task  the  harder  from  the  deceitful  na- 
ture of  the  measure  used,  for  if  you  are 
strange  to  it,  your  hexameter  will  at  times 
affect  to  be  entirely  an  affair  of  the  ear,  and 
at  others  will  demand  the  most  skilful  touch 
of  the  yardstick :  in  the  former  case  it  will 
be  apt  to  play  you  false  by  a  foot  more  or 
less,  and  in  the  latter  the  lithe  and  sinuous 
thing  will  often  stiffen  under  your  measur- 
ing-wand until  the  old  miracle  is  reversed, 
and  the  serpent  turns  into  a  stick.  But  in 
spite  of  all,  the  verse  has  a  charm  of  move- 
ment and  music  under  the  hand  of  a  master 
which  is  very  tempting,  and  which  silences 
every  doubt  of  the  fitness  of  English  for 
it,  —  "  Evangeline  "  and  "  Andromeda  "  are 
answers  to  all  the  sceptics. 

The  worst  thing  about  Miss  Frothing- 
ham's  verses  is  that  sometimes  they  obey 
neither  rule  nor  ear,  as  in  this  line  :  — 


"  They  shall  depart  from  my  house,  and  strangers 
agreeably  can  flatter." 

And  the  best  thing  about  them  is  that,  so  far 
as  we  have  been  able  to  compare  them  with 
Goethe's,  they  are  a  very  literal  and  truthful 
rendering.  Of  course,  they  have  now  and 
then  their  lapses.  We  do  not  find  the  line 
which  describes  certain  vines  as 

"  Bearing  inferior  clusters  from  which  the  delicate 
wine  comes," 

at  all  a  good  translation  of 

"  Kleinere  Trauben  tragend  von  denen  der  kostliche 
Wein  kommt ": 

for  inferior  gives  an  idea  of  poor  quality, 
and  fails  to  convey  the  sense  of  the  original, 
wherein  kleinere  refers  only  to  size.  In 
another  place  excessive  literality  denies  us 
good  English  as  well  as  good  sense,  Miss 
Frothingham  rendering 

"  Kaum  mehr  hinaus :   denn  alles  soil  anders  sein 

und  geschmackvoll " 
by  the  verse 

"  Scarcely   I   venture   abroad.     All    now   must   be 
other  and  tasteful." 

She  also,  from  the  same  good  motive,  vexes 
our  idiom  with  this  strange  construction  :  — 

"'May  not    the    threatening    heavens,'  said    Her- 
mann, '  be  presently  sending 
Hailstones  upon  us,"  &c., 

which  is  not  a  question  on  Hermann's  part, 
as  the  reader  of  the  English  would  suppose, 
but  an  aspiration,  and  the  version  of 
"Moge  das  drohende  Wetter,"  &c. 
At  times  the  German  order  has  been  so  dili- 
gently followed  that  we  are  led  into  crooked 
and  uncomfortable  ways  like  this  :  — 

"  I  will  have  one  for  a  daughter 
Who  the  piano  shall  play  to  me,  too ;  so  that  here 

shall  with  pleasure 
All  the  handsomest  people  in  town,  and  the  finest, 

assemble." 

Yet,  with  all  its  defects,  Miss  Frothing- 
ham's  translation  is  something  to  be  glad 
of:  it  lends  itself  kindly  to  perusal,  and  it 
presents  Goethe's  charming  poem  in  the 
metre  of  the  original  ;  while  its  blemishes 
are  those  which  careful  revision  would  re- 
move. Besides,  there  is  nothing  in  the  order 
of  Providence  to  prevent  any  one  who  is  so 
gifted,  from  replacing  her  version  by  a  bet- 
ter, and  then,  there  is  always  the  German, 
to  which  this  or  any  other  translation  can- 
not do  better  than  tempt  the  reader.  It  is 
not  a  poem  which  could  be  profitably  used 
in  an  argument  for  the  enlargement  of  the 
sphere  of  woman ;  it  teaches  her  subjec- 
tion, indeed,  from  the  lips  of  a  beautiful 
girl,  which  are  always  so  fatally  convincing ; 


762 


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[June, 


but  it  has  its  charm,  nevertheless,  and  will 
serve  at  least  for  an  agreeable  picture  of 
an  age  when  the  ideal  woman  was  a  crea- 
ture around  which  grew  the  beauty  and 
comfort  and  security  of  home. 


Unforgiven.     A  Novel.     By  BERRIEDALE. 
New  York  :   George  S.  Wilcox. 

As  literature,  we  suppose  that  "Un- 
forgiven "  is  not  wholly  worthy  of  notice 
here  or  elsewhere ;  and  yet  it  is  such  a 
story  as  very  many  people  would  read  if 
it  fell  in  their  way,  —  we  have,  indeed,  read 
it  quite  through  ourselves.  It  illustrates, 
too,  some  fatal  aesthetic  and  ethical  ten- 
dencies, and  would  afford  a  text  for  a  very 
pretty  discourse,  if  one  had  a  mind  to 
preach  either  good  taste  or  good  morals  ; 
and  as  it  seems  a  first  book,  and  the  author 
appears  very  much  in  earnest,  and  does  not 
mean  any  harm  (as  so  many  novelists  of 
her  sex  seem  to  do,  nowadays),  we  think  it 
not  quite  unprofitable  to  speak  of  it.  She 

—  for,  on  the  whole,  we  think  it  is  not  he 

—  who  has  written  it,  undertakes  to  make 
us  acquainted  with  the  sorrows  of  such  a 
sinful   experience   as    Hawthorne  has  de- 
picted in   "  The   Scarlet   Letter,"  only  in 
this  case  the  victim  is  s.  young  lady  in  the 
best  society,  whose   error  is   so  well  con- 
cealed that  she  continues  a  leader  of  fash- 
ion, and  but  for  "  a  drawn  look  about  the 
eyes,"  and  a  "  cold,  impassive  expression," 
shows  no  outward  mark  of  the   anguish 
within.     She   will   not  marry  her   seducer 
when  he  returns  penitent  from  Europe,  and 
the   man  whom   she   comes   to   love,   and 
whom,  after  a  terrible  struggle,  she  allows 
herself  tacitly  to   deceive  as  concerns  her 
past  life,  and  promises  to  marry,  discovers 
her  secret  by  chance.     He  is  one  of  those 
all-accomplished    doctors    in  whom   lady- 
novelists  delight,  and  it  is  at  the  death-bed 
of  Clarine's  child,  which  he  had  supposed 
to  be  her  brother's,  that  he  learns  the  truth 
from  her  frantic  grief.     This  scene  is  really 
well  conceived,  and  for  the  most  part  well 
executed,  but  it  stands  almost  alone  in  the 
book.    Here  two  people  actually  speak  from 
hearts  of  their  own,  simply  and  strongly,  and 
the  effect  is  necessarily  good.     But  usually 
the   characters   are  uncertain  in  their  mo- 
tives, and  insupportably  ornate  in  their  con- 
versation.    Their  talk  is  often  such  as  you 
would  expect  to  hear,  say,  at  a  Southern 
tournament,  —  so  ceremonious,  so  flowery, 
so  bland,  while  their  moral  ideas  have   a 


curious  obliquity.  We  shrink  from  noticing 
the  ease  with  which  Clarine's  ruin  is  accom- 
plished ;  but  it  is  surprising  that  she  should 
consider  herself  deceived  by  a  man  who 
did  not  intimate  marriage  to  her.  She  is, 
however,  of  an  odd  temper  throughout,  and 
carries  a  particularly  high  hand  with  her 
father,  whom  she  thinks  she  may  learn  to 
hate,  because  he  wishes  some  visible  token 
of  the  remorse  that  afflicts  her,  but  who 
is  yet  on  his  own  part  a  person  of  singu- 
lar habits  of  mind  for  a  clergyman.  It 
is  not  so  bad  that  he  should  wish  her  to 
marry  her  "  deceiver,"  and  thus  secure  the 
family  respectability  against  the  chances  of 
the  discovery  of  her  secret ;  but  it  is  very 
bad  that  he  should  suffer  his  particular 
friend,  Doctor  Purdon,  to  fall  in  love  with 
Clarine  and  offer  her  marriage,  and  should 
rejoice  in  their  engagement,  without  think- 
ing it  his  duty  to  tell  him  her  history.  There 
is  ever  so  much  anguish  asserted  for  Clarine, 
but  her  beauty,  her  elegance,  her  social 
brilliancy,  are  fondly  dwelt  upon,  and  as  to 
her  error  the  reader  has  only  a  wretched 
and  confusing  sense  of  incongruity  some- 
where. Clarine  suffers  chiefly  from  those 
perfunctory  pangs  which  the  author  makes 
her  feel  when  she  gets  her  alone.  It  ap- 
pears no  more  than  is  due  that  at  last, 
having  found  peace  by  forgiving  everybody, 
and  resolutely  eschewing  marriage,  she 
should  live  to  be  just  as  lovely  in  gray  hair 
as  in  blond,  should  not  look  half  her  age, 
and  should  be  able  to  sing  in  such  a  way 
that  young  girls  must  cry  out,  "  It  is  surely 
an  angel's  voice  !  O,  I  could  worship  her  !  " 

We  ought  to  be  grateful,  however,  to  the 
author  of  "  Unforgiven,"  that  she  did  not 
take  a  shorter  method  than  broken  pride 
and  relinquished  hate  to  make  her  Clarine 
an  honest  woman,  for  every  one  must  see 
what  a  simple  and  easy  thing  it  would  have 
been  to  restore  her  uncontaminated  to  the 
bosom  of  society  by  having  her  reverend 
father  shoot  the  betrayer  on  sight. 

In  the  course  of  the  book  there  are  the 
awfulest  things  hinted  about  New  York 
fashionable  life,  which  it  would  be  really 
shocking,  though  ever  so  interesting,  to 
believe.  We  prefer  not  to  believe  them, 
on  the  whole ;  and,  for  our  own  part, 
we  wish  heartily  that  the  ladies,  when 
they  write  novels,  would  leave  such  cruel 
themes  as  the  author  of  "  Unforgiven  "  has 
chosen.  We  should  like,  now,  to  have 
a  little  of  the  amusing  insipidity,  the  ad- 
mirable dulness,  of  real  life  depicted  in 
fiction.  We  would  rather  know  what  took 


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763 


place  in  a  young  lady's  mind  on  a  shopping 
excursion  than  be  told  of  the  transactions 
of  her  soul  after  her  ruin;  and  the  chances 
are,  we  hope,  that  most  novelists  of  her  sex 
could  treat  her  better  in  the  former  attitude. 
To  our  simple  taste  there  is  sufficient  trage- 
dy in  the  idea  of  her  getting  home  a  new 
dress  spoiled  by  the  dress-maker;  and  if 
you  must  have  intrigue,  what  black  arts 
are  not  employed  to  avoid  the  acquaintance 
of  certain  people,  what  wiles  to  achieve  the 
friendship  of  others  !  Besides  there  is  in 
life  ever  so  much  love-making  of  a  perfectly 
harmless  kind,  and  even  amiable  flirtation, 
that  we  ask  nothing  worse.  What  more 
pathetic  figure  need  one  look  upon  than 
that  of  a  young  girl  who  somehow  expects 
a  call,  or  a  bow,  or  an  invitation  to  dance, 
which  she  does  not  get  ? 

These  things,  carefully  studied  and  lightly 
done,  are  really  much  more  desirable  in 
fiction  than  clouds  and  crimes  and  sins  and 
shames  of  whatever  tint ;  and  we  respect- 
fully ask  the  attention  of  Berriedale  to 
them  when  she  writes  again. 

My  Enemy's  Daughter.  A  Novel.  By 
JUSTICE  MCCARTHY,  Author  of  "The 
Waterdale  Neighbors,"  etc.  Illustrated. 
New  York  :  Harper  and  Brothers. 

THE  enemy  in  question  is  a  very  rich 
and  proud  and  insolent  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment, whose  like  we  think  we  have  met  in 
fiction  before,  and  yet  he  is  in  many  respects 
worked  up  into  decided  novelty ;  and  his 
daughter,  if  not  very  new  or  strange,  is  very 
tender,  sweet,  and  true.  She  is  loved  by 
the  hero,  a  mediocre  singer,  who  has  first 
loved  and  lost  a  young  German  girl, — 
later  a  great  prima  donna  and  wife  of  an 
Italian  patriot.  Of  course  (and  this  will  be 
no  betrayal  of  confidence  to  the  ladies  at 
least,  who  always  look  at  the  back  of  the 
book  first),  Emanuel  Banks  marries  Lilla 
Lyndon,  and  the  irreclaimable  Member  of 
Parliament  is  duly  carried  off  by  the  aveng- 
ing gout  of  his  class.  This  is  the  outline, 
not  very  surprising  or  promising,  of  a  sin- 
gularly good  novel,  —  good  enough  in  plot, 
and  thoroughly  good  in  tone  and  conduct 
of  character.  There  are  two  or  three  peo- 
ple in  it  whose  betters  we  have  not  seen 
since  the  days  of  Thackeray.  First  of  these 
is  Stephen  Lyndon  (reprobate  brother  to 
the  M.  P.),  who  after  deserting  his  wife 
and  daughter  (another  Lilla  Lyndon),  and 
beating  about  all  countries,  and  living 
upon  his  wits  and  others'  want  of  them, 


comes  to  be  stabbed  at  last  by  an  Italian 
whose  fellow-conspirators  he  has  betrayed 
to  the  French  government.  His  character 
is  so  life-like  that  it  might  very  well  be  life 
down  to  that  very  little  ultimate  compunc- 
tion which  he  feels  when  dying,  or  seems  to 
feel,  for  you  are  not  sure  in  the  end.  His 
talk  is  perfect  of  its  kind,  and  the  talk  of 
most  of  the  others  is  natural  and  good.  He 
is  quite  incapable  of  receiving  offence, 
though  he  can  be  very  malicious  and  abu- 
sive, and  there  is  hardly  anything  good  in 
him,  except  a  love  of  the  beautiful,  which  he 
himself  is  inclined  to  think  sufficient  for 
his  salvation.  It  is  an  artistic  and  delicate 
piece  of  work  to  reproduce,  as  Mr.  McCar- 
thy does,  his  luxury  and  sensuousness  and 
humor,  purged  of  their  evil,  in  his  daugh- 
ter's temperament,  who  is  the  next  best 
creation  of  the  book,  and  who  is  really  a 
delightful  bit  of  original  character.  The 
hero,  in  whose  mouth  the  story  is  put,  is 
also  pleasant,  a  manly,  generous  fellow, 
whom  you  like.  Italian  conspirators  we  do 
not  get  on  well  with,  nor  opera  singers  of 
any  nation ;  but  we  are  bound  to  say  that 
Mr.  McCarthy  has  managed  these  contrary 
people  with  great  skill.  It  seems  a  pity 
that  the  character  of  Christina,  the  first 
love  of  the  hero,  which  is  really  subordinate, 
should  be  suffered  to  take  up  so  much  space 
and  time  ;  but  as  it  is  not  really  uninterest- 
ing, perhaps  we  ought  not  to  complain.  No 
part  of  the  book  is  dull.  A  high  level  is 
kept,  and  the  story  abounds  in  neat  and 
truthful  touches  ;  —  capital  sketches  and 
studies  of  persons  and  places. 

The  Chinese  Classics,  a  Translation  by 
JAMES  LEGGE,  D.  D.,  of  the  London 
Missionary  Society.  Part  I.  CONFUCIUS. 
Part  II.  MENCIUS.  Kurd  and  Houghton. 
New  York. 

DR.  LEGGE,  a  London  missionary  in 
China,  has  translated  and  edited  the  Chi- 
nese classics,  amounting  in  all  to  a  ten- 
volume  series,  and  he  gives  us  in  the  above- 
named  volume  the  first  instalment  of  the 
publication.  It  is  well  reprinted ;  but  we 
wish  the  American  editor  could  have  been 
content  to  give  us  Dr.  Legge's  Prefaces 
without  mutilation,  whether  he  should  see 
fit  thereupon  to  criticise  them  or  not.  Dr. 
Legge  is  evidently  a  man  of  original  knowl- 
edge on  the  subject  of  which  he  speaks,  and 
whatever  defects  his  judgment  may  exhibit, 
it  is  at  all  events  entitled  to  be  respectfully 
heard. 


764 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[June. 


There  seem  to  be  three  great  schools 
which  claim  between  them  the  empire  of 
the  Chinese  intellect,  the  earliest  and  the 
latest  of  which,  those  respectively  of  Lao- 
tse  and  of  Fo  or  Buddha,  contain  a  specula- 
tive doctrine,  while  the  middle  school,  that 
of  Confucius,  is  severely  practical  or  mor- 
alistic. Indeed,  Confucius  is  so  deficient 
on  the  speculative  side,  that  his  ideas  are 
often  supposed  to  be  atheistic.  But  this 
charge  appears  to  be  unreasonable.  He 
accepts  ex  animo  the  traditional  faith  of  his 
countrymen  in  a  heavenly  providence,  ac- 
cording to  which  man,  being  imperfect,  is 
bound  to  shape  himself.  "  Upon  the  high- 
est as  upon  the  humblest  of  men,"  he 
said,  "  one  equal  obligation  impended,  that, 
namely,  of  self-correction  or  moral  pro- 
gress." He  indulged  in  no  sceptical  flings 
at  the  popular  religion,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
affirmed  very  heartily  all  its  ritual  princi- 
ples and  practices,  lending  himself  to  its 
ideas  about  spiritual  existences,  sacrifices, 
and  other  ceremonials,  with  even  uncom- 
mon devoutness.  In  fact,  he  seems  alto- 
gether to  have  been  a  curious  amalgam 
of  formal  superstition  and  rational  free- 
dom. The  most  vigorous  utterance  we 
have  found  cropping  out  of  the  somewhat 
dreary  flow  of  his  meditations  is  where  he 
says  that  "  to  give  one's  self  earnestly  to 
present  duty,  and  while  respecting  spiritttal 
beings,  to  keep  aloof  from  tfyem,  may  be 
called  wisdom."  This  looks  like  genuine 
manhood ;  but,  on  the  whole,  apart  from 
the  elevated  morality  of  the  book,  a  Chi- 
nese flavor  abounds,  and  you  scarcely  for  a 
moment  lose  sight  of  the  pigtail.  Confu- 
cius himself  was  a  sort  of  Chinese  Dr. 
Johnson,  with  a  good  deal  more  amenity, 
doubtless,  because  he  had  a  less  scrofulous 
temperament ;  but  with  the  same  tendency 
to  conservatism  and  the  same  proclivity  to 
dogmatizing.  Mencius  was  a  man  of  higher 
intellect  and  wider  sympathies,  and  his 
portion  of  the  volume  before  us  will  better 
repay  modern  perusal.  The  critical  spirit 
entered  to  some  extent  into  his  cogitations, 
and  no  better  democratic  doctrine  can  be 
desired  than  we  find  in  his  pages.  "  Men- 
cius said,  Kee  and  Chow's  losing  the  em- 
pire arose  from  their  losing  the  people,  and 
to  lose  the  people  means  to  lose  their  hearts. 
There  is  a  way  to  get  the  empire.  Get  the 
people,  and  the  empire  is  got.  There  is 
a  way  to  get  the  people ;  get  their  hearts, 
and  they  are  got.  There  is  a  way  to  get 
their  hearts  ;  it  is  simply  to  collect  for  them 
what  they  like,  and  not  to  lay  on  them 


what  they  dislike."  Mencius  held  to  the 
goodness  of  human  nature  ;  and  maintained 
that  if  any  one  did  evil  he  did  so  by  the 
constraint  of  his  passions  disturbing  his 
rationality.  Mencius  had  a  distinguished 
opponent,  Sun-tse  or  Sun-king  as  he  is 
called  by  Dr.  Legge,  who  maintained  that 
human  nature  was  evil,  and  endeavored  to 
refute  the  reasonings  of  Mencius  on  that 
subject. 

No  one,  we  think,  can  seriously  ponder 
the  literary  remains  of  the  great  Eastern 
religions,  which  so  many  erudite  scholars 
are  now  elucidating  for  us,  without  being 
forcibly  struck  with  the  vast  intellectual 
superiority  which  Christianity  avouches  to 
them  all,  in  claiming  as  it  does  to  construe 
both  nature  and  history  as  a  mere  revelation 
of  God  in  man.  None  of  the  older  religions 
make  the  least  claim  to  this  superb  office. 
In  fact,  they  all  identify  God  and  nature, 
or  turn  out  practically  and  at  best  a  gigantic 
scheme  of  naturalism  as  stifling  to  the  life 
of  God  as  it  is  to  that  of  man.  In  all  these 
ancient  pantheistic  religions  man  is  pre- 
sented to  us  simply  as  the  victim  of  his 
participation  of  the  divine  nature.  Exist- 
ence or  consciousness  is  his  burning  hell, 
and  no  rest  or  heaven  is  attainable  to  him 
save  by  the  cessation  of  consciousness,  that 
is,  by  annihilation.  All  that  the  very  purest 
of  these  faiths  can  do  to  soften  this  really 
immitigable  doom  of  man  is  to  make  his 
annihilation  convertible  with  absorption  in 
God  ;  and  the  conception  of  God  as  a  cre- 
ator, and  of  man  consequently  as  a  crea- 
ture, is  as  repugnant  to  them  as  day  is  to 
night.  Naturalism,  in  short,  is  the  inefface- 
able stigma  of  all  the  old  religions,  and  natu- 
ralism is  the  almost  ineradicable  disease  of 
the  human  mind  itself;  so  that  Christianity, 
which  is  religion  in  its  sovereign  spiritual 
form,  as  implying  the  essential  subserviency 
of  nature  to  spirit,  or  of  the  universe  to 
man,  is  only  now  at  last  laying  off  her  car- 
nal fetters,  and  displaying  an  infinite  inte- 
rior significance,  ample  at  once  to  satisfy 
the  deathless  craving  of  the  soul  after  in- 
ward peace,  or  harmony  with  God,  and  the 
deathless  craving  of  the  senses  after  out- 
ward prosperity,  or  harmony  with  man  and 
nature.  But  once  entered  upon  this  career, 
its  march  is  destined  never  to  relent  until 
science  recognizes  in  nature  no  longer  a 
field  of  true  being,  but  only  of  pure  seem- 
ing ;  no  longer  a  divine  finality,  but  a  strict 
divine  method  for  the  education  of  the  hu- 
man mind  into  harmony  with  infinite  good- 
ness and  truth. 


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